Trail Cat
Walking steeply down a hilly and remote Scottish footpath
On a glorious sunny Spring day
When below us emerging from the wood and crossing the stream
Appear two women with several young children
But wait! What is that?
Trotting determinedly along behind the last child
Like a loyal dog
Was a cat! A trail cat
Yes, a cat was marching with the women and children
A sleek, gray, attentive, and unusually compliant cat
The troupe climbed the hill toward us and we stepped aside
Ascending slowly but dutifully up the hill the cat panted
Uncommon sight it is to see a cat huff and puff
After a brief pause to study us
The cat answered to its name called from up the path
And resumed its hike leaving us to gape in surprise at the trail cat
An Unspoken Conversation
It’s a conversation he hasn’t wanted to have with himself.
Even though he knows it is necessary to do so.
Funny to think of avoiding a topic of which only he knows.
No one else need judge or reprimand.
He could speak to himself, but does not.
And that too scares him.
Pain and despair press down making it hard to breathe.
This weight suppresses any light or spirit he may have remaining.
There is no one else to blame.
Decisions were made.
Risks were taken.
The only one holding him back from taking the next step is him.
But, the future is wide open and so very frightening.
Back Among the Trees
We came back in late May.
The trees had fully leafed a couple of weeks earlier.
They’re hovering now over us and the house in a quiet, but imposing manner.
The wind is still and so are the trees.
But they can still shoot the color green all over and around us.
And the oaks alpha over the maple, birch, and beech.
These are things one notices.
Such can be life living under a dome-like canopy.
In a forested land that rolls and stretches as far as the eye can see.
The Rain
The Spring on the coast of western Scotland was very rainy. Unsurprisingly.
The Scots seemed to take it in stride and some let on they even appreciate it.
Returning to New Hampshire we found the Spring to be dry. Surprisingly.
The rain today clears pollen from the air.
And gives the thirsty plants a wee, but so far insufficient drink.
Usually I do not like rainy days.
They depress me and leave me feeling confined and annoyed.
Like an energetic child stuck inside a boring house.
But occasionally a rainy day comes along that soothes and comforts.
I make an extra pot of coffee to nurse throughout the day.
Allow myself more daytime reading than usual.
Listen to the steady sound of water striking leaves and ground.
It can be easier to sense the rhythm of nature.
On one of the good rainy days.
How Old People Can Keep Fit
Remember what we did so naturally as children?
Run
Jump
Stretch
Bend
Climb
Lift
Roll
Crawl
Reach
Kneel
Swing
Fall
Crouch
Hop
Skip
Twist
Dig
Balance
Squat
Flip
Let’s continue doing these activities as old adults.
(Except maybe Flip)
Doing so keeps us feeling alive.
The Introvert
People
Interactions, relationships, encounters, friendships
Reveal cringe-worthy memories.
Moments that produce anxieties, fears, fumbles, gaffes, regrets.
And of course, faux pas.
People
Was I smart enough?
Friendly enough?
Witty enough?
Charming enough?
Moral enough?
People
Cant’ live with ’em. Can’t live without ’em.
So many feelings to hurt, offenses to make, blunders to smooth over.
People
Avoid them purposefully.
Shift my focus.
Choose solitary tasks.
Allow thoughts to wander.
Reclaim a center.
People
Sorry, but I am out, done, finished.
Forever.
Seasonal Affective Mood
The muted light
illuminates the woods
in yellow.
Lively winds
from the northwest
send dry leaves
fluttering and spinning
to the ground.
Despite this beauty
I feel apprehension.
Another lengthy, frigid, dark, and biting
winter is just around
the corner.
The stratus clouds
are steely gray today.
They form a canvas
against which a V-shaped
flock of honking geese
fly south.
Firewood is stacked.
Flower gardens put to bed.
Colorful summer gear stowed.
The precious sun
sinks lower in the sky.
And I brace
myself for the advancing
onslaught.
The Bicycle
A borrowed bicycle
belonged to the homestay
in Hoi An
where I stayed.
Old and red
it rekindled a sentiment
of being a kid again.
I wove through a street market,
past tropical houses,
along dusty roads,
toward the sea.
Being a foreigner
among natives and locals
of Vietnam
who barely gave a notice
to this American
riding through their homeland.
This land
spoke fear and war
to my teenage years.
But today
the sun is warm
the ocean is bright blue
I am free
to ride a bicycle
across this land.
Listening Intently
We walk along the dirt road
located through the old woods
that was once a stagecoach route
which started carrying passengers in 1831
from Hanover to Lowell in a single day.
Today, as is true most days,
the road is quiet and seemingly still
as it penetrates this patch of forest
with its tumbledown stone walls
and a visible opening left over
from a logging operation five years ago.
We pass the pond with its far-off view of Mount Sunapee
as soon the road begins its rise to a stand of hemlock
where the wide path to the right invites
us to the lonely clearing on Shadow Hill
that displays the remnants of a campfire
and a high view of the pond and western hills.
Here the dog is off-leash sniffing and exploring
as I try to read the story of today’s woods
told cunningly and gently
through blowing of soft winds and solitary warbling of birds
and filtered light amplifying the lapping of water against the steep hill.
For those with an awareness and an attentive ear
and a consciousness which takes in the delicate vibrations of nature
can also be heard the orchestra of trees growing
with fallen wood rotting and humus decomposing
and the creaks and groans of water freezing
all punctuated by the tone of the decaying flesh
of a squirrel who lived its brief life among these trees.
A Day
Another day to float through.
Free of agenda and schedule.
Except for picking up your pieces.
Or so I tell myself.
What did you say?
I couldn’t hear you clearly.
You know, I’m not what you think.
Although maybe you know that.
With your head thrown back.
And your eyes closed and mouth gaping.
Excuse me, but…
Choices are strange, you know.
Life is a lot of risky business.
With stinging rebukes.
And nods of agreement.
Just by stumbling through another day.
Which reminds me.
Of the confusion of youth.
And silly false choices.
Combined with conflicting images.
From 1973.
Of cornfield mazes.
Abandoned gold mines.
Hitchhiking through Ohio.
Trying to be alternative.
While embracing middle class life.
And doing neither particularly well.
Doesn’t matter now.
It’s in the past.
Heaven and Hell can wait.
There’s more living to be done.
Beneath the full moon.
Which was here before birth.
And will be here after death.
