Summer Valley Poem

The moutain wind moved across that field,

wildflowers swaying in the wind and summer air,

a hand painted scene of the almighty’s yield,

creation begotten and made by him alone.

(then came rain puring off the mountains all around the valley.)

The found path was dimly lit due to how densely it was packed together,

river running over smooth rocks and felled trees.

In summer the trout are in the deeper pools and will rise to almost any fly,

I remember how many times we walked those trails called home only by hunger and the setting sun.

In summer black bears came down from those mountains at night and in the early morning, leaving their marks in massive trees,

some even walking over the wildflower fields in lunar illumination then back to the mountains to sleep the day away.

We collected memories,

and pressed them between,

mental pages,

in our minds,

kept as if they,

were some,

of those,

wildflowers,

pressed,

between,

the pages,

of old books,

then kept on the shelf,

in the house,

to be read,

on long nights,

when those flowers,

become faded,

and fall asleep for the winter,

and those bears,

have begun their slumber,

until those,

flowers,

grow again,

to sway in the wind,

of summer days and,

the breath of boys who run,

through them to refresh their memories.

T.S. Deary

10/14/21

Harvest Moon

The half cut field of new hay was quiet as we drove by.

The rolls and bales of newly cut hay were scattered all around.

(no discernable pattern.)

Under the light of the comiong dawn,

and the still visible moon the scene had a rural, earthy quality, a pastoral tribute to a time gone by.

Brigth harvest moon signalling the ending of one phase and the begining of a new one.

The silence of hte field would be interrupted later by mechnaical tractors,

back and forth, in rows,

then wagons to pick up the massive rolls and put them onto trucks.

(sold later for thirty and forty dollars each.)

Later the harvest moon would be replaced by the sun,

losing some of its intense summer grip,

turning the green hay more and more brown and more and more dry by the hour.

T.S. Deary

9/24/21

Fools in Their Gallery

Clearly they know,

picking on the girl,

harmless banter,

harmless words,

they know,

uncivlized little fucks.

unleashing words,

directed at her,

then hiding, beind smirks that hide narcisstic indifference.

“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me” … chanting in unison.

She sits quietly, probably making gestures to them in return for their pointed words.

Smart enough to do so quietly and to not draw attention to herself,

not lacking in individuality,

she has much grace,

all poise,

to their fractured, disheveled, interruption.

Oh, how they try to cut to the bone,

sitting in the corner – careful to project strength, yet so alone.

Under breath comments so cruel,

procaliming innocence, so grand and then playing the fool.

Then more comments of non verbal nature then reactions designed to draw attention from her.

Then it becomes clear to me that they have been afraid,

unable to look inside and admit to all the bad mistakes they have made.

They will never be able to see it so clear,

acting the fool.

T.S. Deary

12/28/21

The Righteous were not called

He did not come to be the social agenda man making all things good becasue of tolerance and hip, cool, sayings.

There is nothing to contradict or refute his teaching and it is up to us to remember what he did once we stop trying to heroes into heroes that they never were in the first place.

He called to repentance, not to moral independence.

He spoke of attaining forgiveness and to turn back to the Almighty, not adherence to crooked paths with hearts remaining untidy.

he did not reject the lowly ones who were rejected by everyone else, anyone who walked away after speaking to him were either relieved or ready to beat him with a leather belts.

He never kept a record of wrongs in the sense that he was out to avenge, some who heard him disagreed and later sought revenge.

Still, he pressed on with people who needed his message, now a good part of his message is blown apart as idiots sift through the wreckage.

All things are not moral and moral things are not all things.

Some actions move us away from God while others bring us closer, recognizing how wrong you are and seeking repentance is much more pleasing to God than celebrtating how righteous you are.

To sit in the back and adore the altarand to pray with your downcast eyes and to ask God for forgiveness has more meaning than all the sacramental prayers that with neither forward or dowencast eyes can see that God dwells into places we amy never know and whathe knows most of us have forgotten even inout best times.

The ways and means by which we approach God and all the riches that we take for granted contradict something that shold be so simple.

Truth is not changeable by our opinion or an uncomfortable feeling caused by our inability to speak it.

No one is worthy,

change is needed by all,

what good is tolerance and making motions ot people who are incapable of seeing the truth,

“REPENT”,

was called out well before Jesus came and before he ever forgave anyone,

this was doen to fullfill all righteousness,

so that we would know the road had become a dead end,

and that we would have the sense to turn around.

The righteous have no need for soul saving.

Their souls have already stated the claim that recognition of wrong is enough, God will always be on their side.

The advertise all the good they have done.

(only those other people need to turn around, their own ancetry will save themn by virtue of their birth.)

All those founding fathers that have come down from us from on high and from those Ivory Towers and the ones who choose to stay once they fell have learned a lesson that most will never get.

T.S. Deary

10/12 – 12/28/21

Time

I noticed the moon, the harvest moon, hanging in the sky right before sunrise.

The rising sunbravely illuminating the hay field still waiting to be cut and bailed.

The scene unfolded as I drove by and was burned into my mind.

Aiden asked me if I noticed the moon with his voice registering surprise.

So huge, its’ majesty unvieled.

Driving, we both remarked on its’ perfect circular shape, taking it in between us, this magical, celestial find.

The scene was so perfect that we wanted to stop and take a picture but decided that would be unwise.

If we kept the scene alive and in turn just between us, then the memory made would follow us forever, unlike the dimming moon, never becoming paled.

Moving on we left the scene behind.

All day long I thought of what we saw and reflected on the way time flies.

And how time holds us as if jailed.

We each return to where we came from, young and old in kind.

T.S. Deary

P.A.F.M. 10/31 – 12/21/21