Wonder Tree

Like you, I change with the season...
like a shape-shifter...we seem to always alter our appearances
to fit the model...the design....
but unlike you,
I morph into a multitude of sentiments...
until only a mirage of my former self remains.

...now i am a stranger to you,
and even to myself.
...i close my eyes and wait for the Spring to come.

gregory

shopping madness notes

the crowds are stampeding through the mall,
spending what little they have,
anticipating sales and "events"...
packed in aisles...backs to the wall.

what is it they really hope to find?
something small, something big...
one of a kind?

no...just deeper in debt...
more stuff...no job to pay for the stuff...
and a new calendar to plan for next year's
blackest of Friday's.

sitting....

so i sit.
staring at this wall...
neither alive,
or dead.

somewhere in between...
i am.

somewhere folded upon my breath...
i rest.

somewhere touching the icey cold window pane...
i look.

it is this stillness the gives me identity...
neither irish nor american...white....nor black...
male nor female...

...just still awareness...
i am.

notes to the Elves...

i walk these paths with ease now...
still pondering the choices i have made,
still hestitant to claim my innocence,
or my shame.
i look for your dwellings that once gathered in clusters
'round the Oak Groves of days past.
i search through the brush hoping to find a trace
of my "traceless friends"...
hoping you will share your words with me,
and listen to another lonely voice.
i am a stranger, except here.
this truth i have known for many, many years.
i come to this grove if only to discover what i have lost;
gather what i have gained.
through the branches...the leaves and brush...i see the fireplace waiting
to warm my feet.
i will return to my small cabin,
still to look over my shoulder for your footprints in the snow.

Epitaph

He was prone to tolerance...
and yet steeped in bias.

He searched love...
and when it found him,
he ran like a coward from the field.

He loved life...
and yet, never really lived.

He dabbled in music, prose
and poetry...
Yet struggled to understand the
obvious.

Here he lies...
Under the fallen leaves and ton
Of dirt...

Morning Dew

at my feet,
prisms of dew splash the ground cover before me...
potential  composite rainbows of light within each drop... a majestic microcosm of
their sky-clad kin.

...the drops of pure moisture are as sweet nectar to the marsh rabbits and fairies that inhabit these woods...
cold dampness permeates my clothing,  but it will disipate soon with the coming of
the morning sun.

...the clang of pots and pans behind me, a reminder of the breakfast that must  soon  come.

...inhaling deeply the moist air about me,  I break the new silence with a heavy exhalation...
stirring some grouse nearby.

a newness seems to frame the morning air... interlaced with the bitter-sweet smell of  campfire coffee...a still moment precedes another still moment...

i ask myself, "do you think this can be real"?

I taste the fresh brewed coffee....and conclude that this must be real, as I am certain a phantasm
would surely taste better than this!

Gregory Sexton

Those Dixie Storms

Claps of thunder and wisps of coastal winds give signal to the storm approachin',
Drops of a bitter-sweet rain trace down my face...wetting my lips and clearing my frown.


I hear myself whisper - "A truce must be drawn"...between the warrior within, and the coward without.
The cobblestones echo my footsteps as the day seems to hasten below the horizon...

Magnolias and giant Oak canopy the path to the old plantation, and granite stones;
scribed reminders of former generations dot the grave just past the old barn...
now dilapidated and ignored from years of indifference.


I remember growing up here - the heat, the slow pace of life, the white sands, the Live Oaks and Palmettos and of course.....those Dixie Storms.They come...like sheets of celophane racing across the fields, soon to drench the ground and the cobblestone lanes; the rains mirror the fury of the gusts...
tossing each and every raindrop like marbles dropped from a bucket - escorted by a celestial drum corps of thunder and cymbal claps...

How I do miss those Dixie Storms.


Gregory Sexton