Ferns

I walked today on an ancient carpet

Woven of red dirt and dead leaves…

Under a lacy green moss canopy

And light rays like fire, from the trees.

I lost sight of my destination,

At first scent of the ocean breeze…

A prisoner in the fern cathedral,

Once I threw away the keys.

Intellectual Pluck via Turkey F#@K

One by one we lit our smokes

On another friend’s lit cigarette,

One by one we ignited our thoughts,

On a friend’s ideas and mind set.

One by one, we were rebels,

In ideas, our panache and name…

One by one we became unique

In dressing and thinking the same.

,

Two Viewpoints on Natural Terror

I stood on the desert’s precipice,

Watching the gorge turn an autumnal red;

The tenacity of a determined river,

Digging deeper for a comfortable bed.

The optimist sees a landscape’s change,

Creating beauty within the foreboding…

The pessimist mourns the missing soils,

Lost from eons of violent eroding.

To My Jungian Scholar Friend

This is in response to a dear friend’s post on revisiting her journals while writing her dissertation.

"Swimming in my journals . . . in the past . . . in story . . . in regret and heartache . . . in the redemptive nature of Psyche . . ."

I have spent my entire life in that "Place",  and lately have noticed I pass through the pages of my journals even while walking my dog on paths of asphalt or sand. Today, the major difference is,  I find myself frequently weeping now as I revisit my past thoughts and memories. Strangely, I am finding a beauty in the experience, as I realize now, how overwhelmingly beautiful even the bad experiences are in retrospect. If I were a tree, all these aged thoughts and memories, created the individual leaves that gave me the once, such glorious display, still glorious, but now turning a golden red and falling.