Reflection Beneath the Hemlock

I Lay In Rest

Yesterday I lay in rest
far beneath the branches,
of a 200-year-old Hemlock

The Hemlock tree, anchored
to land high above
a spring of water, beside

Flowing over
through the roots of Hemlock;
a shower, of ancient rhythm

Faces turned upward,
a tree learned to speak

As water moved past;
down from above
to sound against
a pool, far below

Yesterday I lay in rest
far beneath the Hemlock
ancient words of stillness,
are still, within me

Bill Hudson    # February 23, 2019 : COMMENTS ( 0 )

Reflection Life In the Balance

Shen Yun

Innermost being
Flowing outward;
A revealing of spirit

This divine dance
Souls, that appear
As one

Somewhere between
Art and poetry
We live our lives

Modern times, a blight to our souls
How shall we cultivate simplicity;
In the here and now?

Technology, not an evil
But distraction
Away from;
The need of the world

Staring through soft pink
A vision of latticework
I have glimpsed a path;
Prepared for me

Each day, I choose
Whether to walk it

Bill Hudson   # February 21, 2019 : COMMENTS ( 0 )

Reflection Harvest Song of Winter

Heart of a City

A lone grain elevator
Stretching into a brightening sky

Activity all around,
Sweeping down, are the black birds of winter

Puffs of moisture, rising
Up from chimney pipes
Small and low are the buildings
Gathered close around

A junction in the road
People move past, each
In their own direction
They ignore the heart of a city

Back and behind
The low dark buildings
Back and behind
The shiloette of branching pipes
First to receive the sun

Moments from now
A gravel road will brighten
A path, to an old, farm house
And times long forgotten

Past a field of cows,
The black birds will light
In a tree, standing above
A tiny springhouse

Beyond, the white-sided farmhouse
Rests in the shadow
Of two majestic Oaks
Two brothers, hoping:

That we keep wisdom,
And will not overlook
The heart of a city

Bill Hudson   # February 14, 2019 : COMMENTS ( 0 )

Reflection From the Art Room Window

Circle of Trees

The Dogwood, covered in rust,
Spiderwebs, covered in dew.
In movement against, each breath of wind.

The mighty Walnut, a shoulder above.
Dark, withered branches
Left unpruned.

The Oak stands aloft.
Resilient against,
The wind that bent the Walnut.

The Sycamore, an apparition
Behind a distant fog, refusing to lift.
A centurion, watchful
Over the circle of trees.

The Birch sheltering, beneath its shield.
Maple and Crab Orchard, stand in awe.

The protection, o'er the circle
Not leaving,
The Protector, untouched.

Bill Hudson   # December 31, 2018 : COMMENTS ( 0 )

Reflection Wild Edges of Soul



You know what it is, though you may not have heard the proper name for it.

There is nothing quite so savage, as those tufts of grass that grow up along the edges of our our sidewalks, slowly moving towards the center...threatening to reclaim domestic footpaths for "The Wild".

Kind of leaves you wishing that Uncle Gary and Aunt Linda had gotten you that edger for Christmas doesn't it; instead of that fuzzy pair of socks and 30 bucks to your favorite restaurant?

Why do we seek absolute comfort and perfection and trim back the wildness, with such disdain?

Recently, I left running from the cover of my front porch on the morning of a steady rain. A part of me opted to return to the house, get in my car, and use the treadmill at my father in law's house.

Why does it feel like such a primal thing to go running in the rain?

Here, I met another kind of Sidewalk-creep that I adore; the kind that comes up along the “edges” of my soul.

This morning I started down the street, my mind a blank slate; ready to receive from my surroundings, as I felt each drop of rain against my face.

At first there was only the quiet,
voices too timid to be heard.
Or, I too timid to hear them?

I heard only the beats of my feet.
I turned left, right, then left again.
Passing the factory-sized bakery at the one mile mark (though I did not bring a device to beep off my mileage)-yet another way I have become a savage! I ran down Broadway and rounded the corner, glancing up at the backside of the city water tower, as I turned into the wind and rain that moved down Main Street, in a slant.

Next was the brick crypt before the Baptist Church, dedicated to a man called Jack who shares my Surname-though as far as I know-I am the first of my kin in this area I still wondered about his story.

I passed two antique stores and a gift boutique. Two not yet open for the day and one open by appointment only. I reminded myself to stop in and buy that lamp I have been eyeballing, and took notice of the stained-glass shutters in the darkness of the third shoppe.

Moving past the bay window, and the last of the storefronts, my thoughts became more lines of poetry, though the lines were not orderly framed within words. At the same time I was aware that I was no longer having to will my feet forward; I drifted in a numbness of ease along the iron fence of the cemetery, welcoming the soft morning light. And bowing a head to the concrete angel, and memory other names around-Blackburn, Staniford, and Weber. Who were they to you?

Another left.
Halfway down Mountgomery now.

The small, painted, yellow-brick house.
Modest with oversized porch lights, holding three candle bulbs each; not closed into square glass encasements, but shining through numerous, polygonic plates refracting light into the still, brightening of morning.

Not last of all the stone house,
chimney affront,
front door just to the left.

I have often felt my soul wish to inhabit this place. In, through the blue door, beneath the red leaves of two Japanese Maples.

The stone white.
The house small.
My soul, wishing to be simple.

Bill Hudson   # December 31, 2018 : COMMENTS ( 0 )