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A PLACE WITHOUT POLITICS

Weather and worn knees kept me inside
where the T.V. bombarded me
with questions of which side lied
no news of joy or levity.

At last I said well curse the cold
put on my old worn red plaid coat
all I was doing was growing mold
put on my boots and crossed the moat

Which divides real world and media
time to see what's really real
not just words from encyclopedia
but things which I can touch and feel.

Down the steps then cross the drive
then around back to the hill side
where oak trees grow and all's alive
I watch my step so I don't slide

For the hill is wet and steep
and I've fallen here before
so I slowly, carefully creep
on old knees already sore

Staff grasped firmly in my hand
I take some steps and look around
at a familiar yet new land
listening to forest's sound.

The ancient terraces are steep
where cotton was grown so long ago
but now just honeysuckle vines creep
beneath where tall trees spread and grow.

I spy a squirrel digging acorns in the duff
he knows naught of politics
He lives and eats and that's enough
while he burrows among the leaves and sticks

I circle so I won't scare him away
And find myself on a game trail
on this clear cold winter day
where sun is weak and pale.

Soon I reach the little spring
which trickles along the ridge's base
I pause as a coyote starts to sing
which wipes the sternness from my face

Old legs can't jump this little spring
and it's too cold to let my feet get wet
so I do the wisest thing
I'm old but not quite senile yet

I turn to follow the spring's way
and scan the woods on either side
then see fresh deer tracks in the clay
the tracks are both long and wide

A barred owl asks "who cooks for you"
and a woodcock erupts beneath my feet
then swerves and flies out of my view
around here he's a rare treat.

I keep limping right along
and approach a field on the far side
where doves sing their mournful song
as they court their next spring's bride

I turn my head and see eyes glued on me
we stare at each other in surprise
as big a buck as there could be
to get so old he must be wise

Then he snorts and turns to run
his white tail waving me goodby
the freest thing beneath the sun
free until the day he'll die

And I find that I'm smiling at last
worries shed like a cheap coat
My future is not yet cast
my steps now firm, I almost float

If that deer can be so free
not worried about what might be
then at last I finally see
these faux crises don't affect me

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 
Content level: 
Not Explicit Content

Comments

All I was doing was (growing) mold? Did you mean?
And what is Staff grasped in hand? Just never heard that

A very hopeful and beautifully written poem. Of course things change and none of us particularly like it when it is possibly for the worst, however you seem to find exceptance and much peace within this and it shows us all we can go on regardless, Stan politics and politians are only as good as the job they do. In anycase, You have written this one with your heart on sleeve Sir. Outstanding imagery and I love that buck, he was there to show you it's all.ok.

Thank you...Teddy

Yep should have been growing. Kinda surprised you never heard of a walking staff though.I have one made of a sampling which was twisted by a honeysuckle vine which I used quite a bit when in rugged country. Thanks for the visit

author comment

the Stan that I know! Scansion be damned, full speed ahead on this trek to peacefulness! As always, I really enjoyed our little hike in the woods. Your knowledge of the forest and animals, gives me the sense that I am right there! Loved it! ~ Gee.
.

Announcing the new chatroom! I will be hosting a chatroom on Saturday nights
from 8pm until 9pm [EST] this coming Saturday. Stop in and
shoot the breeze with the Geez. Our Chatroom is open 24/7
.

Damn the torpedoes......er scansion and full speed ahead lol. Thanks for looking over my shoulder during this trek

author comment

Stan for such an amazing stroll. Happy you could find a way out of politics. You last stanza sums it up. Exquisite imagery all through!

❤❤❤❤❤❤

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words
........Robert Frost☺

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Thank you for dropping by

author comment

Enjoyed taking this mind-clearing hike with you Stan! Really liked the flow and rhythm, and these stanzas especially:

The ancient terraces are steep
where cotton was grown so long ago
but now just honeysuckle vines creep
beneath where tall trees spread and grow.

I spy a squirrel digging acorns in the duff
he knows naught of politics
He lives and eats and that's enough
while he burrows among the leaves and sticks

Well crafted piece!

Cheers

Michael Anthony

I am pleased to have had you drop by and enjoy this little scribble

author comment

Thank you for this beautiful, relaxing, and peaceful poem. I could not help but take a deep breath of relief as I read it, and I felt along with you some of my worries slide away.

A place without politics is a wonderful one to visit, particularly now in such troubling times. Beautiful and incredible poem; I loved it. :)

..................................................
https://meanderingbackward.blogspot.com
"The true alchemists do not turn lead into gold; they turn the world into words." -William H. Gass

Thank you for the visit. The woods have served as a sanctuary for me most of my life. When I can share the sanctum with another I am pleased

author comment
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