This is the bear cub that inspired the poem "Lil' Bear Cub," below.
Spiritual Path
"Welcome back!" sing the birds above.
Listen! Long lost friend - they send Nature’s love.
Mystery lurks around each corner - litter the trail with your cares.
Whatever you expect, it’s not there.
Footfalls softly, gently, on a springy, pine needle carpet.
Go neither here nor from where you came,
each moment nevermore, never the same.
The sun’s warmth energizes - nudges you forward,
"press on!" says a poof of warm air.
Wafts the pine’s fragrance through your hair.
A sober, stoic, gray boulder - bigger than a bus,
stretches for the heavens.
Aglow, a furnace churns far, far away.
Tick-tock raps the conductor’s baton, to the trail’s sway.
All eyes on center stage,
greet the world anew.
From Whom one answers - the scene is set for you.
Your past, present and future rearranging,
like magic, the show's great! - always changing.
words and image by: Bruce Andrew Peters
Meeting with Mother Nature
Mother Nature, my muse.
She summons: “Tread a trail – capture a whole new view!”
Golden, warm sunbeams blanket forest’s shades of green.
Mountains meander, roller coaster to eternity.
Such a pleasant sight, pray the blind can see, your soul is washed with tranquility.
Stock market crash, low on cash, such a dismal day. Nothing matters amidst her warm embrace, you’ve found your way.
Countless views from your pew, none the same. Change the weather, light or people, the scene’s set again.
Her palate paints infinite colors. Draw in as much as you like, her masterpiece can’t be priced.
A symphony of boisterous bird song bursts through the trees. Each plays its part perfectly – musical mastery’s not limited to humanity.
Closer to Heaven
Hike along mountaintops
Dance over fallen logs, across creeks you’ll hopscotch
Closer to God, await a heavenly nod.
Release life’s woes to the Almighty.
Worn out soles becomes cleansed souls, alrighty.
Arm Chair Hiker
Never needed hiking,
my life’s quiet complete.
No gearing up or down grade,
that ails my aching feet.
I’ll take a snake or bug bite,
as long as our hike’s in a car, I might.
Ticks, fleas, incurable disease.
Not another mile, please!
Only .00167 miles to go, seems like forever, going so slow!
Athlete’s foot, bunions and a blister.
Point us home,
or forget you and me,
we’ll be history.
Room service, AC, TV,
a nap half past three,
That’s what taking a hike means to me!
On the AT Bruce Andrew Peters
My heart sings a happy song,
Like ocean waves, rolling Virginia hills push us along.
There’s a Howard Johnson’s right on the AT.
The only problem…. It’s up in Schenectady.
My Pomeranian sniffs flowers as fragrant as the finest perfume,
our floral path seduces us, like a beautiful woman waiting to bloom.
At home the dog attracts chicks, on the trial he attracts ticks.
A snake savors the warmth of a rock, a smiling sun works around the clock.
Big flies, baby flies.
Big bears, knee highs.
The rail wails, pierces the night sky,
in the valley below.
What she’s seen, nobody knows.
Onward we go!
In the Woods
Warm wind caresses trees
Flowers beacon buzzing bees
Butterflies dancing, everlasting
Soft sun summons “stay awhile”
Gurgles a brook, gently over a rock pile
This tired old trail, weary as she be,
at the end of the day, she’ll outlast me.
Change of Seasons
Blood red leafs cry their passing,
brilliance but a flicker, awe-inspiring, we wish it everlasting.
Cold, grey branches deke a breath from the north, shudder a swishing song. Warmth of the sun, birds' singing, a bear's babe born, once forevermore, now hopelessly long-gone.
Gin clear icy air radiate the season's campfires on the late westward sky. Worshipping masses, camera in hand, heavenward we compose, through blaze orange glasses.
All's not lost amidst the brrr of a blanket of cold. Buried in snow and slush and shivers and mummified layers are hearts growing fonder, savoring Spring's warmth and newness even longer.
Summer’s sweat boils hotter that Hades.
Fall's crisp climate, like that of a department store environment. Round we go!
Mourn the loss of dear friends:
Spring which brings us birth, upon year's end.
Summer's endless days of infinite dreams.
Fall's a time of reflection: are we within our means? What are our means? Do we know what we mean?
Winter's affirmation of our true being: shedding cabin fever, one step closer to our innermost feeling.
Like a demoralized, downtrodden, broken caged animal who now tastes freedom, his heart sings a hopeful song. Alas! A new beginning!
Bruce Andrrew Peters
Dog Daze
Back in the day,
It was "run with the pack,"
no sense to stray nor run away.
But who’d like:
To be forgotten, just because master’s leaving?
That a newborn child in the family would mean -
we’ll stop your breathing?
Or the landlord who says: "No more shelter you’ll be receiving!"
Dump four-legged faithful on such a whim,
yet they love us to the very end,
even when the margins are so ever slim.
Speaking at the animal shelter, is Labrador Jim:
"I’m not sure how, but I ended up here.
There’s sixty thousand like me every day,
That’s over twenty one million each year.
It’s a reprieve from neglect and yelling and a bruising beating,
or a blood-splattered dog fight - gnashing, tissue-tearing teeth, at a clandestine meeting.
Oh! My heart wails!
Sullen as the stench, choking the air.
The injustice of it all, and nobody cares.
Cold, lifeless steel bars,
somber’s the word in this jail.
Yelp for help! Grim Reaper’s driving coffin nails.
Saviors rarely post bail.
Against all odds,
hope’s all we have,
at the end of the road.
No trip’s worse,
than a final ride
in the back of a hearse."
Amidst soccer practice, evening news and dinner for two:
prayer’s answers are found in you.
God and goodness we say on Sunday,
Did we forget our furry friend’s fiasco?
It’s 24/7 - that’s every day.
poem and photograph: Bruce Andrew Peters
Riding the Rails
Clickity clack sings the railroad track.
Her pulse brings the country together.
A lone dove escorts us.
She'll fly back,
to await yet another.
Cows surf hills that rise up,
then meander.
Energetic, electric green,
evergreen mountains pulsate like neon:
"give us a gander!"
We pass old Staunton town,
home of the Statler Brothers and President Wilson,
elected in 1913.
Piercing cottony clouds,
mountains hug us from the rest of the world -
like the Swiss and their Alps -
we're comfortably in between.
Soft pine needles - easy on the eye.
Trees push upward,
blossom like fireworks on the fourth of July.
Visit neatly manicured farms.
An exuberant, young calf - overjoyed with life - runs for fun.
Resigned to duty, her mom fattens up, but shows no alarm.
For the poor and downtrodden, there's a beat up old trailer,
and hope for the future in their vegetable garden.
Our thundering locomotive rocks us down the rails.
To blaring horns, the carpenter man pounds his nails.
Small children in the creek below,
greet us with wild waves, then beaming smiles.
Our future - and all it holds - now theirs for many miles.
They captured a ride along the tracks.
I waved: "Nice to meet you, we'll be back!"
words and photos: Bruce Andrew Peters
Eighteen Wheels Roll
The chariot's teamster has the road by the reins,
or is he reigned in by the road?
Six hundred horses in his hands, bad coffee, rest stop one night stands,
life on the citizen's band.
No telling what's down the road:
a truck stop cutie with a wink to-go,
smoking your clutch, grinding gears,
pullin' a heavy load.
Crawls a carload of kids,
"toot the trumpet" they gesture,
with a pull of a cord.
Roars the turbo, no time to get bored.
Jolts a smile, like the bump in the road.
Beaming faces say you're King,
like the radio's tale of "Convoy," so often told.
Psssh! Hisses hoses,
like a serpent who's breathing in the brakes,
flaring nostrils in their noses.
Freedom of the Open Road,
bright sun warms the cab.
Your only care: how far can I go,
where's good eats,
a cuppa joe?
Hypnotized thirteen hours a day,
space between the ears whiles the miles away.
Bruce Andrew Peters
www.GreatWriteUp.com
A Hidden World
Crunch, crunch grinds rock under boot,
afoot we motor.
"Glimpse a secret world!" hawks the park’s promoter.
Rabbits to raccoons, big black bear, buzzards surf the air.
Deer munch green grass to entertain, that’s their care.
Cloaks a dark veil, the trees everywhere.
Dancing bears’ shadows lurk here, then there.
Their world disrupted, we most assuredly know not.
"Au contraire!" cries the cub, hiding treetop.
Freedom’s not free, that’s the rub, a bad spot.
Stones and logs neatly manicure the trail,
stray too far - your vision fails.
Stealth, sight and smarts mark the master,
he hears better, moves much faster.
A glimpse you got.
Trek the trail home, the woods not.
Words and image by: Bruce Andrew Peters
Deserted Desert
Dry frail trees -
baked too long.
Battering big horn ballet their hop, skip and jump.
Big bold boulders beam in the sun.
Howl! Cries the coyote’s lonesome, sad country song.
Crackle’s crackle comfort and assure,
you’ve a friend in the strangest of places.
You’re not the only one.
Scorched earth seared, singed by the sun.
Toil, sweat and boil.
Locals hide beneath the soil.
Those in the know awaken to the flicker of midnight oil.
Despite front page features about teeth and venom,
reclusive rattlesnakes rests quietly underground.
Humans are hunters - with teeth and arms and armed to the teeth.
It’s best to lay low when these guys are around.
Rabbits race a hectic rush,
thankfully safe beneath a bush.
After a full day in the sun, you’ve hike your hike,
had your fun.
A little wiser, the world’s bigger now,
there’s more than one!
Bruce Andrew Peters
Words from the Woods
Heave heavy, bulky bags by the door.
Back to basics, life's less of a chore.
Good-bye to the boss and business and billions keeping score.
You're Nature's pupil,
just listen, breathe it in, nothing more.
Quiet your opinions
on the world according to me.
Truth's amidst the trees,
more honest than the Almighty TV!
Listen, listen 'til it hurts.
Listen! Now's the time to be alert.
Wind whistles, bowing branches "creak" and "swish."
"Crunch, crackle" leafs, a lone bear to-wit.
Go with the flow; hug him all with all your heart, then some.
He might stay for a bit.
Kind and gentle are the woods,
easy on the ear.
"Babble" gurgles the brook -
"Whoosh!" flushes a pheasant,
from behind a bush.
No salesman’s sleight of hand,
from your purse money took.
Woods' rhythm sets a tone for her students,
so says the Book:
Humility amidst Nature,
a lesson St. Francis spoke.
Nature knows an open heart, compassion, kindness
- can spot it in a thicket.
Embrace Her, love all within it.
Roam the woods like a Roman in Rome.
Like the guest you'd graciously invite,
back to your home.
Bruce Andrew Peters
Lil’ Bear Cub
Lil’ bear cub,
munches with ease.
Green apples all day,
in the trees.
Oh, we admire,
he’s a climber who’ll never tire.
That cute fuzzy boy,
what a joy!
Neither he - nor we - could ever see.
A pack of snarlin’ dogs -
says the master: "Chase him up the tree!"
Scampers our lil’ bear,
so scared he pees.
Not the mean, bad predator
some make ‘em out to be.
Blast! Bellows the gun, a hole torn in his trunk,
our sweet cub’s tortured.
If we could think, we woulda thunk:
No more happy days,
munching juicy apples in the sun.
No more grunting, rooting around the evergreen bunting.
No more children’s cheers, to pet his soft, warm ears.
"I trusted those humans, friendship they were a fronting."
Claws that held like a steel jaw, melt like butter,
Whack! Goes one branch against the back,
then another.
An aching, sore, gasping heap,
this isn’t a happy ending.
"That guy with the gun, he's a real creep!"
Everybody sees it this way.
Being on the wrong side of a gun,
that’s no way to end the day!
A sniper’s sniping,
creates a lot of griping!
Now the sniper’s a "sportsman,"
licensed to kill,
just call it "hunting,"
that’ll fit the bill!
Bruce Andrew Peters
Breakin' Out
I've a computer draggin' round my foot.
Chain gang boss says:
"keeps productivity and profits well-put!"
Got a glare worth a stare,
hypno-crazed, please don't look.
There! Did ya see 'em?
Bunnies bounding, all a-rounding,
bouncin’ by a babbling brook.
Split the big house, it's not too late,
a route to please a crook!
Ride a sunbeam out the window straight to a blue, blue sky,
the journey Daedalus took.
Trees, their cloaks green, piercing so very high.
Rolling, relaxing pastures - I've been there all along -
my spirit you can't electro-fry.
Clouds of Nature's so soft puffy cotton,
cushion your weary head.
My little dear, the little deer,
they know,
ALL Nature knows, the dreary, dreadful dread.
Big gears turn, stamp out a plate, another motorist free.
