Sunrise in Pennsylvania

A leaf floats on still water,
as jeweled dew hangs suspended,
and the forest awakens with a yawn,
pantomimed by the mouth of a bear.

A hundred covert eyes watch,
while mouse, mole, and wise badger,
hold court in the tumbled leaves,
and the pink sky peals away the night.

A flutter in the twitter tree,
where starlings sit on leafless twigs,
discussing the night in shrill voices,
to swirl as a school into the sky.

The lowing of a milk cow,
beyond a split rail fence,
as a girl with her pail arrives,
rubbing her sleep-filled eyes.

The last hoot of an owl,
as her disheveled chicks jostle,
soon they will fly the night
silent killers of furry smallness.

The bear shambles off to hide
from guns, dogs and bigger bears
disturbing a dozen pair of raven
who take to the sky, mocking.

The life-giving orb appears triumphant
firing rays between damp branches
and lights the heart of a rooster
who crows in jubilation for this new day.

When Hope Becomes Death

Golden waves on an emerald bay
sunset over the starboard rail
they stand close on a final holiday
he can hear the banshee’s wail

Darkened prison of palsy insane
captive optimist bound in doom
shaking right hand clenched in pain
cloistered in a light veiled room

Witch in the west laughs at him
self righteously desires his death
whilst he forgives against ill whim
but for joy holds no breath

“Die already” some might scream
ordering him to give up the ghost
it was not a thing to ever dream
nor is the agony for which he’s host

Soon the knife will his flesh rend
cutting out the broken inner parts
his family’s only hope depends
on the surgeon stopping his heart.

A Fall’s End

Leaves tumble down
tumble down they do
thrown to the ground in slow motion
they go as fast as a train
through the eyes of an ant.

Lemon yellow leaves long and thin flutter
around and around in a pinwheel descent.
Red maple leaves hang on the still air
generations of tiny things could live there
before a final kiss of the ground.

The sycamore paves the forest in gold plates
a nest for snuggling chipmunks and squirrels.
A long needle twirls down from the lofty pine,
an amber rosin blanket
tucking in the shrubs for the winter.

A hare nibbles on spent summer flowers,
hanging dry, still, dead – grey as her fur.
The carrots in the garden are gone,
hidden away in the cellar,
food for mouse and man.

A red vixen peers out of her hole,
between the roots of a lofty chestnut,
amid the spiked nut casings and
brown, brown waxy leaves.

The chilled air is winter wet
soon the snow will come
the land will slumber deep
robed in white, not unlike bones.

A fat bear ambles by hives a’tilt.
Beekeeper is gone as are the bees.
A rubber ball and upturned rake lay
unemployed and unwanted as so many stay.

Finches eat seeds and huddle amid branches
while a cat’s tail whisks in anticipation.
Somewhere a dog barks and breaks the peace.

The moment is lost
as the first flakes flutter down
to blanket the wood.

A Soldier’s Letter

We lie in our fighting holes,
in the sweltering Afghan night,
arrayed like the graves our enemies dig.

We dream of home’s simplicity,
of girlfriends and mothers waiting,
yellow ribbons on countless trees adorned.

Rude war interrupts our sleep,
as mortars thump in the near distance,
walking closer like an invisible giant.

A boy with a box died today.
He wouldn’t stop and put it down.
It was a doll for his youngest sister.

Sometimes I wake up shouting,
but I am not the only one with nightmares.
The lieutenant issues pills to make them go away.

I am an unwilling killing machine,
for I need the G.I. bill to pay for college,
so I can escape the ghetto my government made.

Corporal Xerxes lost his legs last week,
to a Taliban man with a grenade launcher,
the Captain had to order us to stop return fire.

I’m going to heaven when I die,
as my faith in God has not yet been shaken,
and because I have already been to Hell.