James, a retired professor and octogenarian, is the author of 3 poetry collections, "The Silent Pond” (2012), “Ancient Rhythms” (2014), and “LIGHT” (2016), and over 880 poems. His poems have been nominated for pushcart and best of web awards, and were published in The 100 Best Poems of 2015 & 2014 Anthologies. He earned his BS and MA from California Polytechnic University and his doctorate from BYU. His books are available on Amazon, and Barnes and Noble.
Alone, But Never Lonely
I sit near the edge of a
Tranquil pond where moisture’s
Mist coils around my mind,
And, the soft balmy breeze
Like a new born baby’s breath
Wipes away my lonely tears.
In the Wee Hours
In the wee hours of the pomegranate
When colorful birds commence their
I rise sleepily from my warm comfortable
As the sun’s rays shine down surrounding
The mountains tinted with the morning’s
Reflect the calm beginning, of another
The seashore heaves a cheerful sigh as the
Hurls its white haired waves, upon warm
Sand so wide:
And, I in my half roused state slowly stir
To greet the new day,
To form all those new memories which will
Sooth my aging way.
The Meadow At Dusk
The slow moving brook sings a rippling
tune to me as it meanders around
curves in the side of the hill under shale
outcroppings, bouncing over boulders
searching for sky. I listen to nature’s
sounds, and become aware of an Indian
flute playing in the far distance. The
stream’s song and the flute’s song
mingle in my mind until I am not sure if
they are real or just a long lost
melodious memory echoing in my fading
The sun is starting to fade into the
horizon, and in time, dusk will set in for
another day. I watch hawks in the sky
lazily floating like brown leaves in the
breeze and wonder what they are
thinking. The wild Irises under the
Sycamore tree are folding up for the
night and waft their last bit of scent;
even the stream seems to be settling
down to a slower speed. Frogs sitting on
the edge of the stream are beginning to
stretch their voices to sing their croaking
melodies for the night creatures.
Suddenly the noises cease, and I drift
into the silence that has befallen the
meadow and wonder if it too is ready for
sleep, as am I.
The languid sun crawls gradually over the mountains to the east painting the verdant valley below with a soft orange hue, a new day rouses from the night. The mountain brook lazily flowing down its rocky bed reflects sun-beams off leaves of orange and yellow fallen from tall Sycamore trees. Downy birds begin to sing their warbled songs as they fly to and fro from tree to tree searching for bugs for breakfast. A doe and her fawn nibble gently at green grass in the meadow watching with ears fluttering for intruders. The old man pauses to take in the peaceful scene and sighs. His wooden cane by his side trembles slightly as he leans on it for support. So many years, so many years… and the beautiful landscape of nature never varies, it continues on season after season, year after year, always offering visions of pleasure. So much turmoil in the battered world, so many troubles, so many hurting, yet in nature’s world, beauty and tranquility reign.
Reach into the gray mist; and recognize the essence of sound;
listen to the night sounds, the lonely wailing of a lone coyote with hunched shoulders, and wary eyes crossing a meadow in the far distance, the guttural croaking of black and green frogs in a placid pond, the strident trilling of crickets’ violins humming in a pile of old branches, the creaking of rusting bones in a cemetery atop a knoll.
When the soul wishes to speak it has no sound except silence, yet we can reach into its memories and hear sounds of the past. The sounds walk upon ghost paths strewn with ancient stones, and echo into our dreaming somnambulant minds, reminding us of our mortality, and a muted echo filled with soundless time.
Time fades into nothingness as sounds diminish into the darkness of night where only an eerie hush can be heard. The mist rises and feeds the threads of wind, weaves the stones into beds where water flows with a sound of rushing laughter.
The energy of sound pulses into creation, and meadows fill with the aroma of soundless flowers. The old house at the top of the hill creaks and murmurs with sounds of that which is gone. The nearby trees are inundated with the sounds of downy birds, tuning up for their morning aria, after their morning journey into the bright melodious sky.
Then there is the euphonious sound of tiny lazy rill creeping beside an old barn into a garden, and then far, far away into a stream that flows into the mouth of the sea where the ocean’s raucous sound is protected by watery memories painted on jagged rocks projecting into the water.
Reach into the gray mist; and recognize the essence of sound.