The poetry you will find here are my attempts to distill thoughts about life, spirituality, and a philosophy of living into a poetic form. I use a variety of forms I have observed from other poets. My goal is to paint a picture or evoke an emotion.
As with all poetry, the reader will identify with some poems more readily than others. If you find one or two among these that provoke you to deeper thinking or feeling about a particular subject, then I will consider that my reward. I find the challenge of writing in poetic form rewarding for its demand in brevity and succinct language. This is coming from someone who tends to be too verbose in other forms of communication!
Remember, poetry should be savored like rich, dark chocolate. Rather than simply tossing it in the mouth, chewing, and swallowing the words, poetry is meant to be savored slowly and thoughtfully before it is ingested. It is best read aloud and more than once. Enjoy!
Significance
Within the breast of each
a human heart aspires to reach
goodness
greatness
and some measure of glory.
Hidden in the heart yearns
a soul that long ago learns
to accept
frailty
fragility
and some measure of folly.
Deep within and hidden in the soul
a consciousness stirs awake to the cold
realization of
insignificance
inconsequence
and some measure of insanity.
Down in humanity’s empty cavity
a spirit-being belies the vanity
of searching
seeking
for some measure of security
in the knowledge that
someone perhaps
might remember me.
© By Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Road of the Broken
I walk the lonely road of the broken
unseen and yet seen by
more perfect human specimens than I.
I turn my face to its good side
loved and yet unloved by
critical eyes that scan for fleshly flaws.
I cannot hide my cracked and broken self
hated and despised by
myself in the mirror of people’s eyes.
I cannot heal my wounds
festering and seething through
my broken facade of self-made beauty.
I walk the lonely road of the broken
seeking and yet not finding
one who will love my fractured self.
I turn my face in hope of finding
love extended in tender kindness
patiently mending my torn soul.
I expose my cracked and broken self
longing and looking for
a savior to rescue me from my destruction.
Who will heal my wounds?
Who will bind my broken places?
Who will not run from my festering sores?
I walk the lonely road of the broken
looking for you.
© Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Ode to the Desert Flower
How quickly the desert flower fades.
It fills its place for which it was made
greens, blossoms, reaches out with new blade
surrenders its fragrance in evening shade.
The tender root now searches deep
to moisten sap and tender leaf
that for one more day it might keep
its flowery fruit in furnace heat.
Watch blossom and blade upon the wind
gently sway and slightly bend
as thermal currents seek to rend
from petal and leaf the life it attends.
Amidst thorny weed and woody sage
the desert flower dresses landscape stage
the brevity of life and beauty its wage
for lifting flowered face against heat’s rage.
Grieve not as desert flower dies
leaving browny leaf where it lies
its brief life testifies
to the beauty of joyful resilience that defies
the hostile environ of all our lives.
© Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
That Young Soldier
That young soldier
rigid at attention
dressed in class A’s
that one soldier
smart in formation
pressed in cadence
that tall soldier
sharpened for our nation
stressed under command
that sharp, one, tall soldier
demands commendation
mine.
© Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Mountain Conqueror
The steep climb
of the mountain
before me
exhausts me.
The peak viewed
of the mountain
before me
excites me.
The steppes taken
toward the mountain
before me
surprise me.
The trails followed
up the mountain
before me
confuse me.
Exhausted,
excited,
surprised,
confused,
I ascend
step by step
I conquer
fear by fear
I crest
level by level
until I summit.
On the top
of the mountain
astride its peak
the view backward speaks
and attempts to teach
what I could not know
from the view below.
The mountain before me,
the twisted trails,
the steep steppes,
the slippery slopes,
all created in me
a conqueror of mountains.
© Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Dew On Death’s Door
I said goodbye.
Tho’ memory keeps you close
for now.
Smiles formed
as memories spilled out
with tears.
Then
tears dry
memories fade
and soon the dark shade of death
blends into the grey of forgetfulness.
Then
I paid a visit.
Memories rose
laughter formed
tears ran free like dew
upon the cold granite stone
and you were alive again.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Running the Risk
Earned or walked
the player does not balk
at getting safe to base
avoiding the embarrassed
strike out
Yet the journey around
the bases just begun
stays not safely hung like
a pennant
Rested or weary
the player does not curry
favor from coach, team, or stands by
avoiding the demands to try and
reach next base
Unrelenting the journey continues as
the bases must be run to
the demand, “Play ball!” or to
“Batter up!”
Advanced or stolen
the player does not foreknow
how only that one must
avoid the dangerous trap
between bases
The journey to the next
base safely begins unsafe as
the player takes a risk to
lead off
Leaning and stretching
like a marionette the player dances
chances leaving the safe base
risks running toward
the next base
The player’s journey depends
not on what was but will be
reached before the final call,
“You’re out!”
Sweat and dirt
testify to the player’s efforts
courage and moxie to lead
leave and risk moving forward until
the winning run victoriously crosses
home plate
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
This Mountain
Did I choose
this mountain
before me or
did this mountain
choose me?
Why must I climb
this obstacle
before me? Or,
will this obstacle
climb me?
May I choose
another way?
May this obstacle
choose another day?
If I choose not
this mountain
before me
will this mountain
not choose me?
Face to face
brow to brow
steppe to step
I must climb
or be climbed.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Devil in the Drink
I drank your wine
every drop
down to its last dregs
in anticipation
of the drunken joy you promised.
Each glass I sipped
held a promise
that at the bottom of it
relief waited
in the promised delight of forgetting.
The poison in your drink
went down
a sweet boquet but bitter swallow
I, caught
between swigging hope or spitting tragedy,
drank the fruit from your vine
licked my lips
and held out my glass for more
clearly choosing
to swallow your deceptive hope or my judgment.
Awaking from the effects of your drink still
in hazy stupor,
mouth dry and thirsty
my conscience screams,
“Your drink didn’t do the deed!”
Now hung over with disillusion
head bowed, eyes closed
I wait for the familiar voices
then shrink when
regret and grief greet me.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Fall into Winter
Dry,
dead,
dull
is the fall.
Rye,
red,
ruddy
is the fall.
In it we lie
and take to our bed
in hope that our full
season of sleep is all
we need
to wake up on the other side of winter.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Wrestlers
Down on the floor
two wrestlers meet
in a great circle
on a mat
with a referee.
In this arena
each acknowledges the other
with eyes fixed, handshakes
then get down in
a stance to attack.
On the whistle
the referee’s hand drops
the grapplers circle
in and out they reach
for an advantage.
At the crowd’s cheers
one of the two must commit
one must react
both seek leverage
and advantage.
On the time clock
the seconds drop away
time in the ring is short
victory or defeat is measured out
in just a few minutes.
For a moment
my gaze is pulled away
from the exhausted athletes
to the fanatic
cheering crowd.
It is then that I see
everyone as wrestlers
in the ring of their life’s own arena
grappling against
their own foe.
Down on the floor
sweating under the weight of a rival
seeking leverage and advantage
each one struggles.
In life’s arena
matches come one after another
the clock always running
the whistle never stopping.
Life is a continuous struggle
either with one’s own personal demons or God
leaving the human grappler
spent and panting
in the end.
Down on the floor
the buzzer goes off
the referee raises the victor’s hand
and the defeated
stares at the floor.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr (2009)
Hands of Time
I have today
not tomorrow
nor yesterday
not the future
nor the past.
Like grasping
water with my hand
its presence I see
but nothing reveals
in the clasped fist
the worth of the effort
Today is a comma
in eternity.
It sets off one moment
from one moment,
a day from a day.
Today,
I will arise
construct a narrative
and join
the commas of my life
together.
Today,
this moment in time,
will leave
however small
a measure of myself
upon the hands
of time.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
At War
conflicts cause confusion
words thrown like punches
accusations jab at one another
strategies dance to seek advantage
more than win a friend
words wage war
threats attempt to flank opponents
rhetoric marches forces forward
amassing arsenals of lethal language
rather than calm a foe
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Descends the Darkness
Clouds gather in the sky
darken the colors of the landscape black
shut off the warmth of sun
block the promise of starry night or moon light
promise only loneliness in the dark and
rain to dampen and drench any smoldering
ember in the soul.
Darkness descends heavy
blinds the soul’s eyes to hope
surrenders the spirit to despair left groping helplessly
the darkened path becomes a pit
casting body and soul into its dark hole
with no escape.
Thrust down with tattered scrapes
under clouds that cover with darkness
to land in blackest pit.
The soul gathers itself
huddles wounded and bruised
collects the wet and cold like blankets
and shakes from fear and fate.
Gazing upward for hope of light
reaching outward for helpful hold
sunk down in despair and futility until
hunched over gathered knees
head bows to mix tears with rain
blood runs with mud and water
as the soul surrenders to
gathered clouds
descended darkness and
blackened pit.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Lost
I open my eyes to morning mist
reality swirls around in heavy fog
unable to tell from where I’ve come
fearful of any direction I may take
Soon sunk into a bog of indecision
the quagmire of uselessness sucks down
pulling and sucking until all is paralyzed
the urge to just go under overpowers
Alone in the dark night of the soul
any cry for help is strangled by
fear of appearing weak, unbalanced, unable to
carry one’s own load in life
Out from the mist, from the other side,
a friendly voice encourages trying some more
as a breath of fresh wind blows, the fog clears, bog dries
and the way I came and the way forward
all makes sense now.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
On the Edge of My Map
My hike through this life
has already covered miles of trails.
I’ve traveled some risky ridges
and stood atop some prominent peaks;
exultant and joy filled over the victory
as I gazed in wonder at the trail behind me.
Some places along the trail
I hope to never travel again;
places where the valley was dark and long,
hills that wore me down,
rivers I crossed and almost drowned,
every obstacle making my backpack seem heavier.
When I started this trek,
I did not know what to expect;
preparing my pack as best I knew how;
included things I never need now
and didn’t include things I never knew I’d need;
each item weighted my burden until it injured me.
I now find myself on the edge of my map.
What lies ahead is unknown land
and compass and map offer no plan.
For this part of the journey I need a new map.
I’ll unload some things from my pack
and get one of those GPS units so I’ll track
where in the world I am.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Cry of the Curlew Bird
The curlew bird’s call
more a wounded cry
than the chirp and whistle
of much prettier birds
calls from dry land steppes
between river shore wading
and in the shallows feeding
so unlike other water birds
steps from its nest
nestled near the bunch grass and sage
exposing its mottled eggs
in their shallow sand and gravely grave.
Nest now in danger,
parent bird feigns wounded wing
limps away from fragile treasure
a selfless sacrifice to its predator.
Dangerous conqueror consumes
bulldozer and grader works
bunch grass, sage, and nest
a sacrifice to larger human nests.
Consumed by tread and steel
conquered bird rounds the sky
sending out the wounded cry
of the curlew bird’s call.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Breathing Atmosphere
I have often wondered where our breath goes
after it leaves us.
We exhale a vaporous cloud into the atmosphere
and then what?
I imagine billions of beings breathing in, then out
in unison like one great lung.
Creation’s atmospheric breast swell’s with life, then
exhales the carbon-dioxide poison.
Where does it all go?
Breathing in, breathing out like a great big accordion
with no sound played.
Life giving, life taking is sucked in then out
in each breath we take
from the atmosphere around us.
Perhaps like pouring a bucket of water into the ocean
our breaths are only absorbed into
the great, impersonal atmosphere all around and about us
neither adding nor subtracting from its substance.
I much rather hope that breath is added to breath
to make up an ethereal choir
the cacophony heard singing the vitality of living beings
like whispers in the tops of pine trees .
All our years of breathing in fresh atmosphere and
exchanging it for used up gas.
Do we leave more behind than we take in
our lifetime or are our breaths measured out carefully
in finite supply.
When that last breath is taken then released
emptying the lungs one final time
the wind and spirit no longer return because
they are forever released to freely float, mingle, and wander among the
atmosphere, winds, and clouds.
One breath joined with all breathing.
Perhaps one day my spirit will float upon the breath
of creation, carried along by its winds to places
I have not yet been.
Released from the hardened form of my body and mind,
my spirit, like my breath upon the wind, then
may blow wherever it wills.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
The Deepest Part of Me
What I see
blindly pleas
what I smell
does compel
me to believe
that all
of consequence
is physical.
What I hear
does endear
what I touch
pulls much
my heart toward
all that
my senses tell
is material.
What I taste
gives feast
what I feel
makes real
to my soul
that all
I consume
only matters.
What blindness!
What deafness!
What blandness!
What madness!
I failed to perceive
the deepest part of me that
reaches beyond
body, soul, and mind
touches eternity and divinity.
It is my awakened spirit.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
My Mind’s Eye
My mind’s eye
helps me to see
what is beyond me.
My mind’s eye
sees hope
beyond my helpless gaze.
My mind’s eye
sees beauty in you
beyond my ugly view.
My mind’s eye
sees friends
beyond my fearful glance.
My mind’s eye
provides potential
for me to see
beyond reality.
My mind’s eye
is essential
for me to see
beyond me.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Razor Blade Tongues
You cut me
a thousand times
wounded me
a hundred times
Your tongue
lashed me
struck me
and cut me
to wound me
Words sliced
names flayed
anger salted
bitterness poisoned
my wounds
“You’re stupid!”
you called
“You’re worthless!”
you said
“You’ll amount to nothing!”
you prophesied
“I’m ashamed of you!”
you admitted
And each word
every name called
cut again
opened anew
my wounds
for the world to view
Like a razor blade
the cut is deep
Like a paper cut
the wound is swift
and I bleed
from my wounds
Heal me
if you can
Restore me
if possible
Quicker are the cuts
than the time to heal
By my wounds
others may be healed
for I am not
the sum of my wounds
so I may not
pass on my wounds
to others
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
The Critic of the Perfectionist’s Play
I built a stage
to give my life’s performance.
I stepped upon it
to play my song and dance.
Years went into building it
from donated materials and labor.
Now was my chance to prove
the worth of such investments and succor.
The curtain went up.
The audience politely applauded.
Peering through stage lights,
I only see fuzzy shapes in rows knotted.
I play my part
determined to win the crowd.
Giving my all to every scene,
energy and sweat are my crown.
The final scene complete,
I, the play’s player, awaits audience reaction
and am relieved at the eruption
of joyous approval and loud acclamation.
Except for one figure
who sits darkly, quietly in his box seat.
His gaze from dark shadows
suggests not victory but defeat.
Who is this dark figure?
How does he dare to judge and reject?
What part did I play wrong?
I determine to make his approval my object.
Again, I play my play;
pouring my life into my part.
Completed, drained and exhausted,
with final bow, who will approve my art?
All! All but he –
the one who sits as cold stone,
unmoved and critical
wordlessly demeaning my efforts alone.
Disturbed and angry,
I try to move out of stage lights to see
who could be so arrogantly
demanding, rejecting, demeaning, refusing me?
I play the play again
and again until tearfully I have no more.
Disheveled, hoarse and sweat soaked
I weakly take my bow and wait for what’s in store.
By now the crowd’s cheer is dim to me.
Every fiber is given in attention to the shadow;
the demeaning dark silence
of my enemy and critic is the final blow.
I cannot win him.
Strangely, the cheers and applause hardly matters.
Since I play now only to him,
all else seems discordant clatter.
Bravely, I move to stage’s edge
determined to look this foe in the eye.
He slowly rises and moves to light
and how my heart sinks and breaks – for it is I.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
For One Dim Light
shuttered windows
darkened rooms
save one dim light
closed doors
drawn shades
secured in one corner
swollen eyes
deadened spirit
stolid in solitude
clamped mouth
defeated soul
surrounded only
with one’s own arms
streaming tears
drained emotions
shaken with sobs
curled body
damaged heart
seeks one dim light
hope
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
We Are Made
We are made
if not by accident
then by intention.
We are made
if not be the moment
then by aspiration.
We are made
if not by incidents
then by reaction.
We are made
if not by environments
then by inclinations.
We are made
if not by God’s hand
then by our hand
or by fate’s hand
we are made.
We are made
by the potter
by the wheel
by the furnace
or our own zeal.
We are made
then
one day
unmade.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Help Me Define Reality
Every once in a while
someone needs to help me
define reality.
Blinded by urgency
I cannot see outside
my space time.
Figures move too quickly
events come and go swiftly
right by me.
Someone who’s been here
sees from another perspective
my experience.
A view from where they stand
clearly enables me to better
define reality.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2009)
Travel
Some roads we choose
to travel
some roads are chosen
for us.
Some roads like detours
cause us to wander
all roads take us to an end
we choose.
All roads we travel to the end
we have chosen
all roads like roundabouts
offer us to wonder
where we are going
and turn back.
Along every road
there are bitter cries and
sweet rejoicings
along every road
we create travel companions and
log memories.
Along every road
like billboards
we discover opportunities for
occupations and distractions
for our journey.
At life’s final exit
we will want to know
not where have we traveled
but did we travel well?
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2010)
The Measure of Two Lives
How do you measure
two lives entwined?
Like twine twisted,
two lives like strings roped,
do you measure
the beginning
or the end?
How do you weigh
two lives’ treasure?
Like precious pearls,
memories like jewels roped,
Do you weigh
them each
or them all?
With the twine still twisting,
the rope yet unfinished
with the treasure still collecting,
the string of pearls yet incomplete,
I am content to know
that as our years grow
we are still in the middle,
yet to define the end
give perspective to the beginning
and find joy in the
beginning,
middle
and end.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2010)
Dance Lessons
You taught me to dance
perhaps not on purpose
but by chance.
We two lives were bound together
by vows that tether
and blend forever.
The beginning steps we made
halting, faulting, sometimes crazed
creating stops and starts
Our bruised and hurting toes
left our tender egos
cautious about the next steps.
Still we clasped each other
embraced the choice we made
and danced on bravely.
A step forward followed
then a sidestep ensued
with the next step subdued
With joy we whirled
or in frustration twirled
only to each other return.
Now here we with much practice
step and sweep lightly
across life’s great dance floor.
Whether by choice or chance
or some divine providence
it is you who
taught me to dance.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2010)
My Son
My son
the oldest son
is almost done
with growing up.
What’s up
with this guy
growing up
so soon before my eyes?
His eyes
now straight lines
into my eyes –
eyes that once looked up.
Sometimes,
my eyes still
see a boy
in rubber boots with toys.
Sometimes,
my eyes miss
seeing a man
mixed in with other men.
First it’s,
“Hurry up and
grow up!”
to the boy with his toys.
Then it’s
“Hold up!” and
“Wait up!”
from the fan of this young man.
What’s sad
for this dad
wanting bad
not to see before
my eyes
My son
the oldest son
almost done
with growing up.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2010)
Creator’s Way
On labors, one prays, one serves and sacrifices, and one rejoices.
The toiler, sower, waterer, and reaper
all have their seasons.
The work of labor, prayer, serving, sacrificing, and rejoicing
all have their time.
Discerning the seasons
Telling the times
Working with reason
Seeing the signs
Can a toiler water?
Can a sower reap?
Do you want to pull the tares with the wheat?
Each in its season.
Each in its time.
Fulfills its purpose and works in its way as
ordained, destined, and set
according to the Creator’s way.
September Tears
clinging to the remnants
of summer’s warmth
remembering the distant blooms of
spring’s color collage.
September resisted fall’s
persistent march toward winter
a deceiving warm invitation to
a cold death
costumed in ice and snow.
September announced change
to earth’s seasons
its harvest rains preparing life’s fruit
of blood, sweat, and tears for picking.
September called to us
and its night sky planets aligned
the moon rose and moved
east to west
while mars traveled
its easterly course.
September offered up memories
of seasons past and lost
as it rained
surrendered its future
by marking the end
by its rain.
September declared change in
its winds and skies
and it rained
to wash the land
and like tears
cleanse the soul
and like rain
wash away the dust
of a hot, dry season.
September tears rained
upon us as we celebrated
the ripened fruit
of our lives and bodies
and hungrily consumed
the fresh produce
of what we lovingly tendered.
Like harvest rains
mixed with dirt and sweat
September tears came
bitter and salty at first
leaving a thirst for something more
the reward of a good harvest and
a long Indian Summer before
winter’s first chill.
My Heart’s Flow
curious about you
wond’ring about life
and meaning in my strife.
does the crown go
to the strong so
the rest of the best
get left at the crest
or is the way level
for each one’s travel
and the help of heaven
sprinkled like leaven
upon humankind
sighted or blind.
can you reach across
the great divide’s abyss
to touch another’s soul
with what’s beautiful
from out of your heart
the innermost part
of you?
Measure of Me
a human heart aspires to reach
goodness
greatness
and some measure of glory.
Hidden in the heart yearns
a soul that long ago learns
to accept fragility
and some measure of folly.
Deep within and hidden in the soul
a consciousness stirs awake to the cold
realization of insignificance
and some measure of insecurity.
Down in humanity’s empty captivity
a spirit-being belies the vanity
of searching
seeking
for some measure of security
with the longing that
some person
perhaps
please
might remember me.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2010)
Sandy Seashore
washed and rinsed with
waves
Silky silicon folded and laid
molded and shaped with
wind
Soft silt lifted and moved
around and over with
water
Ground granite coarse and rough
worn and divided with
weather
A Parent’s Joy
The parent’s greatest source of joy
may be the laughter of a child.
The giggley coo’s of an infant
learning to play peek-a-boo;
The cackley silliness of a young
child tickled and tossed;
The gurgley guffaws of a young teen
getting and playing jokes;
The open-mouthed joyful smiles of young people
at play with their siblings;
And the parent’s greatest source of joy
may be laughter born from a child.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2010)
Spring
The warmth of sun on ice covered ponds
Calls life to rush and move north
The snow melts away to boggy ground
The ice slips away to fresh rushing waters
And movement awakens under the earth
My limbs warmed and eyes brightened
bring a new spring in my step
Something rises within me and
melts away the dark of winter
Spring flows in my members
giving life and awakening love
Warm Friend
before the warmth of your glow
as you chase away the dark.
Rising mists shrink back down
and return to pond and bog
as you rise.
Damsel fly and dragon fly take wing
to skip along thermal winds
as you lift warming air.
Heat of day brightens the landscape
bending and waving the air
as you bake the earth in your heat.
My arms burn red and my brow spills sweat
as your bright yellow orb begins its descent.
Warm blankets of wind surround and swirl about me
as your globe touches the western horizon.
Evening coolness winds its way
over the darkening landscape
as you descend into darkness
leaving us anxious for your return
in the opposite sky
to begin for us
a new warm day.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2010)
Tired So Tired
This is a long journey
much longer than I planned
it is hard for me
much harder to stand
and continue the trek
to higher peaks
But the trail beckons
and the unknown speaks
let me rest here for a moment
settle me down for a breath
take in refreshment
consult the map in depth
Let me lay back a few minutes
rest my head upon my pack
close my eyes to signs
that there is no way back
Lay me down upon the earth
the place I came from
the final measure of my worth
and domain where I am undone
I am tired so tired
of ascending mountains
with winding paths choired
by saints at matins
But why complain to God?
did he not craft the way?
did he not define the way to trod?
did not our sin bargain for the day?
Arising wearily to my feet
I set my face to what is required
and set out toward what I must meet
up the trail, around the bend, past the next peak
but I am tired so tired
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2010)
California Quail
Protected in coveys during Winter,
the quail in pairs appear
to begin the rites of Spring.
Sounding to each the call,
chi-CAH-go, chi-CAH-go,
they seek shelter and nest.
Low lying brush provides cover
as mates prepare a shallow nest
to begin a new season of raising young.
Eggs laid in pine needles and dried leaves,
turns taken to care for the clutch
in hopes of young to guarantee a future.
Callipepla califonica walks proudly
in front of the young showing the world
a proud brood of offspring for a new year.
Father and mother alternate calls,
chi-CAH-go, chi-CAH-go,
for the chicks to follow.
Papa displays the larger topnotch,
a group of six small feathers arranged proudly,
allowing it to bob as he proudly struts.
Mother, with smaller plume,
antiphonally answers her mate
Chi-CAH-go, chi-CAH-go!
So, Spring has come to the shrub land
as the California quail arrives to
greet us with its rites of Spring.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2010)
The Other Side of Night
Early sets the winter sun
turning out the lights of day and
bringing frosty crisp night skies and
stealing away the last of earth’s warm breath.
Darkness grows ever longer
creating hunger in every creature for
return of tepid sunlight if even for
a few moments eked out mid-day.
Winter’s wanderer finds no solace
following the short-lived sun nor
discerns any path in darkened landscape nor
senses hope on grey morn horizons.
Darkness lengthens to cover day
until its weight tips the earth’s axis with
the battle between light and dark ending with
winter’s solstice declaring light the victor for now.
Tide of darkness ebbs and flows
washing earth and life pathway of
no one overconfidently striding out of
the other side of night.
Hunkered under coverings
made from earth, stone, wood and
wool, cotton, fir, leather and
set next to fire-filled stove
winter’s traveler marks the time
by the lengthening days that
warm tree, bush and ground that
spring to life with thawing sap.
Hope returns as light expands
filling up the hours of each day to
replace cold long nights to
give hope and light for every journey.
Timidly every creature tests marshy ground
each muddy path leading further into
days that longingly look into
the other side of night.
©Weatherstone/Ron Almberg, Jr. (2010)
You need a comment on all this wonderful creative poetry, Ron. You are a deep soul and it is reflected in your writing. I love how your gift reaches out to others and embraces the hurting heart. My favorite is “Road of the Broken” because I can identify with it so much and feel the fragility within the lines of pain and brokenness. The last line is so caring and so healing – in spite of personal pain this is a willingness to reach out – even look for another hurting heart – to help and support. So Powerful. God is greatly using your wisdom and your authenticity to reach out to others. Thanks, Ron.
I am humbled that you like it and find meaning in my poetry. It means a lot. Thanks.