In verdant decay

Oaks Bottom Wildlife Refuge, by Andrew Mackay
Oaks Bottom Wildlife Refuge, by Andrew Mackay

In verdant decay
the woods lie low, now
and wait for those that crawl
in humble obscurity
to give them new life

Some may fall with panache
shaking the forest floor
their final, primal scream

Others dissolve
giving one last gift
to their kin
and the countless
who’ve yet to sprout.

Monuments to the living

I wended my way

along a path-

in what place and time I do not know.

At once the boulevards of Roman glory

then rutted roads, turned to

slop in monsoon rains.


The trees burgeoning

a hundred million buds bursting forth

in thunderous applause.

The trees waving, radiant

in the summer solstice sun

The trees, grown cold

as time vitrifies their bark

and all that remains are

monuments to the living.

Rust-hued hair

Cold does not see class.

Nor race, religion –

Where you come from,

where you are now

and where you plan to go in the future.

Cold is egalitarian.

Cold is just.

When the trees wake up in a panic

wondering where their rust-hued hair

has gone –

they stand

side by side

with the children, waddling penguins in their parkas

as the school bus is late again.

Tanka 02

With a single seed
virgin tendris give way to
a trunk grown stout, then
turned gnarled and stooped with wisdom
squinting at its younger kin

If you read all the poetry posted on this blog, you’ll notice a running theme- the interplay of nature and time. Though I also write verse that doubles as social commentary, I find those bits can feel a bit stilted and preachy.

Fields long dead

The grass, lilting amidst speckled sun and steady breeze;
Laughs and puts forth its vibrant color for the world to see;
Amidst the knotted trees whiling away their closing years;

Children of the melting snow, knowing only ever-brightening days;
Each blade knows not the history, the joy, the tragedy;
That fields long dead were witness to;
Covered in petals, spring snows, the checkered picnic blanket;
The bare feet of men new to this world;
And the boots of a dying man, laid to rest with his bayonet;

Oaks sag with the weight of history, and;
Gaze upon the young grass that will soon wither;
As a thousand fields have done before their arching branches;

It is best to leave them to their play;