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Poetry

Poetic Particulars

Poetry is the projection of the feeling soul into other dimensions of place, at a time not now;

In a way that isn't yet and may never be, except in imagination   

It is the progressive transformation of the elemental components of things into combinations that seduce the mind to wander into shadowy caves wherein mirrors reflect a golden hue, before venturing out to see the essence of the sun itself, directly 

Poetry is the doorman at an intellectually exotic nightclub who grants a tantalizing invitation to peek inside, and if inclined, he then stands back to reveal what lies beyond 

Poetry is the hostess inside the door whose sultry walk draws the eye to a stage side seat

That offers an Eagle's view of a trapeze artist working high, without a net, as he balances on one finger with his eyes closed

The poet is the wordsmith word juggler who keeps nouns and verbs and adjectives twirling in emotive space with fast hands, until they gain malleable properties that blend them to an insightful alloy that resonates with profound meaningful particularity 

It is a warmth that heals; a realization that enlightens and a deep satisfaction that tempts one to return for another drink from the well, often 

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From the Mountain Top Perch
     
  I sit rocking--easily
surveying the landscape of my life
from a cabin perch on a mountain top

      Burned out clearings and reclaimed fields
Evoke recollections of satisfaction, 
      despair and exuberance

     Rotted stumps decay
where time was laid waste, Recklessly,

Overgrowth conceals secret places
    where moments defined me 
and Iwas up to the task

A Fogless morning shrouded in low clouds
   Now Invites a New Day’s journey.

Tethered limbs and hopeful eyes beckon
--Deep rooted Vines
reach for tree tops and sky

Wings spread
A pair of boots descends the slope.

At my side
A still pond reflects the consequences of gravity and time

My stride lengthens

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Returning to two Divergent Paths

The woodpecker pecks from its high perch in a hollow treetop  

Staccato echoes bouncing among tree forest neighbors of pine and oak, with ferns sprouting on the banks of furrowed trickling streams as smoky whisps rise from cool air embracing the water.

My steps trod on that ground as my ear catches the crisp sound of my own breathing in the interludes between the intervals of the jackhammer speed pecking. 

A red fox scurries out of its nest from under a last year fallen tree trunk       As I glide by focused on my way to the meandering paths of my memory

On another day long ago I had come to this very spot, where two paths diverged and I could take but one and save the other for another day that might never come, given how way leads on to way 

But today, now much further along on my journey and wanting to see what the other way may hold in store, I have returned

But now that I am here, which path will call me on my way again? 

For the last time this chance arose my choice was quite a pleasant one as things turned out, and perhaps I should not risk missing out on such pleasantly again--but alas, as it must be, this time is not the last and shall not yield the last result 

This time again both paths appear quite equally worn, except to me of course, who knows the by and by from before; and thus knows what lies beyond, at least as to form if not the particulars- and so today I choose the one I had passed by my last time here, for I long to listen to the echoes of the staccato woodpecker pecks as they fade behind me, or perhaps this time, follow me along the way a bit as I likely depart this divergence for the final time, given how way leads on to way. But no longer have I foregone one for the other and no longer do I wonder what might have been on a day long ago, although of course I will never know that, given that this time is not the last time and therefore, cannot yield the last result. 

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On Turning Fifty

Upon a time once I was one
Of college age and mind;
But as my mirror reflects me now, well,
Those years are well behind

In time I turned an older age
When one score years ago,
My timely life odometer was reading three-zero

But I still was young with energy,
And without pains and aches
So therefore I lacked the perspective
That one learns from life’s mistakes.

Even forty passed with ease when once I came to know
That 40 is but 39-- viewed from a year ago.

But as my life’s odometer rolls on from year to year,
I see as 50 comes my way, that with it comes no cheer.

Pains and aches are manifest
while energies decline
For unlike bottled vintages,
Men don’t age like wine.

Stop it not can I do now,
It marches forth with force,
As Father Time moves swift my way,
To mark my half-century course.

But ten years hence shall I reflect upon these decades five.
To realize I was but a lad, with vigor, vim and drive

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The Witecki Law Office
8 South Church Street
Schenectady, NY 12305
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