The Poet's Room

  Wild Geranium At Base of Dead Tree      Now near the end of spring, I've been remiss in writing about the dead awakening into new life. The last six days I've been hunting the Wild Turkey on a friend's woodlands. I spent over twenty springs hunting wild turkeys in the Mark Twain National Forest in Missouri. Way before that Missouri hunt started, back when there were only isolated populations of wild turkeys remaining in America I recall vividly my first sighting of a wild gobbler. Lord of the Woods Strutting His Stuff!       Just a boy of thirteen on the edge of Brown County State Park in southern Indiana. Deer season, gun in hand I'd climbed a steep ridge in the dark to await the dawn. I'd hardly slept the night before as visions of huge bucks, twelve point racks or more leapt passed me as I raised the gun. The dawn had come slowly illuminating the large oak trees around me. A large fox squirrel climbed up to a low limb then stretched out. With fat lolling over e

          (To hear this blog/vlog read and the music associated with hit click on "This Guitar" .)       Spiritual practice in many circles is frequently referred to as recovery! The  gift of recovery  normally starts after immense crisis and suffering.  In the practice of Recovery a person learns how to tune their spirit by using principles and techniques learned from more advanced practitioners. Illusion of perfection or the need to strive for perfection exists as a  great stumbling block. Acceptance of imperfection and the need for help opens the door to humility which fosters growth. The following poem illustrates that helpful principle.         This Guitar* I say to the Friend; This guitar In my bedroom Sits in the stand All day long Doing nothing;  Doesn't it Know It was made To make music? Tony, the Friend Exclaims This guitar is the form: A body, A sounding board, A neck with frets, Strings, tuners, braces, Created To make beautiful  Music, but The instrument  Rem

St. Mary's Cemetery Richland Center, WI           A friend in distress called this morning.  Suicide had taken a family friend.  Suicide rates are up with the economic turmoil created by the Pandemic.  Last fall another friend lost a brother to suicide. Evidently his brother's failing business drove him over the edge. As someone who has experienced his own dark night of the soul I understand the pain and suffering that could lead to such a bleak conclusion. I feel lucky for I found help and learned to turn those feelings of shame, worthlessness and desperation over to The Power That Flows Through All Things. God is one of the  names frequently used for that power! Losses pummel us, soften us, open the door to the heart that can break from the sorrows of life yet heal in loving through those sorrows. Sorrow opens the door to greater compassion for others struggling.... when we recall what our desperation felt like. (To view the video with music and hear this blog read click on t

      My wife Darlene and I bonded many years ago while backpacking in the Wind River Range not far from the Teton Mountains. Afterwards I wrote the song "Where Wild Flowers Grow" which I dedicated to her. The words to the song follow. (Click on the link for video & music.)    Where Wild Flowers Grow (A Hiker's Hymn for Darlene) 1)  Wild flowers don't grow in window sills, Natural beauty rarely occurs in a city, Lace up your boots, let's for a walk, Out where crazy trees, grow from naked rock. Out there we'll find wind and rain,  Open skies with clouds and stars, Let down your hair feel the blow, Take off your shirt feel the cold.  2)  Sky pilots grow on mountain tops, Above timberline fragrant prayers eddy, One foot step at a time on a narrow trail, Up where lupine blanket hidden meadows, Out there we'll find lakes and streams, Glaciers melting under a summer sun, Stretch out, lay down, with your love, Feel the warmth of ancient stone; 3)  Columbines

* Fledgling Eagle & Redwing Black Birds! (Photo Courtesy; Jerry Davis)        Austere means severe, without comforts or luxury.  Northern winter lays bare the bones of being as if life holds its breath waiting to exhale. Viewing the winter scenery through the windshield of my truck as I drove home on Lincoln Road, I began composing the following poem. Austere Winter Austere winter; Snow blankets Every earthen fold, Bare trees Stand as dead Waiting To be Reborn;     Yet winter's austerity after summer's verdant lush growth prepares dormant earth for the next spring and new growth.  Every living thing has it's season. We too enjoy our season of growth, raise children who bear grandchildren. To my delight my grandson Sam in fourth grade wrote the following poem then read it for us on face time.  Look Outside Look outside The sky is blue Look again, it's you! Oh yeah! Building a Snowman That looks fun! Look outside The sky is gray What a bad time we are having today. We

  Bill & Eagle Contemplate Each Other!     Twas the day after the Packers lost another chance for the Super Bowl, as I pondered weak and weary over yet another squandered year of Rodgers' great career there came a message buzzing with muffled vibrato on my cellphone communion door, pushing the button I felt sure it would say; No! No Packer Super Bowl! No! Never more! Instead a picture of a bald eagle held by a friend with the message; "Have a visitor tonight too weak to fly for some reason. Or maybe just despondent over the Packers' loss"     Yes, even that soaring symbol of our Country, which shares the same air we breathe, that great majesty too felt the cloak of gloom emitted  from Lambeau Field.  A despondency so heavy that it could no longer fly, came to the ground luckily nearby to where a settled homesteader tends chickens and vibrant garden when home.   Bill with help from his roommate Jeff secured the eagle then brought it inside. "Bird" happens