Our purpose in life is once again given to us,

upon our conscience awaking.

The breath that expands our lungs is the gift of a new day.

We could easily leave this life under the guise of slumber,

but as our feet touch the solid surface of the next morning,

we move from the past.

Inhale, exhale and fill our existence,

with the freedom of life-giving air.

We all exchange the same molecules,

which extends the stay here on earth.

This present moment is new life,

this moment is our next chance,

to qualify for the future.

We need to step softly or to step boldly,

but always step forward,

for life give no reward for stepping back.

Tribute to a Lady                  

The essence of the Chesapeake Bay will always be symbolized,

by one true sailing vessel, the Skipjack.

Time is etched in the deep furrows of the worn, wooden decks,

the spirit of the oystermen forever displayed,

in the stained copper plates which cover their cypress hulls.

Recall the seasons when this heavy-hulled workboat,

tilled the bay’s floor in search of shellfish.

Using only mainsail and tiller to provide direction,

the waterman repeated an ageless ritual, once the life blood of the bay,

only now a hallowed memory.

The unfurling of canvas sails and stringing of hemp nets,

characterized the daily duties of the oystermen.

Daybreak was greeted by raised mainsails and haul lines,

straining against the winch drum, anticipating a bountiful result.

The oysters are hauled aboard and culled by these merchants of the Chesapeake.

The oystermen possessed a keen eye and deep respect for the bounty,

sorting the catch, more an art than drudgery.

Rejected oysters are returned to the deep,

the remaining catch provided the ultimate feast for the palate.

But now, the winches lay silent and the decks are empty.

Deep waters of the bay have given this vessel character, her independence,

but time has exacted a heavy toll from the heritage she once helped to shape.

Final respects can be paid to these mighty, wooden symbols,

residing quietly in harbors and museums worthy of their presence.

Visitors stand next to the gunnels of these majestic giants,

dreaming of a time when men, who had a deep love for wood and the bay,

combined their spirits to sail the Chesapeake.

I stood in a solitary place for what seemed a lifetime,

but only a few moments.

I witnessed a most spectacular event,

the coming of the dawn!

At that exact moment,

the sun broke the horizon and lifted to the heavens,

appearing from behind a shroud of trees.

A fireball of light with such strength,

I reluctantly had to shield my eyes.

With one continuous push this miracle of our existence,

once again gave us a new day.

I was humbled by the sight but energized,

thankful I lived this exact moment in time.

If one does not take the time to recognize the gift of a new day,

then they indeed miss the true meaning of being alive.

Images of Winter Magic 

                                                                        By: Greg Clarke, 122420 

Hours ahead of sunrise, the woods are dark, swallowing the night hours,

holding them until dawn provides the edge of light.

Polar temperatures descended upon the wintery landscape,

the sunrise attempts to spell the morning chill.

An evening snow has blanketed white crystalline fields,

snow-tipped cedars have been dusted with culinary perfection!

High above, strong northwest winds glide across the bright lunar shadow,

nearby homes burn ash and oak for warmth, swirling plumes of smoke,

bringing to the senses a familiar fragrance.

Sitting as a willing participant to nature’s seasonal gift,

it is comforting to know there is a serene presence,

which can transform the winds of the season,

to provide magical inspiration.

Leaves fall like tears on the season,

once again join with the good earth,

an age-old story to repeat the season,

coming to rest after providing their worth.

The lattice of fall has replaced the mantle of summer,

colors of red and yellow and umber unite,

meeting the frosty dawn which holds quite a bite.

I silently walk the painted trail through tiny shards of ice,

always a pleasure, never a price.

My steps are softened by a carpet of color,

their final task before going asunder.

Created to give life to us all,

the very breath I take,

I pay homage to their fall.

Each step taken displays my breath,

my life force revealed,

giving thanks to the leaves as they fall,

a job well-done, another chapter sealed.

Humble am I as I sit in nature’s lap,

a mere scribe with a pen,

grateful to describe my seasonal friend,

the tears of a season that slowly descend.

Evidence pools on the surface of the placid morning lake,

tales of the previous night’s activities.

The evening hatch has settled,

a hungry population below readies to take advantage of this special feast.

Bracing for a morning adventure,

a home crafted fly lands gracefully with presentation,

a perfect imitation of an already perfect creation.

The fisher has cast his knowledge and his gratitude upon the surface.

The disguise resting on the water is placed to tempt the rise,

producing an explosion fueled by instinct and power.

He finds himself wading in the life blood of the earth,

connected to the lake by hook and line.

No matter the outcome,

his cast holds anticipation and excitement.

It is not the fly that has caught the fish,

but the fish providing the fisherman a reason to smile,

filling his heart with respect.

He has blended nature into his creation,

the catch has paid homage to his efforts.

Mutual respect bonds them together,

when fish meets landing net.

As he holds in his hands this creature of the earth,

he records the moment in his memory,

knowing too that he is cradled by the hands of nature.

Fish On!!”

A bracing morning breeze held the twilight of the dawn,

with a thin layer of crystalline frost.

The pending day presented stratified colors through a prism of jet plumes,

bound for an early destination.

I stand at the precipice of another month’s journey,

reminiscing of the previous day’s past.

As another page in the calendar is turned,

thirty days have passed and I recall,

memories of each day, holding court in my thoughts.

Can the future embrace each waking moment,

hold wonder through the next thirty days?

This morning, I noticed a full moon reserved in the western sky,

I was reassured that the power within the light,

holds the brilliance of the future in the coming days.

Embrace the gift of each waking moment,

it holds the splendor and wonder of your next thought.

A winter cold front roars across the hilltop,

meeting the western sunset as it cast shadows,

 signaling twilight above the settled land.

Trees tipped with fire from the sun,

 display the colors of their season past.

Ages have passed across these golden fields,

 as the soybean stands tall in the sunset glow.

The dirt below holds the spirit of the harvest,

which rises to the sunlight,

absorbing the power of the rays.

Life is given to the seeds through the years,

supported by this ancient soil.

History resides in this soil,

 which has seen the plow for decades.

Feeling the full brunt of the season,

 the seeds hold tight to the stalk,

 until harvest sets their spirit free.

Sitting quietly on the edge of this field,

my heart beholds this wondrous moment.

I once again have come to admire,

the power and brilliance of nature’s spirit,

renewed by the soil upon which I tread.

The lush tones of the fall shades,

sparkle in the dim light of sunset.

No time are they more intense,

than when the spotlight of evening is cast upon them.

This view from my blind overtakes the reason for being here.

Maybe deep down this is the true purpose.

Once again, as seasons change,

I am back as if I never left this exact moment. 

The excitement is not in the sight of game but to just be.

The half-moon hangs close to the treetops,

waiting its turn to rule the evening.

As the curtain of color dims before the evening hours,

shadows cross like a sundial across the golden fields,

day becomes night and I am blessed with a front row seat.   

I look and listen and wait for the gift of darkness to own the day.

I am set adrift into the sunset of this place,

enjoying the essence of nature’s gift.

If no game appears so be it,

the gift is in the moment and the reason that I return……again.