Here I sit, fueled by non-winning coffee and birthday cake; as the clock passes the witching hour, and the house remains dark and still.

Sound idyllic?

All that's missing are the lush surroundings, singing birds, and perhaps a love-lorn shepherd or two.

Poetry Workshop

As per me muse:

"a pastoral poem is an idealistic verse about shepherds, nature, or country living.  It takes you to a faraway world where everything’s perfect and troubles don’t exist!  It paints a pretty picture of the simple life."

Janice challenges us to show our perfect place.   Mine is without a doubt in Nature.  And it occurred to me, as I recalled all the natural wanderings that have restored my soul:   it often begins with a path.   Despite my abiding affinity for  The Road Less Travelled, I find instead:   it's a path more often well worn.

The Path

there is a path
beaten down and bare
of any green blade or
sun seeking bloom;
where many feet
have raised the dust
and stretched the miles
towards some sweet pasture haven.

this path leads not
to darkened hallows
or frozen ground
nor woods of deep discontent
it passes by
all that's dimly foul
harsh winds bending the soul
and leaves falling silent to ground.

'tis a path that wanders
like some lost soul
who once thirsty and dry
can only rest where
cool fountains are found
an oasis longing to hold
the worn and weary
within it's living spring.

along this path
are fields of hay
where wild ponies
race the wind
and cliffs that soar
while wild birds dive
to touch the frothy foam
where time and tide forever run.   (1)

what ancient treks
what witness has bore
of Shepherds' singing tales
and gypsy caravans
whose secrets now lay
beneath the trampled soil
discarded in the overgrowth
so all history and Nature lay mute.

no dewdrops hang
the leaves with tears
though all the world
may hang in shrouds
still, I seek that path
and set my soul free
to wander at will
till sundown pales the sky.

on this path,
I'll hide awhile
till memory builds a lane
both pain and fear, far-flown
like the morning dove
which sings the morn come
and Eden rises from her grief
full of Golden promise which remains.   (2)

(1) Song Of Nature, Emerson
(2) Nothing Gold Can Stay, Frost

warm wishes sign