Old houses are monuments to lives past, to stories told only on the whispering tongue of the evening breeze. They are the lingering testament to the hopes, dreams, and achievements of fellow travelers through this life journey, now relegated to faint echoes in the vast halls of the cosmos. Whether ghost linger or not, one can hardly say, but all old houses are haunted by something.
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Witch Spell
The house is so silent now,
I cannot bear to sit any longer.
Alone on this stump, I am cold,
Colder still to feel the sun
Of that morning
When these roots had life.
I hear a gust of wind picking up,
No branches for it to sway,
Just the gate hinges recalling the days
Of shade and laughter on the grass.
I think I should rise, meet it, him
The old man gone from his arm chair.
Were his knees newer, maybe he too
Would rise to see it.
He saw the colors it had before.
He rose on other days,
And walked the garden path
To the field beyond the shed.
The plots are fallow now,
Unplowed for some time,
Rows of posts still tied by rusted wire,
But not so tight as in times past
A few winters away from complete emancipation,
Though they must be too warped and weathered to care.
I fear the hedge is grown beyond hope.
No shears will bend its ways now.
The dead spot where the old tabby used
To bear her kittens has widened some,
Not so much that it wouldn’t still do
For cat shelter, or even a mouse.
The ghost should be gone since
He dragged the skeleton out with his hoe,
And buried the soul beneath the walnut tree.
He’ll not need the space any longer.
He’s hoed no more than tabby’s bones
For many summers.
A fine patch of fuzzy weeds grows
Where the strawberries did.
Memories of pumpkins, and grape vines,
And frosted plums come to mind.
A few rattling corn stalks are still standing
Like some deserted, Navaho graveyard.
A wind blows long and low, across the open rows –
A conscience burdened with past vice,
Or mirth simply expired,
As the whispering of witches,
Not in spell and conjuring,
But in repentance and remorse,
Or maybe just the cat.
I think I’ll rise and find it.#halloween
~ Daniel F Mitchell
http://www.gardenofpoetry.com
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This video footage comes from rural eastern Washington State. – AOWS Editor
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Sad Lofi Trap Type Beat, Chill [ NO COPYRIGHT ] [ FREE HIP HOP MUSIC ] middle child - emotional
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#Halloween #abandonedhouse #hauntedhouse
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Living in the here and now is of paramount importance for our overall well-being and personal growth. It allows us to fully engage with the present moment, appreciating the beauty and richness of life that surrounds us. When we focus on the present, we can experience greater joy, gratitude, and mindfulness. It enables us to make meaningful connections with the people around us and savor the small, often overlooked pleasures of life. Moreover, living in the present helps us manage stress and anxiety by reducing our preoccupation with the past or the uncertainties of the future. By embracing the here and now, we cultivate a deeper sense of contentment and fulfillment, making each day a gift to be cherished rather than a mere stepping stone to some distant destination.
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“I have realized that the past and future are real illusions, that they exist in the present, which is what there is and all there is.” ― Alan Wilson Watts
‧₊˚✩ ?✩˚₊‧ ༘⋆ ‧₊˚✩ ?✩˚₊‧ ༘⋆
I Am Wont
Bodies which through eternal midnight glide,
Riding the tide to alien abodes,
Upon these cobblestones of foreign roads,
In jaunting flights of fancy, I abide.
I am wont to think my beginning has an end.
Swallow swooping through the evening eaves,
Oblivion ash upon the damp air,
It grieves me to know the how and the where –
The why and the will that your course so weaves.
I am wont to think that ignorance is my friend.
Leaves clinging feebly to the bosom prong,
Rattling fingers of February’s clutch,
Rabbit terror huddling in my hutch,
I heed wide-eyed the lack of right and wrong.
I am wont to fear the opening of the door.
Omniscient of all matter near and far,
But for the clouds obscuring my mind’s eye,
Supplicating the indifferent sky,
I whisper unto a twinkling star.
I am wont to pray for pith at my atoms’ core.
~ Daniel F Mitchell
‧₊˚✩ ?✩˚₊‧ ༘⋆ ‧₊˚✩ ?✩˚₊‧ ༘⋆
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#livelife #mortality #purpose
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Be free! go with the universal flow! Inhale! Exhale! What will follow, will follow! Before the robins in fickle earnest fly away, in praise of wonder, in joyous refrain, with uplifted voice so I sing today, should tomorrow and the chance never come again.
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Counting Sunbeams
I will sing today of the sum of all I see.
I will concede the worth of my conception.
I will bask in the effulgent mystery
Of seeing and being a moment of perception.
I hear the ceaselessly prayed meditations of the flowing brook.
In fire-hued leaves of maple I read the runes of creation's cryptic book
Placed so overtly in the face of crystal earth.
For an instant I exceed the measure of my birth!
In reverence I heed the significance of my death.
I distill all the flavors of existence into one breath,
Of frost painted in patterns of divinity upon the window pane,
Of weeping willows whispering along the meandering lane,
Of a rock high upon a cliff side,
Where I once watched eagles glide,
Of a cat that sat on my knee,
Of all life forces that surround me,
Of all living things ever begotten,
Of long-lost tales left to blow forgotten
In a wind that knows well its own time,
Having heard many ages the oft-spoken rhyme.
In a tune fervored but fleeting,
Synchronized to the rhythm of my heart's unsteady beating,
I sing to the gods who wear this collective disguise -
Praise I speak though it be to my own demise,
In half-remembered lyrics of my childhood,
Diluted to fit my limited understanding of evil and good.
I hope to be more, on angel-winged seeds to ride,
To be a reflection of rose petals, and in the radiance of the stars abide.
Oh, I wonder of many marvelous things,
Of who and why and how!
But I have a field to plow,
And an unknown limit of springs.
So I account my time counting sunbeams of golden noon,
Sowing divination from my outstretched hand
Of mud, of dust, of crumbling sand.
And perhaps I may reap a swathe of the harvest moon.
Before the robins in fickle earnest fly away,
In praise of wonder, in joyous refrain,
With uplifted voice so I sing today,
Should tomorrow and the chance never come again.
~ Daniel F Mitchell
http://www.gardenofpoetry.com
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This video footage comes from the Cabinet Mountains of Western Montana. (All drone footage comes from outside of the wilderness boundaries.) ~ Daniel Mitchell – AOWS Editor
Contact AOWS at: danielfmitchell@hotmail.com
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#existential #tranquility #tao
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The Four Winds
I. East Wind
O East wind, I have awoken to your song
Through lilacs sung, until I am in need
Of nothing more than your voice my life long,
Quickening my spirit with such sweet mead!
With spring you herald the new-dawning day!
Upon wings of glorious being fly,
‘Cross the horizon’s mountain-framed sashes!
O azure angel, have you come to stay,
To cleanse the heavens, clear the clouds, and dry
This dew glistening on my eyelashes?
II. South Wind
South wind, I heard rumors of far-off lands,
Breathed, languid and sultry, soft on my ear,
From wide seas where memory never stands
Still long enough for the meaning to clear.
A tranquil song of carelessness you sing,
An offhand ode to some tropical noon
Seen sailing through palm-secluded harbors.
Tidings of full-blooming blossom you bring,
Swaying cypress beneath the evening moon,
Settling perfumed among rose arbors.
III. West Wind
O west wind whispering from the sunset
Secrets of otherwise-forgotten dead,
Hushing the meadowlark’s joy with regret,
Ushering bulbs and seeds to a cold bed,
Before your low dirge flee the autumn leaves,
Like reluctant spirits on the threshold
Of demise, clutching at the hedge and gate,
While the willows weep, and the lodge pole grieves.
And I am moved to tears; as I grow old,
Believing more each year your words of fate.
IV. North Wind
North wind, in your raving where is the soul?
What fury makes your warlike trumpet blow?
Across the sullen seas you heave and roll,
O’er lifeless lands entombed in ice and snow,
Bringing the march of a barbarous hoard,
Leaving all forests and fields destitute
Before an onslaught of conscienceless harms.
Proud fool, you have put all life to the sword!
Now nothing answers your call for tribute,
Save a rattling of the alder’s arms.
~ Daniel F Mitchell
www.gardenofpoetry.com
****************************************
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––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
I Walk With Ghosts by Scott Buckley https://soundcloud.com/scottbuckley
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Title: I Walk With Ghosts by Scott Buckley
Genre and Mood: Classical + Calm
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