nature, photography, pin oaks, prose, writing

pin oaks

Pin oaks are odd. They keep some leaves til spring. The leaves are ugly, more like tree clutter than adornment. Limp lifeless dull rusty. Nevertheless, on a February day, when the sky’s gray, and everything around you feels dreary and quiet, the wind picks up a bit, and there’s a soft rustle up above. High above.

It’s something like a hiss.

Like frozen crystals brushing by in an icy snow, tick, tick, tick, tick.

Or maybe the scraping a towhee makes when it’s tossing sticks and leaves under brush on a summer’s hunt.

A little softer than the crunch of fancy tissue we bunch around a gift for someone’s birthday.

Yeah, the pin oaks shiver. And then they whisper to the wind.

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photograph from january 18, 2020

life, photography, prose, writing

glitter

It starts with a raised eyebrow, a sigh, a glow.
Moments that fizz and ferment and sparkle.

Lobes fire up a conversation of thoughts and blurred images
in the nooks and crannies of the mind.
And far below the surface,
deep in the richest layers of our human-ness,
a sensory explosion of emotion flares.

The subtle living tension of the soul.

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etikser

green, life, nature, photo, prose, woods, writing

Jumanji

Random, careless. Trunks scattered helter skelter. You can’t help but wonder how it felt here when these tall trees came down. The ground shook, for sure. But look around. Saplings sprouting from felled logs. Leafy vines winding a tangled trail over it all. A beautiful, wild, living, thriving, Jumanji-style, bright green mess.

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etikser

life, personal writing, photo, photography, poem, prose, summer, writing

morning coffee on the back porch

your bothered sigh 
another day

a squeak 
a bang

sliding doors

nearby voices fading far
muffled jumble
meaningless words

engines and brakes 
thumps and car doors
invisible airplane overhead purr

a singular 
dispirited 
gnarling bark 

hums
buzz
someone’s busy outdoor chores

then

quiet
nothing
but wind and birds and bugs silence

til

a swishing  swirl
swiftly spinning  
bicycle wheels

one more sip, your final gulp
sun up sounds
summer’s day waking up

nature, personal writing, photo, prose, writing

day dreaming

So picture this….

Button down shirt, white jeans, bare feet. Surrounded by trees, the sound of birds and trickling water. Looking into Patrick Swayze’s eyes. His voice explaining how he got into dancing. 

He motions to you. Motions for you to join him. Out there, on the limb, over the creek. You think. No…. No…. No way…

Next thing you know, he pulls you up into in his arms. 

Perfect posture, your chin up, elbows raised, toes clinging to the scratchy bark. And then…you’re both smiling. Giggling. Doing goofy, silly, 60’s style dance moves. Forward and then backward. Along that log, over the creek.

baseball, green, memories, personal writing, photo, prose, summer

batta, batta, batta

You stand at the rail and see lots of open field. Grass and dirt and weeds and clover, all the way to the outfield, and the fence.

Then, you hear it, the crack of the bat. Somebody got a hit. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s the shrill whistle of metal.

Right in front of you, a big clay area, the baseball diamond, a pitcher’s mound, and those weird pillows to mark bases. Those bags must have been around since Babe Ruth.

But we’re here in the dugout, and there’s the old dirty bench. How many butts sat on this bench? It’s where you wait your turn to bat, or go out in the field.

So you sit, swing your feet, and take up the chant. It helps your teammates hit better, I guess. Maybe it keeps you from getting in trouble with other fun stuff, like tossing water around, or telling stupid jokes. Saying words like fart, that make your friends laugh. Could be chanting is supposed to help you forget you need to go to the bathroom.

You punch your glove for awhile, play with the strings. It kinda smells. Pretend you’re catching a fly, then a grounder. Nothing feels like a baseball, does it? Smooth, dirty, matte, hard.

It’s all part of the game.

What?

Gotta go. They’re handing me a helmet. What inning did you say it is?

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etikser

memories, personal writing, photo, poem, prose, writing

on the go

not far from home
five miles or so

suddenly the car’s hotter
sky’s whiter,
brighter, hazier
like a different kind of summer
a long time ago

like I was ridin’ to work
to my first real job 

like I was in the middle of endin’ somethin’
that ended a long,
long while ago

funny the thoughts that pop in your head
when you’re out there
on the go

on that old familiar 
stretch of road