Earth Day 2019

Much obliged dear mother
For the life you have given us
And the beauty and wonder
That surrounds us.

I beg your patience
At this late hour
For us to learn once more
To care and celebrate
To protect and preserve
The rare and marvelous spectacle
Of bounteous life
Here on Earth 

So displayed each day.

It's a Slow Dance

It's a Slow Dance

The trees are posing majestically 

In a standing salutation

Reaching, reaching, limbs akimbo 

Spring has come this day.

The maples spark up to the sky

This is their time

Festooned in red

They proclaim the ancient revival.

The oaks are waiting for the sun

To coax their sap
To rise, to shine
To layer wood upon their girth
More patiently than the growth below;

Sassafras saplings gather green
While tangy spicebush stand in the damp
Dogwoods open, blush, and show
As daggered greenbrier ramble about,
All flashing bright and verdant bold
In their romance with our brightest star.

This is a dance your welcome to
The steps are slow, the pace is honest
To see them move and gambol about
Sit patiently, with open heart
Beneath a woodland tree.

-P. Sanderson

Hatred, What to Do?

When you see hatred gather it up

And stuff it in the bottom of a paper bag.

You may need to tape the bag shut,

You may need to wear gloves.

Then hike out on your favorite trail

And stop at that beautiful place,

Maybe one overlooking a valley

Perhaps by a stream or a giant boulder.

You can do this alone, but

If it is your first time bring a trusted friend.

Sit quietly for a few minutes

Breathe in the peace and beauty,

Then carefully open the bag

And shred the hatred you have gathered

Into tiny-tiny pieces.

Try not to hate the hatred,

Just break it down, smaller and smaller

Look to see what it is made of,

Perhaps you will have a lucid moment.

At the right moment, 

gather the pieces and offer them to the wind

Cast them high, cast them away.

A good breeze will dilute them

As you salute them with a goodbye smile.

Sometimes a Chickadee will stop and help.

They know what to do with hatred

They are not afraid.

After you are done you may want to sing

A song or splash in a nearby stream.

Think:

How else can you send hatred to a better place?

Does it burn?  Can you compost it?  

Can the ocean wash it clean?

Ask the Chickadee, she may know.

Briefly Borrowed

It’s a lay me down wind.

Pruned by providence on other days
An old oak has fallen in the forest
Once a tower of leaf and trunk
Now resting in a bed of ferns and moss.

Its day has come
A wind too strong
Roars high above out of the north
First limbs bowed before the storm
Then roots yielded their groaning- grip
And dropped it with a snap and boom
Full circle it is now earthly bound.

And when my wind comes
On another day
I wish that if it please the fates
That I may rest upon such a bed
Of greens and sod
Of duff and rock
And so gently return
And thankful for
This life I’ve briefly borrowed.

Persistence

There is a sorting as the years pass
A choosing happens
Establishing an order
Of  things we keep
And things that must be let go
Objects totemic
That flow with us
Through our time and space
A temporal persistence
Tactile
Visceral.

I have a baseball glove
A leather lefty
Folded and creased
Sweat stained
Scented and storied.
My hand knows how it feels
Before I slip it over my fingers.
I’ve kept it
And it keeps me.

It’s been many years
Since the last game of catch,
Still it’s a living thing,
Now relegated to the back of a closet,
Or
Boxes in attics
Or
Storage units.

In my day-to-day reality
It has been long gone
But not forgotten.
It seems that I will never let it go.
It is a place holder
A memory marker
A man maker
A dream keeper.

93 Million

Going nowhere down the road
I sit in my car
There is nothing like the warmth of the sun
On this chilled spring day.

Only a few hours past the frost of dark
I sit in this sanctuary
And luxuriate
The seat has soaked in
The infrared rays
Issued from the solar furnace
Some 93 million miles distant
It’s warmth now radiant
Soaking into my bones
Relieving my burdens.

Energy
Conceived on day one
Chasing shadows
Filling voids
Generating peace
In my reptilian brain.

Why be cold?

Laundro

I didn’t notice the short bus pull up.  I was busy pushing quarters into the silver slot.  It takes twenty-seven for the big washer.  My goal is to finish the wash and dry in one act, one hour.

 Teacher and John have arrived inside the entrance.  Teacher exchanges pleasantries with Marianne as she folds clothes.  John stands in place, slightly weaving, as if the world was moving too fast and then suddenly stopped.  Teacher grabs a broom and starts sweeping the already clean floor.  He hands the broom to John, who moves it to-and-fro twice, pushing the imaginary pile of dust into the pickup. 

Kenny enters, full of bluster, speaking in a voice way too loud for the room. He engages Teacher and Marianne in a protracted and one-sided conversation about the events of his day; the condition of his truck, the fish fry at the VFW, and some relative that they might see at some point soon, but probably not. 

Marianne continues to fold clothes.  She is a youthful middle-aged woman, and it seems she is the reason Kenny and Teacher are here; old drones circling the honey.  John continues to sway, mouth slightly agape, while fiddling with his earphones.  I can’t see if his eyes are vacant or just simply have vacated this show.  

Kenny completes his monologue and exits, bow implied. Teacher and Marianne give a kind review of his performance, noting that this man “knows a lot.”

Teacher offers John the opportunity to run the vacuum cleaner.  He declines, preferring to watch a television show droning-on about buying the perfect home.  

My clothes are now dry and I join in the ritual of folding. 

Kenny departs with a practiced aplomb, soon followed by Teacher, and then John, trailing slightly behind, who appears to have completed the lesson. 

"Have a nice day, have a nice day, have a nice day.  You too, you too, you too.”

The laundromat quiets upon these exits. Marianne looks across the row of washers churning away and we make brief eye contact.  “Quite the show,” I comment, trying to stay in my neutral corner.  She smiles and slightly rolls her eyes, as she begins to fold another load of clothes.

Silent Sentinels

Silent Sentinels

Daffodils

Adrift, afield

Randomly placed

This time, this day.

Silent sentinels nodding east

Still these yellow belles so boldly chime

Remember me?

Remember me.

Planted on a day of grace

By backdoors gone

Or unmarked graves

Near walkways that lead

From the shadowed past to now.

We see them as we pass on by

Gifted by their persistent charm

Remembrances of those moments when

We stoop and plant them future bound.

Low Along the Water's Edge

I saw three Oyster Catchers
And they saw me,
Handsome with their bright orange bills

They worked the wrack

Quick afoot
Then scampered down the sandy beach
Took flight
Low along the water’s edge
As if to say
I’d rather not sir
So we will be on our secret way.

I stopped to marvel
And labored for a moment
To think the things
I think I know
One of which is to ponder
From the bird’s point of view
What they may have made of me.

Thinking simply of them
And more highly of myself
I stopped to wonder
What it means to be an Oyster Catcher
What it is to live along the shore
To fly
To nest
To see this day
In their own unique way?

Do they have a day?
Meted -out in their minds?
A remembered yesterday
A hopeful tomorrow?

I saw three Oyster Catchers
And they saw me,
Handsome with their bright orange bills
Teachers on this bright spring day
Teaching in their secret way
What we do not know.

Stream of Creation

Sitting on the beach below the dunes
I have interrupted an ongoing conversation
Between the wave tossed trunk
Of a massive oak,
Now debarked and scoured and bleached,
And a heap of slipper shells,
The skeletal like remains of a mollusk
Fanciful footwear of intertidal fairies.

They speak of being swept into the stream of creation
Even now
And once again,
And kindly suggest that I might relinquish too
And know the journey we are on.

I dig my toes into the sand
Mindlessly considering,
And feel my roots grow deeper
Into the earth and sea and sky.
They grip and purchase
And hold me steadily
On our course.

Old School

There you are
Old school like I knew
And today in the mailbox
Once again
Old school in an envelope
A few scrawled letters
My name
My address
And I could only smile
And feel the love.

John Lennon was the postage stamp
He was our friend we never met
We cried the day he died
We share these roots
Old and strong
Grown deep now in different soils
But connected by rhizomal memories
That will always be
Faithful, proud and loyal.

And now yellow pages from your pad
With ink and care
Sent my way
Pages covered with your DNA
Letting me know the state of your story
The tales of your time
Your hand extended to mine.

Basic Requirements

Basic Requirements



I need you.
Like in the old days
As we stepped down from the trees
And you helped me find water on the Serengeti
As we hid from prowling lions.

And today
When you helped fix my cell phone
And later went to the grocery in my stead

So I could safely plant our garden.

I needed you

Then and now

To teach me

When to be smart 

And when to be wise

When to act and when to wait.

When to sow and when to reap.

And we need each other 

To acknowledge our limitations

To correct our mistakes

And to build upon our brilliant truths

To join collectively
To care deeply

To find strength in our numbers

To celebrate our synergy

To revel in our survival.

I need you

And we desperately need each other.

Because we can be greater 

Than the sum of our scattered numbers.

There is no better way.