Wendall

This poem just came to me out of the blue.  Sometimes I like these poems the best:

                               He didn't wait for the child
                                   to ask him one more time
                                     to tell the story of
                               Wendall.
                                     The story bored him, even
                                       though he told it  himself.
                                         So taking his keys in his
                                hand,
                                    he followed the familiar
                                        path to where he had
                                           buried Wendall many years
                                 ago.
                                      Yes, he now planned
                                          to tell the story
                                               of the boy to
                                  Wendall.

Storm on the Way

  I wrote this after we had spent the evening before in a horrendous thunderstorm.


                                   I knew
                                              the window
                                                               would be
                                    partially open,
                                              even though
                                                                the thunder
                                   was beginning
                                              to roll,
                                                               and lightening
                                   was flashing
                                               its pictures
                                                               for an
                                   album that
                                              only a few
                                                               would be
                                   privileged
                                              to see.
                                                               After a
                                  winter of
                                              stale air,
                                                               and an
                                   odor of
                                              lost socks,
                                                               the incoming
                                   raindrops would
                                              be welcomed
                                                               with the
                                   fresh air.

Late Spring Snow

I am not happy when I feel winter is gone and spring finally arrives, and a late spring snowstorm starts to fall.  Oh well.

                                In
                                    one
                                           straight
                                                         path,
                                slanted
                                      slightly
                                             north
                                                          a
                                 late
                                        spring
                                             snow
                                                           falls.
                                  I
                                        foolishly
                                                    deny
                                                            that

                                  I
                                               am
                                                     captivated
                                                                    by
                                  its
                                                obvious
                                                      natural
                                                                   beauty.
                               

Seeking Peace

 Sometimes when my world seems hectic, and I've had about all I can take, I seek "woodland peace."




                                                                   I'm tired,
                                                             I want to find
                                                       A pine needle covered
                                                                   tote road
                                                             to follow to its end.
                                                       I no longer need
                                                                 the concrete
                                                             sidewalk or glaring
                                                        streetlights of town.                       
                                                                 The full moon
                                                             can give me
                                                        the peace I so desperately
                                                                   seek.
                                                               Let me lie down
                                                         next to  a tumbling brook,
                                                               allowing it to lull
                                                                    me to sleep.
                                                           If I awake, all is fine.
                                                               If not, at least
                                                                     I'll be
                                                           Where I found my peace.