Neature Walk

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It was nice to hit the trails for a couple of hours this morning.  Here are some pictures I took while hiking Mt. Higby in Meriden, CT.  Yeah, I’ve posted on this before, but it’s close to my house and I have some new stuff for the spring! (All pics taken with iPhone 4 and are unedited.)

Halfway up a very short hike. Looking out across route 66.

I always feel like there should be a Zen monastery just over this rise.

If only there weren't any power lines . . .

Good advice!

But I took this hike specifically to get away from playing Skyrim!

By the way, if you ever wondered what I looked like while hiking, check out my friend Lenny Pepperbottom.

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Obligatory Holiday Poem

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Simple Christmas pleasures brought to you by my Hipstamatic iPhone app.

As a child I wished every day was like Christmas.

Enchanted by the magic of tinsel and toys, it was always my favorite time of year, and the tree served as a joyful focal point: I never tired of gazing at it.  A nightly ritual at my house was lighting the tree–well, plugging it in.  I’d then spend a good ten minutes–an eternity for a kid–marveling at what my family and I had decorated.  The holidays were never completely perfect, but, as far as I was concerned, the tree could do no wrong.

While I’m older now and have a much less idealized view of the season in general, I feel fortunate that my boyhood wish has mostly come true.  Life has its ups and downs, but I try to make the most of them.  I’m not completely broke.  I’m not starving.  I still find time for some art.

Every day gives a gift.  Even if it’s small, I try to always be thankful.

And I still practice my mini-evergreen meditations.  Here’s a little poem commemorating the evolution of Christmas in my life.  It’s not much, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

_____

Tannenbaum

 

Today’s plastic tree:

neither sorrows

nor tidings

of great joy glow

from its adornment,

but the sap of electrons

flow vital through

able, outstretched limbs

giving ordinary light.

Alfred Part Two

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Sorry for the wait.  Here’s part two of the storm poem and more iPhone photography.

Alfred, Part Two

Morning reeks of storms.

The sky starts falling heavy by noon,

and soon limbs creak and crack with the white weight.

We watch warily, eyes turning within as the refrain

repeated by chicken-little weathermen blacks out,

and night settles in for some serious slumber . . .

_____

Alfred Part One

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I started winterizing my house the night before the early winter storm that disabled CT for more than a week.  I wrote a poem about it, feeling content after my work was done.  The time that followed was somewhat more trying, but I’ll try to capture those emotions in a follow-up poem or two.  Here’s the first.

Alfred, Part One

Winter crawls cold and earthen from the old forest,

ousting autumn’s sweet rot with the foreboding smell of snow.

I brace for it like the animals and my ancestors.

I stack wood, shutter up tight.

It’s long work: giving up summer, breathing deep,

but going to sleep happy, old fashioned.

___

Just to share, here’s a shot from my iPhone of what happened next.

Cape Cod per PoppaErnie

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Some random snapshots from the Cape – ordinary stuff that no one else would think of photographing…..at least that is my take on them…..

All photos©ErnieLarsen-2011

Click on photo for larger image!

Bargains?

Diner / Orleans

CapeSigns

Store

Lobster Pie

ShoeStore and look it's Aunt Mary on break.....

Fritz Glass W. Dennis

FishShack - West Harwich

Worship

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Here’s a poem I wrote long ago that kinda jibes with the photograph, “Faith”, I recently posted.

Worship

The dark, divided minds that dreamt those sullen gods we no longer love make us disbelieve the lineage that mirrors the many to the One. Glass fragments litter the floors of mosques and chapels, but they were stained on old Olympus–blown for the Pharaoh from Sumerian sands.

Dying ideas reborn and re-bred: oaken totems. cave paintings. tattoos imbued with divine might. a still-beating heart. your lucky rabbit’s foot. ancestral shrines. science. Untouchables crowd shallow graves, and relics rot under displays. Behind Buddha’s temple, the boulder rolled from the empty tomb lets out the long-lost Sun.

But they can’t pray your thoughts clear like water. They can’t hold a miror to your soul. Your molecular essence flows simple, cold. All your own.

So drink and mind silence. Breathe, breathe. See you are what you seek.