Missing my old choir buddy who died last December. He always, always, stayed deeply involved in life. In his 80’s, having just beat his battle with cancer, he trained for our local crisis hotline and began counseling the suicidal and the abuse victim. Anyway, thought of him today in mass, and this poem began.
November 2025
Why his clarity, his ocular spark, so near does death's shadow creep? Others, with near-dead eyes, long encumbered by that dark shadow, seem to have surrendered. What? Something. That spark, that signal, that engagement. Oddly, we note both say similar words: "I'm ready to die. Take me, any time," but our engaged example has said it all his life.
A recent sit on the porch yielded too many “morning” poems for one day. Herewith…
I sat in morning's glory: Sun on my left shoulder. Squirrels, possessed, scampered below, imitating smaller chipmunks. Finches swooped from roof to feeder, then returned. One belligerent wren whistled insistently. Towhee sang softly, Wren's backup singer. Suddenly bird-laughter through dense pines. Pileated woodpecker taunted from his shadowy safety, hidden. Sun limned dawn's clouds, painted our laurel. I wondered: could daytime meet My morning's grand promises?
We live secret lives hiding behind masks of mutual pleasantries as we walk our dogs, stretch our legs, work quietly in our yards. But these yards keep secrets poorly. They reveal us to our world more clearly than we could ourselves.
Eastward my neighbor's carefully curated lawn, shrubs, flowers give way to substantial but well-contained wildness, trees, vines, anything which chooses to grow there. "He bites off no more than chewable, this one," says his yard. "He values order, beauty, ornamentation. His dogs bark freely—why not? They come when he calls, they serve him. Who needs more?" I cannot see his front yard: perhaps something deeper? I think not; well-maintained in back means more so in front.
Southward lies bare minimum. Years ago, ten or more, she planted irises 'round her mailbox. Nothing else blooms, front or back, which can be seen from street or another's yard. In back lies one small patch of grass, some flowering trees. Hidden deeply in vine-shrouded solitude lurks her tool shed, never visited, never needed. Twice each month she brings in mowers to keep her lawn in check. She limps to deck, to her car. I surmise once someone else lived with her who took more interest.
Northward lies ambition, community, family. Just prior to pandemic's pause, its yard under new management, benches appeared around one fire pit. Party lights dangled between trees, firewood racks popped up along their back fence, which received repairs inside one year. Next they tore off rotten wood, remade their basement, attached two decks amazing for their sturdiness, their beauty. "When Jesus comes back, those decks will still be there," he told me. No lawn appeared in back after previous residents let chained dogs wear it down. Instead, frisbee golf came. Camping gear occupied some space. Everything about it screams "Family! Friends! Comfort!"
Here? Our yard underwent metamorphosis as I allowed 'natural' grass to grow unchecked until I realized its invasive nature. Then, shaggy unkemptness gave way to nothing-but-garden. Its haphazardly located plants reveal how poorly my dreams get realized. Our back yard, torn asunder by summer's torrents, reveals how ill- conceived our landscaper's plans, leaving nothing but soil to wash away...while revealing my trust in what others promise me. Now, unwanted green strangers laugh at me: "Go ahead, pull us up! We have more numbers, more patience than you. We will prevail." And so they shall. My yard says, "Good intentions, poor follow-through. Perhaps some sense of romance."
Green and gold (that’s its name) in our back yard. April 2026.
Every major city seems to have a botanical greenhouse where tropical conditions have been created to foster the growth of orchids, bromeliads, and such—or “July” as a resident of the American South might call it. I left just past noon today for a 25-minute sojourn around the neighborhood. When I returned, our weather gauge reported a temperature of 81.1°F and a relative humidity of 88.8% (now registering an even 89.0% 30 minutes later). Lighting was poor: completely overcast, the sun approaching its zenith. That’s okay. My poetry attempts have been poor today, also. This is my second try, the first being filed in the “maybe-it-can-be-saved” bin. This really isn’t poetry, more poetic prose, artfully arranged—unless it’s true what a friend said, that poetry is what I say it is!
Every Southerner learns gradual acceptance of sweat, wears loose garments, overlooks each other's spreading stains. "Only mad dogs" indeed. Why walk now? Surely my Fitbit will multiply steps taken in such weather?
Escaping my climate- controlled cocoon, black-eyed susans cry welcome. They're sprinkled beside rattlesnake master, goldenrod, butterfly weed. Abiding our warmth, humidity humbly, they suggest I follow their lead.
Minutes later brings one patriotically-colored whirligig, neglected, spinning madly with each new breath of hot air, much like my country does these days. Inured to these new great divides, I just see [whirligig; patriotic] as I pass.
One neighbor's mailbox decoration swings madly with each puff of air. Its caretaker keeps it small: Chinese fringe flower usually towers twenty feet.
Where once I wandered scrub woods (leftover nature long subdued), newer years brought townhouses, all units clad in ubiquitous white, (accented with charcoal trim!)
Townhouses get young magnolias, crafted ever-so- perfectly by your local nursery, while everyone else nurtures what such abnormal specimens become.
Headed homeward I give friend Crow midday greetings, reflect upon our tree-bound need for vegetables in front (sunlight dictates placement), admire still-red maple leaves, register my soaked T-shirt: its limit of three-quarters mile, exceeded by my four.
Ghosts, slipping treelike through forests populated by people looking just like they once did. Slowly dissolving, windborne gossamer, 'til people look through them. Haunting not others, but themselves with each mirror-ward glance. Remembering when they treated ghosts similarly, in youthful vibrancy.
Every day a poem: Dawn's introductory stanza Sets me up—better, worse, or In-between. By Breakfast's lines Attitude starts setting, casting Today's foundation. Theme, style, music, tone, harmony, dissonance, all proscribed by this early start. Takes composer's interference to Change this line, this development. Afternoon either resolves all notes, or abandons them to dissipate into "well there's always tomorrow."
A funny thing happened on the way to this post a week ago: all three monitors started blinking on and off rapidly for 20 seconds and then my video driver software said it had crashed. Since I thought I had installed it only two months previously, I swore and deleted said software… Not a good idea. After rebooting I had only one monitor functioning and it displayed smaller fonts/icons and a fuzzier image. Turns out I had only updated the driver a couple months before. Two days later I’m humming along with three glorious monitors again, but not enough time in each day to complete this post. Wherewith…
After experiencing Edinburgh, Scotland, and England’s Lake District on our recent tour of the United Kingdom, we headed toward Llandudno Bay, Wales. Just before we arrived, though, we took in the Bodnant Garden, a National Trust property near Conwy and Llandudno Bay. The five generations of one family developed it, and Henry McClaren donated it. I got that from Wikipedia mostly, and would recommend a quick tour over to that page because the photos capture it very well. It’s 80 acres present all sorts of habitat from well-manicured English garden to “nearly wild” and has exotic species like the American sequoia. (Hey, it’s exotic there.) We started walking in a summery rain shower but the sun soon overcame it; we regretted layering for rain as we sweated our way into a steep gully and back out.
The McClaren mansion. The family still lives there…on occasion. Bodnant Garden, Wales. June 2026.
Seemed to be a lot of locals enjoying a Sunday afternoon in the garden. Bodnant Garden, Wales. June 2026.
The couple above were gazing into the gully (when not gazing into each other’s eyes, I presume). If they had turned around they would have seen…
Bodnant Garden, Wales. June 2026.
The light varied. As we descended into the gully, cut by a fast-moving stream, it grew dark—not because the clouds had obscured the sun, but because the foliage had. As we walked along the stream, it got lighter. We found some old stone buildings, repurposed into a refreshment center. We however needed to head back to our bus and Llandudno.
all the voices in my head 