where the writers are
In The Meadow
10 15 08 SF photos 230.jpg


June 15






Being the only tree in the meadow often leaves me feeling lonely.  I tell myself of the camaraderie I imagine in the forest.  These images are more poetic than real.  I believe in community and support; I think of the woods as this place apart from the complications of my exposed life.  I shrug off the very real competition and struggle from sharing every inch of root space and the search for each square of sunlight.  There is much joy in being an individual.  An eco-system of diversity allows me to fully develop.  I can spread my branches and my roots.  I can offer shelter to those in need of my reaching and my shadow; tender flowers and tired birds find me a haven.  I have unique abilities in this field.  Space can feel lonely but it is full of possibilities.



Press up against your iron will.






Cosmic questions cross the sky,

I wonder but don’t ask why

I pitch the tent, but don’t stay the night


I borrow money and don’t pay the rent

I sooth myself but can’t be content

I earn my keep though it is all been spent


The real true meanings are pushed away,

Has ready tragedy come to stay

Forever darkness, no more light of day

Cheerful greeting left to lay


All the poets bring their knives

For blood letting’s become their prize

Here I sit and tend the boat


Rocking dingy out to moor

I play the Raven, black and poor

I dare not speak it but in my mind sing

“Never more”