The following reflects a distant time when I first noticed the desire to write creatively. More than pure nostalgia, the photo-poem is aimed at the place where a traveler starts out on a journey uncertain of its destination. Creating it has helped me cope with the current winter season, notable for its heavy sledding and for putting mankind in its place.
I started writing poetry
late in life, age 24,
along pastoral waters.
memory fades, but i recall
trout that swam in forest
pools, and one summer day
listening to van morrison’s
astral weeks– my eyes
upon lisette reclining
long-haired on the porch.
i thought: yeah, it’s poetry
unsung and waiting to be written
from the flight of swallows
circling high above the barn,
from my bond with this woman
reading kerouac in the sun,
and from whatever
beautifies the stream–
the speckled trout, and stones.
Rivertop Rambles 
Damn old hippies…
That top shot almost makes winter seem appealing. I’m about to walk out the door to shovel around 5 inches of it so I’ll stick with “almost”.
Well, Ken, that top shot was taken when the temp was about 10 degrees which, in itself, cuts the romance a bit, doesn’t it. I just came in from shoveling, myself, and cleaning out the stove pipes, work that usually takes me an hour or more. It’s tiring when the old hippies stumble around in the March cold and dream about the “innocent” early 70s. Thanks, and be careful with the snow shovel!
Those days are in my vault, they are covered with a dust I’m not sure off. Where did they go.
Winter did achieve that goal..I’m in my place.
Alan, In my case I wasn’t sure if I wanted to blow the dust off those days or not, but every once in a while it’s good to clean house and do the dusting, if for no other reason than to see where you’ve come from, and maybe to get a better view of the row you’ve still got to hoe.