new challenge

wandering is beyond me now

simple freedom to explore

without ‘looking for’

 but merely observing for the joy of immersing in the intricate interacting beauty

of natural surroundings

old age failings slow me

to study more closely immediate treasures in deeper focus

random universe defined

if the world, the universe

are not attuned to my needs

then all being must be random

somehow smacks of arrogance

on my part

the assumption of a small child

that, if unsatisfied, i need only

whine and cry, and my desires

should be met

there can be no purpose to existence

if it is not centered upon me

Aurora masked

my mysterious joy, Aurora Borealis

was vivid from Texas to New York

but our Pacifici Northwest, socked in

with mist and clouds, afforded me

no view of those eerily moving lights

that touch me deep within to remind

me to maintain humble perspective

butterball chickadee

a  small, butterball

black-capped chickadee

picks daintily at what seed

is left after other birds

have been at the birdseed tray

the sunrise fades pale orange

to gray behind him

as he breakfasts with genteel

unhurried manners

sunrise glorious

haiku

sunrise glorious

not belonging to those who

awake to alarm

palette of elation

simply to sharpen my awareness

of the beauty around me, i look

in order for a natural representation

of each of the colors of the rainbow

red, today, is apple (noting with joy

the golden-yellow, wiggly lines

descending from the shoulders)

orange – sunrise struggling between

purple clouds

yellow – leaves, as Alli Weiss put it,

learning ‘the sweet song of dying’

green – remarking trees in prolific hues

from chartreuse, pea green, avocado olive, khaki, bottle, sea, cedar, emerald

blues in luscious abundance from sky

to spruce needles to rare autumn

fallen lacy leaves

purple, magenta, hyacinth

and tiny, pink, shy, bell-like florets

even remembering this gorgeous pallet

of my world bring me warm peace

and hope for a happy tomorrow

magnificent illusion

enormous orange round

the harvest moon seems to rise

and shed it dark color

to vivid, pearly white

nearer to us, it is itself

its enlargement and color changes caused by our looking

through more layers of particles

in our atmosphere

at the curvature of our earth

but, ah, the magnificence

of the illusion

tender rain

tender rain, not so much falling

as gliding downward to caress

desiccated leaf and blade

in comforting slaking of thirst

engorgement and, eventually,

grateful, green satiety

fog murmurs

light fog hides the Pacific

rolling in quiet and muffling sounds

of normal day activities to distortion

until even early afternoon has a chill

a haunted feel and buckled deformation

that murmurs a garbled transformation

to a world we only thought we knew

pinks of dawn

haiku

unique pinks of dawn

carry the warmth of hope and

promise to renew

forest stream

trickled run-off filtering between roots

of forest trees, seeking lower ground

finding tiny rivulets rich with soil bits

tumbling over pebbles, searching out paths, joining to form a crick, then creek

lower and lower into a stream where

my love and i lie on grassy bank

drinking in sounds of tinkling, slithering  dipping, crashing glistening waters moaning, singing, defying, bullying

plummeting to fulfill gravity’s charge and we, laughing, hold each other

joyous to be part of the sentient and non-sentient order that includes us

however reluctantly

blue-gray settles

smokey from wildfires and the haze of late summer

so a blue-gray settles from the air to our emotions

above a hundred

the cycle or hoax of global warming

grows more intense, it seems, each year

triple digit temperatures for more

than a week now in what has been

the mild Pacific Northwest

as in many areas of the world

so few of those pale or reddened

dizzy, sick, miserable, dying

needing shade and water

and having little or none

are those whose focus on business profitability contributes

to those very tens of notches above

one hundred degrees Fahrenheit

who?

what would be a Baltimore Oriole

on the East Coast is scattering seed

and husks in my bird feeder

but here in Oregon, it must be

a hungry something else

sunrise artisans

small, silvered tent covers

tilted between tufts of grass

sparkling with captured dew

bits boasting in dawn’s slant light

gone within hours as the day warmed

the work of spider artisans

doe not fear

another doe checking out my grass

and weedy lawn this morning

such a privilege to have them come

unafraid so near my porch – and me

Sol sleeping in

muted by a stillness that smothers

the breeze leaves pine boughs drooping

waiting for animation, for sign of life

even early morning colors patinaed

with blue-gray, drugged to slumber

Sol sleeping in long past dawn

After Fasting

After Fastingreading a haiku by Robert Kratz

Hunger forced the doe closer to Man’s strange, straight-sided buildings so unlike Nature’s gently curved lines. She had been fasting by choice to remain near her whimpering fawn. But this dawn, he had grown still and cold. She had risen, finally, to shuffle as she could toward the smell of abundant corn. She had always feared Man, but she was too weak not to dare what was nearby for the taking.

The doe crept forward, trembling, then stopped, shuddering. A dog barked. The silence of the Meadow beyond beckoned, but it was so far.

Again, the dog barked, and was joined by the sharp yips of a smaller hound.

 The doe bound away, then staggered as she could toward the Meadow.

yearly anticipation

 chill these last few nights

welcome after torrid days

awaiting long summer of hot

days and nights and the longing

for autumn

quietly herself

a slender doe is nearly on my porch

with outstretched neck she could ring

the windchimes hanging from the glass

deck cover, but she is too busy

picking at tender new shoots of grass

i sit at my desk, not ten feet from her

but am disguised by desk and shelves

and nothing to her, which is just

the way i love it to get to watch her

quietly herself