Old Growth Forrests

If ever you are able to walk an old growth forest, do so. It will change you life. There are few things in our modern ways that connect us to the other kingdoms of nature and amplify our oneness, not our separateness. Old growth forests will bring joy to you heart and knowing to your soul. 

Old Growth Forests

©2014 Rolland G. Smith

Within the ancient forest glade

are records that some minds evade,

for greed and profit need a count,

investor sees it — paramount.

Old trees and flora mark the page

of learning from this nature sage.

Decay and mold from fallen tree

connect the truths of botany.

On severed trees, look at the rings

and marvel at what sequence brings.

A record of each year in rain

long ’fore the modern mind domain.

Yet forester with science mind

comes clearing for another kind

of trees and stunted undergrowth

in even rows that nature loath.

Let elders stand, till fallen dead,

for even then, when quieted

by age or storm in forest old,

They harbor life a thousandfold.

Loggers, take your lumbering lust

to newer stands if cut you must

but let the ancient forests lie
undistrubed -- to mystify.

Carrizo Wash

In the Anza Borrego desert of southern California there is a place called Carrizo Wash. It is a seemingly barren, yet beautiful place of nothingness. It is an ancient sea floor bed crusted with shells. Time has passed it by, but not mankind.

I was mesmerized by my visit there and spent the night feeling the cold of a summer night hit the hot ground and cool everything almost instantly. I was also disappointed in the tire tracks of off-road vehicles, dune buggies and manmade scars upon the land.

Carrizo Wash
©1995 Rolland G. Smith

Adesert vast to see and feel

what is true and what is real.

Streaks and scratches on the land,

no natural lode of thin fahlband.

Its tracks of man — tire scarred,

old bed of sea now wheel marred.

Barren dry, yet full of life,

Beneath the rocks of weather’s knife.

Granite grays and sandy stone

Black basalt and sun-bleached bone

Sages grow in pale hue

when green and cream rendezvous.

Fossil dunes from tranquil past

beneath a sea that didn’t last.

Old solitude with crusts of shell,

what ancient day felt your knell?

Thou sacred sweep, what is worse:

no ocean cover or man’s traverse?

Intruding sounds in paradise

make this silent place die twice.

Rebirth

Good Morning All,

Another wonderful lesson from nature. It is amazing what she says to us if we but listen.


Tulips Talk
© 2009 Rolland G. Smith

Monday brings poetic thoughts of
The things I’ve seen and others shoved
Aside this week waiting spring
With colored grace that flowers bring.
A single Tulip near my porch
Ascends alone as crimson torch
To be the one by teaching all
That it sustained long past the fall.
I read its thoughts within the red
And vowed to spread the message said:
It matters not where you abide
As long as you subside your pride
And be your light upon the earth
As blessed within God’s love and mirth.

A Poetic Confession

Today is Good Friday. I’m going to write about the Good Friday’s and Easter celebrations I remember as a kid and a little beyond.

First of all, my Mother was a staunch Irish Catholic and she ruled the house as far as religion was concerned.

We did all the things that a Catholic household must do to be compliant within the rules of the church.

Nine first Fridays.

Ten First Saturdays.

Church every Sunday.

Confession on Saturday.

Mass everyday at lent.

Ashes on Ash Wednesday.

Holy days of obligation.

The litany goes on and on and even the Rosary every night as a family.

I was completely indoctrinated by the time I was a young adult.

Somewhere along the way “revelation” entered into my perception and I rejected and altered some of the ritual for the values of spiritual meditation.

I realized that to be born in a religion was wonderful, but to die in it is unfortunate. By that I mean that the believer who never investigates the universal truths available to all seekers loses an awareness of great value; a knowing within the heart that there is something beyond the rules and regulations embedded in religious dogma. I found it to be in the truths of meditative poetry.

To some, what I write is heresy. I say, I honor your belief and request that you honor mine. Not that you accept my thought as belief, but that you acknowledge there are all paths to God, not only the one dictated by a specific dogma of organized religion.

Doorknob

How useful is this holding point that

decorates a door with brass.

It helps us to enter and to leave

sometimes alone and oft en masse.

When smooth and round in simple chrome,

It turns and locks and latches tight

But rarely gets its honor due

when carved of wood or crystal bright.

Next time you open a closed door

reflect upon protruding knob

In varied shapes and styles vast;

give thanks for this thingamabob.

Winter's Last

Winter's last

©2014 Rolland G. Smith

Winter’s back this April month

Though warm was here a day ago.

I should have known that this would be

For spring arrives so very slow.

I see the Crocus poking through

The thawing earth of early spring,

But then a blast from further North

Proclaimed that winter still had sting.

But I still have a shed of wood

And logs to burn within their place.

A fire then will heat my home

And end the cold without a trace.