the edge

mowing less

letting it grow out on the edge

aspens, spruce, and baby maples 

shoot up above the long grass

makings of a mini-forest

volunteer flowers

that have floated seeds

on a breeze

grow with the wild trout lilies

a few fallen logs

dragged into the furthest shadows

damp and rotting slow

a perfect salamander home

oh this wild edge

Walking Poems

1.  The Tip

tangled weeds

mangled trees

growing up through 

a rusty washing machine

cabinet record player 

rotten and pulped

glistening smashed

TV screen glass

a push lawn mower

twisted blade 

bent handle

two snowmobiles

sinking into the earth

scattered Labatt 50

stubby brown bottles

2. Trilliums

white trilliums

hundreds? 

thousands?

deeper down the path

out on the edge 

of a shady glade

one red trillium

3.  Jimi

singing 

"I stand up next to a mountain"

loud 

echoing down the path

into suburban windows

 - just out walking 

 - collecting moments in poems

spring walk

beaver crossed  here

dragging a tree branch

foxes and coyotes mingling

with cattle dogs

a deer straight down the trail

then through the cattails 

deep horse hoof prints

walking side by side

tracks in spring melt mud

Sacred

the forest path

the inner sanctum 

inside temple doors

in a truck

driving down 

back country lanes

a desk scattered 

with papers

and coffee cup debris

the smoke break bench

everywhere is sacred

Come outside

 the Abbess:

"come outside

it is loud

you'll love it."

the monk is confused

...then remembers:

"are the peepers out?"

they are  

with loud forest calls

oh this spring chorus

frogs thriving

in perfect woodland ponds

I love it.

Power

power 

(or one might call it seething evil)

almost killed the tired monk

tipped him from tired to dead

killed his spirit

sent him out on the road (poetically)

working my way back to monk duties

poems and prayers

     hopefully peace.

trespassing

trespassing...I guess

beat down path beside the creek

just a bit off the (city sanctioned)

recreational path

crushed domestic beer cans

pile of fortified wine bottles

cold wind over the field

gather up a few scraps and twigs

little daytime hobo fire

warming up the little dell

one perfect cedar brand

to lite my pocket pipe

a quick tug

from a silver flask

fire dies low and slow

kick over some dirt

bag up the party debris

one more whisky sip

and home