And Thus It Was

The Seasons

The poet looks to the world around him for inspiration and stimulation in bringing together his thoughts and his words to convey meaning to his reader. The seasons of the year provide the backdrop for the lives of us all.  They provide the setting for our most revered customs and traditions.  They determine our social activities, the sports we play, the pursuits we follow; and they provide the framework for some of our most beautiful art creations.  The weather, the climatic changes, the temperature, and the length of days affect us greatly in our thinking and our reaction to the experiences of our lives.  It is no wonder then that the seasons of the year should figure so largely in the works of our creative minds whether they be the dance, the theater, the novel, the essay or the piece of poetry.  For the poet, they give inspiration and stimulation for reflective thinking.  They provide images that appeal to the eye and to the soul.

Spring Fever

This great spring morning dawns so bright
Portending a glorious season of delight.
The sphere of red gold sits just on the edge
And begins its climb up the sapphire blue dome
With exuberance,
Brightness,
Extension,
Completeness,
Energy-------
Hurrah!!!!!!!!!!!
Spring has come to me.
I feel it in my bones,
In my flesh,
In my shadow.
In my finger tips.
It has turned my being around,
And I am submerged in Daydreams,
In fantasy chases
And wanting races.
I'm at lose ends
Filled with swirling dashes
Into the mystifying nothingness
Of my imagination.
Spring fever has hit
And I'm not worth the spit
To put out a birthday candle!

Spring Rain

The rain gently descends
Upon the earth around us
Creating puddly islands
In a mud-blackened world.
There's a gentleness
That surrounds the occurrence
That gives me a sense of calm.
I reach out
And interfere with
That descent to the ground.
I do no damage to the droplet
Falling.  I only delay
Its settling in the puddle
Assembly at my feet.
Coupled with other such droplets
I hold them cupped a moment.
Then, with a slight tip,
I let them cascade together
Into the puddle below
Rippling out to the edge
And weaving their way
Back again.