Kicking and Crunching in Autumn

Fall colors the neighborhood everywhere I go these days and my walks inspired the following poem.


Kicking and Crunching
By Judy Beaston

Leaves litter my path
wake memories
of walks with you,
those canvas sneakers
kicking and crunching,

I smile as I recall
another scene,
me on the sidelines
as you create
color storms
around the wheels
of your tricycle.

Autumn follows autumn,
time marches on,
finds me here today,
my feet alone
on these paths of fall,
remembering

when you were young
and our lives
held all the colors
of laughter

your canvas sneakers
kicking and crunching
fall’s clutter of leaves.

-->

Musing on a Tale

In a small town tucked away in the hills near a lake, secrets weave a backdrop to an otherwise quiet community. 

Are the adventures we experience everyday the weavings of reality or are they seeds for something deeper?

When will these tales surface for you, my readers? Stay tuned...

An August Moon

.

I missed this year’s August moon. Cloud cover stole the show, left me dependent on science websites for images of the Mercury/Moon pairing. I look forward to full moon days, generally find the light of night more peaceful than what fills every crevice during sunlit hours. Waking during the night, I’m drawn to the window, sometimes leave the house to be bathed in the energy reaching me when I stand on my deck or in my backyard. This year, my views were delayed until the moon’s edges withdrew, replaced by black shadows and leading me to the following poem.

Did You Wake Me?

Ragged moon still holds power

over night’s clear skies,

draws me to the large back window

when I wake after midnight.

Did you wake me, friend moon?

by judy beaston

August 30, 2018

Summer Sizzle

 *

Long days riding above Northwest Oregon's average temperatures have given me reason to label this summer as sizzling. Oddly, though, my body isn't rebelling. Where I once fretted at any temperature above 80, with general preference for 70-75 (still my preference, truth be told), I now effectively shrug my shoulders at 90-95. I won't claim to relish the hotter days, but I function comfortably enough.

Probably a good thing. This may become our new normal. And the fires. Once again the western half of the United States rises in flames -- while the eastern half drowns. Smoke tints sunrise and sunset in burnt orange while masking any hopes of mountain views.

Such was my experience during a recent visit to central Oregon where those mountains were merely vague, ghostly images on the horizon - if that. The stars still stunned and delighted me at night, out there away from the far too many lights of suburban Portland. I'd almost forgotten the power of such a view -- only wishing I could have slept beneath the stars as I'd once done when younger, watching for those star-streakers, this being the time of Perseid Meteor Shower.

My days spent biking, hanging out with family by the cabin, by lakes, exploring lava caves. Here's a poem that came to me as I sat on the deck one afternoon, listening to my surroundings.

Music of the Wind

Begins as a distant low rumble

this song of the wind

traveling through the trees,

each needle played for its special

sound, the music blending, growing,

harmonics picked up along the way

until its very present crescendo,

full bore sound and whipped up air

wraps around the cabin, 

makes nearby trees sway, and sends

waves of wild air across my body

where I sit, reading, in the shade.

by judy beaston

August 2, 2018

In Search of Truth

💭💭💭💭💭

-->

Is There a Future For Truth?

Another day dances around me

skirt swirls but reveals little,

a tango with trouble

while hip-hop artists

settle on the side

composing countermeasures

in rap words insufficient

to conjure change

rescind dangerous elements;

always the way—the bards sing

truth but the world hears dissonance,

misses the message

shrugs off harmonious resolve

blinded instead by glam & glitter

of ominous forces

whose words rasp toxic

like a cheese grater on the brain

dismantling too many

of their final connections

to empathy, compassion, respect

tone-deaf now to truth

they hear lies as reality

a song without chords, a drone

from the dark side of everything

including this day

now dancing into the shadows

bereft of confidence, no guarantees

her dance numbers allowed

more rounds in sunlight.

by judy Beaston

November 18, 2016

Autumn Splendor

October Gift

A full day of sunshine

on a Saturday

with near peak fall colors

around every bend in the road

and I

breathe deeply,

immerse body, mind soul

in the fragrance of Autumn.

by judy Beaston

October 22, 2016

My Revision Process

Thoughts on Revision:

Keep the buttons, save

strong stitches,

remove the lint

caught

between phrases

where story importance resides;

catch darlings,

those phrases, sentences,

lines loved "too much"

considered clever,

special and likely not

an enhancement;

weave through, locate

'ing' words, weak cheaters

they steal emotion's thunder,

deny readers access to subtext

or intricate details present

for close inspection like lace on a bodice;

ignore not those adverbs sprinkled

like fancy seasonings, a few perhaps nice

while abundance hides true flavor;

now review this "new" story, perhaps

recognize with delight the light

wakened from below the surface.

The story is ready for final edits.

by judy Beaston

March 6, 2016