Wow! What a meadow is this,
To think, I did not look up from below,
In the woodland Manor Pits,
I hung my head down low,
In this rocky culvert water-hole.
Never did I know!
So close to the Great Blue Hill,
The crickets jumping everywhich way,
Like driving into snow,
The purple iron **** not bending at all,
" Excuse you good sir,"
From these gentlemen so tall.
Who's down there in those yellow flowers,
Sniveling their nose at me?
The snooty shrew, in the partridge pea.
Is that a Bobolink? surfing the grassy red awning,
In the bright August dawning.
With no need of a tree.
Stick my face inside a world,
Of pink pye ****,
The Bumble and the Honey dont mind me.
Let them come and register all the grass and flowers to vote,
Where shall your address be when the wind shall blow?
Have the policeman chase the laughter–
And the laughter scatter low,
Through the hare bells below the Bobolink,
In the shooting cricket snow.
Come bring your clipboard,
Chase the breeze unknown,
Would you like more blazing star?
Speak into the bee laden microphone,
Form a line!Walk abreast!
Forward march!
To find the cottontail with fixed bayonets,
It escapes through pantaloons,
Like the red admiral butterfly from the net.
Give a sermon from the pulpit of shining golden rod,
For the mysterious and unquantifiable beauty of God,
Warn against the liquorice hyssop's sting,
A Bumble bee up your shorts,
From all night bivoucking.
I would not know which– to be raptured to or from–
This meadow to the west of the great Blue in the August sun,
Never did I even know that hill was even this nigh,
Until upon crouching at the culvert brook–
I held my head up high.

Who would walk this airless swamp?
Or bike this muggy path,
For if you slow down to a saunt,
The finger grass scratches and the flies attack.
Perhaps the Massachusett fleeing from Myles Standish' blade,
Like starving phantoms behind black swamp trunks,
Their children hushing in dense river grape.

Im well acquainted with Norman greed,
And want to escape it for the day,
But I see a ribbon latched onto something green,
Can't quite possibly swallow it, but won't let it get away.
I get back on my bike, like always try to forget,
And find the eastern Blue Hill passage,
As a speeding portage over the fly sipping rivulet.

They catch me all the same,
Can't pedal past the buzzing in my ear,
How the archival wetland drains,
The tree roots hit hard and knock the chain out of gear.
I walk my bike by the bridle down a narrow funnel,
The water is idle over planked footbridge,
Amongst the potent poison umbel.

I find an old rusted vehicle gate,
Leading to a long aborted highway road,
At midnight the path was saved,
As if this ghostly wetland could vote.
The hardtop was pierced by **** and scrub,
This isolated courtyard bordered by ravines ,
And tortured by the sun.

I walk the barren courtyard to the hills,
A misty bluish humid outskirt,
I walk the courtyard until,
I see a worker with a whitish shirt,
Then I dont know if I really saw it,
" You cannot enter here" –then got down on his hands–
With antlers–gallopped into the humid forest.

For some time I stayed there staring,
An arrowhead of flaked obsidian at my feet,
Amongst the scrub pierced hardtop of courtyard barren,
That pointed back to my path, barring east,
"To Fowls Meadow" I must have missed it on my left,
Under a locust tree,
That caused it to sparkle from its fine leaf net.

I ride down, to a massive tree overturned,
The roots and earth were in the sky,
In the massive hole something burned,
A knapped glass arrowhead, of yellow light.
It did not seem to be of yellow chert,
Strange!
Under five hundred years of dirt.

I had enough of this twisted place,
Verged in toxin, which I am immune,
I double time to pick up the pace,
Past hydric black mud of airless doom,
And the choking frogs one note song,
In eye thirsty thorns,
That you must unzip before moving on.

It opens up in a plain,
My bike startles many blackbirds up,
Their red streaked wings rise as flames,
Below the Meadow dust,
But there is something at my fore,
A doe's tail?
Swinging softly back and forth.

A girl! Amongst the Meadow way out here?
Walking non chalantly between
the riverine,
With music in her ears,
Is it real or do I dream?
Her shoulders must have been my mirage
Glistening in a cut white shirt,
In a beautiful decolletage.

I could not possibly pass her,
Without giving her a fright,
Due to her music I could not ask her,
So I dismounted my bike.
Half clad–elegantly so,
Clad in beautuful nature,
Like the buff-brown slender doe.

I walked my bike beside the reins,
All the Meadow was colored brass,
Lost in her french braids,
As the sun behind stained glass.
Gathered the courage, to look upon her face–
Scared that it would be concealed,
And like a seraphim fly away.
She smiles beautifully,
I tell her I love her, she can't hear a word I say,
Then I gallop down the dusty trail–
And disappear into the river grape.

He lives under the concrete pad,
Of a shed that fell down,
Like a grizzly in summer,
He is blondish brown.
A squeeze under a failing fence,
And a short sloppy run,
He munches all the leaves of squash,
And bites clean thru butternut for fun,
He even stands up straight,
To hog down all the beans,
He barrel rolls the sunflowers,
To get them all to lean,
No bear spray keeps him away,
No net can keep him out,
Just chomps to your face,
If you begin to shout.

Twas the garden of Eden before,
A plague of locusts after he went,
A short run back,
And smashes through the fence.

Necessity is the mother of deception.
Confession is good for the prosecutor.
The squeaky wheel
is quietly replaced.

An empty wallet
keeps the doctor away.
A fool and his money
are the foundation
of our financial system.

The early bird
catches the worm,
and is welcome to it.

What goes around
usually comes back hungry.
All that glitters
has a nondisclosure agreement.

Hope springs eternal,
in the marketing department.

Oh how the Smoky Mountains,
And the Carolina Piedmont meet,
Water that carves through stone,
My, how these gentle streams,
The shining rivers owe,
Oh how a hay ride in Tenesseee,
Floods me in a dream,
Deep enough for the Tenesseee river boat,
For all her beauty, I know she will cheat,
And leave me all alone,
The surprise in her eyes,
As her valley wraps my sides,
When I flow from her beautiful hold.

My lord! the Virginia rolling hills, at the base of the Blue Ridge,
And the fathers are still in the home,
Though they welcome me in,
I do not want to ruin their mandolin,
When the Jack Daniel's begins to flow,
Like a bobcat that lost its will to live,
To the Blue Ridge--
To starve away while they play below.

Dam, how high this Catskill road climbs,
And span these turbid childhood ravines,
So much trust, we put in rust,
The red and dying maple leaves,
But if we must, return to dust,
Carve my name in only these,
The surviving iron, that spans this deadly stream.

She let's me down, on shadowed ground,
Of the Worcester Plateau,
She is an icey mother,
These hills still in winter,
With lightning during snow,
These broken hills, that melt and freeze,
So no children can ever skate,
My lord! Look at all the lime young leaves--
So tender and ready to break.

Madam, be careful as you check this drone,
The Reaper is a Reaper,
As you bury your nose in your phone,
Watch those blades,
As you scan sensors,
For the souls it stole,
This one sensor won't read,
Come alittle closer,
And see what I see,
The blood mist through the propellers,
In the uncharted breeze.

It's true that being false,
With much beauty and no pollen at all,
Is a sting from the rose to the bee,
Making him court forever,
Until he lies down with the winter freeze,
But beauty is beauty, and is its own pollen,
The brunette still commands me,
Though all is withered and fallen,
If the Creator has deceived me,
With the sin of beauty,
Then His creation,
I love all the more truly,
I'll take him at his word,
And be snared like a hopping bird,
And when I hang by my foot,
Over blue chicory and purple asters on the ground,
Not even her snowy dress,
Could cut me down,
Surely beauty covers many sins,
That enthralls me to icey sleep,
Like the frozen Massachusett pond,
With pastel green sunfish beneath,
For I know he killed to cloth me,
For before a blizzard you see the dance of crows only,
And when the snowfall is too deep,
In the roads only the foxes jump and leap,
But if it be sin to stand in awe,
Then have her kiss me, so I thaw.