The Green Man
In churches and abbeys and ruins of stone
In carvings and fountains and relics of old
A mysterious figure can sometimes be seen
This mystery man is the man in green
From Western Europe to the very far East
You can find him hiding among the leaves
With his long face covered in branches and vines
And a deep, solemn gaze that can pierce through time
And the strangest thing is that no one knows
What his history is or how far back it goes
No one knows his legend or even his name
He is the Green Man is all they can say
Could it be Robin Hood, or Jack-in-the-Green
The King of May, or the Garland King?
Could it be Dionysus or Cernunnos?
They call him the Green Man for no one knows.
Could it be Osiris or Narcissus?
Silvanus, Tlaloc, or Hyacinthus?
Could it be Humbaba, Enkidu, or Pan?
No one really knows, so they call him the Green Man
So if you ever visit a ruin of stone
A church or an abbey with relics of old
And you a see face among flowers and trees
The Green Man is watching hidden in the leaves
Just As Fine As Frog’s Hair
A long, long time ago, there lived a frog named Harry. Harry was a handsome fellow, with big, yellow-grey eyes; strong and muscular hind legs for hopping; and a tightly curled coat of short, coarse green hair.
Now, it may strike you as odd that Harry was covered with hair, but in those days, all frogs were hairy. Harry was quite proud of his looks in general and his coarse, green hair in particular. He would look at his reflection in the pond and think, "What a fine and handsome fellow I am. Surely, I am the most perfect work of the creator"
One day, as Harry sat admiring and praising himself, an otter swam by. The otter blinked his shiny brown eyes at the frog's self-congratulations. He slid out of sight in an underwater back-flip and surfaced right in the middle of the frog's reflection. "Hey there,
fine fellow," he chirped. "You really are rather attractive, but looks aren't everything, you know."
"Hey, get out of my reflection," Harry croaked, "That won't help you look as handsome as me."
The otter smoothed his sleek, soft fur and rolled in the water. "your hair is fine to look at," the otter said, "but, who wants to be close to such a scratchy, harsh thing? My fur is so soft and fine that everyone who sees me wants to snuggle near." With that, he slipped into the depths and disappeared.
Harry stared into the pond as his reflection cleared. Somehow, it didn't look quite so wonderful as before. The lovely, prickly, green hair was now less than perfect. It should be soft and strokeable and finer than the otter's.
For days, Harry brooded and finally he resolved to take his concerns to the Creator. As he hopped into the Presence, it struck him that this might not have been his best idea, but for such a magnificent fellow, there was no backing down.
"Is there a problem, Harry?" the Voice asked.
Well, Almighty," Harry said, "I've always thought I was your most perfect creation, but, since I spoke to the otter, I see a flaw in the design. I think my hair should have been made softer and finer so all who see me want to snuggle close. Also, I'd like to have hair MUCH finer than that braggart otter."
The Creator was silent for a long moment, then asked, "Are you sure that's really what you want? You know, the otter has fur, not hair and its softness suits the otter's ways."
"Oh, yes, Almighty. Please give me the softest, finest, sleekest hair in all creation. Then I will be truly perfect."
"Very well," said the Creator, "You shall have your wish, but you will be changed forever."
As the sun rose, the next morning, Harry leapt to his favorite rock to gaze at his reflection. Gasping, he jumped back with a startled croak. He didn't recognize the creature who looked back at him! Gone was the curly, bristly green hair and in its place was bumpy, greenish-brown skin. Where was his soft, fine hair???
A passing dragonfly flew in for a closer look. He focused his huge eyes on Harry's skin and, sure enough, under strong magnification, there did prove to be minutely fine hairs on Harry. So fine were those hairs that they lay, softly invisible against his bumpy skin. Harry had gotten his wish, but was he content? Well, I'll leave that to you to guess, but he was changed forever, just as the Creator had promised and his children and grandchildren and all his descendants were changed and today you won't find a frog whose lumpy skin doesn't look bare. It isn't, you know, but you just can't see anything because there is simply nothing finer than frog's hair!
I am a fat frog who sits on a stone
I croak and croak because I´m alone
I sing for a wife
With all my life
Puffing out my gorgeous masculine throat
I even croon a special song that I wrote
"Come hiver sweet ladies"
"Come have my babies"
But just across the way sits a fatter frog than me
He sings way better and is always in key
So maybe this year I will not get my chance
For a little moonlight loving and some funky romance
Talking to Trees
You can talk to the animals,
chat with your plants,
Discuss ecology with a firefly,
or evolution with the ants,
But never had I more trouble, then when I've talked to trees,
It seems that they are as a whole a troubled group,
if you please!
I asked a Maple tree a question once,
about his unusual roots,
But he gave me this sappy smile,
and said something rude about my boots!
Next I approached a stately oak,
these trees are really quite stuffy,
I asked him how his acorns grow,
but he only got angry and huffy!
The next tree I encountered was a kindly white birch tree,
I asked why his bark was peeling,
but he only stared back at me,
I walked some distance through the forest and met an old tree of beech,
I knew that if I asked a poser of a question,
that he had much to teach,
Next I met an old elm tree,
who seemed fidgety and nervous,
I asked him what his phobia was,
as it seemed that was his purpose,
He told me rather nervously, that he might change to a frog,
But his greatest fear was that if he talked too much,
that he might just Dialogue,
I laughed so hard at his sudden pun,
because I never knew a humorous tree,
That made a joke that was half as funny,
as the one that he told me.
So, I asked him if he could make up a few,
to tell perhaps next spring,
He said he would see what he could do,
he knew it was a great thing!
I was quite concerned that the task I posed,
might be too much for a tree,
They are after all not known to be thinkers,
at least as trees might be,
So when I came back the following spring,
after winter’s snow had been dumped,
I found that the question I had posed,
left my friend the tree literally...
A man’s destination
is not his destiny.
– T.S Eliot
Weathering the deep of the night,
a lone warrior rages against the walls
that bar his ever-trod path.
Unseen rise these walls,
akin to those within the warrior’s heart:
Thin as glass, and as mocking in device,
cracking up with derision
as he thrusts his armored fists
again, again, again.
Numb to the agony,
shielded from the wings of Time,
deaf to the screeching foe he faces,
he fights his lost war,
bejeweled like a glowing star
before the tides of deathless darkness.
And as he hovers there,
abandoned in the cold,
the ice grips his heart
and he beholds before him
the one enemy no might will slay.
None shall stand when the demon stings,
they say, and at last
after an eternity of blood
the warrior drops to the ground.
His armor rent, his banners torn,
his razor arms lie broken, worn,
His helm, his famous helm of lore
now crushed to be the stuff of scorn,
No more battles, no brave deeds
shall the hero ever need,
His tale forgotten, legend lost
buried in the growing frost.
The end has come, the sun has set
the warrior has lost his will:
Finally the daylight shines
and I find the wasp on the windowsill.
Life’s gloom obscures the sturdiest foundations
where sunlight scrabbles seeking purchase.
They continue lurking when shaken free from their bonds;
coursing while firmly planted with the world borne on stout shoulders.
Humble soldiers march further into the depths than any other dares,
armed with sharpened spear to discretely pierce the earthen sheath.
They stretch so far to tap into reservoirs hidden from the surface,
mucking out a living behind the curtain where all else met its end.
They gleefully raze the fields of decay
to feed immature beauty firmly clapped in tight bud.
That vibrant colour’s emergence from sullen slumber
bolsters the loyal servant’s timeless endeavor of holding it all together
for an unforgettable display in a foreign kingdom.
A concrete jungle where life blooms.
the blue jay laughs
at his predator behind glass
his caw brings in his dearest friends
woodpecker, sparrow and mockingbird all flitter around the bend
to dance with glee
to their birdy beat
and perform a show
for furry foes
perched on a sill
ever so still
unable to catch
the blue jay that laughs
I sit in wonder of the splendid trees,
I listen to the whispering breeze.
I realize that poetry cannot explain,
The true feelings I have for the soft drizzling rain.
I look through the fog with awe inspired tenderness,
and think of the wonderful, terrible, rareness.
Art can only etch a pale clone,
of the singularly unique world shown.
Our blue marble is a gem to behold,
Our exceptional world is more precious then gold,
It's a world of knowledge; an amazing tome.
I am awed to be able, to call this place home.
Hope stretches her limbs to the sky,
yawning and reaching to elongate her body,
to stretch her joints and muscles,
to awaken her spirit and mind.
Her branches sprouting young leaves,
in the chilly morning new,
breathing the misty air,
carrying her smile to the sun.
As the day warms
she gently sways
with the tree
that encompasses her days.
Time to awaken.
Time to do.
Time to live.
Time to be.
(Image is part of Maxfield Parrish "Ecstasy")