Awake In The Wild

A selection of Mark’s poems will be periodically added on this page so please check back

Aspen

The dense forest of aspen
Crowd up to the front door
Of my forest cabin
An army of silver white
Trunks pock marked
Every year by passing elk
Nature graffiti
Written with antler quills
Rubbing off soft fur while
Blackening tree skin

Every year
Trees creep further
Into the meadow
Sending shoots of hope
From near frozen ground
Until they become a wave
Rolling down the hillside
Waiting to bear shocking
Spring leaves
So bright and light
Into this harsh world

Every day it seems
They have a message
And I become quiet
Simply to listen
To tidings they bring
To see what I can learn
From this windswept
Solitary place
From the trees
That never forgot
How to live
In simplicity

Morning

It begins with a single finch
Followed by the sound of starlings
Chickadees and blackbirds
Then comes the hammering
Of the woodpecker
Bearing down into heartwood
And boisterous geese
Descending like planes
Into cold ponds
Until a unison of song
Heralds the new day
I want everyday to be like this
Where I feel dawn
Rise up in my body
And sunrise in my heart
Warming fingertips
And crisp frosted leaves
Where early rays
Turn still aspen trees
Into pillars of light
So luminous
They transcend
Their rootedness
While the silent stars
Make way for this day
Teeming with possibility
Reminding me
I too can paint the canvas
Of this life
With confident strokes
And usher in
Some new song of delight

Spring

This year noble Spring
Has decided to arrive triumphantly
Like Napoleon through the Arc de Triomphe
Timely as a Swiss train coming into station
Bold as a general sending troops into battle
And like Monet in love with color
Splashing paint across the open fields

Like you I too missed Spring’s official entry
That click at 2am when the hour hand
Officially but suddenly advances one hour
As the Sunday paper’s confidently tells us
Yet I also awoke that first day
Feeling deprived of that precious hour
Cheated of the leisure of morning

But that quickly ceased to matter
As the season of joy was firmly here
Wearing her most colorful hats
Like maidens attending a wedding
And the blossoms sweet perfume began to seep
Into every corner of the dusty house
While bees flitted gleefully over cups of nectar

Of course the birds knew this secret all along
They had been busily preparing their nests
And singing their hopeful songs
While the cherry blossom and the iris
Had been trying to tell me all this time
That Spring in her wonderful gowns was here

Hibiscus

The bold red
Hibiscus flowers
Have unspiralled
From their cloisters
Uncorking in a flagrant
Display of beauty
Anthers protruding
Their sex to the sky
Petals like fine silks
Fan out to catch
The attention of the sun
And passing bees.

What if we too
Would bear our
Unadulterated beauty
With such abandon
To not cower from
The shackles of the past
That tell us
To hide our light
To conceal our wonders
To be seen but not heard
Which is to be invisible
And allow a quiet death.
I can’t think of anything
In this feathered, furry,
Leafy, winged world
That doesn’t take pride
In its own quiet magnificence
That doesn’t display
Its gifts to the heavens
And so I ask of you
What light have you kept
For too long a night
Under some dark bushel
That in its hiding
Makes this world
And your precious self
A poorer place.

Openness

We are like sand
Waiting for the next imprint
Always impressionable
Touched by every encounter.
We feel the silence
Of the bare aspen tree
We taste the sunlight
Rippling on the pond
We sense the yielding earth
Under every footstep

So why is it then we close
And harden into numbness
When to be like a sponge
Or an empty canvas
Or the nameless surface
Of the still water
Is to be open to grace
To be touched
And lifted from this moment
Into a world like no other

I suppose it means
We also bear our hearts
To the bruises and scars
We all carry within us
To feel the untold grief
Of so many, and open ourselves
To the inevitable losses
Feeling exposed and vulnerable

But if I had a choice
Which I always do
I’d rather be open, even
If it means being a pin cushion
Exposed to the piercing of life
For numbness is a quiet death
Where nothing touches us -
Locked inside our own prison
Not knowing we hold the keys.

Touched

But what of our lives
What sparks that touch
Which opens the veil
For a pure brief window.
The scattered coins of rocks
Lining the stream bed
The sorrow of the lone goose
And the particular angle
Of the Ponderosa pine
Bent over the years
By the unrelenting wind
If I hope for anything
It is to be an open canvas
Waiting for the touch
Of the soft brush
Or the fine cello strings
Longing for the kiss of the bow
For it is in these moments
The heart comes alive
Our mind sparks open
And for that brief time
It all begins to make sense
And perhaps at least for a moment
Be worthwhile………………

Freesia Blessings

In the quiet of morning
Sunlight streams in
The unwashed window
And has ignited
The yellow freesias
Atop the wooden table
Into fiery golden light
Like the Madonna
Blazing in splendor

We may never ask
For gifts or signs
Still they rain down
Catching us off-guard
Blessing our days
Lifting our spirits
Like the angelic wings
Of buttery flower petals
That simple, that sweet

Winter Longing

Today, even the young copper beech
Shivers in the cold northerly breeze
Its washed out crunchy leaves
Chattering like teeth
While dreaming of spring
And warm sun filled days.

But for now
Roots grip into the frozen ground
And all the while she waits
Patiently, like mothers with missing children
Sitting on empty porches
Peering into the distance
Longing for their return.

As you look to the landscape
Laid barren and dormant
By winter’s icy breath
Or from some tragedy
Concealed deep within your heart
What is it you long for
For what warm spread of sunshine
For what tender touch
Do you keep holding on.

Not Running From Here

Your only duty

Is to not run from here

Even if the hole

Of loss burns deep

In your belly

And on waking

You feel the dread

Of walking into the day

Stripped bare

Feeling the wind

pierce those

Empty places within

You can always pretend

Try putting on a face

Other than your own

But that’s a game

That’s never worked

And only burns

A deeper hole inside

The pocket of longing

And makes the shell

You’ve chosen to live in

Even more hollow

But when you touch

The emptiness inside

You’ve spent a lifetime

Running from

With delicate hands of love

The way the evening fog

Envelopes the solitary tree

Without flinching

Pressing into and

Loving every gnarled crevice

Every twisted branch

Even the forgotten needles

Fallen to the ground

This is the first step

That begins the slow

Journey of completeness

Keeps inviting you deeper

Into the roots of yourself

Claiming your place

That has always been

Waiting right here