Just when it looks like summer
has settled in to stay,
sunshine follows days of wet
with a teeny bit less heat
during mid-day sun
and some temperature drops
as nighttime turns to dawn.
Cooler temps have been knocking
for a few days now,
patiently awaiting just the right time
to make a grand entrance
and take Mother Nature's bow.
Highs in the seventies
and lows in the sixties--
then suddenly lows drop
into the upper forties.
Knock, Knock, Knock:
Fall pleading to be let in
to meet the schedule
beginning an end to life's cycle
currently at hand
as the never-ending circle
inches forward in the sand.
As time and warmth fall back,
colors explode along scenic drives
to ease the pain when mostly black
with touches of grays, browns,
and splotches of green
from which Mother Nature
slowly awakens the Southern Hemisphere
where leaves and buds begin to appear
in varying shades of yellow green
and the most beautiful flowers
a body has seen
poke their heads out to welcome the sun
as we flip earth's annual cycle
of fertility and recline.
The fall equinox
with it's Harvest Moon
is knocking quite loudly
on summer's tune
as Mother Nature's produce
is reaped and stored while Earth's
lower half is tilling and sowing
for the abundance provided
by summer's noon.
With a knock, knock, knock,
cooler temperatures arrived--
just a wee bit cooler,
from those storm clouds derived.
When the sunshine returns
with an inviting hue,
heads swivel about to view
the blinding sheen.
Then suddenly, a warning
of a cold night to be--
during Harvest's Jubilee.
As it slowly returns to normal
over nightfall--two or three--
we will see the colors blossom--
yellow, orange, sienna, and red
will be ushered in for free.
God will be busy painting hillsides
as He beckons days of gold
followed by the nighttime
filled with shivers from the cold.
It is time to pick the pumpkins,
acorn squash, and butternut--
put them in the freezer
for the goodness they impart.
Apples, pears, and walnuts
are being harvested as well
to create delicious treasures
for a healthy winter shell.
Cooler days just seem to call
for something cooking on the stove:
time for Shrimp and Pumpkin Curry,
a pot of aromatic Red Beans,
Sage and Walnut Pumpkin Butter
spread upon a wholegrain bread
or saucing tortellini
for a filling winter spread.
It's time to create
a healthy formula
where spices explicate the flavor--
taking sugar down to size--
in recipes far better
for the heart, and health, and eyes.
These pursuits decrease the half-life
of the wither doldrums when
idleness is created
by the binds of winter strife.
The harvest--then in storage--
promotes artistic flair
just to see the results,
small the aromatic air,
and exhilarate the taste buds
from the harvest reaped in fall.
I was born to be wild . . .
not penned up in a zoo,
not meant to be cooped up
to fuel the pleasure of you.
I was born to roam free
with my babes and friends,
exploring the world
until my life bends or ends.
I was born to attack
when the need doth arise--
protecting my own
under wide open skies.
My name is Zambia,
I was meant to be free--
not in a concrete jungle
for your sickening glee.
I am the "King" of my kind
with the need to stalk prey,
need to challenge the mind--
teach the Pride to sashay.
I protect the Pride's young,
sacrifice self when I must,
overlooking our freedom
midst the just and the unjust.
We need plenty of cover
and much space for the chase;
keeping preying skills shining
helps the "King" to save face.
We need dedicated parkland
away from people and towns
to preserve our heritage
and prevent dying down.
People are impeding
all the places we have lived,
making them uninhabitable--
many Prides are deprived.
Our prey must be large
and live where we live,
so hunting skills can excel
as our cubs learn and thrive.
Preservation is the need,
hunting is the skill,
teaching craft to our cubs
is our protection still.
When humans move in,
settling within our homeland,
they take away our freedom--
bidding extinction take its stand.
I cannot be a "King"
midst my homeland and Pride
if we are dying out
'cause there is no place to hide.
There is very little thought
given to our lifestyle
and what it takes to survive
for e'en a little while.
When we have no place to go
to live the life we must,
the old life we must retain--
or we will all return to dust.
This is my heartfelt plea
to all of you who care,
"Please return our homeland
undisturbed by human fare!"
It looks like a big sandcastle party
to which everyone in town came to play.
All the best artisans wielding form free,
producing masterpieces at the bay.
Come one, come all--bid for your selection--
but leave in place so everyone might see
Sandcastles preserved--a great collection--
made to please our Creator, displayed free.
No earthly artisan has created
such beauty--eloquence--to e're compare
alongside wind-blown displays He vetted
in the blink of an eye and time to spare.
I am ever amazed at the beauty God created when He formed this earth and our universe. The love with which He has touched so many places has lent itself to the greatest artwork ever molded from a piece of clay, thought into being at the stroke of a pen, or wielded with such perfect hue from the paint upon His fingers.
Then He gifted it to me and to you. Some of us marvel in reverent awe as others take for granted each day and all the beauty it entails. How can anyone view formations like those pictured above and dispute the hand of God?
I am ever blessed to be able to view locations around the world on my computer, and the awe I hold for each could only be increased by being there in person. What a gift God has granted to man whom He created in His own image. Just as He is a Spirit being, so are we–Spirit beings–in His image. From the moment of conception, our bodies churn out cells to fill specific rolls. We do not have to manage or manipulate this process in any way other than to care for it as we would His temple–the most Holy of Holies.
When I first saw the picture of this rock formation–Bisti/De-Na-Zin Wilderness in New Mexico, United States of America–my thoughts drew a scene where families created sandcastles at the beach, then solidified their form for wind and sand to smooth out the rough edges. What a beautiful vision to behold!
The world slowly opens its eyes,
sleep lazily drifting away--
from a year of treatment trial
to real-life--so far from benign.
Changes await--careless and wise;
whate'er we do, whate'er we say,
the virus spreads 'mongst us still,
and more choose to brave the vaccine.
Beleaguered businesses devise
plans to re-open 'midst the fray;
some return with variant viral
increase showing no let-up sign.
What was is done, ne'er will it be
relived. The things--this day--we see
matter, e'en when we disagree.
Winds of Spring challenge Winter's droll
as temperatures rise and fall.
The "Lion," chased by frolicking "Lamb,"
skitters into the waking woods,
then returns with his empty bowl--
whistling sweetly, utters a call
to Springtime warmth, mimicking clam--
then lowers it to scoop his "goods."
Remnant sweetness drifts to the shoal,
settles against debris strewn wall--
although it did spare Birmingham--
while moving on to other 'hoods.
Awakening is bittersweet
as the month pulses to its feet
when Winter's cold and warmth do meet.
As Winter draws to a close and Springtime opens her eyes, we all await warmer days with antsy anticipation. A combination of factors makes this "looking forward" even edgier this year: the Covid-19 pandemic, the social distancing and disinfecting protocols to protect self and others, the record-breaking snowfall and temperatures, the toll taken by both the pandemic and the weather. Even as we are hopeful for a year of recovery, health, happiness, and prosperity, we face new challenges in various forms. Look ahead with assurance of the fact: "This too shall pass," (Anonymous).
With home in the Arctic Tundra
and rarely seen in Central Park,
midst the Polar Vortex split 'assundra
she traveled in its wild winter spark.
Paying a visit to New York City,
a crowd gathered -- birdwatchers galore
trekked the paths -- hoping for a "look-see,"
a prized view on the Atmospheric River.
Several feet of snow beneath its flow
leaving the normal arctic path begging
as the snowy owl steals the show
with the "Arctic River" now sunning
south of the tundra and the North Pole--
'twixt the Polar Vortex, no longer whole,
with wild winter patterns on the southern shoal.
According to Paul Sweet, an ornithologist at the American Museum of Natural History, the most recent record of a Snowy Owl seen in Central Park was December 1890. To find out more, follow him @pablo_dulce on twitter.