A STOP ON A BIKE RIDE

"Bike in the Park", oil, Susan Cox

The stream spoke
to the rocks
as it rolled along,
a breeze seemed
to break out in song,
and a few quiet thoughts
came comfortably along
to let me see
how lucky I was,
how loose and wild,
like wheels on a bike
on back roads.

GOOD FORTUNE

"Monarch", pastel, by Karen Margulis

While he was smiling

at his good fortune,

a butterfly unfolded its wings

with what seemed like courtesy,

camped on a modest blossom

in a neighborhood nobody

cared much about,

a quiet, careful place

in Connecticut,

a small spot

on our carefree

and picturesque planet.

EATING STRAWBERRIES

"Strawberry", oil, by Hall Groat II

He eats strawberries

the way winds find their way,

with leisure and casualness,

or the way a winsome day passes,

with a serenity

he wishes he could keep in a basket,

but he can’t,

just like he can’t keep strawberries

from coming to his mouth

in a slow-moving and sumptuous way.

ON THE PATIO

"Roses in the Morning", oil, by Roxanne Steed

Birds at the feeder,

flowers falling over each other,

the fullness of the sky above.

He sits like a silent stone,

staying just where he's supposed to be,

where the always sensible universe

wants him to be. He belongs

to an association of privileged people,

of which all of us are members.

A SINGLE LIGHT

"East End Sunlight", oil, by Cooper Dragonette

Some birds I noticed yesterday
were building mansions
made of sticks and leaves,
and little rivers of happiness
were passing among them.
They were pointing toward pleasure
with their beaks,
and breaking sorrow into pieces
in the summer sky.

A single light shines
inside this universe
which knows no boundaries,
just like the joyfulness
of these birds.

THOUGHTS

"Starry Night over Borestone Mountain", oil, by Elizabeth Fraser

If he sits quietly enough,

he can search his thoughts

for stars and even suns

shining as they always have.

His mind, like all minds,

makes galaxies of great lights

as good as the flawless stars.

It’s a gift from the universe,

these crowds of thoughts

that carry light

like the sheet of stars

that rolls itself out each night

above his silent house

as he sits in peace.

WAITING FOR CLASS TO START

Waiting for class to start,
he sang to himself.
No one heard his song,
but sunshine was sitting
on his shoulder, as if
it was interested, and a book
beside him was looking
more silent than ever.
He heard the furnace
somewhere far off
seem to slow down
as if to be less noisy
when someone’s singing,
and who knows
how many trees were turning
toward his classroom
at that breezy moment?

WHILE HE WORKED AT HIS DESK

"Daffodils and Pears", oil, by Sarah Sedwick

While he worked at his desk,
the daffodils did no work at all.
They stood where the student
had placed them yesterday,
as though they were proud
to have a place in his classroom.
A cloud carried itself with composure
across the sky, some branches bowed
in a puff of air in an unruffled way,
his fingers found the keyboard
like it kept him happy,
and these flowers were fortunate
to be where they were.

CONGRATULATIONS TO A GREAT DAY

"A Beautiful Day", oil, by Susan Cox

He said, “Great job on this day,

dear sun! And good work,

you humorous winds

that gave my shirt a shake

every so often! And way

to go, sticks in the grass,

staying in your perfect positions!

And congratulations, light-winged

little birds that belong everywhere

on a day like this! And

you did it, worries, you wailed

and screamed in the softest way

and then went away all alone!

And attaboy, you bright lights

in some of the words I spoke!

And attagirl, you gifts

given to me moment after moment,

in the millions!”

He threw a few more words

in the air in praise and appreciation,

and then prepared his supper.

SETTING LAMPS OUT

"Two Turq Lamps", watercolor, by Gretchen Kelly

On some days the belief that he is a bad teacher

or that his students can be unsuccessful

slides away like clouds fall off to the west.

Then he sees again that his thoughts are lights

that always lead the way,

and that his students’ thoughts are also lights --

little ones as wonderful as his.

He sees that light is all that lives in his classroom,

and that ignorance always gets up and leaves

when he and his students set their lamps out

at the start of every English class.

A PROPER THANKS

One day a parent thanked him,

but he said she should also

thank his parents,

and all his teachers,

and every person

who passed his way

in sixty-nine years,

and the mountains

that made him strong

thirty-seven years ago,

and the Current River

for the courage it taught him

as a teen,

and the sun that strengthens him

day after day,

and the air

that makes miracles in his lungs

and lets him stand

before his students

and teach

what all these have taught him.

WHAT THE SKY SAYS

"Sky Painting", oil, by Tom Brown

A wide, wonderful day

was spreading itself out,

a bird was letting itself loose

in the woods, 

but the sky

was simply staying where it was.

It does that, the sky --

just good-naturedly lets things underneath

think they’re strong and significant,

while it takes its time

with its sunshine

or clouds carrying presents

for us all. It says,

“My strength is in staying

out of the scene,

especially on large, lovable days

like this one.”

HE HAD A FRIEND

"Road Challenge", oil, by Stephen Goodman

He had a friend

who was full of happiness,

and because of that,

he also was happy.

He saw that happiness

is like sunlight,

something that can’t be

measured or collected

or kept to one person.

It spreads evenly

across our lives

as we sleep or visit a store

or set out in search of it,

or just as we sit

in our secret sadness,

not noticing the happiness

that always fills the universe

and always waits.

APRIL

"Tennessee Spring Light", watercolor, by Chris Ousley

Just the word itself,

can cause fields

of good moods

to grow inside me.

April’s a welcome companion

-- its wide-open mornings.

it’s wisps of warm air,

its rain

running down the roads

to meet me.

The passing of March

makes April my manager,

the creator of countrysides

of youthful thoughts,

the thrower of first-class feelings.

IT HAPPENED SUDDENLY

"New England Summer", oil, by Roxanne Steed

It happened suddenly.

He was speaking to his students,

about lines from Shakespeare

when, without warning,

it seemed his words

were made by mountain winds,

his thoughts thrown together

by fires and floods.

He felt like feelings

were falling into him

from far off heights,

like the land of heaven

was here in his classroom

in this quiet part of Connecticut

where commonplace things

usually occur.

SILENT READING

"Bluebird Happiness", oil, by Thaw Malin III

We were all sitting silently,
and the stones outside
were sitting beside each other,
and trees were sitting
with warm arms held out,
and somewhere there were limitless stars
settling into their places.

Our pages slowly turned
as we traveled separately,
serious readers
shining side by side
somewhere.

ROVING AMONG STARS

"Western Sierra", oil, by Karen Winters

She was only thirteen,

but she could throw her thoughts

as far as the soundless stars,

and she could sit

among mountains

like the mountains

had made her.

Any whole day

was like heaven for her,

and holding

a single sentence in her mind

was as good

as getting a good grade at school.  

Summer spoke words

only she could comprehend,

and flowers

almost fell into vases

in her small room

that roved with her

among the stars.

WATCHING THE HILLSIDE

"Tuscan Hillside", oil, by Karen WInters

Watching the hillside

across from his house

always helps him –

not that he needs help

on this planet

that prepares things

so thoroughly for him.

The hillside always holds

its things in their suitable places –

its leftover leaves, trees,

sticks sprawled

in perfect positions.

It helps him,

as he sits by the window

feeling his breath bringing life

into his lungs so loyally,

to look at the hillside

in its unceasing and modest

flawlessness.

WE’VE GOT TONIGHT

"Studio Lamp", oil, by Suzanne Berry

We’ve got tonight,

he told the stylish lamp

beside his bed.

Forget tomorrow.

Just you and me tonight,

he told the festive stars

outside the window,

and the shy light

on someone’s porch

where his street turned

and set out

on its own adventures tonight, 

just the street

and the dashing spring winds.

FRESHNESS

He was still sleepy at seven a.m.,

struggling to stay awake,

when suddenly he saw

the white sky above his house.

It wasn’t a handsome sky

or a sky to sing under,

but it was where

it was supposed to be

and it was

the completely correct color.

He carefully lifted his hands.

The wrinkles were wonderful,

and the lamplight looked down

on the small hairs

with reborn brightness.    

PARTNERS

He has partners

prepared to help him.

His faithful hands

carry food to his lips,

and let a pencil

do its proper work of writing.  

His feet find

the perfect place to step to

or stand on, and

all of his fingers

are friendly to the world,

the one that waits for him

with fervor each day. 

SOMEWHERE

He put a piece

of pancake in his mouth,

and miracles were made.

Somewhere a window opened

to provide a family

with a puff of fine air.

In a striving city in the east,

silence settled over everything

like a restful shower.

And in his stomach,

some secret miracles

were made with this gift

of the piece of pancake.

DON'T YOU LOVE HER WAYS?

He loved her ways,

this winter of bottomless snows

and days that sighed with winds.

It was only a short season,

and summer could carry

more splendor in its arms,

and fall was always

a fortunate gift,

but he did love her hold

on his heart, this winter

with its white skin

and wild, inspiring ways.

HE POURED THE LAST OF HIS COFFEE

"Slice of Green Apple", oil, by Cathleen Rehfeld

He poured the last of his coffee

on the grass

and saw it soak in

and wondered where it went.

When he’s sleeping tonight,

will the coffee carry down

past stones and old sticks

in the soil, and will

the work of the earth

be to welcome it

with widespread arms

and wish it well,

this coffee coming

as a gift from a friend

who’s sleeping under

the shielding stars?

IT'S ST. PATRICK'S DAY

"Bells of Ireland", watercolor by Linda McCoy

It’s St. Patrick’s day,

and for him it’s a day

for the sounds of spring.

He listened this morning

as water went through the pipes

with the rush

of revived rivers,

and he noticed

that the frig motor 

had found a youthful hum. 

Even his bow ties

swished in his hands

as he searched through them

for something green.

HE SAW A SMALL PERSON

(for Annie)

He saw a small person

at ease inside her,

and he saw the city

in silence around them,

cars settled into quietness,

complete stillness in stores and bars,

the hush of kindness

in the sky above,

the considerate stars and planets

so still, staring down

at this small someone

resting inside her.

HIS BIRD FEEDER FOUND A WAY

His bird feeder found a way

to win some happiness for him,

simply by swaying softly

as the birds

brought their needs to it.

He held in his heart

a space the size of Texas

for things that sway –

a feeder, trees in winds,

his little but valiant life,

and the birds

that bring the benevolence

of their lives

to just outside his window.

ONE DAY HE DECIDED

 One day he decided

to search for the total truth,

so he set out on a morning

that made the world a miracle,

and soon there were sparks

of thoughts inside him

and crowds of words

that wished to be free,

so he sent them forth

to find the full truth,

but what they found

was simply this person and that person

and the poise of things like
lightbulbs and pebbles,

so the words just sat
and passed the time,

small words 
such as “here” and “now”.  

IT WAS JUST A BELT

It was just a belt hanging from a hook,

but as he stared at it,

something about it began to shine.

There was silence in the room,

and sunshine,

and this strange belt

that brought news and knowledge

about the brightness of things.

Then a thought in his mind

made a little light,

almost like life itself,

and then a sweater beside the belt

seemed reborn as it hung

on its hanger in silence.

ON TUESDAY

"Last Light Belle Isle", oil, by Stephen Magsig

On Tuesday

he stopped struggling,

mostly because he saw

some split stovewood

that wasn’t struggling,

and clouds that went

where the wind went.

He set down

his precious life for good

and gave it a rest

under an undisturbed tree.

He felt his blood

being brought to wherever

it was needed,

and he didn’t oppose it.  

HE KNOWS HE CAN’T ESCAPE

"Pleasant Hill Morning", watercolor, 

by Andy Smith

He knows he can’t escape

sitting beside the window

at this moment and seeing

the beige bedspread

and hearing the sounds

of heat in the baseboards.

Souvenirs are presented to him

second by second,

and he has no choice

but to be present as they are given,

these gifts, 
this lamplight on a blue wall

and the wrinkled red cushion

on a rocker across the room

from where he necessarily sits.  

HE FEELS AS REFRESHED

"Morning Light Santa Ynez Valley", pastel, by Joe Mancuso

He feels as refreshed

as the free sunshine

that follows all of us

wherever we go.
He feels

like he is flowing

out to people and the proud

mountains of the west

and the wandering eastern rivers.

As easy as it is for sunshine

to raise the spirits
of a house in a forest,

as easy is it for him

to see restoration in all things,

even in thoughts that swirl up 

from who knows where.  

HE SAT IN THE DEALERSHIP

"Stars Over Casco Bay", oil, by Elizabeth Fraser

He sat in the dealership

doing nothing – 
not noticing other people, 
not preparing to-do lists, 
not listening to anxious thoughts. 
He simply sat in silence 
as the planets and stars sailed out

on their timeless journeys

and his blood held a steady course

through trustworthy veins

and flawless, unselfish arteries. 

HE FELT REASSURED THIS MORNING

"Morning's First Light", oil, by Karen Winters

He felt reassured this morning.

The sunlight was letting itself down

among the trees once again,

and the furnace in the cellar

was celebrating its skill

in furnishing heat

for his household of hearts

and minds made to be special.

The magazine on his desk

was impressive

in the first sunshine of the day.

ONE DAY HE DECIDED TO PRAISE THINGS

"Mountain River", oil, by Mark Webster

One day he decided to praise things.

The first thing he praised

was the thought of praising things,

then the feeling of flowing
into morning on a river,
then the way thanks

seemed to live throughout his body --

in his triumphant fingers

and in his feet

that will find themselves

standing on sacred ground

every second of this day

that somehow came dancing

up to his door.

HE HAD NOTHING TO WRITE ABOUT

He had nothing to write about.

Winter was gone

with its gifts and finesse,

and the furniture in his house

had nothing that needed to be said.

A soiled dish in the sink

didn’t inspire him, and

heaven didn’t seem to reside

in his lined fingers

or the fine weave of his

dress shirt, the one

that wished to tenderly

warm his chest

on this day that was chosen

to be something exceptional

for him and the plenteous universe

he astonishingly resided in.

ONCE HE SAVED SIXTY-TWO PERCENT

Once he saved sixty-two percent

of his kindness and caring

and kept it in a carton,

but a decorous sunrise said that

kindness couldn’t be bought

or owned, and caring

only stayed when it was

let loose to be itself.

So he carried the carton

to the meeting of several streets

and set it down

for others to find,

and he felt a little light

flowing out from all things.

HE TRIED TO TAKE HIS THOUGHTS

He tried to take his thoughts

in certain directions,

but they threw his plans

in their wastebasket

and wandered wherever they wished.

They were thoughts as wild

as the winds that went alongside

his life, letting him know

that nothing can  calm

this universe that sings

and unfolds in splendor,

just as it desires,

days of surprise

after days of radiance.

A SIMPLE LIFE

His is a simple life,

like a stone sitting
in the midst of a field,
a flowing river,

a single star lost in the sky.

He never knows

any scientific fact about anything,

and never thinks thoughts

that are new or breathtaking.

He just sits silently
among the blossoms

of the universe,
moves easily
like a shy stream,

or a star that loves

where it is.

THERAPY

When his life becomes too busy,

he sometimes thinks of things

that are resting.

He thinks of pencils relaxing on desks,

patiently waiting to be used –

of carpets quietly lying on floors --

of doors standing peacefully

but with perfect posture,

poised to open or close.

He thinks of mountains taking a break

just where they’ve been taking a break

for thousands of years,

of rivers running

like serene runners running for fun.

He thinks of his own hands

that often relax at his side,

and of the few gentle dollars

that sometimes take it easy

in his pockets.

SITTING IN THE LIVING ROOM

Sitting  in the living room
while flames find their way
among logs in the fireplace,
he looks through his feelings
to find something he's lost.
He lets the light of his life
shine like a search light,
but with no success.
What he's lost is little
and lying among the distant stars,
but he doesn't know it,
so he never stops searching,
sending the sparks of his thoughts
through his life.

THEY WANTED HOTDOGS

They wanted hotdogs

and hamburgers,

he wanted winter

with its white jacket

and the joys of starlight.

They wanted thoughts

that throw themselves

like baseballs soaring

into the bleachers,

he wanted the help

of hills and the whispers

of streams in the summer.

They wanted to wear

their lives like comfortable capes,

he wanted whatever

was here in his hands.   

HE WROTE A LETTER

He wrote a letter 
made of air and clouds. 
It carried his finest feelings

as it floated off.

Soon he found a silent stone

and spoke to it,

and his words were made of miracles,

and they made the stone

speak like all the stones

we step on each day.

It didn’t alter anything:

the air arranged itself

around him, 
as always,

in stylish ways.  

A LOST SELF

One day he lost his self.

It was a shy, scared self,

and now it had disappeared,

like darkness does

when morning

makes its fires among us.

He sat and stared out

at the universe

which now was not heavy

and held him

in its never ending hands.

SOFT SOUNDS

This morning he was surprised

by the sound of the furnace

finding its life again in the cellar.

It was a soft sound,

like someone sighing

at the start of another task,

or a stream taking its easy way

among stones and snags.

Among the stars, also,

there must be that sort of sound,

he said to himself,

as the universe slows and speeds up

in its travels

with him and his family.

NOTHING

There was nothing

he needed to do.

The darkness was doing it all,

with its stars and its

silent footsteps

outside his house.

A whole day

was being brought to birth

without his help.

Wherever he looked,

a lamp seemed to be

switching on,

and signals were being sent,

but there was nothing

he needed to do.