Poets in the Garden
  • Poets in the Garden
  • About
  • Contact
  • Fly with the Ospreys
  • Pensive Oasis Press
    • New Page

Above It All

4/13/2022

1 Comment

 
Picture
Sunset seen from the Whirley Crane nest. January 16, 2022. cap by midi
Photos labelled as caps were taken from the osprey cam set up by the Golden Gate Audubon Society. You can access it at sfbayospreys.org.  All such caps are the property of GGAS and cannot be used or altered without its permission. Photos labelled at photos were taken by the person listed and belong to them, with all rights thereof. They gave permission to use the photo.
​Every year, the ospreys return to the Whirley Crane nest and to nests all over the Bay Area. This wasn’t always so, thus we watch with gratitude to those humans who, noticing a fellow being in distress, worked to save it. The ospreys represent the cycle of life, practicing the rituals that comprise a family and a life. The human observers delight in and learn much from these ospreys, who take life as it is, accepting the vagaries of weather, the little annoyances of life, and the larger: a dud egg or a chick’s death. While  we delight in their  daily lives and  their ability to fly above it all.
So this post is dedicated to the ospreys Richmond and Rosie of the Whirley Crane, who bring so much joy, fun and awe to our lives. And to the fun, quirky and multi-talented WWOC.
Picture
Osprey on the Whirley Crane. August 27, 2021. gif by J
​She would return, he knew, early or late,
His faithful Rosie, always loyal mate.   
Come flying from the South straight to the nest,     
And he would greet his mate with speckled breast.
 
And they would build a nest of sticks and grass.      
A nest designed for many years to last.           
And at evening, they would sit side by side,
To watch the water’s slowly ebbing tide.
 
Each day his mate would call out for a fish 
And he would fly out then to grant her wish,
And they would mate, then after she would lay
Three speckled eggs that would hatch one day.
 
This ritual would repeat, because, they say,
All over Earth, it is the osprey way. 
 
-MW
Lessons from an Osprey:

Learn to fly above it all.

If you see a fish, catch it.

Take life as it comes.

If nobody is bringing you fish, go out and get your own. 

Sharing benefits both parties.



​
Picture
Fish exchange. March 6 2021. cap by lurker

The Osprey
  
He clasps the trout in clenched talons,
High in the sky above the Bay,
Circling away from would-be poachers.
 
Mate’s strident calls now turn to chirps
He lands, strives his talons to unlock,
So she can grab the fish for herself.

​                               -MW
 
                                               With apologies to Tennyson
Picture
Fish to the nest. February 24, 2021. cap by craigor
Picture
Richie with a fish above the nest. February 24, 2021. photo by Dianne A.
                                                               I Can Fly!
 
Once there was a boy named Ike who was born with wings. As a baby and young child, he didn’t know he had wings. He only knew there was something attached to his back. He kept them folded and left them alone. 
When the boy entered school, he met other children and made friends. They asked him about his wings and he shrugged. They were just there. His parents had never mentioned them.  But now he was aware of them and began to wonder. So one night when he was alone in his room, he tried unfolding his wings. Ooh, they were big. He looked in the mirror. They were beautiful! But why where they there?
He felt the need to move the wings, so he did. He folded then unfolded them. He moved them up and down a bit. That felt really good. But he heard his mother’s footsteps approaching, so he folded his wings and jumped into bed. 
From then on, the boy kept his wings folded when around other people, but at night he would unfold them and flap them. He felt happy when he did so. One night, as he flapped his wings, he said “I am me!” For indeed, he somehow felt more whole now. But at school, he wanted to fit in, so he kept his wings folded and the other children soon forgot about them. 
Spring came. The mockingbird returned to the bush below the boy’s window. The boy had always loved listening to the bird’s song at night and tried imitating it. He could sing many of the bird’s songs. Now, however, he noticed something else. When it sang, the bird would often flap its wings and hop up and down. 
The boy wondered if he could do that. He stood up on his bed to try flapping his wings. Then he gave a little jump. He fell. Flap then jump. He fell again. He watched the bird carefully and tried to jump and flap just when the bird did.  He lifted into the air!
Every night after that, the boy took lessons from the mockingbird. Soon he could jump and flap to rise in the air above his bed. And every time he did so, he felt a little more proud, as if he had finally discovered his real self.
But one day, the mockingbird flew off. How did the bird do that? Could he learn too? The next day, the boy went into the garden and watched the bird carefully. When it flew, the boy tried to imitate it and yes, he rose into the air and flew a little ways. But he saw the gardener coming towards him, so he quickly folded his wings and pretended to be looking for bugs.
Now the boy had an uncontrollable urge to fly. But he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He wanted to fit in; he didn’t want to be a freak. He didn’t even want to be famous. He just wanted to be an ordinary boy with a family and friends. 
But he also wanted to fly. So he found secret places in the woods, where there was a clearing and he would go there to fly. When vacation began, he went every day to the clearing and practised flying. The other children asked him to play with them, but he was now too busy with his wings. 
One day, it was particularly windy. There was a kite flying contest on the field by the school, but the boy went instead to his secret place to fly. He had no need of a kite. While he was flying, a gust of wind picked him up and carried him with it, all the way to the field on the other side of town. There the townspeople were flying kites of all kinds and colors: box kites, dragon kites, rainbow kites…
“Look at that kite!” one person shouted, pointing up in the sky. “It’s a big bird kite!”
“Wow,” another exclaimed.
“That’s not a bird, that’s my friend,” a boy answered. Hey, Ike, how did you get up there? With your wings?”
“Come down right now!” an official called out. “This is a kite contest not a bird contest.”
Ike reluctantly angled his wings tightly and flew in a circle to land in the middle of the ring of people. They rushed out to him, some laughing, some congratulating him. A few turned away and shunned him. He didn’t care about any of this. He didn’t want to be famous. He looked at his father, who gave him a thumbs up. Then he looked at his best friend, who did the same. Good. He still had his family and friend. That was all that mattered. So, ignoring the official,  he unfolded his wings and took off, shouting, “I can fly.”
And he circled high above the crowd, free from the ground, free from those who would laugh or shun, from those who would be jealous, free just to be himself. 

​-MW

Picture
Hover June 30, 2021. cap by Annie B
.Island of Osprey Dreams

I wander the streets and the gay crowded places, trying to forget you, but somehow it seems
My thoughts ever stray to our last tweet embraces over the sea on the island of osprey dreams.
High in the sky there's a bird on the wing,
Please carry me with you.
Far, far away, from the mad rushing crowd,
Please carry me with you.
Again, I would wander where memories enfold me,
Over the sea on the island of osprey dreams.


original song by The Seekers

Osprey are Born to Fly

Osprey are born to fly,
To soar in wild blue sky.
They grow, they fledge, they mate,
Lay eggs, raise young, migrate.
And when they say good-bye,
They do not cry, they do not wonder why.

But you and I...
We were born to laugh and cry.
We worry and we fret,
We doubt, hope and regret.
And when we say  good-bye,
We sigh and cry and forever ask why.

So when the osprey fly,
If you must, then cry.
If you must, wave good-bye,
But then let them fly free, 
Away from you and me,
Fly high in wild blue sky,
Free just to be.

Fly high in wild blue sky,
Away from you and me,
Free just to be, free just to be.
 The Osprey How Graceful

The osprey how graceful,
Magnificent and regal,
As he sits upon his nest
Looking out over the Bay.

His great talons outstretched,
His keen golden eyes searching,
He glides over the blue water,
To search for his fish prey.

And I too, would be
An osprey just as he,
I would fly over the Bay
To catch my own prey.

Alas, I have no wings to fly,
No talons, no eagle eye,
So I will just stay here,
On Earth with you dear.
1 Comment

The River of Life

3/21/2022

1 Comment

 
Picture
All photos this month are from Flikr via Weebly and may not be copied or used from this site.
Rivers. Poems have been written about them and it seems as if every songwriter has written at least one song to rivers. There is something about the presence of water, the never-ending flow that inspires poets and composers alike. And more often than not, they compare the river to our lives, flowing inexorably downward, toward the sea, the water going through grassy valleys, rocky gorges, villages and cities alike. 
Below are a few examples, from others and from the poets themselves.
Píccola will abstain this month, as she has no idea what a river is and was not interested in entering the water the one time she saw the Eel River. 
​                                                                  Life’s River
 
The people stood on the bank of the river. One stepped gingerly into the water, wading until the ground gave way and he had to swim. Another dove into the middle of the stream and swam energetically downriver. Yet another waded in and turned onto her back to float wherever the current would lead her. 
One by one, they entered the water. A family made a small boat and launched it together. They took turns rowing. A larger group of people lashed together logs to fashion a raft. Together they pushed and pulled until the raft was afloat. Then they all climbed aboard and chose one man to pole them into the current. 
Swimmers, floaters, and boats moved downriver. Sometimes they hailed each other, other times they focussed on their own journey. Some cooperated, taking turns rowing, others just sat and watched the scenery. Swimmers stroked alone but some stopped to help other swimmers who were tired or needed help navigating an obstacle in the river. 
So it went, day after day. The river ran quickly down the mountain, then slowed through a meadow. Speeding up on a downhill slope, it hit a rocky patch and tumbled down the rocks, a waterfall. Boats were upended, swimmers battered, many found themselves swirling helplessly in an eddy. But they persevered, helped each other out of the eddy, and finally they were all back in the river’s current. 
The river entered a valley where it flowed smoothly and quietly. The people rested, they called back and forth to each other, they even sang. But then other small rivers joined their river and the waters were deeper. On stormy days, the water turned cold and wild. Still the people swam and rowed and poled. What else could they do? They had undertaken this journey and did not want to leave the river. 
The people grew tired. The journey had been long and hard. When would it end? They rested more and rowed and swam less as the river grew wider and more calm. The water was warmer now too.  The people could relax a bit. They let their boats drift or floated on their backs, as the river’s current inexorably carried them downstream.
Finally, the river widened into an estuary. Cold salt water waved up to meet them. It mixed with the river’s warmer, fresh water. Before them, the people saw a wide expanse of water, the all encompassing sea, where life began. And they were ready. They rowed and swam towards the vast ocean, ready to accept wherever the water would take them.
 And the river kept flowing from the mountain to the sea.
 
MW 3/22
Picture
Picture
Picture
                   Bill Staines:  River

I was born in the path of the winter wind,
I was raised where the mountains are old,
Where springtime waters came dancing down,
And I remember the tales they told.

The whistling ways of my younger days,
Too quickly have faded on by,
But all of their memories linger on,
Like the light in a fading sky.

River, take me along,
In your sunshine, sing me a song,
Ever moving and winding and free.
You rolling old river, you changing old river,
Let's you and me, river, run down to the sea.

I've been to the city and back again,
I've been moved by some things that I've learned,
Met a lot of good people and I've called them friends
Felt the change when the seasons turned.

I've heard all the songs that the children sing.
An I listened to love's melodies,
I've felt my own music within me rise,
Like the wind in the autumn trees.

River, take me along
In your sunshine, sing me a song,
Ever moving and winding and free,
You rolling old river, you changing old river,
Let's you and me, river, run down to the sea.

Someday when the flowers are blooming still,
Someday when the grass is still green,
My rolling waters will round the bend,
And flow into the open sea.

So, here's to the rainbow that's followed me here,
And here's to the friends that I know,
And here's to the song that's within me now,
I will sing it wherever I go.

River, take me along
In your sunshine, sing me a song
Ever moving and winding and free,
You rolling old river, you changing old river,
Let's you and me, river, run down to the sea,

Picture






​Epigrams by JM

In its flow from source to mouth, every river at any moment is everything it ever was.

Rivers don't go, they flow.

Rivers know no rest.

Earth's rivers are its arteries.

Gypsies and rivers are strange bedmates.

​Rivers are a gypsy's freeway. 

​
Picture
​
“SONG OF THE RIVER”
The snow melts on the mountain
And the water runs down to the spring,
And the spring in a turbulent fountain,
With a song of youth to sing,
Runs down to the riotous river,
And the river flows on to the sea,
And the water again
Goes back in rain
To the hills where it used to be.
And I wonder if Life’s deep mystery
Isn’t much like the rain and the snow
Returning through all eternity
To the places it used to know.
For life was born on the lofty heights
And flows in a laughing stream
To the river below
Whose onward flow
Ends in a peaceful dream.
And so at last,
When our life has passed
And the river has run its course,
It again goes back,
O’er the selfsame track,
To the mountain which was its source.
So why prize life
Or why fear death,
Or dread what is to be?
The river ran its allotted span
Till it reached the silent sea.
Then the water harked back to the mountaintop
To begin its course once more.
So we shall run the course begun
Till we reach the silent shore,
Then revisit earth in a pure rebirth
From the heart of the virgin snow.
So don’t ask why we live or die,
Or wither, or when we go,
Or wonder about the mysteries
That only God may know.

by William Randolph Hearst
SF Chronicle/Examiner

Picture
                      ​The River  by midi
                
 
The river knows no season, no emotion, just the endless cycle of birth and death. Listen for the whisper of life born anew and feel peace from the river flow.
 
 
Green sprouted through deep rich earth,
Mothers everywhere gave birth.
Peace was again at hand
And the river ran.
 
Children played wild and carefree
‘Neath the leafed-out apple tree,
Heedless of the treaty ban.
Still the river ran.
 
Drying leaves began to fall,
Geese flew south with mournful call.
Cold discord crept through the land.
Yet the river ran.
 
Came wan winter ice and snow,
Friend and brother were now foe.
Clashing armies took their stand.
And the river ran.
 
Human hearts now filled with dread,
Of hard days that lay ahead.
Harsh disease swept through the land.
But the river ran. 
 
And then a heedful few heard
A note of hope, a whispered word.
Rose bloomed in the dismal land,
And the river ran.
 
Butterflies unfurled their wing,
Mockingbirds began to sing,
Spring burst forth on the land
And the river ran. 

Hope sprang forth from fountainhead,
Fresh air breathed life from the dead.
We again walked hand in hand,
And still the river ran. 

The lyrics were revised for time of Covid but the war lyrics were already there and will always be relevant, unfortunately, in one part of the world or another. Midi did not have the time or equipment to revise the recording. 
1 Comment

February: Harbinger of Spring

2/18/2022

1 Comment

 
Picture
February, Harbinger of Spring
 
The month of February by the Bay,
And Spring is whispering it’s on its way.
               Soft rustling  leaves in the old live-oak tree,               
I’m here, Spring says, just come out now to see!
 
Tulips, red and yellow, poke up their head,
Yellow oxalis decorates the bed.
White cherry blossom petals on the breeze.
Sneeze yellow pollen from acacia trees.
 
The mourning doves on warm deck softly croon,
The mockingbird composes a new tune
The robin chirps up in the apple tree
Around my head I hear a buzzing bee.
            
             We welcome Spring, can go out and about,              
But still we pray for rain to end the drought.
And listen for the call of the osprey
Announcing that she has arrived today.
 
-MW
Sweet smell of blossoms
Rosy pink plum, white cherry
Spring is on its way
Picture
Picture
First trees to blossom,
Tulip trees bud pink and white.
​Harbingers of Spring

Picture
Male osprey on crane,
Watching, calling from the nest,
​Where are you, Rosie?

​

A chirp, one note trill,
Then a full medley of song
To attract a mate.


​
Pensive Thoughts from JM:

Don't ask a fish to fly.

Don't eat what you can't swallow.

There is no up but for a down.

Life is a meld of chance and choice.

​Work and play should share the day.


​
Píccola opines: I like warm Spring days so I can explore my domain.
Picture
1 Comment

January 2022

1/21/2022

0 Comments

 
Seasons
Picture
photo from Flikr via Weebly. May not be copied or edited.
People in North America and Europe tend to think of the seasons as they are depicted in stories,songs,  movies and even comics. Seasons are specific weather, the plant cycle, the animal cycles, and traditions for humans: special foods, special activities and holidays.
 Autumn is falling leaves, crisp cold air, apple cider, harvest time. We celebrate Halloween with pumpkins and Thanksgiving with turkey, corn stalks and more pumpkin. Winter is cold, with snow and ice. We build snowmen, go skiing or skating, drink cocoa by the fire. The trees are bare. Spring is lilacs, bulbs sprouting and flowering, rain showers followed by sun, warming air, cherry blossoms. The first strawberries, freshly sprouted greens. And summer is hot, time to go to the beach, trees in full leaf, cherries, ice cream, sodas, picnics and barbecues on a lush green lawn.  Outside living. Interrupted by a brief thunderstorm. 
​These symbols are not wrong but they are provincial and stereotypical. 
Meanwhile, I have heard many people say that the Bay Area has no seasons. Having grown up here, I can attest that these people are wrong. We do not have the Hallmark card Christmasses or dream of a White Christmas (except to drive to the Sierras), many of our trees are still in leaf in January, and the grass is green in Winter, brown in Summer. But we have seasons, albeit a bit more subtle here. One must be tuned into Nature to feel our seasons. We do celebrate the traditional holidays the same as on the East Coast, but with a slight change. And our diverse community means that many other holidays are celebrated as well, such as Divali, Moon Festival, Eid al Fiitr, Rosh Hashana, and Juneteenth. The photo essay that follows are my thoughts and feelings about our seasons in the Bay Area. I'd love to hear from readers if they agree or disagree and what are your favorite parts to each season.
Autumn
Picture
Picture
Picture
Making apple cider at Loma Vista Farm in Vallejo
Autumn, to me, is the beginning of the year. First of all, it is the beginning of the school year. And I spent 20 years in school as a student and another 21 years as a teacher. Then too, the rainy season begins in late Autumn. Every year, usually near the end of August, there is one day when I feel Autumn coming. The day is warm with a light wind and the air is dry. The days are colder in Vallejo, 20 miles to the North, and warmer in Berkeley, the reverse of the Spring and Summer days. After Labor Day is the true beginning of Autumn. Gradually, leaves turn colors on the trees. Harvest is in full force. We bring in tomatoes and make tomato sauce, cook zucchini and make soup, stuff a large zucchini, and still have plenty to give away. And apples! Apple pie, apple sauce to last the entire Winter. The freezer is full. 
Then there are the holidays. Stereotypical and provincial as they are, I grew up with these holidays and they still mean something special to me. Autumn brings the harvest holidays for many cultures. It brings the Moon Festival, when one eats mooncakes, and Diwali, festival of lights, and Sukkoth, another harvest festival. But most popular is Halloween, a time for kids to dress up and go out at night. Spooky decorations and carved pumpkins.  Then comes Thanksgiving, a holiday to spend with family, and interestingly one that has been less commercialized than other holidays.  Cooking together, sharing food, and sharing a meal. And a chance to eat turkey. Roast turkey with gravy, hot turkey sandwich, cold turkey sandwich until finally I have had enough turkey to last me a while.  A cornucopia centerpiece filled with Fall produce, which in the Bay Area usually includes a pomegranate, sometimes kiwis, and lemons. And Fall leaves dipped in melted wax to preserve them. Traditionally, I plant my bulbs on Thanksgiving weekend.  A promise of Spring to come. 

​
Picture
Picture
Picture
Creek in the Berkeley Hills, January 2022
 Sometime in November, the rains arrive (hopefully) and Winter is here in the Bay Area. The skies are gray and cloudy, days are shorter and nightfall earlier. And best of all, the hills turn green. Every year, I watch the hills, rejoicing when I see green grass sprouting and worrying when the hills are still brown. Not golden as in the summer but more a more sickly parched brown. This year, they turned green on time! More time is spent indoors. In December, the kiwis grow large and ripen. Then it is a race to pick them before the squirrels eat them all.  In the store and at market, mandarins arrive, juicy sunshine. 
December is a holiday month. Like others, I put up lights at the beginning of the month to brighten the dark evenings. I decorate the house with Christmas scenes and I set up an advent wreath. Some years, there is a Christmas tree. Aa a child, the Christmas tree was the centerpiece, surrounded by wrapped presents that we could see but not touch. Eager anticipation. Then there was the display put on by Mr. Shadi, an Indian Sikh who, despite his origin and religion, put on a full Bethlehem display every year. I knew that  display from my early childhood and it has now been taken on by volunteers so that it lives beyond its creator. A true gift to the community. 
 As an adult, I attend the Christmas Revels, the Messiah sing along, and the Christmas Eve service. I sing Christmas carols in the car, at home alone, in my singing group. I love Christmas carols, always have, and have learned at least 100 of them in various languages. As a teacher, I loved planning holiday lessons in Math, Language Arts, and Art, singing holiday songs, and the general aura of festivity. 
The last days of December have always been a letdown to me. The presents were opened and no longer a focus of anticipation but simply things. The holiday festivities ended and financial tasks awaited. While teaching, I did no schoolwork the week before Christmas but then had to do it all the following week before classes started again. Today, it is more an end to the festivities and activity and a time for quiet reflection. 
But January brings its own pleasures. While there is still welcome rain, one day I see the tulip trees are blooming, a harbinger of Spring to come. The bulbs begin to poke up their green leaves. The days imperceptibly begin to grow longer. Spring is on its way.


Spring
Picture
Picture
Picture
In the Bay Area, Spring comes in February. The plum and cherry trees are in full blooms, other trees begin to leaf out, the robins return. My mother used to buy the first strawberries for my father's February birthday. Valentine's Day fits Spring with its pinks and reds and message of love. Tulips and daffodils are blooming. Easter too, is a fitting holiday, and indeed, it was born of ancient Springtime rituals and the equinox. Its symbols herald the budding life of Spring: eggs, chicks, flowers and grass. There is the cherry blossom festival as well. There are (hopefully) days of rain showers interspersed with sunshine and rainbows. Windy days, just right for kites. Roller skating and swings. Robins arrive.  The ospreys return to begin nesting. Spring is fresh and new, birth and life, babies, new sprouting plants. Time for children to play outside. And time to plant the vegetable garden. There is May Day, celebrated by but a few. And Mother's Day, for what better month in which to honor those who bring us life and love and family. 
I used to hear that Spring was wonderful in the East and that California had no Spring. I would counter that the Eastern Spring may be more spectacular, with its lilacs and the snow melted, but it is fleeting, while our Spring, filled with bird song and blossoms of all colors and sunny days, lasts four months.


​Summer
Picture
Summer on the lake in Northern Ontario
Picture
Summer is for relaxing and enjoying the sun, at home and elsewhere.
Picture
Cannon Beach, Oregon

In late May comes summer. Along with cherries. Hot summer days, sunning on the beach. Not. Summer in the Bay Area, at least by the Bay, is fog. Warm days and cool nights. As a child, I would change my clothes several times a day in the summer: first long pants and a jacket in the morning, later shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, then back to the jacket in the evening. But always barefoot, for the pavement held the heat of midday. A jacket and shorts was de rigueur. Summer, of course, meant vacation from school. As a student, time to just loaf or find activities of my own. Play time with friends. And family vacations. My favorite of these were the times we went camping. Lots of outdoor time. Popsicles and lemonade. Picnics. As an adult and teacher, summer was a welcome relief, time to rest then to plan the following school year. Perhaps a trip somewhere. Time to clean up and do all the household chores I had neglected during the school year. Time to work in the yard every day. Precious time. For seven years, I enjoyed the arrival of the next Harry Potter book just as school got out. I silently thanked Scholastic for timing the books' arrival to coincide with the end of the schoolyear. I could just sit and read all day and night for several days.
 The only real summer holiday is July 4th. It has never been my favorite holiday. The fireworks didn't impress me all that much and reminded my of bombs. In recent years, I worry about their effect on the ospreys and other birds nesting. Still, they can be fun to watch. Of course, many years, the fog obscures one's view. Our well-loved fog, so loved that it has been named Karl.  The symbol of summer in the Bay Area. 
​


JM Weighs in:

Time and Change

Time does not flow!
It does not come
And it does not go.
Change is perceived
And time is conceived.
Time is a concept,
And change, a reality.






​Let Be

Let live what can and wills to live
Let die the tired and spent.

Each creature has its span of time
In tune with nature's way.

Let be what is and what was meant to be,
And let life take its lotted course, no less. 
                                    Vain Questions

                              Whence, whither, why?
                              The mysteries of life!
                              We'll never cease to ask
                               And we'll never know. 
​
Piccola's Seasons
Picture
On cold winter mornings, I like to sit on the heater vent.
Picture
In the Spring and Summer, I like to go outside to explore.
Picture
Chewing on my birthday present, August 19, 2018
Trying to get that elusive Christmas present that I already stripped of its fur. 
0 Comments

Christmas 2021

12/24/2021

0 Comments

 
Picture
Wildcat Canyon/Tilden hills December 2021. photo by MW


I'm dreaming of a Green Christmas,
Just like the ones I used to know.
Where the lemon bush glistened,
And we all listened to hear
Raindrops fall below.
I'm dreaming of a Green Christmas
With every Christmas card I write.
May your days be merry and bright
​And may we have rain every night. 
​
Picture
View of SF from Berkeley Hills, December 2021, photo by MW.


​O, Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of our dear Savior's birth.
Long lay the Earth in sin and error pining,
Til He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
​A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
​Fall on your knees, oh hear the angel voices,
O night divine, oh night when Christ was born.
O night divine, o holy night divine.
​
Picturephoto from Flikr via Weebly. May not be used or altered.




​In the Bleak Midwinter
Frosty wind made moan.
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone.
Snow had fallen,
Snow on snow,
Snow on snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter,
Long, long ago. 

0 Comments

Solstice

12/20/2021

0 Comments

 
Picture
 
Solstice 2021
               
On this, the shortest day, the sun has set,
The yellow moon its face has not shown yet.
While misty clouds hide vast and brighter skies,   
Our Earth,  in still and sightless darkness lies.
 Unseen by us, the heavens now conceal
 A  message they care not yet to reveal.
 
Then dark clouds part, the sky is sparked with light,   
Unhindered by moon’s comforting warm light. 
And burdened with the truth of all they know, 
The stars send message down to us below.      
Words, that lie beyond Earth’s atmosphere,
Where air and life, consciousness disappear.
 
Be still now, listen to the heavens’ chime
That rings out, “Do not fear, there is still time.”
 
Dec. 2021
0 Comments

Saint Nicholas Day

12/5/2021

0 Comments

 
Picture
Every year, the Christmas Season starts for me with Saint Nicholas Day, as well as the first Sunday of Advent. 
So each year, I post a holiday story for kids on this day. This year, the theme is, what else, trees! I promise it is the last of my tree obsession. I hope you enjoy reading it and, if you do, that you find a child with whom to share it. May you embrace the inner child in yourself this Christmas Season, forget all the trials and worries of the past year,  and enjoy the holidays with hope and cheer.
                                                 Welcome Yule!
                                                       The Living Christmas Tree
 
Robin loved all the trees in his yard. He liked to climb the oak  tree and sit in its branches. He liked to pick fruit from the apple tree. ….
But his favorite tree was the tall redwood that stood in one corner of the yard. He loved that redwood. It was so tall that he could not see the top.
One day his parents took him for a drive. They drove across the bridge to the other side of the bay. They stopped at the top of a hill. 
“Look across the bay,” his father told him. “What can you see?”
“I see the university tower and the city buildings.”
“Do you see our tree?”
“Where?”
“Over there.”
“That’s our tree? It looks so little.”
“But do you see how it towers above the houses?”
“Oh yes, now I see.  That’s our house. I see our roof with the solar panels. And the tree is way above the roof.”
“Now you can see the top of our tree.”
The tree was the tallest thing in the neighborhood. And that was a problem. The neighbors behind did not like the tree. They wanted the tree cut.
“You can’t just cut a redwood tree,” Robin’s father told them. But they didn’t listen. And they got the city on their side. You can’t block someone’s view. 
So the tree was cut. Now it was ugly. Robin didn’t like to look at it. It made him sad.
It made his parents sad too. So they cut it all the way down. But they left the stump. 
The boy liked to sit on the stump and remember the tree. 
One day he saw something green. He looked closely. There was a small tree growing beside the stump.
“Mama,” he called. “The tree is growing again!”
She came to see. “Redwood trees do that,” she said. 
“Then we will have our big tree again.”
“She shook her head sadly. “Redwoods take years to grow. Besides, the neighbors won’t allow it.”
The boy was sad. But his father said, “I have an idea. What if we take that little tree and put it in a pot? Then you can take care of it on the patio. You’ll be able to see the top whenever you want.”
So Robin and his father carefully dug up and planted the little tree. They used a big pot because they knew the tree would grow. 
The boy loved that little tree and made sure its roots were damp but not too wet and that its branches were clean. 
The first week of Christmas, Robin and his parents went to the tree farm to buy a Christmas tree. They told  him to find a favorite tree. But the he was sad. When his parents asked him why, he said,
“I don’t want to cut down a tree. That’s what was done to our redwood.”
His parents explained that these trees were grown to be cut. 
“But the trees don’t know that,” Robin answered. “They want to grow.” He turned away from the trees. “I don’t want a Christmas tree this year.”
So they went home without a tree. The boy went over to his little redwood.
“Here is our Christmas tree,” he said.
“But we can’t bring this tree inside,” his parents explained. “It wouldn’t like that. It might get sick.”
“Then our Christmas tree will be outside,” the boy said. 
“Santa can’t put presents under a tree outside. It might rain and the presents will get wet.”
“Then I just won’t have any presents this year,” he answered. “I don’t need presents. I need my tree.”
His parents didn’t answer and the Robin was content. His parents put the tree lights on the inside windows and hung ornaments around the house. His  mother gave him the star to put wherever he wished. He put it on the top of his little tree. A top he could reach.
 Whenever his parents asked what he would like for Christmas, Robin said he didn’t want anything.
Christmas Eve came. The family ate a special dinner then they sang Christmas carols. There was no tree to sing around but the Robin didn’t mind. There were lights glowing everywhere in the house. There were no enticing packages, but he didn’t mind that either. 
He asked his parents if they could sing one song outside by his tree. So they went outside and sang Silent Night. 
That night, it didn’t rain but it snowed. It hardly ever snowed in this part of the country, but it did  this Christmas Eve. In the morning, Robin ran out to his little redwood and found its branches covered with snow. It was so pretty. 
“You are a Christmas tree after all,” he told it. He saw a large package under the tree. “Go ahead, open it,” said his mother, who had come out too.
He ripped open the package and found a little garden spade, just his size and a hand trowel and a book about trees. 
“I guess Santa heard about your tree.” His mother smiled. 
“Santa knows everything,” he answered. “But Mommy, will the tree’s branches be too cold with the snow? Should I knock the snow off?”
She smiled. “No, trees are used to the outside weather. They know how to deal with it. Your tree will be fine.”
They went inside for a special Christmas breakfast. When Robin went into the living room after breakfast, he found presents lying in a heap under the lamp. 
So he had presents after all. But the best present of all was his little tree, alive and growing, its branches covered with snow, and a star shining at its very top. 
 May your Christmas be filled with the hope and love the boy found
                                  in his living Christmas tree.
0 Comments

November 2021: Tree's Finale

11/26/2021

0 Comments

 
Picture
Restless Sunday
 
Loud whine announces the chainsaw.
The tree is coming down today. 
Crack of branch breaking 
Then crashing fall.
Ear splitting grinding
To dust. 
Then silence.
Dust does not speak. 
Picture
         Feeling sad today,
         Sad for me, sad for you,
         Sad for neighbors who 
         Insist on their way 
         Sad for hardscape 
         Valued over landscape.
         Sad for a loved tree, 
         That is no more to be.
         Ground into dust as will
         You and I
         By and by.  
​How does it feel
To hear the tree--
The very one you planted
Fifty years ago,
Watched grow,
Laughed at the baby squirrels
Scampering among its branches,
Listened to the screeching jay,
Enjoyed the shade and privacy
It provided--
How does it feel, I ask,
To hear it sawed, screaming
To the ground,
To hear its branches
Crack and fall,
Until only a silent
stump remains--
How does it feel?
And who cares?
But you and I?
Tree Felling 
                                                 
Saw whines then put-puts to a stop
Branch crackles, clunks as it falls
Grinder motors up, growling
Grates and grinds the wood.
Then chuck-chunk as it ends. 
Birds are silent.
 
 
 
Monterey Pine
 
 The tree housed 
 Squirrels who argued 
Noisily with the jays.
Songbirds eating insects
An occasional hawk. 
Where will they 
Go now?
Picture

        Satisfied Neighbor 
 
 I now can clearly see
The space that house a tree.
The tree that blocked my
Legal right to a view.
Caused me many a sigh.

Oh no, they now can see
My kitchen, son and me.
I guess I'll have to find,
To cut off their new view,
​A brand new window blind. 
The Old Man's Lament

The tree is cut.
Down to a stump.
Its sawdust hauled
To the dump.
The tree I planted
With my own hands
Fifty years ago
On my own land.

 I sit hunched
In a sunny spot
On the Persian rug
Lost in thought.
Why must it be so?
I think and I try
To understand but
​I can only cry. 
                        Last Tree Standing
 
          The old man looks for his pine tree                                         
         From the raw stump averts his eyes                          
          But looks down the steep slope to see                                  
          A tall thin tree, and then he sighs.                                         
 
          And he says, I planted that fir.            
          As I did all the others too.
          And I remember as they were
          I planted and watched as they grew.
 
          This tall tree is the last to stand,
          Still growing, reaching for the sky.         
          I too, stand alone on my land,
          As I await my time to die.

          Cut down, together we will go      
          Will fall to the ground, you and I. 
          But from your sawdust and my ash ,   
          Our spirits will rise to the sky.          
 
          And may we both find in new skies,
          In the beyond, another place
         Where spirits with souls grown wise             
          Reside in peace, goodwill and grace.
 

all poems above are by MW
all photos by MW
             

​             The Living Christmas Tree

 
The family decided to buy a living Christmas tree this year. The father, mother and three children went to the nursery instead of a tree farm and picked out a pine with spreading branches. It didn’t really look like a Christmas tree but it was suited to the area’s climate. 
They brought it home, lugged it inside and decorated it. The father made sure it was watered properly over the next few weeks. He had ideas for this tree.
When Christmas was over, this tree was not discarded. Its decorations were removed and it was put outside. There it grew through the winter and Spring and then Fall. In December it was again brought inside. It was not too big for that yet. And the next year as well. 
But the third year, the father tried to lift the tree and proclaimed, “This tree is too big to bring inside this year. It is too heavy for me to lift and its branches are too broad to fit in the corner.”
“Then we will have to get rid of it and buy a cut tree this year,” his wife said.
“A cut tree, yes, but we will not throw out this one. It can stay outside.”
They bought a cut tree and decorated it. But the father took a strand of lights and put them on the tree outside. He had grown fond of that tree. He put a silver star atop it. 
Every year after that, the man decorated the outside tree by himself each Christmas. Then one year, he decided it was too big to be in a pot. So he took it out and planted it in one corner of the garden. It was now in an out of way spot and couldn’t be seen from the house but he still decorated it. And as it grew, he continued to decorate it. Soon, he had to use a ladder, then the ladder became too short and the man hired a company to string the lights and put up the star. Neighbors began to remark upon the beautiful Christmas tree. And they even began to notice it in the off season, chatting with the father about the tree and the animals it housed. People from down the hill and even across the Bay could see it and an article appeared in the local newspaper. The tree was famous.
But there was one person who did not like the tree. The neighbor to the side. As the tree had grown, it began to block her kitchen window. She especially disliked it at Christmas when she had to look at the lights. She began to brood. She asked the family to cut out a few branches so she could would get more light into her kitchen. They did so reluctantly. Then she asked them to cut a few more branches so she could see her view.  View of what, they wondered, but they complied.  Each year, she asked for more branches to be cut. The children grew and left home. The mother died and only the dog kept the man company. He found himself a companion and now they were a threesome. 
That year, the neighbor  said, “It is not enough to cut a branch here and there. I need my view and my sun.  It is my right. That tree must go.”
The father said no. The neighbor insisted and spoke to the son. “If you don’t comply, I will have to sue you,” she said. “Look at the roots. They are growing under my steps.”
The son, who was now in charge, agreed. He did not want to be sued. He told his father, who said no. That was his tree, that he had planted, with all the memories of Christmasses past. 
But the son went ahead anyway. He hired a company and one day, he informed his father that the tree would be cut the next day.
The man was awakened the next morning by the whine of saws. A crash of a major branch. Then the shuddering grind of the wood chipper.  He did not go out to look. Instead he found a patch of sunlight on the rug and sat in the patch, warming himself. He sat there a long time, rubbing his head, lost in thought and memory. His dog came to lie beside him. His companion sat with him as well. Finally, when all was quiet, she ventured outside. The men were just finishing their work She spoke a silent good-by to the tree, now just a stump, and picked up a branch with pinecones attached. She went inside to the old man and sat beside him and the dog on the rug in the sun. 
When Christmas rolled around, the companion took the branch, tied a bow around it, added some lights and placed it on the table. 
She placed two wrapped packages beside it.
“Our Christmas tree,” she told the old man.
He smiled wanly. But on Christmas Eve,  she noticed him touching the pinecone and fingering the lingering moss. She went over to him. “Merry Christmas,” she said, kissing the top of his head. And the man, the woman and the dog sat in companionable silence on the sofa, the lights of the branch twinkling before them.
 
MW 11/21

Picture
Deodar Cedar. Tree of the gods
The Paradox of Life

The living presence of the past
Is helpful guide and ready warning.
But the present is more than is and was:
A meld that houses and spawns the future,
A presence of life in its full richness,
All too is constant flux, yet nothing passes.
A oneness in multipllicity
And a timelessness in time.
A paradox beyond our ken
But a solace and comfort in our bewilderment.


Blush and Blight

Wee peaches high
'Twixt earth and sky,
No leaves in sight,
A swath of blight.

A sturdy tree,
Of sickness free
But weeks ago
Has ceased to grow.

Leaves curled and fell,
Fruit stopped its swell,
And now but blanches
On its bare branches.

Ours is a lot
That differs not,
All blush and breath
Then blight and death.


Facts of Life

Fish that are not hooked
Are fish that spawn and swarm.

Trees that are not cut
Are trees that grow and seed.

Game that is not shot
Is game that lives and thrives.

Such are the facts of life,
Such are the facts ignored. 

​-JM





Picture
Píccola says:I do not look up. I content myself with what is at hand. The grass is mine, not the trees.
0 Comments

October : Harvest Moon

10/27/2021

1 Comment

 
Picture
photo from Flikr via Weebly may not be copied or altered without permission.
Autumn
 
The dusk falls early this October night,
While we eat supper in dwindling daylight
Nary a sound of evening  to be heard,
No cricket voices, not even a bird.
Asleep, all, for this short day is now done.
They live not by the clock, but by the sun.
 
 
This morning, I slept late, I did not see
The ray of sun that would awaken me.
No summer morning fog, the sky is clear,
A fresh cool breeze whispers around my ear
It brings soft  words that give me renewed  hope,
Give courage, strength, and willingness to cope.
 
A peaceful season filled with  hope and cheer,
May Autumn usher in a bright new  year

​-MW
Picture
Píccola says: On cold Autumn mornings, I would rather just stay in bed. But my humans make me go outside to poop and pee and then I get my feet wet. 


Large round harvest moon
Glows orange in the black night sky
Ushers in Autumn
 
Round blood moon rising
Fills black night sky with orange light
Promise or omen?
 
Soft cool breezes blow
Toss dry tree leaves to the ground
Fall cedes to winter
 
Song bird melodies
Hush to let in harsh caws, squawks
Music has fled south.

​-MW
Bits of Wisdom from JM:

​Life is a meld of grief and joy.

Character will show, when ill winds blow.

The wise are at peace with self and world. 

The dark skies are never without their dark clouds.

​Darkness is an absence, not a presence.

Bad Moon Arising                                            Harvest Moon Rising
by John Fogerty                                                     midi's reply
 
I see the bad moon a-rising                              I see a harvest moon  a-rising
I see trouble on the way                                   I see that hope is on the way.
I see earthquakes and lightnin'                         I see earthquakes and lightnin’
I see bad times today                                       I see sunshine today. 
Don't go around tonight                                    So, don’t  be afraid tonight
Well it's bound to take your life                         Don’t grieve the waning light.
There's a bad moon on the rise                        Harvest Moon is on the rise.
 
I hear hurricanes a-blowing                              I hear hurricanes a-blowing
I know the end is coming soon                         I fear the end is coming soon.
I fear rivers over flowing                                   I see rivers are not flowing,
I hear the voice of rage and ruin                       I hear the voice of rage and ruin.
Well don't go around tonight                             But don’t be afraid tonight,
Well it's bound to take your life                         Don’t grieve the waning  light.
There's a bad moon on the rise                        Harvest Moon is on the rise.
 
Hope you got your things together                   Hope that you are feeling better
Hope you are quite prepared to die                  Hope you feel the Autumn air. 
Looks like we're in for nasty weather                We may be in for nasty weather,
One eye is taken for an eye                             But the wind is blowing fair.
Well don't go around tonight                            Well, don’t be afraid tonight
Well it's bound to take your life                         Don’t grieve the waning light,
There's a bad moon on the rise                        Harvest moon is on the rise.
 

1 Comment

September: Hope and Resilience

9/23/2021

1 Comment

 
Picture
Amaryllis in MW's garden August 2021
Picture
Rosie and Richmond with their overnight fish the last morning she was seen in the area. September 10. cap by lurker, photo property of GGAS.
​Autumn Equinox

Dark settles early today
We had supper at dusk,
Had to turn on the lights.
 
All is quiet, the birds 
Settle for the dark
Night to come.
 
I slept late this morning,
But dawn had just broken.
Sky was clear, no fog, cool air.
 
I felt a sense of peace…and hope.
Autumn always brings this to me. 
Why, when it is the end of season?
 
But wait! Here rain brings renewal,
Greening grass springs up, 
Thirsty garden gratefully drinks.
 
Hope springs in my heart, 
A new season, a new beginning
Without sickness, without hate.

​-MW
Picture
photo from Flikr may not be copied or altered.
Hope and Resilience 

Consider the migrant,
Huddled with their family
In a long line of like
Seekers of a new home.
 
Trudge along miles and miles,
Through unfamiliar land, 
Towns with strangers staring,
Changing landscapes, weather.
 
Board bus, train or a plane
With their one small bundle,
All else left behind. 
Perhaps one small treasure.
 
Day after day, travelling,
Towards an unknown land,
People, language changing,
Everything looks different. 
 
Nothing will be the same.
But they still come forward,
Though anxious and afraid,
Always looking ahead
 
To their destination, 
Hope for a new home, free
Of famine, danger, strife,
A bright new hope-filled life. 

​-MW

​Resilience

Consider the ospreys.
Who return to the Bay
Each season, without fail.
 
Restore the nest, bring
Sticks for rails, soft grass
To line the nest cup.
 
Mate, lay eggs, watch
Chicks hatch, gently tend
The bobbleheads.
 
Feed them, keep them warm, 
Then pull back, let them 
Feed themselves, walk around.
 
Exercise their wings, 
Hover, fight a bit, 
More able each day.
 
Then stay near when they fledge,,
Show them how to fly,
To land and to fish. 
 
Let them fly away,
Equanimity, 
No tear-filled good-byes.
 
Rest for the Winter,
Start over again,
The following season. 
 
No tears, no sighs,
They accept
 Life’s course. 
 
​
Epigrams by JM

Chance is yours to accept and choice is yours to make. 

Celebrate the possible, don't just mourn the impossible.

Life is what we make of it, not what it makes of us.

Better to do what one wills to do, than to do what others will one to do.

One can't go forward by going backward.

The wise are at peace with self and world. 



Advice

Whenever you are in despair
Look around to see who is there.
Look ahead  far down the way,
Step into a bright new day.
 
Just take the first step, only one.
For although you are now alone,
You will find, some bright new day
Another like you on your way.  
 
And then together, for a while,
You two will talk, and laugh, and smile,
Then start off on your way again, 
To travel aboard life’s lone train. 

-​MW
The Last Day of Summer

Tis the last day of summer
And the ospreys have flown away.
Do you see Rosie up yonder
She too is flying today.
 
She will fly thousands of miles,
To her warm winter home
Find her favorite  Southern beach,
Spend the winter there alone.
 
So farewell to our dear Rosie,
May the wind in your wings be fair
May the skies above be blue
And a warm welcome greet you there.
 
Richie is at the nest
Watching for his mate Rosie.
After your long winter rest,
Rosie, will you return to me?
 
Tis the last day of summer,
And the ospreys have all flown.
Do you see Richie up yonder
On the nest all alone?
​
​midi 
1 Comment
<<Previous

    Archives

    April 2022
    March 2022
    February 2022
    January 2022
    December 2021
    November 2021
    October 2021
    September 2021
    July 2021
    June 2021
    May 2021
    April 2021
    March 2021
    February 2021
    January 2021
    December 2020
    November 2020
    October 2020
    September 2020
    August 2020
    July 2020
    June 2020
    April 2020
    March 2020
    February 2020
    January 2020
    December 2019
    November 2019
    October 2019
    September 2019
    July 2019
    June 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    March 2019
    February 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    November 2018
    October 2018
    September 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018
    March 2018
    February 2018
    January 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015

Proudly powered by Weebly
Photos used under Creative Commons from Eric Kilby, tracie7779, USFWS Mountain Prairie, Denis Bourez, jinxmcc, Japanese beauty, voyager2014, Kirt Edblom, nevil zaveri (thank you for 15+M views:), kennethkonica, FaceMePLS, Marianne Serra, irio.jyske, steviep187, corsi photo, Luna sin estrellas, Lynda W1, Kecko, Cambridge Cat, Alexxx1979, ashwin kumar, vastateparksstaff, Marian Elizabeth May, sussexbirder, ell brown, David Meurin, Rod Raglin, Swallowtail Garden Seeds, A_Peach, timo_w2s, acryptozoo, lewinb