To My Quiet Place I Go
Diamond dust sits upon the sleeping grass,
Soon to be a sight of this morning’s past.
On the pond lies a thin layer of glass,
Like the sparkling dust it too will not last,
For I see the sun peering through the trees.
Its gentle warmth meeting my morning face.
As if in a game providing a tease,
Darting about as I walk to my place,
Where I go to find my internal peace.
I travel far in my very short walk.
Tensions burning inside soon to release.
So quiet I am not required to talk.
The only sound I am able to hear,
Is the rustling of leaves beneath my feet.
To my special spot I am getting near.
Isolated, there is no one to greet.
Sitting in deep silence I start to write,
A wild river of thoughts runs in my head,
Bringing on a smile so vividly bright.
Here it’d be wonderful to make my bed.
In nature’s stillness is such great reward,
Its scent of pure earthiness clears the mind.
Without bell or light offers such delight,
Does not portend of a dark daily grind.
Oh! So happy to accept its invite.
The Wonder of it All
The dragon flies with their gossamer wings
Sit motionless on their battle stations
Of Cat O Nine tails ready to assault
Bumble bees of many ready to join
Upon the lofty yellow snapdragons
As they only have strength the lids to lift
Hand in hand we so eagerly follow
The large bold fluttering orange monarch
Butterflies to our secret hideaway
Still a good distant away we could hear
The king lion’s roar at our objective
For it’s behind him will be great safety
Nearing we see his roar sending shock waves
Down the docile waters of the river
Making lotus blooms jostle each other
Our heated hearts pounding as we are here
We expose fully to the summer sun
And slide quickly behind the waterfall
Wild Asters, Dennis Miller Bunker (1889)
Beside me abundant wild asters grow
Each jostling for positions at the edge
Siphoning precious health from water’s flow
Making it perfectly pure as they dredge
Taken to my knees by invitation
Scooping clear freshness into my cupped hand
Put to my lips without hesitation
She is the center of this fertile land
Listening, searching for the slightest sound
Can hear melodic babble of the brook
Its helpful water darts across the ground
Adding pluses to my earthy outlook
A bunch of wild asters placed in my pack
Dried, will be a reminder to come back
Image manipulated by author
Sea Calling Me
In quiet stillness I observe the hue
Of the mighty endless sea before me
Sweeping eyes drinking the depth of her blue
With desire to be consumed by this sea
I’ve visited her countless times before
She always seems to appeal to me more
Calling me with gentleness of her shore
Her soft tender loving clutch I adore
I am naked to all of her power
Still shy, with my toes I touch her azure
Her wave coaxes me a little closer
Now I am totally consumed by her
Joy as she touches every part that be
She gives me a feeling of being free
Allensville Hay Press Barn, Switzerland County, Gwen Gutwein (2008)
Its many boards of gray are on display.
Their opened grain bear the signs of aged pain.
From their perfect centers did move away.
Long gone are the days of its mighty reign.
Shows no mighty power to right itself,
Relying totally on my pity.
Knowing each board makes for a proper shelf,
Adding many dollars to my kitty.
Once inside I could feel its unique scent,
Wondering where all those memories went.
Where I day upon day happily spent,
Lingering has changed my early intent.
I’d better go and fetch the proper crane,
As this is where this creature shall remain.
Autumn, Emilio Sánchez Perrier (c. 1900)
Autumn by the River
Song birds of the trees have made their retreat
Cool winds of autumn chased summer away
Colors of the quiet land now blasé
Busy fields in summer are not deplete
Paces of the past are now slowing down
Giving moments of pure quiet pleasure
Thinking of the silos filled with treasure
Waiting arrival winter’s bridal gown
Cataloging thoughts at the river’s edge
Reminiscing the joys that came my way
In mind the desire to ensure they stay
Seeking more in the future is my pledge
Studying the river as it goes by
It is my life passing by that I see
Message is always busy I must be
Like plants I will eventually die
Snow Scene through a Winter Window, Henry Alexander (1870)
Under blankets, another frigid night
Could feel aching chill in my weary bones
Feared what horror there would be my first sight
Feeling confident would be many moans
Looking through button holes, saw the bright white
Tired of the piling up of winter’s snow
This freezing matter is no longer trite
Miserable stuff really must go
A death row prisoner is what I am
Give me my last meal and be done with it
Never have been fan of winter’s program
Ever bored of doing nothing but sit
For the joy of spring I hunger and thirst
Can I survive, it’s but November first