Category: Nature Poetry

Bumble Bee

plump black and yellow bumble bee
pollinating creature you are
always on the move
never an idle moment in your day

your fuzzy body tickles flowers
uncontrollable laughter it ignites
your hum-like buzzing voice
gently carries in still morning air

drifting through the garden
beauty touches you, all along your way
determinedly moving flower to flower
giving and taking each stop you make

the cat in the window, sitting ever so still
invites you to play some dastardly game
need i say
you dare not partake

watching you makes me wonder
a favorite flower have you
your frequent stops, a clue perhaps
the sprawling shaggy veronicas
might be it, at least today

a wish offered to you and all other bumble bees
may flowers sprout a lifetime
and may summer last an eternity

A Day in the Life of a Chipmunk

through the garden she scurried
with overstuffed cheeks, about to explode
she darts without warning into the burrow
next to the tan boulder, midway between
the snapdragons and the delphiniums

her first litter, now grown
and oh yes we saw them
those brown pelted beauties
now likely a second on the way

then, just as late morning sun paints
ivory white streaks on sleeping flowers
mom chipmunk reappears
this time perched atop the boulder
her lookout to the world

a leisurely full-body stretch and
hasty scratch behind the ears
and again she’s off for a refill
from under the feeders at the forest’s edge

Venus on a Clear April Eve

Brilliant beacon Venus glowing bright,
as the shiny gold coin she is.

Wedded perfectly to the sun,
never straying from his side,
and together they waltz
across the April night sky.

With ever-adoring eyes
gazing down on earth,
who, like some blue-green cat’s eye,
returns her stare.

More bright than the brightest star,
casting her mesmerizing light for all to see,
like some astroid-showering soul off to Heaven.

A wandering star to many she seems.
Those knowing her best will attest
her enigmatic family ties.

And helpless am I,
where in her midst I stray.
For in her shadow
my heart hangs deep.
Dangling there for eternity.

The Ancient Tree Drummer

I hear him.
Making holes again.
Hollow places in dead trees.
He’s very old, you know.
Prehistoric!
Pterodactyl-like, I think.
With his red crest
bobbing up and down,
he seems so very proud.
Downright cocky, I’d say.
His drilling stops.
Oh, I hear him again!
Those odd cuk wucka sounds he makes.
His mate makes him wait.
I know he’s listening for her.
Finally she returns his call.
His work resumes.
Strange fellow–
that pileated woodpecker.
Feasting on ants and beetles
deep in the old forest,
where there’s plenty of dead wood.
The hollow tree is his drum, you know,
He’s playing a driving beat.
Latin rock, I think.
He’s ancient, you know.
I hope I see him.

First published in Stilling the Waters (2005).

disappearing garter snakes in the garden

two newborn garter snakes slither
like placeless rivers in concert
through the dancing delphiniums

they find their way–
God only knows how and to where–
through the foreboding snapdragons
   then
disappear into thin air
an alien abduction    maybe
but gone in any case

the rest of the day
   while not over
seems to limp    in the direction
of where the tiny snakes
exited the universe

Sculpting Life Rivers

Like the sculptor
chiseling a work of art
from raw stone,
we craft our lives
moment by moment
in whatever time we have.

Unlike a sculpted work of art,
our lives are not cast in stone,
rather they morph
in all directions
with each breath we take.

But if we are not careful,
we lose our ability to change
and rigidify like the immobile mountain
when we should flow like a rushing river.

As rivers,
we constantly renew ourselves
and feed others.
Be the river sculpted over time.
Be the river feeding
all it touches with life.

Clouds Amaze Me

Clouds amaze me
how easily they make friends
with other clouds, but
always maintain their independence, and
how they put themselves
at the mercy of the wind, that
keeps them from becoming
too set in their ways like mountains.

Clouds amaze me
how they drift in wisps and billows, and
how they dress up as scowling old men
with stately white beards, or
naughty elephants standing on hind legs, or
even battered pirate ships
on a tumultuous sea.

Clouds amaze me
how they seduce my imagination, and
how they make me want to dance, and
how they make me want to be
something other than I am,
if only long enough
to know what it’s like
to be someone or something else.

Clouds amaze me
because they can be whatever
they want to be, and
finally just like good poems, they
leave the right parts of the story untold.

To hear this poem:
[odeo=http://odeo.com/audio/13266293/view]

Dangling in the Echo of Spring

Bright morning sun drapes itself
like a silver silk scarf
on the fluttering pendulous shaped leaves
of the drooping white birch tree
in the front yard,
where sits an ever so proud,
but exhausted mother cardinal,
doing her best to feed bits of seed,
carefully chosen from the nearby rocket-shaped feeder,
to the two impatient youngsters at her side.
A slight warming breeze fills the yard,
stirring the Himalayan wind chimes,
hanging and dancing from a limb
of the nearby crab apple.
Their earthy hollow echo sweeps me
across the yard
and deep into the moment,
leaving me dangling
on the delicate vibrating edge of time.
There I hover till the cardinals
break the silence with their wings.

Click here to hear me read this poem.

Click here to hear the poetry of the Himalayan wind chimes.

The Passing of Grandfather Red Oak

You stood for three centuries,
giving shade and shelter
in the ancient forest,
where so many times
we walked in silence
on warm Sunday afternoons.

You graced us with your beauty,
and we marveled at your enduring strength,
helping us not be quite so afraid
of death’s inevitable knock,
and the chill that forever remains.

You fell with great thunder,
like that shaking the skies,
and left the deepest impressions
the earth below will always remember.

So much you’ve seen
throughout your life,
I cannot begin to imagine.
So many birds delighted
as you held them tight during storms
and in the darkness of the night.

Your leafy canopy gone,
but never forgotten.
Your rugged bark
so many woodpeckers once climbed.
And oh how we loved your rusted leaves
that fell in autumn
and brought back so many memories.

The hole you leave behind in the earth
and most of all in our hearts
can never be filled,
but rest now, sweet Grandfather Red Oak;
for your work is done.

A tribute to a magnificent red oak tree that
stood for over three hundred years in the
Holden Arboretum in the Cleveland area.

Click here to hear me read this poem.

Lost in the Moment on Erie’s Shore

Like a thirsty dog,
the lake lapped the shore,
leaving driftwood and other minute possessions
for treasure hunters, young and old,
in search of clues,
shedding light on the miracle
we call life.

Sun fell through outstretched trees,
lining Erie’s coast,
adding to the mystique,
luring us to the magical water’s edge.

Just beyond the worn stone breakwall,
silver-white lake gulls bobbed the waves,
occasionally swishing their longish bills
in the steel-gray water.

A pious-looking fisherman,
with a scruffy graying red beard
and large rough hands,
dumped his leftover minnows in the water,
creating a commotion among the gulls,
who quickly traded their peace for a savory meal.

As we rounded the top of the last hill,
looking out over the sparkling lake waters,
we eyed a large freighter in the distance
and heard its bellowous horn.
Only then did we realize,
we had been helplessly lost in the moment
on Erie’s beautiful shore.

Click here to hear me read this poem.