Sadie and Pal, A Ballad

 Sadie and Pal, A Ballad

Sadie and Pal are dead now—
since November, more or less.
Which seems like a long time ago,
but grief has its own address.

Sad Cornelia.
Sad Connie.
No bears at Bear Mountain.
The Trailside Zoo is bear-less now,
which feels like poor accounting.

The heroes of my heart,
I like to think,
are not exactly gone.
They’ve slipped into another dimension
and carried the good stuff on.

Down some secret tunnel
beneath the mountain floor,
where bears have endless blueberries
and nobody asks for more.

Meanwhile, here I am,
with cholesterol,
with fat,
with the mysterious determination
of my body to attach it
to my belly and my hips.

But my heart is fine.

So, suck it up, Connie.

It’s not forever.

There will be bears again.

Eventually.

Once they upgrade the habitat
and presumably get the paperwork

and whatever else you need
to make a bear comfortable
in the modern world.

And then the names.

Oh, the names.

Sasquatch and Sam.
Palisade and Peek.
Sable and Spruce.
Hudson and Highlands.

Ramble and Ridge.
Picnic and Basket.

Actually—

Maybe the last two.

Picnic and Basket.

Tell me that isn't a pair of bears
who know exactly what they're doing.

But before we get there,
before the new bears arrive,
perhaps we could ask the visitors
to stop treating the park
like the landscape is indestructible.

Rest, people.

Let the mountain breathe.

Let the trails be trails.
Let the woods be woods.
Let the bears, when they return,
have something worth coming back to.

Sadie and Pal are gone.

The mountain remains.

And somewhere, I hope,
two enormous bears
are having an excellent afternoon
in another dimension—

probably eating berries,
probably ignoring us,

and absolutely
not worrying about their hips.

 

Beyond the Loudest Voice

 Beyond the Loudest Voice

People like us listen beneath the noise—

outliers, sparks beyond the media’s pull,
able to think without being carried
by passing opinion.

We are creative, vigilant,
lighthouse eyes sweeping the dark,
recognizing what threatens our shared humanity
and meeting it with clear, steady eyes.

We live among you,
work beside you,
train our bodies and minds,
learn from those who know,
and move with the restless tide of humanity.

We notice what others miss—
what we can see, hear, touch, and smell,
the thunder already gathering
beneath the horizon.

We face the world as it is
while imagining what it might become—
through changing climates
and uncertain markets.

We recognize misinformation,
manipulation, and opportunism.
We refuse to do harm
and stand beside the vulnerable—
children, those who serve,
the elderly, and the sick.

We make plans and follow through.
We volunteer, fill what needs filling,
and keep hope turning
for those who cannot.

We live by principles,
accept sacrifice, when necessary,
and become bridges
where others cannot cross alone.

We do not echo the loudest voice
or mistake one road for the whole horizon.
We sharpen questions
until truth catches the light.

So listen deeper.
Question bravely.
Stand together where the road divides.
And carry the light forward.

Because truth is not the

loudest voice; it is the clearest light. 

 

The Hollow Nest

 

you came in
wearing rain
like borrowed skin.

your shoes grew wings.
time ate its hands.

memory, a cracked mirror,
kept your face
in every shard.

the wine tasted of rust.
the moon drowned.

but you never came.
the door dreamed you.

by morning,
I held only feathers—

you nested in the hollow I became.

 

The Blue Wave

The Blue Wave
is coming—
not a whisper,
not a warning,
but a rising tide
that no wall can hold.

It will crash against the shoreline
of corruption and lies,
tear through the barricades
of privilege and power,
and leave the old machinery
of greed exposed
beneath the salt and sand.

We are done
with crumbs dressed up as feasts.
We are entitled to the whole table—
the bread,

the meal,
the dessert,
the cocktails,
the dignity of knowing
that what we build together
belongs to everyone.

And we are awake now.

Even the infants
seem to be asking:

What kind of world
are you leaving us?

You take our children,
our futures,
our trust—
turn them into experiments,
then send us the bill
and call it freedom.

Are you kidding us?

Do you care about anything
beyond power,
profit,
and the machinery
that keeps your name
at the center of everything?

We see you.

We see the cracks
beneath the polished speeches.
We see the games.
We see the rigged promises,
the distractions,
the endless spectacle.

And we are no longer hypnotized.

We are not children.
We are not props

in your theater.
We are not going to surrender
our streets,
our neighbors,
our schools,
our voices,
or our country
to fear.

You can shout.

You can lie.

You can rage at the microphone
until your voice is nothing
but static.

But the people
are still here.

And we are louder.

You are not a king.

You are not the country.
You are not the future.

You are a man
standing against a tide
that has finally learned
its own strength.

So go.

Go quietly or go shouting.
Go wrapped in slogans,
go buried beneath excuses,
go wherever yesterday's power
goes when tomorrow arrives.

But understand this:

We will not kowtow.
We will not disappear.
We will not be distracted.
We will not be afraid.

The Blue Wave is rising.

And this time,
we are the shore.

 

Greeting Golden Hour--Mid August

 Greeting the Golden Hour in Mid-August

 

Golden morning light
spills softly through the green woods,
warmth on every leaf.

…

Sunbeams lace the trees,
dappling branches, bark, and moss,
the forest aglow.

…

Full leaves breathe in light;
a few yellow leaves drift down,
gold across the lawn.

…

Morning calls softly:
wake, step outside, breathe the day,
greet the light with joy.

…

The forest is bright,
mid-August wrapped in golden
a new day begins.

…

I'd Rather Talk To Rocks

 How patient I am—

resting this and that

when I’d rather be scrambling the rocks

at Mohonk or Minnewaska.

Waiting to heal from another misstep:

a turned ankle, a sore knee,

a hip reattaching to bone—

or is the bone reattaching to the hip?

Meanwhile, Congress appears

to have misplaced its brain.

Can you count the stars?

List the things unfinished?

Draw pentagons out of thin air?

Question an atomic reactor

beside your favorite swimming hole?

Or question a president about his finances—

and whether he can name

three good things he’s done

without consulting a teleprompter.

We’re done waiting for one.

Must we keep repeating the past

as if nobody on this planet has a brain?

Perhaps they’re out there with the stars—

tiny brains awaiting harvest,

then a one-way ticket to Mars,

the billionaires’ favorite vacation plan.

Has Congress been bought and paid for?

Is the Big Dipper dripping tears?

Does mother’s milk enrich uranium?

Are children being issued longer bodies

and shorter attention spans?

Meanwhile, my older frame

keeps growing sideways and fluffing up.

Should I buy hippo clothes

and embrace the trend?

Shall we pray to the heavens,

then eat Ding Dongs and Devil Dogs

buried under ice cream, chocolate syrup,

and maraschino cherries?

But I digress.

I was out on the rocks,

spider-walking between two glacial erratics,

thinking I could do anything—

realizing, of course,

that someday it will all be over.

So I inhaled the clean air

and waited patiently for my turn

to dip my little hippo toes

into a cool, rushing brook.

And there, between the rocks,

everything seemed simple:

gravity, water, sky—

no spin, no scandals,

no billionaires headed for Mars.

For once,

the rocks made more sense

than Washington.

And frankly,

I’d rather talk to rocks.

What Grows Between Us

 What Grows Between Us

 

It is great to have friends
people of the same tribe
a community of like minds
banding together
week after week
enjoying each other’s company

sharing politics
religion
meditation practice
shopping
food
music

while the landscape changes around us—

mosquitoes biting
leaving welts
spiders dancing in the light
weaving their delicate webs
mushrooms capitalizing on damp ground
creating whole villages of their own

and beneath us
what we cannot see
is happening too—

roots reaching
mycelium threading through soil
one tree touching another
water moving
nutrients passing
life giving itself to life

nothing truly alone
nothing entirely separate

the patterns intertwining

forming their own economies
their own communities
their own small worlds

and when I step back
I see the larger picture—

not just a quilt
but a living fabric
where every thread
holds another

where the circle needs the square
the soil needs the rain
the mushroom needs the tree
and the tree, perhaps, needs
what grows unseen beneath it

And maybe this is what we are:

not only great

to have one another

but critical.

Inside the circle,
within the square,
beneath the surface,
we hold each other up.

We are whole.
We are one.

A small group of friends—
and a much larger
living thing.