Nature   Under The Poem Tree With Ron Purtlebaugh     GOD BLESS AMERICA  ST.AUGUSTINE  LOVE & BEAUTY  MEANDERINGS MEANDERINGS TOO POEM TREE LEAVES NONSENSE & HUMORWANDERINGS WORDS BRANCHES AND TWIGSCOMMENTS & LINKS    INDEXTABLE OF CONTENTS       "i am become as one with wind, a river stream is in my veins and with the storm my thoughts i send, in love and sex, with earth i've lain, so making love with perfect bliss, in smoky mist a child is formed, upon the earth i lay a kiss, as i feel now to be reborn"                                                                                Ron Purtlebaugh            BROKEN GLASS        CRACKLE, SNAP, LIKE BROKEN GLASS,    THE NOISY FROZEN LEAVES THAT BREAK INTO A THOUSAND PIECES THEN THEY'RE GONE, AS IF THEY WEREN'T NOR EVER WERE BEFORE.  SILENCE BREAKS TO NOISES REIGN, THE WHOLE DOMAIN, ALONG THE PATH THAT TRAVELS FOR A DISTANCE IN THE BOTTOM OF THE DARKENED FOREST FLOOR.      THE SOUNDS EXPLODE AND SHATTER AS THEY SPLATTER  'GAINST THE TREES AND OUTCROP ROCKS THAT LIE ALL JAGGED, SHOOTING UP THAT MOLDS THE  PATH THAT I TRAVERSE, THOUGH NOT THE FIRST, AS WITNESS I, BETWEEN THE LEAVES, SMALL CUTTING STACKS AND ICE FILLED TRACKS THAT DOT THE SHADED FOREST FLOOR.     THE CRISPY AIR NEAR SPARKLES AS IT'S SPLINTERED BY THE SOUNDS, IT PIERCES THROUGH THE DARKNESS LIKE A SHOT, SO LOUDLY RINGS. IT RIPS THE HEART OF QUIET NOW THE FRAGILE SILENCE BROKEN THAT  WAS WITH ME JUST BEFORE, AS I TAKE ANOTHER STEP THE CONCERT REBEGINS AND GONE AGAIN, THE SILENCE NOW, GOOD-BYE, MY QUIET FRIEND   RON PURTLEBAUGH   I DEDICATE THIS POEM TO PHIL JULCH, MY FRIEND FOR THIRTY FIVE YEARS, HE HELPED ME REMEMBER THE MEMORIES OF BEING IN THE WOODS ALL ALONE, BY FIRST LIGHT, ON A CRISP, COLD, DECEMBER MORNING IN INDIANA, WHERE I ONCE LEARNED, THE SOUNDS OF SILENCE ARE ALSO, TRULY, A BEST FRIEND.       DEPARTMENTAL, YES, BUT WHY? DEDICATED TO ROBERT FROST, FOR HELPING ME TO SEE THE THINGS I SOMEDAY MIGHT QUESTION   A bloom of dew is clutching to one tender slender blade of grass, with my ear 'gainst mother earth watching industry at work. Hoping one, a single ant, will, before my lens of dew, take the time to stop. That I might meet, just one, just once,  in his discernment, ant to man. One on one, he sees me as I see him, clearly, each the other's face, on his turf, on equal terms, no thought of harm or need to flee, and both of us, most satisfied, with learning just to learn.... By script they travel seemingly to chores in bands of two, or more  yet clearly some will strike the crowd to head out all alone. While many form an endless line, stopping only hurriedly, quickly to converse, never seems quite long enough for even just a line or two,  as if forever out of time. Would that one might stop and visit, taking time to ask me why, we do not the same? Will there be in ant's own time, as in mans, for niceties, a place for art and finer things. When strife and need be put aside for more than those who sit on high, for this alone, I bid one stop, just to ask him why.   ron purtlebaugh         CURATOR OF WAVES     AS CURATOR OF WAVES, SELF APPOINTED, WITH PAPER AND PENCIL IN HAND, I BUSIED MYSELF ON THE BEACH COUNTING WAVES, TO ASSURE EVERY ONE HAD COME  IN. SOFT STIRRING, THE SEA OATS BEHIND ME IN GENTLE AND COOLING TIDE WINDS, AS IT BLEW, A GULL FRAY, IN FLIGHTFUL MATE PLAY, TO DIVE AT THE CRACKERS I'D FLING. THE NEW SUN EMBRACED THE HORIZON, ENWRAPPING THE TIDAL WET SAND,  CONFIRMING MY COUNT, ATOP THEIR DRIFT MOUNT, PAIRED PELICANS, LENDING A HAND.  AMUSED, AS I STUDIED A SAND CRAB, WHO BURIED HIMSELF IN THE SAND,  TORN FROM HIS PLACE, HE RACED EVERY WAVE, TO BURROW BACK WHERE HE BEGAN. REJUVENATION AND CONSTANCY ABOUND, A TIDE POOL REFILLS AND THERE STANDS, IN UNISON ON SHORE, HUNDREDS OR MORE, FIDDLER CRABS RAISING A HAND.  EXCLAIMING, "OH, MOMMY!" ON NEARING, A LITTLE GIRL, MOTHER IN TOW, AWASH IN THE TIDE, LIE HUNDREDS OF STARFISH, TUGGING, SHE LOOKED TO ASK WHY... "MOMMY... DID THEY FALL FROM THE SKY?" I HAD STOPPED THERE TO WITNESS THE BEAUTY, OF SUNRISE, THE FLIGHT OF THE GULLS, BUT THERE AMONG STARFISH AND WASHED OYSTER SHELLS, BREATH TAKING INNOCENCE UNFURLED, FOUND A PEARL IN THE GUISE OF A GIRL.   RON PURTLEBAUGH         RAINDROP     THE DOCILE DROPS OF MOISTURE, THAT FALL UPON MY FACE, TRICKLE DOWN THE CREVICES, AS SOFT AS FEATHER LACE.   THE SWEETNESS RUNS ACROSS MY LIPS, I GAZE AT GRAYING SKY, AND BREATHE THE MORNING FRESHNESS IN, A RAINDROP HITS MY EYE.   I WON'T DISTURB IT'S TINY WORLD, OR FLICK IT FROM IT'S HOME, I GO INSIDE AND LET IT DRY, AND WRITE IT'S EPITAPH, THIS POEM.   RON PURTLEBAUGH            NIGHT LIGHTNING  COLLECTED THOUGHTS DIFFERENT LIGHTS ON DIFFERENT NIGHTS SUNDRY STORMS OF VARIED SORTS   FILM STOP   BLACK TO LIGHT TO WHITE AND BACK, LACKING NOT IN SHOWMANSHIP, THE RIPPING LIGHT THAT TEARS AND SCARS ACROSS THE SKY AND CLIPS A HOLE WITHIN THE DARK AND FAR AND WIDE ILLUMINATING, LAYING BARE THE DARKEST CORNERS OF THE NIGHT, AS IN A FRAME OF TIME AND STOPPED,  IN BETWEEN THE FLASHES, EVERY MOVEMENT REARRANGES THEN A NEW REFRAIN, ANOTHER FLASH, AND EVERYTHING, FAMILIAR FACES,  ESTRANGED AND STRANGE, THEN A FLASH,  ONCE AGAIN THEY'RE BACK AGAIN AND EVERYTHING'S THE SAME.   Ron Purtlebaugh        BETWEEN THE LIGHTNING STRIKES     WHITE LIGHTNING STRIKES, BRIGHT ON MY WALL, MY PENCIL DOWN, BUT NOT MY THOUGHTS, I LIKEN TO THE SHARDS OF LIFE, AND STRIFE AND PAIN, CRESCENDO HARD, AND THEN THEY FALL. AND THROUGH THE THUNDER RATTLED PANE, THE DROPLETS LAME, LAND ON THE SCREEN, BUT THOSE THAT FALL UPON THE GLASS, A BEE LINE FOR THE WINDOW SILL, THE ONES THAT FOUGHT TO WIN THE RACE, LIKE THE ONE'S I LONG FOR SOUGHT,  FILLED MY EVER WAKING THOUGHT, THE WORDS JUST RIGHT, IN TIME IN PLACE. ELUDING STILL, AND LIKE THE TINY DROPS OF RAIN, THAT RUN FROM ME, GATHER IN A DOWNWARD SPACE, UPON MY PAGE, THE WINDOW SILL, A PLACE TO BE, A PLACE TO LIVE AND BE SET FREE, OR TRICKLE DOWN TO THE GROUND, BELOW TO BRING TO EVERYTHING, A DRINK OF LIFE, A MOMENTS PAUSE, AND THEN, A FLASH, AND BRIGHT AGAIN, A LIGHTNING CRASH THAT LIGHTS AGAINST MY WALL.   RON PURTLEBAUGH       Edgar Allan, Where Are You Dedicated to Edgar Allan Poe, who shone on this earth only forty years, leaving an eternity of of exqusite literature behind  

 

The howling growling crumbling sky, bespoke in pain, turned afoul, disemboweled upon my pane. Slapping hard the window frame slipping listels, whipped to find a way to enter to my desktop lodged epistles 'neath my hand, to my heart, charged the ramparts of my brain. Nary had it gone afar,  lightning smashed against my wall, called to me as other times, as warning lights the warming lights began to fall, flickered off, appressed to naught the hanging frames, those in light of day had called, spoke to me a thousand times, one single flash, and all were gone. Apolune, or seemingly, upon my desk a beam shone through, one single small enlightened point, a task that sat before myself, a poem of a word or two and clearly through my blur lit view it reappeared while speaking, too, loudly read, "On raven's head..." and on a dreary night like this I wondered 'tween the clashing bits of shattered light that left amiss my frames, epistles, quite unfinished, Edgar Allan, where are you, on a night like this.     Ron Purtlebaugh     Me, I Love To Walk Between   Some folks see a thunderstorm a very simple thing, lightning, thunder, blackened sky, humidity and rain.  I prefer to walk between the raindrops of a storm,  breathing clouds, ingesting rhyme, the rhythm of it's poem. Bristling lightning sharply cracks to thunderclaps within,  melding into pounding rain, the silence of the din. Splashing rain a cleansing clean, to wash the very soul, blowing breezes dry and glean a poem that needs told. Cleaned, redeemed, the slate again, the joy of life renewed, promises that I behold in rainbow's wondrous hues. Some folks see a thunderstorm a cause to stay within,  me, I love to walk between the thoughts each droplet sends.   Ron Purtlebaugh        YES, IT WOULD, IT WOULD FOR ME   BLIND, THE MUSIC OF THE WIND, MADE SLIPPING PAST THE TURNING LEAVES, REVERBERATING THROUGH THE TREES, EACH NOTE IT CUTS, A MYSTERY, FOR WHAT IT MAKES IT CANNOT SEE, BUT STILL IN DEAFNESS SENDS TO ME AND ALL THE MORE, TIS BEAUTIFUL, THIS UNSEEN GIFT OF SOUND FOR ME. I ASK ME, WOULD IT BE SO FREE, IF WHAT IT SENT, IT COULD BUT SEE? AND JUST AS QUICKLY, ANSWERING, YES, IT WOULD, IT WOULD FOR ME.   DEAF, THE POUNDING CLEANSING RAIN, THAT FALLS, AS IF THE FIRST DOMAIN, IT'S TASK FOREMOST, THE TINY THINGS, THAT GO UNWASHED BY ANYONE, A CLEAN TO SHARE WITH EVERYTHING AND IN IT'S WORK, THE SOUND IT BRINGS SWEET SINGS TO ME, AND IN MY EAR, A NOTE SO CLEAR, DEEP, REASSURING, HARMONIZING WITH THE WIND. I ASK MYSELF, THE NOTE IT SENDS, IF HEARING, WOULD IT LEND ITSELF, IT'S SOUND, IT'S VOICE, AND SHARE WITH ME,  AS DOES THE WIND, AND QUITE AS FREE? AND ANSWERING AS QUICKLY TOO, YES, IT WOULD, IT WOULD FOR ME.   RON PURTLEBAUGH       IN FOG REFRAIN      Hear the whisper of the sea, the quiets 'tween the loud refrain, abandoned in the dark of night, as fog creeps in and plays the waves, and light, a solitary beam, all alone a ship offshore a point of light and nothing more,  seems the only thing alive, fades within the cloudy shroud,  comes and goes o'er waves it rides, then brightens 'till it disappears.  Black falls in the hole now cleared and beats the fog that rushes in, to be a place that never was. The lapping chorus 'gainst the rocks, continues it's allotted time then just as surely in the dark, the ictus beat, though softly calls, repeats in time, each wave in line, a constancy that thrills sublime, iambic time, in rythmic rhyme carries me to it's refrain.   ron purtlebaugh         MOTHERS  NATURE   a violet blowing in the field as two hills meet to form a ridge the willow keeps the sunshine sealed i look down from my lonely ledge from gallery seat i am amazed as natures is is spread around before my eyes the cloudy haze but here at last i feel the ground i am become as one with wind a river stream is in my veins and with the storm my thoughts i send in love and sex, with earth i've lain so making love with perfect bliss in smoky mist a child is formed upon the earth i lay a kiss as i feel now to be reborn i'm suckled by its tender breasts and cuddled soft in natures lap as i feel now the drowse of rest i feed upon life's honey paps.    ron purtlebaugh       BETWEEN SEA OATS AND SUNSETS PAST   The reddish glow of sunsets last, hangs on waves far past the end of eyesight's realm, where greens of early evening fade into the deepest black along horizon's line, and from my perch on beaches sand the sea oats dune, against my back, holds me and it molds to me, perusing God's own gallery, no finer seat could e're be had. Peering through this beauty free, a castle wall starts to fall, in the high and crashing tide, a pail and shovel just aside, the engineer, intent, engaged, a shovelful, can this be saved with sand applied? Wondering as I'm gazing by, a blond haired lad, could this be me? Another place, another time?   Ron Purtlebaugh       WIND   LISTEN, HEAR THE QUIET HUSH, AS IT SINGS THRU EVERY BUSH, PAST EACH TREE ACROSS THE SEA, HEAR THE LONE SYMPHONIC DOUCHE. BENDING RIPPLES CROSS THE LAKE, BLOWING HIGH THE FINEST FLAKE, O'ER THE HILLS AS IT FILLS, EACH BOTTOM AND THE DRIFTS IT MAKES. TO THE TWISTERS IT WILL LEND, AND REND, A MESSAGE IT WILL SEND, A LITTLE LEAF TO OCEANS REEF, FROM LAND TO SEA, I LOVE THE WIND.   3          SALT MARK   I taste the smell of salty air, as I smell the taste of sea, it permeates along the shore and whips between the wind shorn crags, it's white mark chalk mark leaves a line where being stopped at least a billon times before it testifies to all who'll see, not only this time shall it be, but more, a million trillion times, shall return forevermore, like before, to leave it's white mark chalk mark salt mark down along the crag strewn beach where the boulder pillars strain to free their feet from all the sand, to reach up higher than before, higher than the sea has dared, higher to the salt free air where the white mark chalk mark salt mark never will or has before. Dare I touch my tongue to this mark? Shall I give this salt a kiss now? This the spice of life I savor, this the flavor that I crave for, this the taste I come here for. This, the white mark chalk mark salt mark, owns the bottom of the boulders and the pillars in the sand all along the ocean floor. Think you this to take your leave there? We'll not hold the ocean's fingers, or it arms that dare to linger as they rush up from the bottom, reaches up to clutch the white mark, wants the salt back that does cling there, wants the white mark to be gone there wants to take the white mark chalk mark salt mark back to where it was. Dare I touch my finger here? Shall I let my arms draw near? This, the stuff that man is here for, this, the stuff made man chain man for, this, the stuff that slaves have died for, now the sea it wants it's white mark chalk mark salt mark back again. Shall we let the white mark leave there? Shall we let the ocean cleave there, taking back the salt mark leaved there? What of all the men who be there, in their coffin cloths we heaved there, all the tears of salt we've cried there, all the men who fought and died there? Sea will send it's currents crashing, hurricanes of spiral thrashing, 'gainst our sea walls, she'll come bashing, just to take her white mark chalk mark, heaving waters, splashing flashing, just to see our fires dashed and seeing us all cold and dark will, seek to fill her one great passion, stealing up on dark shores passing, raise her waves in catlike fashion, slashing while her thunder's crashing at the white mark chalk mark salt mark, dashing down our pillars too. Shall I offer sea a treaty? Shall I see if peace be reached here? Yes, I asked the sea to leave here, yes the salt mark can stay free there, yes the ocean said to me clear, only we've to let it be here if we want the white mark chalk and the salt mark always be there, respect is all it seeks from we here, in totality....agreed, and that's enough for me.   RON PURTLEBAUGH             FISHING IN THE OLD MAN'S ANGER   HE WAS LOOKING OLD TODAY, AT FIRST LIGHT, lOOKING GRAY, EXCEPTING FOR THE FOAMING FLOWING WHITENED HAIR, THE PELICANS WERE ALSO THERE, WATCHING CLOSE, THE STORM PUSHED TIDE, SITTING POSTS IN A ROW, HIGH ATOP THE PIER, WARY OF THE HURRICANE, FAR OFF SHORE. HIS DASHING HAIR WAS CRASHING HARD, 'GAINST THE BOULDERS MADE OF GRANITE 'LONG THE WALKWAY, WHERE THEY REACH, TIME A'FORE, WAS A ROAD WHERE THE OLD MAN MEETS ST.AUGUSTINE BEACH. BUT HE TOOK IT ONCE AWAY, NOW A WALKWAY'S STANDING THERE. THE FISHERMEN WHO WORK THE PIER, AS USUAL, LINED ALONG LIKE PELICANS, AT THEIR TASK, THE SAME IN FACT, TO FISH THE FISH THAT MIGHT DRAW NEAR, IN THE ROUGH SURF'S IN BORN TIDE, AT THE HIGH. UNCONCERNED, OF ANY DANGER, FISHING IN THE OLD MAN'S ANGER, IN THE HIGH SURF'S CRASHING, BANGING, OF THE GRANITE BOULDERS HOLDING, TO THE PILINGS AND THE WALKWAY, AND THE BOTTOM, WHERE THEY'RE STANDING ON THE WOOD PLANKED COUNTY PIER.   RON PURTLEBAUGH               FALLING LEAVES   Far in to mid September's eve when summer's blast of heated days and warmer nights, are gone at last and leaves that once had hung full green are yellowed brown to deep maroon, and red, my favorite, last to show, but worth the wait to watch them fall, in the blow, the cooling wind sends them each, on errands, when, perhaps at once or all alone a decisions made to stay awhile, they end up in a great big pile.   RON PURTLEBAUGH       ORION, I'VE MISSED YOU   THRICE LIGHT THE NIGHT, YOUR BELT ON HIGH EMBELLISHING THE DIPPERS SKY,* AND I, I WALK INTO THE NIGHT, FIRST IN SEEMS LIKE AGES NOW, I WALK OUTSIDE AND THERE YOU ARE TO BLESS MY WORLD FROM UP ON HIGH AND JOY IT BRINGS,YOUR SITTING THERE, BET YOU WONDERED *WHERE I'VE GONE, WHERE WAS I, AND THERE I WAS, TO REVEL IN YOUR WONDROUS LIGHT. AND ALL THE TIME IT SEEMED TO BE MORE THAN I WAS MISSING YOU, MORE THAN WONDERING WHERE YOU WERE, MORE THAN WONDERING WHERE I'D GONE, HOPE,* ON HOPE, PERHAPS SOMEHOW, YOU WERE MISSING ME.   RON PURTLEBAUGH           JUST TWO PORPOISE IN THE BAY   THE STUNNING PAIR CAME INTO VIEW, I CANNOT SAY THEY BROKE THE WAVES, FOR PORPOISE NEVER DO, BUT STILL THE LIGHT UPON THEIR BACKS, THE ONLY CLUE, THE TWO APPEARED, COMPARING TO THE SQUARES OF LIGHT ATOP EACH WAVE, DIFFERED UNIFORMITY, THOUGH EVERY ONE LEFT QUITE INTACT THEIR LONGISH SNOUTS STAYED MOST IMMERSED, THEN THE ARCH, THEIR RISE OF BACKS, I WONDER HOW THEY DO IT SO, STAYING IN BUT COMING OUT AND TRIPPED THE LIGHT ALONG THE WAY, SO FOLKS COULD SAY, "OVER THERE! AND THERE'S TWO MORE, PORPOISE SWIMMING IN THE BAY." AND NEVER SEEM TO STIR A WAVE, THE TWO AT PLAY AND THEN THERE'S FOUR, ALWAYS SEEM TO COME IN PAIRS, AND THEN THEY'RE GONE, ALWAYS LEAVING ME IN YEARNING, WANTING MORE, "WHAT DID YOU SEE?" A PASSERBY, ASKING AS I TURN AWAY, "JUST TWO PORPOISE IN THE BAY."     RON PURTLEBAUGH         A SOUTHERN SPRING ST. AUGUSTINE  FLORIDA   SPRINGTIME RAINS ALONG THE COAST, MAGNOLIAS STAUNCH THROUGH WINTER'S COLD, AT THEIR FEET THE BROWN AND OLD, AS TENDER LEAVES ANEW ARE LAUNCHED, TO FRAME THEIR GLORY LARGE AND BOLD, WHITE AND FRAGRANT IN THE AIR, MIXES WITH THE JASMINE SCENT, THAT SPENT IT'S PENT UP SOLITUDE, QUIET, HANGING, LAY IN WAIT, THEN RENT THE AIR IN PURPOSENESS, MAKING KNOWN TO ALL WHO PASS, THE COLD NORTH WINDS DECEMBER'S GRASP, TO JANUARY'S HOLD AT LAST, GONE AND NOW A  SWEET REPAST, A SOUTHERN SPRING, ALONG THE COAST.   THE MOCKINGBIRDS, IN EVERY LANGUAGE BIRD WISE KNOWN, FLIT TO RUSH, TELL ONE AND ALL AND TURTLEDOVES IN PAIRS, OF COURSE, SEARCHING FOR NEW ROOM AND BOARD, IN A NEW YEAR FAMILY TREE, AMONG AZALEAS, SCRUB OAK TREES,  LEES OF DUNES, WHERE PALM TREES DROP THEIR SPINY FRONDS, WHERE CACTUS GROW AND SEA OATS TOIL ATOP THE SAND, TO TAME THE SALTY TIDE AND SEAS, WHERE NEW SPRING GULLS IN RUFFLED BROWN, HOPING FOR THE NEW WHITE GOWN THEIR  BETTERS WEAR, FROM VILANO BEACH CROSS PORPOISE POINT DOWN SALT RUN, TO THE LIGHTHOUSE, PAST THE PIER, ST. AUGUSTINE, ANOTHER SOUTHERN SPRING IS HERE.   CARRIAGES WITH LOADS OF FOLKS, ALONG THE BAYFRONT'S SIDEWALKED COAST, CASTILLO DE SAN MARCO STANDS, AS IT HAS FOR CENTURIES, TO GUARD THE LAND, NEAR THE INLET'S OPEN DOOR FROM UNNAMED FOES OF FOREIGN LANDS, NOW WELCOME FRIENDS. COME, TAKE A TOUR, AND PASS THE OLD TOWN'S CITY GATES, COME RIDE A TRAIN TO SEE THE SIGHTS, MEMORIALS IN PLAZA'S SQUARE, STREETS OF BRICK, ST.GEORGES STREET, REMINDING ONE OF DAYS GONE PAST, WHEN ARTS AND CRAFTS, AND STRAINS OF SONG, WOULD CATCH THE BREEZE THAT WAFTED WITH THE HAWKERS YELL, THE RYTHYMIC CLIP CLOP OF THE HOOVES, THE HORSES AS THEY PASS ALONG, IT SEEMS A SONG, SPRINGTIME ON SAN MARCO STREET.   THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH, FAMED NAMESAKE OF PONCE DE LEON.  SUNSET RIDES ATOP THE WAVES, MATANZAS BAY, THE CENTURY TREE, THE OLD DRAWBRIDGE, BRIDGE OF LIONS, STILL IN USE FROM YESTERDAY, TO THE ISLAND, WALK ACROSS, IN THE BAY IN PAIRS AND FOURS, SLIPPING WHITE CAPS GRACEFULLY, PORPOISE LEAP AND DIVE IN PLAY. IN EVIDENCE OF TIMES LONG PAST, ROWS NOW GONE, ORCHARDS CLOSED, PECAN TREES, THAT STOOD IN STANDS, STILL DOT THE LAND, FASCINATING BUILDINGS LOOM, WHERE MR.FLAGLER LENT HIS TOUCH, TO INDIAN LANDS AND THE SPANIARDS BROUGHT TO US, ST. AUGUSTINE, THE OLDEST CITY IN THE LAND. A SOUTHERN SPRING ALONG THE COAST.   RON PURTLEBAUGH         O' WONDROUS SEA     Sing to me, o' wondrous sea, in your sweet iambic beat,  one that drives the universe, and womans flower, whence I be, give to me, the nurturing, within your deeply dark retreat, in fathoms cooling hot release, the pent inside, and bring to me, relief that lives not under sky, but 'neath the waves, for you and I. Sing to me, and comfort me, in a soft and sweet refrain. Speak to me, o' lapping waves, you form your caves upon the beach, atop the sand, beneath the foam, a place for me to cool my feet, and be alone, and talk to me of other times, of times before when I was young, though you were always old to me, a fathers hand you laid on me, and spoke to me, so gently, sweet. Sing to me, and comfort me, in a soft and sweet refrain. Touch my lips, o' salty sea, the taste I crave, you share so well, abundantly, with all who will and all who needs your touch that heals, and so much more, the needs in me, the briny waves that seem to say, come walk in me, and talk to me, and drain your troubles in my sea, your pain away as falling rain, I'll sing to you, and comfort you, in a soft and sweet refrain.     Ron Purtlebaugh         MARSHLAND SUNSET   WESTERLY AND DRIVING TO A BLACKISH LINED HORIZON 'NEATH A CREAMY COLORED ORANGE AND PINKISH BLUE LIT AZURED SKY. A VISION OF DELIGHT AND WHERE THE WISPY CLOUDS DO PILE, THEY FEATHER ONE ANOTHER IN A HUNDRED SHADES OF GRAY, AS THOUGH TO MAKE A HOLE FOR SUN, SLIPPING IN  LAST RAYS  IT LINGERS LONGER, STAYS DISPLAYED AT LEAST ANOTHER MILE, SLOWLY LOWLY SETTING ON THE MARSHY WETLANDS PASSING AS THE  EGRETS STANDING WAITING, WADING, FADING LIGHT ESCAPING. FACING WINDWARD, GULLS ARE  FLOATING, OVERHEAD AND UNDULATING NONCHALANTLY, STAYING, PLAYING AS THEY RIDE THE BREEZE ALOFT,  AS TETHERED TO THE FLOATING CLOUDS OF PILLOWY BLUE SOFT. IN THE BREEZY BACKDROP, HOMEWARD, PELICANS IN PAIRS GO WINGING. DROPPING 'NEATH THE BLACKISH LINE THAT'S FADING OUT OF SIGHT  A FIRE BLOOMS TO EVENING SUN AS AZURE PINK TO RED IGNITES THE GULLS BREAK OFF THEIR DUSKY FUN IN CREAMY ORANGISH LIGHT THE EGRETS, DONE WITH WAITING, WADE, INTO THE RUSHES, COLONNADE,  RETURNING ME TO DRIVE ALONE, AND  MARSHLAND TO THE NIGHT,   RON PURTLEBAUGH            DARK SUMMER RAIN     NOTHING'S LIKE THE CLOSE THICK AIR A HOT BLACK RAINY SUMMER'S DAY  RAINDROPS, WIDE, TOUCHING SHOULDERS  SPLATTER HARD AND CRACK LIKE BOULDERS AS A BREEZE STEALS THROUGH AND TICKLES  AND THE TEMPERATURE, FEELS COLDER, RAIN, YOU RAIN, YOU MISTER RAIN, WATER YOU, THIS DROUGHTED LAND THUNDER'S LOUD RESOUNDING BOOM LIGHTING UP GOD'S LIVING ROOM RIPPING OPEN DARKENED SKIES FOR A MOMENTARY LIGHT  OVERLAPS THE THUNDERCLAP COUNTING, COUNTING, ONE, TWO, THREE. DOESN'T SEEM SO FAR AWAY, JUST AS QUICKLY, QUIETLY, CLOSES UP THE RENTED SKY, ELECTRIFIED AND MOISTURED AIR TAKES THE TROUBLES OF THE WORLD ALL THE DIRT AND GREASE AND GRIME CLEANED OR FORCED INTO THE GROUND HOW I LOVE DARK SUMMER RAIN SEEMS TO WASH AWAY THE TROUBLES AND THE PAINS, REPLANTS THE AIR, SOMETIMES WITH A LEGACY, LEAVES BEHIND LIGHT SUMMER BREEZE.   RON PURTLEBAUGH        DARK SUMMER RAIN, LEGACY   DARK SUMMER RAIN, THE LEGACY YOU LEAVE BEHIND, LIGHT SUMMER BREEZE WHEN ALL THE WORLD IS SHINY CLEAN THE SWELTERING NOW GONE AWAY WET SOAKED GRASS, EACH TINY BLADE A DARKER SHADE, THE ANTS YOU HOST RETAINING NOW, REBUILD AGAIN, THE BLUE JAYS, WRENS, AND MOCKINGBIRDS RETURN TO SING, RAIN TREES WEAR A SPARKLED COAT, AND DRIPPING FROM THE ACORNED LIMBS OF THE MIGHTY LAUREL OAK, CONTINUES ON, THE SUNFLOWER HOLDS IT'S HEAD UP HIGH TO THE NEW CLEAN SUMMER SKY, AND I, I LOVE THE SUMMER BREEZE, THAT'S LEFT BEHIND, A GIFT FOR ME, DARK SUMMER RAIN, YOUR LEGACY   RON PURTLEBAUGH          SAND     I THINK THE MAN WHO MADE THE SAND WON"T MIND ME SITTING ON HIS BEACH, TO WATCH THE WIND BLOWN TIDE COME IN AND RIP IT UP TO SPREAD IT ROUND, LIKE A THIEF THAT'S NEARLY CAUGHT KEEPS A LITTLE FOR HIMSELF, THEN QUICKLY PUTS IT DOWN AGAIN.   THE STUFF I TAKE, I WON'T FORSAKE A SUNRISE HERE, A SUNSET THERE, THESE THINGS I TAKE MOST EVERY DAY TO COOL THE DAY, AN EVENING BREEZE, THE PORPOISE PLAY, THE TIDE POOLS FILL, I LOVE THE THINGS I LEAVE TO TAKE.   RON PURTLEBAUGH        THE PAINTER POET   Oh my God, the painter poet was alive and well today you should have seen the way, the blue to pink then gray of sky piled high upon the sea, from white to green then back to blue  the white caps too, sat atop each wave come in then splash into the beach to change to reddish gray, then perfect, clear, it grazed the sand. My oh My, the brush He yields, the painter poets hand.   Oh my Lord, the gardener handyman was alive and well today did you see the blades of grass, tickled by the softest breeze light near white, then flip and lay, the deepest green, and have you seen the bridge He's built over Anastasia Creek? with silt He's filled the corners, cracks, and lying on it  on your back, the canopied Magnolia blooms, the hot sun's spared the travelers neck  cool like an underground concrete room.   Jesus Christ, my teacher healer was alive and well today not what they say, He said to me, the window is the heart the place to start, hear what they say, not the words, that quickly fade, but deep inside where no man hides, My painter poet gardener handyman teacher healer, He's alive and well today.   Ron Purtlebaugh     DEW, ME TOO   Blowing o'er the blades of grass  breezes rustle every page, near my ear an open book lying 'neath my poem tree. Considering this morning come,  as if a cloak, renewed, meanders through the morning dew, breaks to sight and well displayed the dawning sun to light my page and creeping o'er, the finest fog, more the wisp a lowly cloud, forgot to go away. And takes with it for other days, the morning dew,  thinking, wishing, wondering, would that I could be as light  might it take me too.   Ron Purtlebaugh      Sea Sunrise In June   Not a small thought was deserved to ride my cycle past the sunrise at the county pier, the sea as smooth as glass. The fisher men though not in awe duly lined it's outer board and pelicans that topped the lights, were saying not a word. The gulls in rows of eights and nines  grooming, as they stared, except for I, an empty walk, a tourist here and there. Feeling blessed, He cared to share, a beauty so complete the tourists and the fishers there,  the birds, the dawn and me. In homage, did I pay the sun it's streaks of blue and green, for handiwork that He had done I dropped to bended knee, so sweet and fresh the morning air my lungs required a sip, upon exhaling, "Thank you Lord," escaping from my lips.   ron purtlebaugh         Do You Recall? Do you recall the end of days, summer's last, at twilight's eve when all the world takes on a haze a greenish blue to lighter gray reclining on the hills and trees, as if a fog, but higher raised, accentuating depths so dark, relaxing on the limbs it plays filling in between the leaves a pastel quietness that says, serenity, a peace surreal but then, the eye detects a swirl, as on parade, a circle whirls leaves in dance like boys and girls, standing each, upon their stems at once, all quickly fall and lie  quiet softly fluttering to wait another breeze to say, 'Get thee up and follow me' and o'er the cooling garden bed two butterflies, decide instead to come and dance around your head while gazing, see a perfect 'V' of gaggled geese go flying by high up in the atmosphere and suddenly, you stop to think, 'All this beauty just for me'. Do you recall the end of days, summer's last, at twilight's eve?   Ron Purtlebaugh                JUST MOWING THE GRASS   NURTURED BY THE NEW MOWN GRASS THE CUTTER THROWS AND BLOWS MY WAY, TAKEN IN MY NOSTRILS DEEP, SWEATING, SOAKS MY LOOSE WEAVE SHIRT, COOLING ME, THE SLIGHTEST BREEZE, ANOTHER ROW. I TURN AND KEEP THE HANGING FLOWERS WHERE THEY GROW, SAFE FROM HARM, ON THE TIE FROM RAILROAD TIMES, HOLDS THE ROSES, CLOSE AND TO, 'NEATH THE WINDOWS GENTLY FALLS GERANIUMS, SAFE IN THEIR BOX, ROSE MOSS, FILLS THE HOLES WHERE MY WATER HOSE EMERGES, SECRET TOOL,  MAKES THINGS GROW, ANOTHER ROW NEWLY CUT, I TURN TO MOW. RON PURTLEBAUGH           LIFE GOES ON   SUN WILL  SET, MOON WILL RISE  SUN AND MOON THEY NEVER LIE SPRING COMES IN WHERE WINTER'S BEEN FALL WILL COME AT SUMMER'S END DEW SHALL SIT, WATERFALLS SNOWFLAKES FLAKE, AND SUMMER SQUALLS CLOUDS WILL EMPTY, RAINBOWS COME HAIL WILL HAIL, THE STARS ABOVE TIDE, LIKE MOON, WILL EBB AND WANE THUNDERCLOUDS WILL GRAY THE PLAINS DUSK WILL DEEPEN 'FORE THE DAWN MOON WILL SET AND SUN WILL RISE LIFE GOES ON AND SO DOES TIME.   RON PURTLEBAUGH         The Force Of God   It's very plain that natures plan is stronger than the mans,  bane of concrete, hurricanes,  conquer one and all. Skiffs and rowboats, too canoes, are beaten by the squall, tornadoes make tomatoes out of houses, boats and cars,  poles of wood have rarely stood against the twirling force. The flooded plains, the death and pain, of farmers 'long the banks, a rising river overflowed takes corn and beans and grain. So if I have to pick between, man's or nature's rhymes, I think I'll pick the force of God, each and everytime.   Ron Purtlebaugh       Beach Races   Racing waves from dune to sand sandpipers run beside the terns from sea to shore then back again. Posturing, to spread anew, arising 'bove the rest in wait,  constantly, in movement too, the white capped mounts of water play to race to shore before the group, still staying with them, as they do, in frays, the concave falling waves snap at birds in food forays. Sandpipers, terns, return to turn to meet the winners reaching shore, and then as if without a plan, race back up the beach to stand, to wait the next one coming in. then out, then in, again, again, again, again, again, again.   Ron Purtlebaugh             THE PELICAN HERD   Frothy, foaming, plumes of white green, boiling, rolling, without toiling, cleansing shells from ocean's floor. Drags them up to beach's shore where the tourists pick and choose. One exclaims, "Oh look! theres more!" Fixed wing pelicans, floating, pass, in a herd of twenty-four. Strangest thing I ever saw. I do adore the ocean side, the changing tide, and shells, of course, not to mention pelican herds, escaped my lips in disbelief, "Naw?" Too late! The tourists already heard!   Ron Purtlebaugh           Rocky Mountain Tarn   As I stand the high divide, Rocky Mountains, summertime, in the changing season rhymes, now nearly passed, autumn blasts  it's changing hues, aspens turning in my view.  There afar, 'neath the sparsely clouded skies a tarn appears, in one small shroud. I wonder, it's so far away, man has never climbed it's banks, doubtful, even if they have, I think I'd like to think that way. The little pond sits quietly, the virgin wood around it grows, I ponder all the life, maintained, how it must be counted so, the larger part of one small world, and glad, I am, it's hidden though, for well I know, if man were there another day, this special thing that I see now, might never be, would never be a joy to me. The tiny tarn sits quietly, I'm happy just to see it so.   Ron Purtlebaugh       Red Man, White Man   For shame!  For shame!  Ephemeral man the debacle lain on Mother Earth, the dearth and pain, the life you've slain the very life you took in hand now scarred and torn, does lie the land. Out-of-hand, without a plan,  Red man lived for centuries in cyclical assemblages, harming not the warp and woof, the diastrophic web and weave, sans the White technologies, and olio of 'ologies',  White man holds so grand. Shame on you, ephemeral man! The parsec that you quarter here, you've built a bier, a pyre to burn the Mother's sphere, pyric ashes lay at hand, once, that grew so green and clear, no reverence for her land. Pray, come again, you 'primitives'  show us how to live.   Ron Purtlebaugh       The Breeze, The Butterfly and Me Written for and dedicated to Sue Allie for her love of Butterflies   The butterfly, light slips the sky and on a day as watching, I, a summer breeze that lifts away takes it hither, yon to play, from sepal to a petaled leaf. to please itself, it pleases me. Then o'er a limb it rounds my head and not as other flying things, instead, I stand me still, so still, hoping it will round again. For well I know of all the things that God upon this earth doth bring, there is no softer entity, the breeze, the butterfly and me.   Ron Purtlebaugh        Man's Spring Nest     White cloak gone, winter shorn, the tiny lake filled glen,  dragonflies play tag around, cattails on parade in stands. Heralding in symphony, Spring's reprieve from winter's call, in bullfrog din, welcoming, a new spring morn is come again.   Butterflies go two by two, 'round a fresh new lilly's bloom, tadpoles hugging to the shore, in or out they seem unsure  Mama's kids afloat in line, quack in time, "The water's fine!" Busy building 'long the shore, songbirds sing in tune.   Gently, as if readying, twirling round the newborn trees, slipping as it trips and falls, o'er a log and on it's knees e'en the breeze, tickling 'cross new buds and leaves, excitedly, "I'm fresh and clean!  Look at me!  Just look at me!"    Me,  I stand the water's edge, wondering how when God so blessed the tiniest of water's life, holding in His loving hands,  all His creatures great and small, only one to fail the test, somehow man's intelligence, has ruined his own Sping nest.     Ron Purtlebaugh       River And Earth Caressingly, I wander you, so wild, unchecked and free, touching soft your valleys deep and delving endlessly, I hug to you, slip into you 'neath pillowed clouds above,  blue skies strain to cover us, our warm and tender love, meandering, I give to you, past bare and bush, I see your beauty, and so deeply as you give, accepting me. Who, but who, can know you so, or I, as you know me? None but you, my love, my earth, I am the river stream.   Ron Purtlebaugh     Her Morning Light   The breasts of morn hung well adorned in milky creamy light, Tight hugged to me in shades of white, As peeking sun began her run, 'tween dawning's tender thighs.   Reflecting schools of wading pools that wander in the tide, my emptiness, her light belied, in lurching surf to claim her turf, my thoughts a place to hide.   The scent that lent itself to be, most permeated me, I languished in the salty sea, rinsing in her sweet incense, as sunlight raised on knees.   Her hidden place, that tender space, spread, closely to me warmth, now safe from harms, in daylight's arms,  face pressed tightly to her lace, I clung me to her charms.   As slowly dusk retreated ever further to it's scorn, the negligee of misty morn, her lingerie upon me played, torn from the womb, reborn.   Ron Purtlebaugh       Spring's Song      The music strains of tickled leaves, scraping, scratching 'gainst one each, building with a gentle song, upon the trilled and blowing breeze.   The calling cooing love of doves, the mockingbirds, the robins sing,  seems that e'en the clouds above are billowing a song of love.   Across the glen the butterflies tripping through the bright blue sky visit each as best they can, to each a momentary try.   The dragonflies at water's edge, tadpoles play beneath the ledge, telling all,  frog's deep bullhorn, springtime once again is wed.   Ron Purtlebaugh                Moon Luna, Luna, sing to me your heavenly melodies, the gardener's concerto and the woman's symphony. Whisper of the ebb and wane, the tides you move at sea,  babies born and crops regrown in seasons giv'n by thee. Crescendo to your fullness then when I can brightly see, then to your newness in the sky and quite invisibly.   Ron Purtlebaugh   A Blade Of Grass   The wonders of a blade of grass so resilient and sure, dark greens from spring to autumn's fall while winter's cold, immured.     Cut again, again, again, greening, springs to life to be a cooling place to lie my head in summer's searing heat.   No mess, it's leaves, when said and done, dies to fertilize the lawn then bringing life to others here  grows green again, without a care.   Ron Purtlebaugh      June Bug June     Indiana, sweet Indiana, the magic you imbue, my home, my home, my heartland home, the wonder of your changing hues in red gold yellow'd autumn trees, well do I remember you. Where as a youngster I did ply your two-lane asphalt winding roads along your lovely hillsides lie, soybeans clasped dark sandy loam,  cornfield rows I played and roamed,  creeks and ponds I fished upon. Clovered fields I wandered through stealing to that special place, that nook, that niche on Indian Creek, 'midst dragonflies and evening time, bullfrogs sang their lonely tune, sparkling 'neath the diamond sky, lightning bugs, a June Bug June.   Ron Purtlebaugh     To Live To Die To Fertilize   I was talkin' to an elderly lady, 'bout a week ago it seems,  speakin' of lawns and gardens and homes and all, she said, "magnolia trees are much too much a mess, what with the leaves, the seeds and blooms that fall." I asked her, "Ain't that life?" "Plants need leaves to fall,  leaves have a personal call to keep things green." "Isn't fertilizing life,