Monday, December 29, 2014

500 Miles Later...

The snow has gone, melted away,
The air is fresh and sweet.
Bundle up, it's still a cold day
And off, our friends to meet.

Shaking off the winter blues,
It's time for a nature hike.
To visit and catch up with the news
Shared with friends we like.

We're out of shape and we start out slow.
It's supposed to be fun, after all.
So follow the creek, a trail we know,
That leads us up to the Falls.

Cameras are out and clicking away
As the water cascades down.
This time of year it's a powerful spray
With such a roaring sound.

In winter the water rushes on
So powerful, we're filled with delight.
By summer the same creek is almost gone.
Not nearly as an inspiring sight.

So the first walk of the new year
We'll start out nice and slow
But to each other we'll make it clear
The next one will be a 'real hike' you know.
-- Francine Roberts, "First Hike of the Year"


FreeThinke said...

What a sweet, uncharacteristically wholesome little rhyme!

I yearn to straighten out a couple of amateurish bumps in the scansion, but perhaps they were intentional for reasons I can't fathom?

As something of a poet, myself, I do not believe poetry should ever be "edited."

I was disgusted and depressed when I learned that several "major" poets of the past century allowed the editorial staff of the New Yorker to mutilate some of their works in order to be able to claim the dubious "honor" of being published in such an august journal.

I would have told them to go straight to hell, which is probably why i have remained a nobody for 74 years.

I don't care. I have three favorite closely related mottos:

"I'd rather be right than president."

"I'd rather be alone than in poor company."


"Whatever is popular is wrong."

I have Oscar Wilde to thank for the last.

Joe Conservative said...

Funny the poems that come up when "Googling" for topics...

FreeThinke said...

_______ TWO VIEWS _______


It sifts from leaden sieves,
t powders all the wood,

It fills with alabaster wool

The wrinkles of the road.
It makes an even face

Of mountain and of plain––-

Unbroken forehead from the east

Unto the east again.
It reaches to the fence,

It wraps it, rail by rail,

Till it is lost in fleeces;

It flings a crystal veil
On stump and stack and stem––-

The summer's empty room,

Acres of seams where harvests were,

Recordless, but for them.
It ruffles wrists of posts,

As ankles of a queen––

Then stills its artisans like ghosts,

Denying they have been.

~ Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)


I hope this is the last
We'll hear of it this year.
Though melted now, I fear
‘Tis driven into ground.

We've seen and heard so much
About these frozen veils
That now the subject fails
With meaning to redound.

The end seems near at last,
So then what must we do?
Is conversation through?
Could topics new be found?

A metaphor for Time
It symbolizes Passing
Of all the years amassing
Behind us without sound.

For we too like the snow
Have been and done our best––
Or worst––and soon must rest
Then blend into the ground.

~ FreeThinke (1941-?)

Speedy G said...

It's obvious that Emily never worked a day job. ;)