Where he thinks he wants to go

The tern struggles to get where he thinks he wants to go.
Wind buffets and blocks his progress.
That direction is easy. No effort.
Zoom
and you're accross the water,
fathoms away.

But this direction is what I want
he says.

He cuts downward.
He struggles. He wobbles.
He's blown off course.
He stalls, he circles.
He waits.

Then, as the Earth pauses for that
brief second between breaths,
the persistent one grabs the moment
and arrives on the
East Bank.

What's there?
Just a resting place.
A much needed resting place.
No goal, just a game.

I come here for solace and renewal.
This is Mount Trashmore,
a man-made hill in flat, flat coastal Virginia.
A hill of trash
covered with earth and grass.
A lake on either side with
carefully planted
water-purifying flora.

This is home sometimes to
mallards, mulligans, white geese, king fishers,
egrets, great blue herons, gulls, terns, pigeons,
finches, grackles and
who knows what all.

Sometimes they have pow-wow's and
sword fights in mideaval garb,
picnics and races,
RC boat festivals.
I sit watching

the water dance, and the fowl bob.
I hear an occassional laugh of a gull,
splash of a duck
and the omnipresent drone
of tires and trucks on I64.

Buildings are appearing where there
had been woods. Downtown is growing
upward, not outward.

This is where I come when I want the peace
and tranquility of mountains,
where I long for a deep and abiding connection
to Nature Spirits.
The Spirit is here
if I ignore the signs to the contrary.
It is now HOW I want it to be

But it is good enough for now.
It has to be.
Or I'll just circle and stall
and crash
fighting the flow of Spirit's breath.

Transition

So, here I am.
I am out of school.
I walk. I do yoga. I cry.
I go to channelling classes.
I wander the streets.
I walk to the other side of the street in some of the dicey neighborhoods.
I drive to the mountains. I sit.
I watch my money dwindle.
I have failed.
I am jobless.
I guess I have to move home.
I sigh.

I have one student, then I have none.
I don't know why I am here.
I mean in the big picture.
I give up.

I go on an interview.
I am not what they are looking for.
I go on an interview.
I can't take that salary after Graduate School!

I am in an accident.
I am OK.
I drive with duct tape on the bumper.

I start packing.
I give away stuff.
I have yard sales.
I ask the landlord for a break.
I am thrilled to get one.
I am alone in the apartment.
I call my dad for help.
I say Goodbye.

I send resumes to Pennsylvania and New Jersey.
I hate this field!
Why did I get this degree?
I can't go back to my old job.
I don't see that as an option.

I don't understand.
Why?

I leave.
I move back home.
I find a job in PA as soon as I completely give up on MA.

It's not the bestest fit for me.
I don't know where the road will eventually take me.
I follow the turns.
Here I am.

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.