Walk in the Woods
Abstract: Baker’s Patience
A poem, about the patience required to bake bread.
Bakers must master a variety of skills, not least among them is math, chemistry, and learning to trust their hands.
The dough will whisper when it’s ready, when the yeast is yeasting, and she’s ready for a nap.
Then, after a rest, the baker returns to fold and shape as the final preparation.
Any mistakes in the recipe, long concealed and hidden.
At last the moment arrives when the loaf is fetched from the oven, hot and crusty.
Ready to cool for the cuttin’.
And here, in the last of it, the baker implores their most holy of skills,
cause many breads are ruined by hungry stomachs, sick of waiting.
Abstract: Itchy Skin
A poem, about dry itchy skin as a result of dry air.
You ever itch to the point when you fantasize of taking a wire brush to your body,
because having no skin would be better scraping your nails up and down your arm and across your neck every ten seconds?
I have and I’m desperate for it to stop.
Stupid curse, begging for attention.
Reducing a man to a child.
Please go away.
I’ll give you what you need.
Take my wallet if you must.
Just leave me be.
This dry air is causing my skin to hate me.
Abstract: Fading Sun
A poem, about the slow change of summer into fall.
After months of early mornings and scorching cloudless days, the sun is losing her steam.
She shows up a little later and leaves a little earlier than she did the day before.
The mornings now cool and the forests ever just starting to red and yellow,
And evening shadows grow longer due to her shifting flight pattern.
I applaud the effort and dedication to her profession- to give us warmth and light and direction.
But as August fades into September, it’s time for her to retire,
to rest and recoup for next year.
Abstract: Magic Coffee Can
A poem, about investing and reaping.
An old coffee can sits on my book shelf,
it’s got a magical power,
I’ve long left unused.
For when I put my quarters and dollars inside,
they multiply.
Oh, not in great quantities, and not over night.
But slowly, over years, one dollar can become two dollars,
a quarter produces dime.
All the worn coffee can needs is time.
But, I’ve been impatient and impulsive,
and spent all I had,
Trying to live in the now.
What a waste.
Now, I’ve got nothing for the future.
And that coffee can still sits on my shelf,
begging to be used.
Abstract: The Can And The Beach
A poem, about the contrast of what men make and value versus creation.
The frustrated man kicked his can down the street,
fuming as he went,
Why had he wasted his years obeying his fears,
and denied the power stored within.
Onward he kicked the now scratched and crinkled can,
up the alley toward the melody and glaring lights from the corner.
As alley gave way to avenue, the drifter paused to observe the action:
Diners slurping noodles and beer, chatting about culture and news of the day.
He could’ve joined them.
Yes, he thought of grabbing the stool next to the bar,
Of ordering dim sum from the waiter dressed in denim and sporting a cropped beard.
But, he doesn’t like beer or pride or being measured.
So, he crossed the street, can at his feet,
into the shadow.
He ambled west over the ridge toward the beach,
past giggling wino’s, concerned parents, and coked-up partiers,
until his feet felt fine sand beneath them.
The rhythm and thunder of the waves pushed all the world aside,
and he stood in awe as each of his five senses awakened.
Ordinary by definition but no less powerful or captivating.
He closed his eyes in reverence to the Creator, pulling the salty aroma into his nose,
and listening to the waves smack the rocks and spray foam on the shore.
And for a moment he turned back to the city and thought of its temptations and allure.
A sea breeze blowing at his back.
Then he looked down at the can, dented and scraped.
Abstract: August Rain
A poem, about the gifts a hurricane brings to Northern California.
When you plan your day to avoid a blasting sun,
dust covers your legs after a short walk,
and your skin is beaten red,
You welcome Hilary with open arms and a smile.
You laugh at her dark clouds and rejoice in the return of puddles,
having not seen one since June.
I pray she gives the fire fighters a hand before she leaves.
Abstract: My Siren
A poem, about my biggest enemy.
She whispers, “You can take the day off, yesterday went well. No need to push yourself.”
And when I trudge onward, I hear the strain in her voice when she asks, “Don’t your legs feel strained and heavy?”
For good measure she adds, “It might rain.”
And as I work from task to task, all in support of the goal,
She never relents and never tires as she prods for weakness,
for she is my greatest enemy and my worst friend,
a siren, the obnoxious hater in my head.
Abstract: A Prayer To Prepare
A poem, about asking for endurance and tools to complete the journey.
If I am an arrow,
Lord make me straight and sharp,
and ready for the hunt.
If I am a stone,
Lord make me strong and smooth,
and prepared for the load.
If I am land,
Lord make me fertile,
that I might feed your people.
My Father in heaven,
Whatever I am and the person you made me to be,
grant me the tools and opportunities to be my best,
and train me to sustain til the end.
Abstract: Work On Monday
A poem, about how artist and workers need each other.
There’s a canyon between those who sustain life and those who make it worth living.
The world needs doctors and accountants and teachers and salesmen,
And it needs painters and directors, guitar players, and rappers,
Chefs and dancers.
In truth, the engineer and the lawyer must stick to what works,
the boring formula that produces safety and wealth and enough money to retire in comfort.
The farmer and the train conductor may doodle in the their spare time, or keep a journal jammed with poems,
but they’re lives are on rails, predictable and safe.
But to the poet and the play write, it’s a waste.
And a hobby will never replace a calling,
never satisfy their longing to create and touch that part of God few dare to touch.
I understand the view on both sides of this canyon, and why each see the other with a hint of disdain,
but it doesn’t have to be that way.
We need each other.
Artist and chefs and musicians need patrons and customers and music lovers.
And in turn, the artists, chefs, and musicians need the engineers, truck drivers, and nurses to go to work on Monday.
Abstract: Grandpa’s Barn
A poem, about a barn and the connection it fostered of man to the land.
The barn was wooden and painted red, though faded,
and held up by a stone foundation.
As a child, the farmer’s shed held both intrigue and dread.
The large main store room was guarded by a large single sliding door.
Inside the darkness lived my grandpa’s Farmhall H and towering stacks of hay to either side.
Past the tractor and through the pastural scent of dry hay was a chute at the back of the room,
and it reached down to the stables where horses and cows slept and ate and left their mark.
And the combined fragrance of manure and hay and old hardwood was at once both alluring and gross.
The real magic of the barn was its purpose, a place where man and beast to interact and care for one another.
Shelter from the snow and home to the milking stool, each being knew his part and respected the others’.
And I think about that barn, if it still exists, and the important role it played in connecting a man to the land and life.
Abstract: Hope I’m Wrong
A poem, about the nasty thoughts and emotion that surface when I lack sleep.
Tired and fighting.
Like I walked into a spider web of anxiety in the middle of the trail,
I can’t see the strings or the crawler,
but I can feel them sliding over my arms and thoughts.
And, I’m worried about what’s about to come.
Praying, I’m wrong.
I hope it’s sleep deprivation- the product of an exhausted mind.
I better not be right.
Lord, I hope I’m wrong.
Abstract: Blue Bird Joy
A poem, about choosing joy admit sadness.
Sometimes, when I’m blue I wish I were a bird,
so I could fly high above my shame and sadness,
feel the wind on my face,
and gaze at the glorious colors and shapes below.
The world is beautiful,
And there’s joy in remembering it is so.
Life is the great wonder,
to be lived, shared, and adventured,
explored and loved.
My sadness cycles and fades as night dances with the day,
but the laughing river and the wise mountain remain,
as does the joy we have at hand.