Ode to Citrus

On a Winter day
Rain pours from the roof
The sky is cloudy gray.

The garden is bare
Tomatos withered
Nothing left to share.

But in back I find
Round globes fuzzy brown
On the kiwi vine.

In the corner I see
A bright yellow ball
On the lemon tree.

An orange tangerine
Hanging from a branch
Among leaves bright green.

Down the street I see
Bright orange persimmons
On the neighbor's tree. 

It's as if the sun
Has emerged to say
Winter is almost done. 

​-MW

Let Be!

Let pass what can no longer be,
Let die what has run its course,
Let go what is spent!
Nothing is here to stay
All changes from day to day,
Let go what is gone!

-JM



An epigram a day:

​Life is a blending of the actual and of dream.
Neither should be neglected.

To think too much is to know too little.

Poetic fruits are customarily rooted in existential discontent. 

Art and thought counter personal blight and existential agony.

​You are what you believe the world to be.

To emote is to be alive, to reflect is to survive. 

​Feeling provide thrust and thought gives direction.

​We treasure what we have lost or have never had. 

​-JM

Flying Over America

Flying, I never cease to be amazed
By the vast expanse of the USA.
Far West: barren ground, parched
brown or salt white,
No home or town, few roads or lakes in sight.

Finally, fertile farmland comes in sight,
Tin roofs glistening beneath the sunlight,
Little farmhouses in each corner seen
On patchwork of even squares brown and green.

Then Minnesota: round blue lakes appear,
Cities and towns on the shore nestle near,
Followed by the vast Great Lakes' azure blue,
Dotted only by a white ship or two.

This is America, bold, wild and free,
A vast open ever-changing country.

​-MW

A Nation Torn

America is a country of contradictions:

A country given to democracy and liberty,
But in fact an empire-minded plutocracy.
A country dedicated to world peace,
But forever at war with others.
A country taken with its religion,
But given to the material world.
A country wealthy beyond dreams
But few have too much and many too little.
A country that espouses justice,
But dispenses it selectively.
A country boastful of its humanity,
But practiced in its exploitation.
A country that argues for human rights,
But itself ignores them when expedient.
A country proud of its hospitality,
But exploitative of its immigrants.
A country born of self-determination,
But unwilling to accord the same to others.
A country blessed by brilliant thinkers
But run by chauvinistic doers.

America is a multi-splintered culture,
An untethered schizophrenic nation,
A country perhaps doomed to self-destruct
But that it awakens to its plight!

-JM


Imperium Americanum

Fall in line and keep in step,
Patriotic and with pep.
We are right and they are wrong,
They are weak and we are strong.
What we want is what we get,
Fools are those who that forget.
Hussein was and is no more,
Taliban, too, is forgotten lore.
Iran is now in our sights,
Syria/Korea have no rights.
Who is next among our foes
As our empire eastward goes?
Time will pass and time will tell,
And in time we'll go to hell!

​-JM

Sunday Morning in Covelo

Stand
Above, hunter
Looking down into
Misted ancient
Lake.

Fog
Shrouded valley
Only mountain tops
Show above the
Mist.

Silence
Chattering squirrel
Rumbling truck motor
Disturb, puncture
My dream.

Descend
Back into
Civilized valley
Cars, cell phones too
Live here.

But
For brief moment
One may escape into
Other long gone
Lives.

-MW

Covelo of a Wintry Day

The wintry twilight of year's end
Reveals more than it promises,
A shroud of clouds and ground low-mist
Leave valley and hills in eerie light.
The fields are hoary, the sky dull gray.
The trees bereft of leaves stand stark,
Their shadows are no less bare.
Wee birds sit clustered on barren limbs,
Their feathers fluffed and softly chattering.
The quiet is shattered by piercing screech
Of a hawk soaring high above the trees
And peering in vain for prey below.
Two hunters wearied by the chase
Trudge slowly by with their felled game.
Loud-cawing crows announce their presence
In circling flight below thick clouds.
The anxious mooing of distant cows
Heralds the end of another short day.
Farmhouse lights begin to flicker
And scattered chimneys to spew wood smoke.
Soon all will be blotted out by night
And cold silence will prevail.

​-JM

The Quiet Season

The bustle of the season is over:
The last farewells were said to family,
The lights have been stripped from the Christmas tree.
Now merriment cedes to mood more sober.

In the story, the shepherds came to see,
Three Wisemen too, followed the light then left
A new child born to a couple bereft,
Who, now warned, with their baby must flee.

Now is the time of bare tree and pruned rose,
Bulbs and seeds lie beneath the soil ungrown,
A young child grows up as yet unknown.
January, month of cold, dark repose.

All lie quiet, waiting in hope of Spring,
Watch to see what February will bring. 

​-MW

Acceptance

Big trees, old and heavy-limbed,
Stand stiff and solid in the wind.
Small trees, young and spare in parts,
Sway quick and lively with the breeze.

All stand separate, stark and alone
And each is given to itself.
All are exposed to the elements of nature
And each accepts its fated lot.

All trees come and go in time
And none is graced to stay forever.
All trees go without a whimper
And none returns but in succession.

Trees have their human counterparts,
There are the young, there are the old,
The lively pliant and the stiffly spent,
And all are fated to aloneness,
And all are in the clasp of time.

Like trees we should accept our aloneness,
Like trees our departure when it's time,
With grace and dignity, joy and thanks,
For protest is of little avail
And only gauges inner rift.

​-JM