I'm off to gather some firewood
where once a copse of hardwoods stood
a place of but stumps and waste tree tops
cleared in the month of acorn drops.

It is a late mid-winter day
with cold winds and sky of gray.
That tree lap near the logging road
will go far in making up a load .

So I park the truck right near
get out the saw and all the gear
but take a pause to look around
at wildlife's former running ground.

`

There is always a poem after this one;
the understudy to today's centre stage:

This poem however, is never unimportant,
it is as individual as the poem that follows;
many written poems have unwritten forbears-
each poem is breathed and lived; rarely spoken.

The panorama of this poem is found in one place –
the window of its reader's imagination;
so each poem is the beginning point
of new journeys that we join with the poet.

In hoary woods I sit alone
hardly breathing, quiet and still
breeze sings a mournful monotone
penetrating bones with sneaky chill

There's little warmth in winter's sun
within this sky of clear deep blue
above a world of gray and dun
where yellow flowers one time grew

Yet this watch I still must stay
and attempt to stay alert
if need be 'till the end of day
while wearing camo coat and shirt

PAGES

Is your mind an open book,
Can they look inside your head?
Do you only still show pages you want read?

What do you tell them when the Horror
Leaves you chilled and drenched in bed?
Are you still oppressed by dreams in Black and Red?

Have you found the man who’s shown you
How to overcome your dread-
Shown you how to pluck those pictures from your head?