Can the sunset see us here below As it shadows the hollows and woodland? Does it mate with evening and give birth To midnight’s coal dark sky? Does it blush with scarlet hues Because we see the sky’s intimate love song And hear the Katydid’s soliloquies of end of day? As stars commence to dance […]
I don’t feel like writing today,
Most won’t read this anyway,
So this is what I have to say:
Put your dentures on display,
Feed your walrus a bale of hay,
Spell your name with 40 k’s,
Pick your teeth an unusual way,
Work 50 hours without pay,
And make the last line way too long for enjoyment & be sure it doesn’t rhyme.
On the back of the comic book
Was an ad that caught my attention,
Said “In these glasses take a look
But be prepared, for this invention
Could see through hands and walls
and clothes, and silently would expose,
Everything unseen by placing
These glasses on your nose.
So tempted was I to by this thing
That I circled the little ad,
And with five dollars took my fling
Though friends thought I went mad.
To my surprise when the item came
I put on the x-ray specs,
And then to my chagrin & shame
I saw what I did not expect.
For I was taken back to the time
Back to days I had forgotten,
That I was not so genuine,
And my actions pretty rotten.
So rather than see through other folks,
I saw myself laid bare,
Embarrassed by the awful joke
As wide eyed people stared.
I tried to cover up you see,
But to my own surprise,
There was no cover, not for me,
So I took them off my eyes.
The world is much easier to take
When eyes are closed to my mistakes.
The truth is truth, though we are blind.
The message here may seem unkind,
But we must see ourselves laid bare
If we ever, ever want to share
The truth about what’s wrong with man,
Is at the end of the day
My own fault.
Can the sunset see us here below
As it shadows the hollows and woodland?
Does it mate with evening and give birth
To midnight’s coal dark sky?
Does it blush with scarlet hues
Because we see the sky’s intimate love song
And hear the Katydid’s soliloquies of end of day?
As stars commence to dance above
And the moon strokes it’s fiddle,
I never cease to be amazed
At eventide’s conception.
In the morning when I rise,
Squinting through my sleepy eyes,
The last thing I want to see
Is this person staring back at me.
His hair sticks up in every way
From products smeared in yesterday,
The lines I note along his face
Seem bilateral and all in place,
But nonetheless I am not thrilled
To find myself so over-the-hill.
But ever since I was a kid
I tried real hard to win the bid
Of being the oldest of my piers,
And now instead of being cheered
My morning face is what I fear!
I’m one guy with just 24 hours,
I’m tired, tired, tired.
They say I cannot be replaced,
But if I keep this awful pace
I will doubtless be in a six foot space.
Hey world stop, Stop, STOP!
Don’t you see that octagonal sign?
It’s red for cryin’ out loud
And its words reflect in the light;
HIT THE BRAKES!
Look both ways before you start out,
There’s traffic comin’ without a doubt.
Just where in the world am I
And how do I get out?
I just want to… I don’t know.
I am trying but… I can’t.
I don’t care, no wait, I do.
No I don’t; well I have to.
More coffee, more pills for the heart.
At 260 and 59 I feel like a rubber mat
Shredded and apart.
For all the times I tramped the woods I seldom come away the same. The same woods, the same paths and a different perspective. A small bird landing near my stand can make all the difference. A pair of red fox following one another softly on the trail ahead in search of something known only to them, but nonetheless united in purpose. Perhaps a rotting stump presents my eye with a strange shape that causes me to climb down and see it closer.
The smell of frosted leaves and the sound of them falling gently to the forest floor; the color of the evening sky settling in the west; the fawn color of a young doe and the grey face of its mother all give texture to dreams I have for tomorrow’s day afield. It will be cool, clear and the weight of my 45 caliber hawken will weary my arms as a young child wearies the arms of his father. I proudly, carefully carry it.
For a few hours I will join thoughts with men who years before me sought for meat on the pole. I will smile as they did when the sun finally rises in the east & its warmth fall on my reddened cheeks.
I see the deer appear like ghosts through the opaque tree trunks just 100 yards away. They know I’m in their kitchen but not sure where. I raise the old rifle and fix sights on a doe. She is sniffing the air and looking my direction. She freezes, then paws the ground, looks away briefly and then back toward me. As I draw the hammer back her ears perk and a host of white tails flag me “good-bye”.
I am relieved. Hunting season does not require blood on the ground, just a return to roots planted deep in the soil of Pennsylvania. An early rise, a walk in the woods and a picture painted on my mind for years to come.
Dad would have loved it. I feel him beside me sometimes especially when I reach in my pocket for a licorice nip. The smell of wool and canvas clothes that hung in the garage all Summer are like the smell of fresh earth to a farmer: life-giving and full of heritage. I have had many tomorrows in the woods.