JakTraks

Pine Forest

Forest is a palpable presence
greater than its sum of branches,
coniferous-ly expressing mystery
bottomless as deep-seas are black.

The hottest day is rendered cool
one step inside the blue-green cave -
as if you're walking underwater
through the Earth's most natural nave.

Sunlight freckles the needle-y floor
though not enough to bring it bright,
mythical creatures will appear
solid in the softened light.

Unlike drugstore perfumed candles
in the throat real pine scent stings
pleasantly, a pinch of potent
woodland ginger: tantalizing.

Time spent steeped in forest spirit
soothes the flesh though soul is bared,
in the stillness is remembrance
of how vast and loved we are.

Day After Thanksgiving Haiku

three cats around me
cello concerto plays soft
space-time perfection

Puff, Tango, Plash

This morning, remembering
the daily hour drive east to college
into the sunrise sky
dance of imagination
widening sleep-drawn eyes
with solar soaked art,
dewy kiss, day's first smile,
light's color-coded prayer
for all of us
across its one horizon.

Violet puffs and pipes the dawn,
tango of tangled orange and reds,
pointillist dots petal pink and lime,
plash of gold and scarlet mountains
reflecting Tibet,
sometimes indigo alone
bleaching to cloudless turquoise,
or closed blinds black and gray,
each dawn a postcard to "Dear Me,"
signed, "I'm on my way."

Down the Slide of Life on Waxed Paper

In grade school 1960's I was taught
in the second half of all our lives
brains lose cells
without regenerating,
the brain they said goes moldy, loses spark.

What a tightly wrapped box beliefs can be,
we didn't know that neuro-genesis
can happen even as our years wiz by
down the slide of life on waxed paper.

The old idea was a stultifying
inevitability. Lights off.
Now we know the current
flows into our future
holding open possibility.

Axioms all must end in question marks
or asterisks to signify a footnote:
though we know this to be true today
it could line the bird cage of tomorrow
for this is how it works: white pushes
black pushes white.

Sensitive beings seek to see and matter,
rational ones make discoveries,
mind moves to recreate itself --
the three shift perception and belief.

We stop a moment. Then seek to see some more.

I Think I Was Cumulus

Walking down the road
a blowsy October day,
moving fast under weak rays
in and out, for warmth.

Overhead clouds race:
a herd of workers catching
the six pm train on Friday,
eager to start the weekend.

Looking straight up
I rose a little, and began
flowing with the clouds,
flew, charged, raced, rolled
with them, my legs
two tails on a kite.

Does anyone see me;
lady in the yellow house
with red flowers,
family with the pine
like a one-armed cactus?

A car approaches and
looking to see it, land
as if a practiced fairy
smooth and light on a petal.

If you ever wonder
what goes on with clouds
blowsy October days
I can tell you . . .
they are laughing.

Tell Me, Why Rocks?

I have always known
my soul is with the rocks;
heavy, they are grounding,
light, they skip water.

I try to embrace this,
most of me naturally does
except a section wanting
flight with birds, or comets.

Comet! Why that's it!
Sir stubborn part can be
a flying rock, duh;
still it wonders, why rock.

Why not a Tiger Lily
or sweet mountain stream,
the fully skirted pine
or slice of an April sky?

As a child I loved all rocks
ragged and sharp, silk smooth,
stones multi and mono colored.
I must talk to the child.

Cosmic Butterfly

Docked
on the bush beside me:
butterfly
lowers its wings,
wide,

each one:
black,
an occasional purple
or indigo sheen
there,
then gone.

The midnight velvet:
eternity,
a void so full
to bursting with bliss
it sang itself
into this beauty.

Edges of infinity:
tipped
in banana joy,
Icarus innocence,
lemon crayon love
lined with

eyes, blue:
April sky
to ocean depths,
lily pads
with night vision
peering
into the mystery,

juicing the innocent
with soft buzzes
of knowing.

Slip and Dip

Like the moon
into hiding 3 nights,
my faith can slip
into the sea
of dark matter
enmeshed with us.

Good to know
it has its own light,
where physical eyes
can't go
you can see
the spark.

Sometimes A Rock Isn't Just A Rock

when I was three and a half
I collected rocks,
put them in a box tall
as I was small,

colorful rocks and sparkly,
dull conglomerates and
rough or satiny smooth,
pebble size
or giant potatoes,

and it makes me wonder what
does a three and a half year old
look for in a rock,
what made those rocks worthy
of my collection.

Creep and Eat Holes

you must creep little creepers
that is what caterpillars do
creep and eat holes in leafy greens
stretch - contract - chew

and so did I until the day
I wove myself a womb
wrapping past attempts to fly
around everything I knew

leaving it all suspended - hanging
a room without a view
wondering why so limited
when wanting the beauty of flight

anxious for a kiss of life
as well understanding wait
struggle and patience bundled tight
no room for insect bliss

until another nondescript day
wiggling to scratch an itch
was aware I'd made a tear
a bit of light slipped in

now I'm ever glad and grateful
my crawling self had learned
there wasn't anywhere to fall
though I knew not yet of wings

Tree Friends

1
grande dame of the ball
long emerald velvet gown
beaded in brown cones

2
two tall matriarchs
wind tossing their thinning hair
dyed the tint of youth

3
Robert Frost swing set
sleek canoes slicing water
possibilities

4
shoulder to shoulder
five beauties flip their full skirts
dancing the can-can

5
neighborhood triplets
long mops and thin sturdy legs
too young for weeping

6
feigning middle class
impossible in the wind
silver is revealed

7
an aura of zeus
massively girded and armed
the block's guardian

8
on fire with belief
anarchists make their statement
not waiting for Fall

9
junior is tethered
in training for adulthood
stand up straight don't slouch

A Third Thing

what moves you

what flows red and molten
through your veins
until it is felt
in the heart

what fills your mind's eye
with iceberg blue clarity
until it is seen
by the heart

searing river and crisp water
meet and steam in the four chambers
giving off a third thing -
an offspring -
eager and ephemeral

The Roads Not Taken

 

Two roads diverged in the woods
and I, I've been torn ever since,
so to trek without a trail
will make quite a difference.

For Coyote

Yesterday I searched for a picture
inside Photobucket on the web
of coyote howling on a peak.

Discovered lovely shots made day and night -
some with coyote howling at the moon
others, coyote trotting through the woods
or through a snowy field morning bright -
mixed in with shots of coyote lying dead,
sometimes the head held upright by the one
who killed it with the courage of a gun.

I've never heard of people eating coyote,
guess it was for sport of shooting lead
at an archetype of mystic lore,
wily it was but destined for a hardwood
floor or being crowned upon a wall.

At least, dear hunter, do not smile wide
over loss of life just like your own,
coyote yes, attacks a human being
when hungry enough or for its own protection;
they eat the meat off other animals' bones.

Its the pompous grin I don't like seeing:
a god with no respect for brother's breathing.

The Shape of Bugs

lots of ladybugs around
flitting about
but easily found

they're different from most other bugs
they don't have alien mandibular mugs

no right angle legs or 360 eyes
or segmented bodies or toothpick thighs

just a shiny bittersweet dome
is where the lady makes her home

kind of like a built-in yurt
a ready umbrella or polka-dot skirt

and check out those dots
I think its a code
that only other ladybugs know

every time I open my door
I find one on my ceiling or floor

but these femme creatures never spook
because of the shape their bug-ness took

To Be or Not To Be . . . a Buttercup

I'm really busy right now because
of my promotion at work
I don't like being this busy because
it cuts down on time to shirk

but at work I shirked to walk
the weather so genteel
and spied a single buttercup
in a soccer field

tiny drop of summer sun
just one can make you smile
much as millions of buttercups
strewn a lemon mile

standing alone it was exquisite
framed by throngs of green
just as jaunty bumptious and bright
whether or not I'd seen

asked if it had a thought for me
and I heard it say
be a drop of summer sun
a pixel in the play

Taking the Throne

monday is my first of days
being a manager type
yipes!

a foreman not a yeoman now
and here I sit the same old cow
but inside I feel it stretching
the sleeping lion lifts its head

courage the groggy feline said

my presence will cause them all to pause
while compassion blunts my claws
it will be hard to bare my teeth
squeezed inside your skinny sheath

but if you need it I can pounce
roaring scares them when it counts
and hunters above will never see
the lazy cat you're born to be

those below will always find
a lioness is mostly kind

I think that's what the feline said
rising from her yeoman bed

Anthem

yesterday
the trees seemed immensely green
different shades of leaves glowing
in the sun
gently waving the tree anthem

I lay my day's reality
over all the violence
the hottest spots across our globe
hoping sometime we're wise enough
enough of us
to stop reacting as if a single
tree is more tree than another