Poetry And Storytelling

  The squirrel sat atop the feeder pole munching on a morsel of seed taken from the canister set upon the hook for the birds. It didn't seem to notice I was watching through the window screen or that I was interested in its behavior. This one did not seem greedy or overly athletic, just a creature going on about a morning ritual, steady, decisive, and sure of its place in time.

  The scene was still and bright, the morning sun illuminating the meadow in the distance and up close, so that the tree leaves and tree trunks spread out  gradually in a symphony of green, gray, and brown systems ancient and formidable.

  Three, three-hundred fifty yards away the dark undercover of the oaks with Spanish moss draped ever so perfectly beckon me to visit not knowing I am limited by the boundary of the owner's property line. I do wish, however, that I could walk out there and sit by the lake to the left where I saw the eagle last year. It would be spiritual I'm sure this time of day.

Oreo The Cat

No, it is not cold out here because my heart is warm, and I am loved.

Yes, I am slower and have to rest, but I know you watch me as I prance through the meadow out by the lake, hunting, enjoying the open spaces.

Yes, I enjoy sitting on your pillow, waiting, not really paying attention to the birds that eat at your feeder, but I do listen for when you open the back door and leave a morsel of food there in the backyard for me.

No, I was not ready to leave this life, but it was time.

Yes, thank you family for all the love!

A Seasoned Road

  Something was wrong with Mr. Fred's left eye, or maybe he didn't have one, he kept the lid closed. He seemed kind all those years long ago, the beret atop his head, the resonance of his deep voice, his quiet, certain movements to task. He was a short black man whose sickle cut the front and back yards at grandma's house.

  She always fed him afterwards, usually grits, eggs, and toast, with a large glass of cold water. He would sit humbly on the back porch alone, singing sometimes, that deep, rich voice spreading throughout the warm summer air.

  After eating he would come sit in the living room and flip through a few magazines, though I'm not sure whether he read them, or just enjoyed the pictures. She would join him at some point, and they would talk and laugh like friends do, about this or that, always a cheerfulness between them.

  I remember that one yellow, late spring day when he came to visit, and Aunt Thelma let him in. He sat, flipped through magazines for a short time and asked for Cora; we had to tell him she had passed on last winter. He looked up, not at us, but outward, and after a time got up and walked out the screen door. I never saw Mr. Fred again.

   Beginning a new fall season the senses are again heightened to what has gone on before, and what is to come. The poet is stirred by an internal clock guided by the wind, the sea, and the clouds. He or she must go to the outer edges yet is bound by the forces of nature deeply ingrained: "I know not why, but I must write!"