Why not drive 800 miles down to Southern California for New Years?
I had spent Christmas with my brother and all my other relatives were out of town. Further, it’s been raining and more is predicted.
I’ve got this packing thing well down. So, I threw in what I needed and headed south. It was fun, not too much drinking occurred. I got to hang out with a group of ladies binge watching Outlander. I got in several hikes in the surrounding hills and worked on my tan.
Unfortunately I didn’t get any good photos until I hit Redwoods National Park on the way back. The weather closed in and I fled for home.
The folks I stay with have a guest register. Yes, they encourage and get a lot of vagabonds passing through. I try to leave them with a poem. This time I wrote:
It's not the cars we drive
Or the clothes we wear
Great gobs of makeup
Or even long hair
We gather from long distance
Or just around the bend
We all look forward
To being called a friend
So here in this place
No need to shove
We do like to gather
Surrounded by love
I hope I’m being effective here at the writer’s colony. Time will tell.
For me, I had dreamed of starting a book by now.
Instead I went back on-line with Match.
For me, it entails a fair amount of thoughtful writing.
And occasionally creates a poem:
I want to get deep within you,
Past the hard shell.
Is my wit sufficient for the difficulties?
Can it point me to the right tools?
Is the smallest of cracks;
The beginning of the road to victory?
Imagining the fruit of my labor.
I imagine, you, a macadamia nut.
You grieve for the loss
Which is causing you pain.
You wonder the cost,
Hoping to stay sane.
But those very same currents
Which you attribute to fate.
Have not been a deterrent
To finding a new soul mate.
A person, a whisper,
Promising you will survive.
A person, a mirror,
Reflecting you are alive.
Breath the fresh air.
Search for what’s great.
Somebody to help share.
As you celebrate.
Before Tanager starts her morning song.
Before Coyote laughs at the newest day.
There is a pause.
Too dark to see, like the gathering of wits.
First a squeeze, just a little bit of orange,
And with that squeeze, a cascade is started.
Black starts turning to blue.
Orange fights its way clear of the initial dab
And starts to ooze along the bottom.
Encouraged, yellow leaps ahead
Shouting to the world of a new day.
Getting so bright, turning away
And in turning, displayed behind,
A tableau, a painting, an inspiration.
Sounding like rain.
Rustling like wind.
This poem started in Washington. However, by the time I realized it was forming I was in Idaho and so I never took pictures of the original inspiration. I finally got some acceptable ones in Utah. Enjoy:
By the time they’re falling down, it’s too late.
Other things missing.
Are they really obsolete?
Not worth it.
Being on a Driveabout gives me time to just sit by a stream.
It was high in the mountains, on a sunny day.
A cedar grove was standing guard.
A grove that was still, green, bordering on being dark.
Sitting by this stream, I was almost too hot.
Hundreds of little waterfalls were making a racket upstream.
Seems there was a hurry to get downstream,
To turn into sparkling gems.
Out in the stream in front of me stood a rock.
It was noticeable because it was different.
It was the biggest around, but not by much.
It was darker.
It had edges.
The other rocks were smooth, made up of warm browns and greens.
Next to the bank they shone like jewels.
On the bank they were different.
Still rounded but the colors were all tending towards white.
I threw one in the stream.
It splashed me back.
And then it transformed, grew, intensified.