Sometimes, we seek Peace by leaving the building,

Taking time and leaving the everyday,

Separating ourselves from all that is our lives.

Repelling it.

 

Bursting with unending chaos or unfulfilling boredom,

We head for the “way out”…  the exit,

Getting away from all those annoying people,

Even those closest to us.

 

But this cannot be real Peace, the “false” peace of separateness,

All this can do is reveal our path,

Illustrating the fork in the road ahead,

Tasting beauty helps, but the wonder is already present.

 

In our everyday.

Regrets worthwhile, lay on the street or the field of some forgotten place,

Where a decision, or not, was made to encourage a friendship,

Whether an invitation was given or taken back,

Each provided the backdrop of a life we left behind at that moment,

Perhaps never to return.

 

But my effect on them helped form the other, as it formed me.

I can remember the color of the clothing wore on an English summer’s day,

The shade of the trees, the air full in the excitement of the new,

Walking in a country park, worthy of a Bronte novel.

The painting like a John Constable; with life inserted.

 

Such is recall, not to be confused with recollection,

Or evening remembering.

Remembering is tinged with the scent of regret, or a repainting of what recall tells us.

Recall is true reliving of the experience, but now, somehow, with understanding. Unhampered by time.

 

It is understanding of what each moment means, and how it has affected others, including me.

What use is a life unlived for good?

And who defines what is good?

Both natural and supernatural laws make it clear,

If we are not animals, we should follow both.

 

But Good will prevail. Love will persist.

Always.

Waiting, no … languishing on the beach

My gaze is towards the town, replete with sounds and smells of summer hustle and bustle.

Then suddenly, a shout comes from afar.

“Get the camera! … Can’t you see the iceberg?”

 

A short turn of the head and sure as eggs, she stands there magnificent,

Breaking the summer New England landscape with glorious colors.

Purples, azure blues, frosty whites, all fitted perfectly into their suits,

Those crevices, sharpened as if by chisels of an artist, escaped from all prior shackles. Beauty is blue.

 

“Go get the camera now”, repeats the messenger, with more urgency.

Running to the bag, wondering if I have the right lens on,

But more concerned about the growing butterflies in my stomach,

For my witness of this beautiful, freak of nature. Solitude and wonder envelop me.

 

Automatically, images are swallowed by a hungry sensor,

Colors, shapes, waves breaking, the pictures keep coming.

Transfixed, but yet moving, I find new positions for what must have been an age.

Until awoken by a wetness, now knee deep, the tide and nature talk to me.

I have enough pictures now.

 

Now satisfied, drenched and full of consolation, I see the car.

Still parked on the beach, now waist deep in water,

Awaiting patiently for me where I left her earlier. On the sand.

 

But I have the pictures.  And inner peace.