Creekbed

under the cedars
   BX creek washes
   a very tiny world.

we step carefully,
      leaving no 
   footprints,

      witness to
our passing.

like ants, we
      walk our
pointless paths,
   insignificant
in many ways,

and like to think
      ourselves so
   important.

but we are not.

   a lttle water
      washes
rounded rocks,

the cedars know.
   that water is
      essential. 

we need it too,
cleansing and
      refreshing,

some kindness
   to our souls.

Solitary Skeleton

Solitary Skeleton

      under all the
      conifers, i see
a lonely skeleton,

   and understand
part of what i see.

      i myself have
a solitary aspect.
      my bones
   carry my flesh;

my body carries me.

a day will come,
      no doubt,
   when i too,
am stripped
      to bone,

like a mushroom,
      which i still
don't understand
   in full detail.

and though we all
   want company,
my day will come:

i will be solitary,
and go meet the 
      beautiful light.




October Thistle

black is white,
      they want 
   to tell me.

i won't make
that mistake
   really soon.


   but they count
on me and you,

      to believe
the nonsense
that they spew.

      angry at us
when we won't
   swallow all
      the muck,

      in which 
they wallow.

      i might like
a soapbox too,

   to stand on
and shout out
   what's true.

black is black
   and white 
      is white,

      may they 
always meet!

wrong is wrong;
      right is right,
we must be careful.

darkness may
      swallow 
up the light.

when we see
the shadows
coming close,

   shout danger, 
danger, danger!

      push those
   shadows back
to dusty corners
   in evil minds.


A Little Rain

   a little rain
      has never
hurt me much.

   always I've
      dried out
and carried on.

      i am not safe
from drowning,
   but i have not
   done that yet.

      history may
guide us if we're 
   wise enough.

we know it isn't a 
      perfect guide,
but it can help
   save us from
      repeating 
serious errors .

   rain washes
the windows,
   as i look out
this cold, damp
      autumn day.

   a little rain
      has never
hurt me much.

Remembering the Fallen

crushed and broken, 
   somehow beautiful,
its function passed.

providing nutrients
today, and on into
   tomorrow and
      tomorrow.

this maple leaf
   will one day
   be forgotten
and so will i.

my fathers do not
   stand tall 
      anymore.

   though, in their
day, they struggled
sometimes bravely
      such is life
   and living.

   something was
beautiful, although
   no memories
      remain.

      a time shall
surely come, when
i am nothing more:
   a fuzzy memory, 
and someone may
be remembering
      the fallen.