Sitting Under Bridges

I've decided that I rather enjoy
Sitting under bridges...
To feel the afternoon rush of cars
And trucks pound the pavement overhead

(I can feel them, hear them, invisibly there)

I like the implicit removal
In the act of sitting under bridges...

I sit by the dock watching the men
Load the boat and the birds
On the tide, both floating
Towards home, all done fishing for the day...


Poem: "Sitting under Bridges" by Patrick Lynch 
Photo: "Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone" by Thomas Moran 

Grandpa's Workshop or Time Travel, Carrots

suddenly,
it is no longer six-fifteen in the morning,

and i am no longer watching the peels curl

down the length of the carrot before flipping

to the floor

i have been transported back to

nineteen eighty seven, or thereabouts,

and the peels of the present settle 

upon the piles of sawdust that cover

the floor of grandpas workshop.

my hands are no longer my hands,

the peeler is no longer peeling carrots.

my hands have become grandpa's

and the peeler a plane, my hands

are smoothly peeling the surface

of some walnut or cherry,

the small curls flipping down 

to the floor

i watch our hands, marveling

at how the strokes reveal the marbled

beauty of the grain lying below the surface,

and my tears missing grandpa mingle 

with the onions, and suddenly

it is six-twenty-five in the morning

Poem: "Grandpa's Workshop or Time Travel, Carrots" Patrick Lynch 

Photo: Unknown

That's Where

Zen up and over, zen around, zen traversing deer trails through forgotten forests. Deluge at hand but it worries me not. Circumnavigating large bodies of water that spread out like tail feathers. Lightning flashing and thunder clapping. Wild dog in his element. Rain coat and sandals, a middle way 'cause the heavy drops encourage your feet to keep on going to that's where. Sky above the storm too bright, too intense for these eyes. Deliberate ignorance to such heavens is best for the hiker who wants nothing more. Motives nil, keep the mind focused on the next step to that's where. Pebbles between feet and soul tell me I'm on the right path, following on the heels of forever, but only feeling the dirt and the water and the electrically charged air.

Poem: James Gagnon
Painting: "Plastic Beach Nudes 14," by Vangobot

God has cared for these trees, saved them from drought, disease, avalanches, and a thousand tempests and floods. But he cannot save them from fools. 

Quote: John Muir

"I am, as I am; whether hideous, or handsome, depends upon who is made judge."


-Herman Melville