There are Many Tall Trees

There are many Tall Trees"




I stopped by the old court today,

where the Oak and Hickory stand tall,

there are many tall trees here,

all dressing for the eve

and the fall...



When I question my self- worth,

when I hunger for answers...

I come to this grove,

here... there are many Tall Trees...



As their shadows sweep the sidewalks

and carress the faces of the children at play...

I think of my own childhood friends and our endless pastimes under these same trees...

pastimes displaced by the elements of time and fate...

seemingly not noticed by the stand of Oak and Hickory....

rendering me a Grace that permits me to remember the child still at play here within me-

my essence gleaned from the joys, despair and forgetfulness of my own years,


(G. O'Seasnain)

A Bystanders Soliloquy

Where do I go from here?
My question seems to glance the face of the evening sky and disappear into the darkness...
and yet all is not for naught, futility is but a springboard for another chance...
a chance to taste the mornin' dew; renewing my spirit afresh with hope,
and child-like expectations.

This Moment (revised 2010)

Time is no more....

as my senses seem to taste the surroundings;


the crow calls and the door slams shut.

Breathe.

Thoughts still pour relentlessly into my mind...

stirring the bowl of contemplation.

I hold them not...and they go,

to make room for others...

Impressions of fear and loss......

of sensibilities retained for much too long;

slowly disappear, like chasing a forgotten dream.

....no raindrop, no breath of wind, no scent goes unoticed....

as they approach and leave the shore of my mind...

New horizons are opened....new vistas beyond.......

I feel my Heart breaking from its cast and slumber,

soon to be blazing a trail of certitude and countenance I've never known ......

it is Now ...

to where I must return.

(Gregory)

The Mortar and the Pestle

Mortar and pestle...two dissimilars into one.

Striking the flame ,the yellow soon becomes blue...The crucible's contents in flux, changing state.

I await the outcome, pondering my fate.  So it is with two of another kind...contrary, yet only to the blind.

Earth, Water, Fire , Air and Nous,what differentiates them...if only a cosmic ruse?

I stare at the Flame, and from within it bellows a troubadours song and charm; the molten crucible reflects a distorted image, similiar to my own...and yet still unrecognizable.

Like Amergin's vision that summoned the noble to arms. So too, discovery bids me to reflect and rekindle the fires of youth, calling me to don the warriors shield and sword...But not now...No, my life is settled here, like the hundred year old stream that knows its course.

Pen and notebook, like mortar and pestle. The histories and epics of old, the dreams of poets,the words of the stoic mage ground from rough kernals of variance and discord...to a polished compound of one.

Pen and Paper...Flame and Crucible, Summoning words from the silence.. precious metal from the ore...The real - to the surreal.

The surreal - to the real.

Thoughts #356 ; a note for Christine

A concern seems like an obsession to those with a shallow heart;

a loss sometimes becomes a longing...to a broken heart.

....like a child on a farris wheel, catching glimpses of the beautiful horizon...

and then, glimpses of the mud-soaked streets; wondering which will be his familiar?

Streets that bear the weight of each carriage and coach...

leaving traces and tracks, the lighter the less...the heavier the more...

a metaphor...

then, now and before.



I often ask myself why your illness and well being were so important to me...why is it still now?

A childish fancy perhaps...believing that my prayers and thoughts would help you through the challenges that were before you;

Truly, what was that to me? We are strangers to one another...why did I care?

These questions confound me still...and probably always will,

It seems like a century ago, praying for your heart to heal ...

and yet my hope for you still lingers; that fate will fold its sometimes cruel hands and give to you the peace

that we all want for ourselves, our own - and for each other.



A poet's skill and charm, I have not...only this desire -

that you will look out your window...

and see a million reasons to smile.

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

Another Dream (For Friley, Bobby, Will and Roland)

The scent of a frothy ocean breeze, 
reminds me of a time not long past...
I close my eyes and witness this dream,
a welcome respite that I hope will last...
banana leaves and hibiscus flowers brighten the once dim horizon,
Like a host of smiling faces, they greet me... 
welcoming a long lost friend.


From the old bridge , I see a Pelican meandering slowly ...as if she had time to spare -
passing through the creek , her feathers wet , seemingly unaware.
A crane stands patiently on the flats... waiting for that careless dragonfly,
The silence remains....lifting to the heavens a Morning Dove's cry.
Ah, but this dream seems so real...much too precious for time to steal.
So, I return again to your splendor, my precious isle of light...
a place where time fails to cast its shadow....
and where I go to heal "


Gregory Sexton