One Hundred Stood

One hundred stood shading;
tall, trusting, thriving trees
till the heavens opened
their mouth like a multitude of
mottled black humpback whales;

spouting, raging upon earth.
Pounding, pounding, pounding
huge, hungry, hurtful torrents
of rain racing and running past
and though my hundred; blood 

flowing in the earth rooted vain
landscapes now lapping at once 
study, towering trunks with bark
oozing crying like a child in need 
of comfort. But there was no one

who could aid in their clamity
for disaster had done its deed.
Thick husky trunks wore water
boots which would be their last
apparel, as dragon flies frolicked

upon the surface of a newly
birthed pond where once seedling
grew and thrived in rich woodland
that canopied my sunny back yard.
Water still flows… now from my eyes.

“God is our refuge and strength, a very ready help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth shakes and the mountains slip into the heart of the sea; Though its waters roar and foam, Though the mountains quake at its swelling pride.”

Psalm 46:1-3
It’s been over a decade since the flood affected more than one hundred trees. Water was almost knee high in a place where garden, fruit trees and play structure had occupied. Our woodland surrounded the acre of land. Within a few years tree after tree began to wither and die. Some still stand today rotting upright waited to tumble to the earth and become rich soil. Not only does man clear the earth, but nature itself seems to be in conflict.
P. Wolf, poet & author posting at:

Dog Goodbyes

It’s been a few years now,
days, weeks, then months;
yet his stare still sojourns,
stuck in my healing heart.

What is it about memories
muddling minds; awakening
emotions buried deep then
overturning mended heart?

It was a pleasant March
surrounded by new birth;
cranes, cardinals, crows
shared the open spring skies.

What I didn’t know was death
invades at will; wearing weary
apparel even on lovely days
when birds sing in full chorus.

It was our last moments,
his eyes filled with love and
longing to remain, to be at
my side strolling spring paths;

No longer ours to share!

“He heals the brokenhearted

And binds up their wounds.

He counts the number of the stars;

He calls them all by name.

Great is our Lord, and mighty in power;

His understanding is infinite.

Psalm 147:3-5
P. Wolf; poet & author… yep, I cried while writing this.

Beneath the Moon

Beneath the summer moon,
hidden bats fill empty street.
Flap their leathery wings, meet
the darken shadows in twilight.

Silent flight, soar without tune
as inky blackness settles land.
Silhouette of massive trees stand
crowded limbs gather in my sight;

Swooping in circles tightly hewn
by brazen bat’s erratic moves;
their signature etched grooves
in hushed moonlit summer night.

Hope is not a message strewn
by bat who rules the evening sky
or milky moon which shines on high;
it’s God who designed bat at flight!

It is He who made the summer moon,
the music, melody and nature’s tune.
With speech the earth was first hewn
and stars across the universe strewn.

God placed bat’s wings at twilight,
to gather at His will, before His sight.
He reveals hidden things of night;
and waits for men’s souls to take flight.

“He reveals the deep and hidden things; He knows what lies in darkness, and light dwells with Him.”

Daniel 2:22
It’s been a dark time around the world. Like the bat, COVID seemed to creep up on the souls of men. It has etched in our lives change. Some from loss and others in remembering the laughter of loved ones.

A year later we continue to remember…

P. Wolf, Poet & Author of Jemi’s Noble Quest