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