November Parade

Children spruce stand at the edge of the parade path,
The elder folk far back in the crowd,
good visibility through the thinning trees,
Celebrating and anticipating the arrival of winter.

The cheers run like a wave as the tree tops applaud.
A dance occurs ahead in the procession,
And all withdraw their breath.
Then the roar of the wind band comes from behind us
And the wave of appreciation begins anew.
The piper crickets join the exposition and
perform their best autumn tones,
And a hawk screams in delight.
Veterans of many years
parade these grounds and all is well.

Across the parade path, a giant has tumbled.
Human hands have lovingly placed
a few of its littered remains at the edge of the path.
Its tangled mess that lies fallow in the woods
will be lovingly used by other beings in not too much time.

And suddenly, the gig is over.
The parade path narrows and presents a tall fence,
Windward edge piled high with earlier leaves.
The Band disbands.
The watching kids have disappeared.
The applause seems to come from
Everywhere and no where.
And I, lonely interlocutor am satisfied,
Heart warmed from the walk
And the kiss of breeze
and welcome sunlight on my cheek.
Confetti streamers pop out as the celebration completes.
I sit on the make shift bleachers –
My coat on a a gentle ridge –
And close my eyes and open my soul.

Maple Majesty

What majesty turns you
from green to yellow to gold to orange to gone?
Why is your neighbor red,
the other brown,
the other green?

I wish I could find
the crayola words
to describe your beauty,
and the breath-eliminating way
the sun spotlight highlights your natural color,
or softens it, or adds golden tones.
Clairol can’t touch this.

Your gilded tresses
clutter my once-green carpet.
I bag and compost,
rake and compost,
tarp-pile and compost
and still
you share and shake and softly slide
onto the yard.

Tomorrow you will be all but bald.
Next year, you will emerge
in the sweetness of July’s Early Girl
and August’s Best Boy.

This month,
you are a brief and glorious blast.
What majesty!

Greetings, DOW!

Greetings, Dame Olive Writers!

Question, Kimberly: have I now gotten signed up for the blog and is this going on it? We'll see! Just got back from Churchill, Manitoba where I saw polar bears. Way cool!!! Elizabeth

Mourning Friends

I drive by the old park
hand weakly covering my dropped mouth.
“Watch the road,”
a voice reminds.

What remains at the park,
bleached, corpse white
in the first morning light
under rain-remnant clouds

Are piles of tangled legs and arms,
hair falling around brother bodies,
trunks crisscrossed, crucified,
bunched unceremoniously, disrespectfully,

A holocaust of trees destroyed
for bandstands and parking lots.
Earth ripped and ravaged
and left to dry.

My lunch time friends,
homes to countless, now gone -
disturbed, disturbing,
making way for entertainment and economy.

Mt Trashmore

I come to the mountain to renew my soul.
This mountain was once a heap of trash.
I come to the trees to feel my pulse.
These trees are short and thinly rooted.
I come to the water to be purified.
This water is toxic runoff.
I look to the birds for freedom’s song.
These birds squawk, tied to this geography.
I seek wholeness and connection in Nature.
This fractured manufactured landscape
leaves me wanting for more.


I cannot be in the Smokies.
I cannot touch the Hemlocks.
I cannot drink mountain springs.
I cannot glimpse the eagle.

I am here in Coastal Virginia.
I am here in the corporate job.
I am here with a mortgage.
I am here.

So I come to Mount Trashmore in Virgina Beach,
Hoping for some reflection of the glorious Sun
In the hill that covers years of refuse
And offers a kiter wind,
And is host to coastal birds, fighting for a scrap
And sings of highway noises,
And skateboarders fly
While snow geese gather
On their way to southern streams.

Hemlocks' Retreat

Written at Fires Creek park, Oct 10, 2008
Intuitive writing.
Kimberly

This forrest feels sad. Or is it me that feels sad here?

I touch the Hemlocks and ask them what is going on.

20, 40, maybe even 60 years ago, the Hemlocks were called back. Their life energy is needed back in their ancestral home, deep inside Mother. Slowly they answer the call, reluctantly, but surely.

The reasons are unclear to them. Change, making way, restoring balance, transition time. They gently, slowly pull their blood away from limbs and retreat into roots. From roots to dirt. The Commander has sounded the retreat, and retreat they must. The time is nearing, their retreat is hastened.

They are moving camp to the underground facilities. The "Weather Mountain" of the Southern Appalachians.

The Inner Earth dwellers are aware of this movement of life force and are assisting. They help build barracks and bunkers, storing C-rats from the tree's nectar. They are quite busy and we on the surface are quite oblivious.

There will be passageways open for the Mountain People as the time nears. They will be able to continue their known lifestyle, with similar plant medicine. The Hemlocks will be Tsuga interniensis. The sacred peoples will be moving to safer lands. Not another relocation march, but a re-emergence into a safer world, for a time. This is where some of the people will go.

The Hemlock blood is also being used to prepare remedies for clean-up. The tree's experience with disease will build an antidote that will be made available as time approaches. The great giants of the mountains are indeed in service still.

Mountains and forest and cetaceans will hold the peace frequency as fear and change roar around us. The trees ask that we do the same: meditate, join with fellow travelers envisioning a peaceful new world. Find online groups and rejuvenate your ground by being in Nature often. Join with the tall people, the finned-ones, the winged-ones and the underground-ones to bring God's eternal peace and infinite abundance to this blessed planet.