St.Augustine   Under The Poem Tree With Ron Purtlebaugh     GOD BLESS AMERICA  NATURE  LOVE & BEAUTY  MEANDERINGS POEM TREE LEAVESNONSENSE & HUMORWANDERING WORDS INDEXTABLE OF CONTENTS BRANCHES AND TWIGSCOMMENTS & LINKS               JUST TWO PORPOISE IN THE BAY   FROM LIONS BRIDGE, A WALK ACROSS, 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 TRIPPING 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,  TWO AT PLAY ARE QUICKLY FOUR, ALWAYS SEEM TO COME IN PAIRS, THEN THEY'RE GONE,  LEAVING ME IN YEARNING, TOO, WANTING MORE, "WHAT DID YOU SEE?" A PASSERBY, ASKING AS I TURN AWAY, "JUST TWO PORPOISE IN THE BAY."   RON PURTLEBAUGH         PETER O'NEILL MELODIES IN CANVAS TIME ST. AUGUSTINE, FLORIDA   HOW FREQUENTLY MY EYES DETOUR, AND YET I FIND ME OFTEN LURED, BY SIMPLE, CLEAR, UNCLUTTERED VIEWS, SO PASSING BY A WINDOW SAW, OLD BRUSHES LOITER IN A JAR, RETIRED FROM CHORES AND NEARBY STANDING, QUITE IGNORED,  BENT SPENT CAP LESS TUBES OF PAINT, BID ME STOP AND LOOK SOME MORE. THE SPARSITY, CREATIVELY, WELCOMED ME TO TAKE RETREAT, TO SEE WHAT PETER O'NEILL SEES, WHAT HE CAPTURED, HANGING IN HIS GALLERY, DOWN ON ST. GEORGE STREET.   WHERE OPENED WIDE, BREATHTAKING VIEWS, IN OILS PLIED WITH STRONG BOLD STROKES, BROKE WITH STABS AND DABS AND FANS, AND RENDERED NEAR AS FAITHFUL, TOO, COLORS OF THE WATER'S EDGE. AND  HAD I BEEN ATTIRED FOR, A SWIM AT A-STREET BEACH, I WOULD HAVE STEPPED INTO A FRAME, TO LIE UPON THE SANDY BEACH, THAT CALLED TO ME, THAT PETER CAUGHT, IN A FIFTIES SORT OF WAY, (IN THIS UNLEARNED POET'S GAZE) REMINDING ME OF DAYS GONE BY, ON THE BEACH, A BOY PLAYS TOILING WITH HIS PAIL, A SUMMER'S DAY, EVERYBOY, WITH EVERY NAME. OR SLIPPED INTO ANOTHER FRAME,    A SUMMER'S EVE, LAMP POSTS LIT IN FAILING LIGHT, OF PINK BLUE SKIES AND WINDOW LIGHTS IN SILHOUETTE, AND NEARLY COULD I FEEL THE BREEZE,  FLUTTERED, TURNING TINY LEAVES, WAFTING THROUGH THE LIMBS AND TREES, CANVAS CAPTURED, STILL IT BREATHES, THE ST. GEORGE STREET, THAT PETER SEES.   THE SIMPLE WELCOME AT THE DOOR, BELIES THE PASSION PETER CAUGHT, WITH SABLE ON HIS CANVAS RIGS, THE COLORS AND THE FEELINGS, HIS, AND BLESSED IN THIS, HE SHARES WITH US, FOR WHAT HE SEES, HE PAINTS AND GIVES.   IN MY LITERARY TASK, TO OPEN WIDE THE CITY GATES, TO USHER THOSE WHO MAY NOT KNOW, THE SIGHTS AND SMELLS AND OLD WORLD CHARM, ST. AUGUSTINE, THE PLACE WE LOVE, WE FEW CALL HOME, STILL DAILY FIND MYSELF AMAZED, AND BLESSED, ALLOWED TO SET MY GAZE, ON SUCH A TALENT, BLOOMING PASSION, THAT AT ONCE, DEFIES, DEFINES, FULL EMPTY SKIES, WARRING COLORS, SEVERED, CUT, UNBROKEN LINES, PETER'S POETRY IN OILS, MELODIES,  IN CANVAS TIME.    RON PURTLEBAUGH           UNDER MY OWN POEM TREE     JUST BELOW THE INLET SOUTH OF OLD MATANZAS BAY BOASTS THE COASTS COQUINA CRAGS IN ALL THEIR FINE ARRAY SMOOTHED BY TIDE AND SURF AND TIME, TIDE POOLS LINE THE WAY BRINGING SUSTENANCE TO GULLS WHERE  SAND CRABS LIKE TO PLAY  THE BRIGHT ORANGE SUN THAT LIGHTS THE DAWN IN HEAVENLY DISPLAY AS ORANGE TURNS LIGHT, ALLOWS THIS SIGHT THIS ARENA OF WAR , THIS BATTLE FOR SHORE WHERE SEA AND LAND, RECLAIM THE SAND FIRST BEACH, THEN SHORE, FOUR TIMES A DAY THIS IS WHERE I LIKE TO COME, TO WALK AND THINK, TO DREAM AND SEE, IT GIVES ME SHADE, BUT HAS NO LEAVES THE LAND, THE SEA, MY POEM TREE.     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        JORKEN'S BOOKS ST. AUGUSTINE, FLORIDA   USED WELL USED AND BROKEN BOOKS JORKEN TOOK THE TIME TO SAY, THESE BOOKS WERE TREASURED TIME AFORE, FORSOOK THEY SHANT BE, HAPS ANOTHER COMES A DAY SEEKING WORDS WELL READ, AND SHOULD, THEY STOOD AGAINST THE SANDS OF TIME, THE ELVES, THE HELPS, ROMANCE, LONG FORGOTTEN TIMES, RHYMING LINES AND DICTIONARIES ROW ON ROW, WHERE HISTORY KEEPS IT'S FAMILY TREE LINED AS CHILDREN, KEPT WELL CARED, WAITING FOR A CHANCE TO LIVE AGAIN, AGAIN TO LIVE AGAIN, AND BREATHE TO SHARE ANOTHER'S HANDS AND WAITS IT'S TURN UPON THE SHELF. WERE IT SOMEHOW GIV'N TO ME, CHANCE TO BE A WRITTEN WORD NO GAUDY PERFUMED TRAVEL GUIDE, NO PEDESTAL, IN A LIMESTONE  EDIFICE, BUT IN THE SERFDOM OF THE SHELVES OF JORKEN'S BOOKS, SO MARK ME LIGHTLY, BEND ME NOT MY BACK AND EARS, I LONG TO LIVE ANOTHER DAY, LIKE WORDS INSPIRED GIVEN HERE, WATERED WELL, A THOUSAND TEARS, IN MY HEART, GROWN AND NURTURED, TENDED TO, IN SAVING WORDS, THAT YOU MIGHT KNOW FROM WHENCE IT CAME, THE BEAUTY OF THE WRITTEN WORD.   RON PURTLEBAUGH        POEM TREE ISLE   THERE'S AN ORCHARD I KNOW OF, FOR POEM TREES JUST A COUPLE MILES EAST OF ST. AUGUSTINE BEACH. FROM ANASTASIA ISLAND, IT'S JUST OUT OF SIGHT BUT, THE ISLE CAN'T BE REACHED BY FLOAT OR BY FLIGHT. I ONCE KNEW A MAN, TRIED IT ONE FALL, IN A FIFTY FOOT BOAT, WHEN UP CAME A SQUALL, THAT TURNED IN A BLINK TO A FIERCE HURRICANE, AND FLIPPED O'ER THE BOAT WITH IT'S TWENTY FOOT WAVES, BEFORE IT WAS CAPSIZED AND SHATTERED TO BITS, OF PIECES OF ROPE AND SPLINTERS AND BOARDS AND SENT TO IT'S GRAVE, IN DAVEY JONES' LOCKER IN THE COLD STILL WATERS OF THE DARK OCEAN FLOOR, IN A MIGHTY SWIRLING FUNNEL, IT PICKED UP THE MAN, CARRYING HIM WEST, TWO MILES INLAND. THEN DROPPING HIM GENTLY, IN THE DEEP  SOFT SAND, THANKFUL AND GLAD, IN PEACEFUL RELEASE, IN THE SHADE HE COULD FEEL,  'NEATH HIS OWN POEM TREE HE FELL FAST ASLEEP AND STARTED TO DREAM, FASTER THAN THE BEAT OF A HONEYBEE WING, IN A SOLITARY MOMENT, THE BLINK OF AN EYE, HE WAS LYING IN THE ORCHARD ON  POEM TREE ISLE.    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, 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, AND 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       ON POPE ROAD, SANTANDER WAY   AS I AWOKE, THIS EARLY MORN HEARING ROBINS OUTDOOR SING PREGNANT IS THE EARTH TODAY  SONG OF SPRING, THAT'S COMING SURE EGRETS ON THEIR EARLY WALKS ON POPE ROAD, SANTANDER WAY GNARLED SCRUB OAKS, WINTER SHORN  PATIENT, WAIT THEIR HAIR OF GREEN SOUTH OF OLD ST. AUGUSTINE  BY THE PIER THE BLUE BLACKBIRDS ENVIOUS HOW GULLS WILL PLAY BET THEY WONDER WHY THEY CAN'T STAY ALOFT, STRAIGHT UP THAT WAY AS I WATCHED THE DAY UNFOLD A FRIEND DREW NEAR FROM LONG AGO SAID, "WHAT'CHA YA' DOIN', WAY OUT HERE, YOU'VE  NO BOOK OR PEN IN HAND, WHAT'CHA YA' DOIN' BY THE PIER?" "I'M DOWN HERE, MOST EVERYDAY, I ALWAYS MAKE MY PICK-UP HERE, SOME COME FOR THE COOLING  BREEZE I COME DOWN FOR POETRY, EVERYTHING'S IN MOTION HERE,  PERFECT, STILL, I LOVE THE SEA.   Ron Purtlebaugh   A-STREET PARADE     OUR WHITE FEATHERED HOST, ALONE SITS HIS POST ONE OF FOUR, OVER A STREET BEACH. AN UNDULATING ROW, A VERITABLE STREAM, GIRLS IN THIN THONGS, SIDE BY SIDE, ONE BY ONE. CRUISIN' NEARBY, BOYS IN THEIR  RIDES,  BOOM BOXES SCREAMING FROM HOT WHEELED MACHINES GO SLOW LONG THE WAY TO BE THE PARADE, BY BROWN BODIES GLISTENING WITH ONLY A STRING. A BEAUTIFUL SITE, A FRIEND FINDS OUR HOST,  TAKING IT IN, THERE'S TWO ON THE POSTS. THE MOVING PARADE, A BIKER SLIPS IN,  A PICK-UP PULLS UP, SQUEEZES IN BY A FRIEND,  A KITE STILL IN FLIGHT TIED TO THE BED, INTO THE WIND, OUR HOST SLIPS HIS POST  AS TWO STRING BIKINIS RISE UP FROM THE SAND. HEADS DOWN BUT HELD HIGH TO THE INCOMING TIDE BOYS WATCH AS THEY MOVE FROM THE CORNERS OF EYES, THE SLINKING TAN BEAUTYS, TAWNY AND LEAN, OUR HOST ONCE AGAIN TO THE POST BY HIS FRIEND. A FREE FLYING FRISBEE IS LOST TO THE SURF, TO RECOVER IT FIRST A RACE NOW ENSUES, PERHAPS TO BE CLOSER TO GIRLS AS THEY GROOVE, LIKE  BOYS LOVING GIRLS, LOVELY GIRLS TAKE IT IN WITH  NEVER A NOTICE, (THEY TRY NOT TO SHOW,  I ONCE WAS A BOY SO THERE'S THINGS I STILL KNOW.)  A THIRD NOW JOINS IN, OUR HOST AND HIS FRIEND A BOY IN A CAR, A GIRL AND HER PAL, THE PARADE IS REKINDLED, IN THE HOT SUN AGAIN.   RON PURTLEBAUGH      THE SLAVE MARKET   WHERE BRICK STREETS MEET  THE SLAVE MARKET STANDS  SQUIRRELS AT PLAY, PEFORMING FOR TOURISTS, WOULD THAT IT ALWAYS HAD BEEN, AT QUIET TIMES, WHEN MOST STAY HOME, OR  WHEREVER THEY HEAD, WHEN TOURISTS GO HOME THESE ARE THE TIMES, FOR THOSE WHO CAN HEAR, THE HISTORY NEAR SEEPS,  BUYERS IN STREETS, HAWKERS AND SELLERS RING CLEAR.   "ONE THOUSAND, SOLD!" THEY LEAPED TO THEIR FEET "STEP DOWN, YA' GOTTA' NEW HOME!" THE DEW ON THE GROUND, SQUIRRELS SCAMPER AROUND, WET IN THE TEARS OF MOTHERS TIGHT BOUND, TEARDROPS AND BLOOD, SOAKING THE GROUND BREAST SUCKLED KIDS RIPPED AWAY ANGUISHING CRIES THAT SEEPED TO MAKE MUD IN DEW THAT IS STILL WET TODAY. CLIP CLOPPING PAST, TOWN'S LOVELY VIEW, TOURISTS, WHERE RODE BLACKS BEFORE, HALF NAKED, CHAINED, YEARNING FOR LIFE  FREEDOM AND LIFES DIGNITY. THEY'D HAVE IT OFT' SAID,  IT NEVER HAPPENED HERE,  DENIAL WILL NOT RIGHT THE ERROR, SHAME ON THE MAN, EVER SOLD A MAN, NO MATTER THE NAME THAT IT'S CALLED. AND BE IT THIS SQUARE, THAT BLOCK OR STREET, THE SHAME REMAINS ALLTHE SAME,  STILL THEY GROW OLD,TAGGING THEIR HEIRS, THE CHILDREN IRREVERANT NAMES.    THOSE STILL WALKING THE MAGNOLIA STREETS, SPOUTING, "IT NEVER HAPPENED HERE" THESE ARE THE ONES I'M WRITING THIS TO, SITTING, AS SQUIRRELS PLAY THE SQUARE THESE ARE THE ONES, I'LL FIGHT FOR MY LIFE TO LIVE AND NEVER TO FEAR AS LONG AS THERE'S SLAVERY REARING IT'S HEAD, THE WORLD, ANYPLACE, ANYWHERE, AS LONG AS WIND, STILL HAS STRENGTH TO SEND, THE MUSIC OF SWEET FREEDOM'S  SONG, AS LONG AS AN EAR IS  LEFT THAT CAN HEAR. AS LONG AS MY LIFE CARRIES ON.   RON PURTLEBAUGH       ANOTHER DAY, ST.AUGUSTINE BEACH     I GET UP AT FOUR AND OPEN THE DOOR TO HERALD A BRAND NEW DAY, STEPPING OUTSIDE, GOOD MORNING I BID THE STARS IN THE MILKY WAY. A DIM YELLOW GLOW, HANGS IN THE WEST, WON'T BE OF LONG, THE EAST HORIZON, A BREATHTAKING VIEW, A BURST OF IT'S OWN, A RED BALL OF SUN WILL MAKE ITSELF KNOWN, JUST LIKE IT DID YESTERDAY.   I LOVE THE WAY THIS CONSTANCY CHANGES AND STAYS THE SAME, THE SAND AND SURF'S SEA OATS DUNED TURF, EVER CHANGING BUT ALWAYS THE SAME. OR NEARLY SO. SEEMS EVERYDAY. A PERMANENCE AND STRENGTH, THE OCEAN FLOOR  NEAR, THIS  BATTLE'S BEEN WAGING FOR AGES EVEN BEFORE THERE WAS LIGHT, PERHAPS NOT A WAR,  THE TWO LEARNED TO SHARE, WATER TO HERE, LAND OVER THERE, MEETING AND PLAYING THE MIDDLE SOMEWHERE.   YES, I BELIEVE, I'LL THINK IT THAT WAY, IT GIVES ME A PLACE TO CLING TO EACH DAY,  A PLACE FOR THE CRABS TO DIG IN AGAIN, UNCOVERED BY INCOMING WAVES,  A PLACE FOR THE PELICANS SITTING AND STARING, THEN  NARY A WORD....THEIR OFF TO SOMEWHERE.  A PLACE FOR THE KIDS TO SPLASH AWAY FEEDING THE GULLS THAT DIVE AND PLAY,  A PLACE FOR OTHERS TO WALK AND DREAM, SOMEWHAT LIKE ME WHERE BLOWING TIDE WINDS MAKE THE SEA OATS LEAN, SUNBATHERS RELAXING, TURNING BRIGHT RED, FORGETTING TO USE THEIR SUNSCREEN. YES.....I LOVE THE WAY IT'S ALWAYS THE SAME, YET CHANGING WITH EVERY NEW DAY.   RON PURTLEBAUGH           FULL MOON OVER BIKE WEEK   THE BIG MAN CAME AND RODE HIS BIKE SAW HIS HEADLIGHT HANGING THERE CRUISIN' DOWN THE OLD COAST ROAD  OUR BIKE WEEK HOST DAYTONA BOUND  SCENIC STRIPE OF WHITE DASHED BLACK THROUGH ST. AUGUSTINE, MY HOMETOWN TOOLIN' DOWN, FEET THROWN OUT, LEANIN' BACK, SLICING THROUGH THE SEA SALT AIR WHAT A SIGHT, DOWN A1A. HOGS AND INDIANS, FAT BOBS, CHOPPERS HARD TAILS, SOFT TAILS, ROCKIN' MAMAS SINGLE THUMPERS, CUSTOM TRIKES A WONDERLAND OF SLEEK MACHINES (SOME SLIPS IN ON BACKS OF TRUCKS, SAYS)  "GOTTA' NICE BIKE, I REALLY DON'T RIDE." AND EVERY NIGHT, THE BIG MAN'S LIGHT, O'ER THE OCEAN, HANGING THERE LIT UP TWENTY THOUSAND BIKES COME TOGETHER, WEARING LEATHERS BOOTS AND JEANS AND JAME'S GANG DUSTERS BLOWED IN FROM ALL US QUARTERS SINGLES, PAIRS, UNENDING CLUSTERS MUSTERED IN NEAR PERFECT WEATHER WITH THE MAMAS, CHICKS AND GALS FRONT OR BACK, MAKES NO MATTER DOWN AT BIKE WEEK, PALS ARE PALS FAIRS AN' HAWKERS, T-SHIRTS, FUMES GUYS LIKE ME THAT LOVE THE SMELLS BEER FLOWED COLD, WARMED OLD FRIENDS  COME TOGETHER, BIKE WEEK AGAIN ONE THING SURE A RIDER OUGHTA' DO COUNT ON THE BIG MAN BEIN' THERE TOO, COME ON DOWN IN 2002.   RON PURTLEBAUGH       Anastasia Books, Thinking Works Books And More St. Augustine, Florida   'Cross the Lions Bridge and down, about a block and heading south I chanced a glance, a westward look,  there, a building's low outline, a sign jumped out, "Anastasia Books",  "Thinking Works" so having not a place to go, I thought myself to look around.    Ambling in to shelves of books, used and rare that cared to share, though most had done so, times before, history and tales of elves, row on row, celebrities,  helps, and reference books to delve, the sciences and therapies, (though to a simple mind like me, unneeded most, if folks would read.) A gallery, of words, indeed. Expansive, is the word to mind, so many books, so little time,  each one begging, quietly. "Come take me home, I've done it once, I'll do it 'gain a thousand times." Romance, a glance, that tells me sure, this the thing on many minds, I ask not why, for well I know, by just a simple look above, if not for love, what thing bestows such happiness, such peace of mind. "Please take me home, for here within these several leaves, you'll find a place and help me breathe, to live again. More opportune, I importune, no time could ever be, can't you see I sit this crowd with nothing more than waiting for to come with you, to whisper to, take you where your mind can soar, to cry out loud or shout with you, take you inside, looking out, or 'round the world to see the sights, the Paris lights, the hills of Rome, the midnight sun that blesses Nome. So take me 'way and bring me back, then my friends who sit the row,  your left and right, to either side, will be here waiting patiently, just like me, as I am now, for you to come and set them free."   Ron Purtlebaugh        A Homeless Man, St.Augustine   Wearied well, the tooth of age for one who crept the streets, and meet for him, the blanket shelved old and worn, upon his back, for winter nights, as cold as hell, in summertime, a seat. Would that I could, but would not he, accept a single dime, excepting for the penny found in charities sweet time. Would stop at once, to pick it up, saving in his broken cup, as money earned, is money found. I cry to help him, if I could but should I ask, "Oh no!" "I'm fine, my friend, because you see, I've little yet to go." "Perhaps a ride, a job, of kind," his answer, still the same, "I can't afford the time to wait, I'm going down the road a bit, I really haven't time." "Pray tell, a meal," I quickly ask, "or join me for a cup?" "But, no," says he, in soft reply "I thank you very much, yes, perhaps, a ride will do, but dressed like this, I have no wish, of any kind to put you out, to trouble you, or be, Sir, on your mind." "No trouble, Sir," is my response, "An honor, yes, indeed, and if perchance, you change your mind, a meal, you'll see with me." "On second thought, the time you've bought, taking time to speak, it really seems, is all I need, to see me through the day. If you'll not see me too ingrate, I'll thank you very much, and move myself along a bit, I wish you, Sir, good day.   Ron Purtlebaugh          On Visiting K.David Brown Art Gallery   Exploded silence, unsuspecting, from behind...while lost inspecting poetry, applied with sable brush on canvas, oil so able, speaks a poem-whispered sonnet, story told...with no word on it. "May I help you?"  Silence broken, Artist to his patron spoken. (But his words, more surely said by wall arrayed, do fill my head.) Warming blues in metered rhyme, Mr. Brown has captured time, causing me to see anew a window from this painter's view. Adjectives and verbs aglow in every matte, his poem told. Verses sweet in changing hue... (thinks I,) a poem's a painting too. But alas, I'll never see, a poem in a gallery, though seems to me they're quite the same... a painting or a poem framed.   Ron Purtlebaugh       FOR MILES TO GO  dedicated to my nephew Miles Halstead and the person I miss most, Mr. Robert Frost   Dr. Baloos, lives by the sea, two miles south of Anastasia beach, I'm quite proud to say, he's a good friend to me, I came to know well, to a very large degree, caring for used, discarded and abused, oftentimes lost poem trees. There's nothing I know like a poem tree lot, walking down rows, gazing in slots, looking in barrels, boxes and pots. They're layered below, stacked to the side, some are in books, some in com dots, some are in shells. some are deep wells, some like a flower, have a most pleasant smell. Some have no place, but still they have space, like 'Kindness,' by name, you just see their trace. There's a very long row, named 'Hopes and Daydreams,' Baloos, though he's tried, can't stack side by side, but Dr. Baloos, finds room as he can, stacking them straight to the sky! They seem without number, 'bout a billion and three, they're all the same cost, priceless and free. The strangest word row, my favorite part, some that haven't been dicovered! Beginning with aaaaabbezendorium, ending in zzzzzeckelflufuvered! And right in the middle, stands a great large sign:   Rules for the poem tree lot are listed in speczintintuber!   (Another word that's not been discovered!) It's easy to visit and easier to see, used and abused, unused poem trees, just lay your head down on something real soft, close your eyes tight as you start to drift off, picture yourself, what you most want to be, with Dr. Baloos, and a book by the sea, as sleep takes it's toll, you'll wake up to be, in a poem tree dream, 'neath your own poem tree.   Ron Purtlebaugh           Home   TABLE OF  CONTENTS  INDEX  ABOUT THE AUTHOR BACK TO TOP    These are my poems, you can use or reprint them only with easily granted permission ©copyright 2001 by Ron Purtlebaugh all rights reserved UNDER THE POEM TREE©  IS A REGISTERED TRADEMARK OF I02NODESIGNS ron@underthepoemtree.com