To the Druid,
the Mighty Oak is King,
but the Pine Tree
does it for me.
Lovely Pine Tree
protects and gives privacy
to those who scamper
beneath her eaves.
She has no leaves
to drop in Fall.
All in all,
she stays tall and full
year ‘round,
standing her ground,
whistling her sacred song
when the spirit we call ‘wind ‘
comes along
to speak with me
through the Pine Tree.

Her branches
reach toward heaven
seeking her boon
like an old Druid
‘drawing down the moon.’

Surrounded
by precious Pines,
it’s here I feel most “at home.”

by Kathryn Preston

II.
What is this I’m feeling?
An emotion totally out of
focus and place with what
we’ve known so far?

I know that I’m falling
too fast, too far into
a space closely guarded
by your cautious mind. 

What to do but pull my heart
up by its somewhat stretched
cords and remind it of the pain
it has so recently known.

I’m not a prophet,
nor a seer. And I do
not want to cause myself
pain over wanting you.

So I will seek the safe
place, the firmer ground
and enclose me heart
yet again in wax.

III.
This is the end,
of a thing that’s never begun
except in the sphere that
is my heart.

Pikey.

As I lay me down to sleep
reality melts away,
and flames in my soul do leap
while breathing into the cauldron of my womb.

Behind closed lids,
the third eye perceives
a milk-white light;
a swirling vortex.
A mini-galaxy
spirals out from between my brows,
flowing through the unicorn’s horn,
tenneling through time and space.
Eventually my pure essence emerges,
straddling a comet of quartz:

amplifying my desire to see
through the eyes of divinity.

When the strident carefree youth, sets out to make his mark;
From this day on he’ll be adjudged by self and friends alike.
The challenges he tops or fails and every chance remark,
Will rest in virtual evidence, was he a worthy type?

Of all the folk that I have met, of every faith and rank,
There’s a man that I’ll remember until my final breath.
From Grandkids to the Bishop, they called him Pa or Frank.
The impact that he had on folk, will last beyond his death.

He was a true blue farming man, mighty hands like the vice.
Could strain a fence, milk a cow and till the soil with plow.
Through drought, flood and years a plush his labour did suffice,
To nurture family, his greatest prize, of that I can avow.

This humble man with sparkeling eye and comely, wistful grin;
With unpretentious decency and humour most contagious.
Showed us how to smile at life and build the strength within,
To be the best and recognise, that all of life is precious.

This man my friend, this son, the husband, Dad and Pa,
Will need no stone engraved in gold, to laud his name with hype.
His achievements stand for all to see, the family that they are.
This is your measure Frank my mate, you were a worthy type.

Pikey.

It’s the word you can use instead of, “I don’t know.”
So practice and learn it, I say give it a go.
Once you have it off pat and a question is asked,
Be it what is that of a bird, animal or critter unmasked.
A tree, a plant or a star in the sky; it is without scope.
The answer is always, it is a Triantiwontigongolope.
It is vital apparel in your vocabulary wardrobe,
You can use it wherever you travel this globe.

Never leave home without it, wherever you go;
It’s much better than saying, “I really don’t know.”
So let’s raise a toast to C.J. Dennis Esquire,
Who gave us this word for when we require,
A name for something, anything we don’t know.
Or question asked in a strange sounding lingo.
Let’s cover the toast with jam as thick as can be;
From the fruit of the Triantiwontigongolope tree.

Pikey.

Ribbons and medal from the beach
I’ve won and more within my reach,
But wasted most the day in sand
In-between heats as a surf fan.
Ten and eight times I shot Scripps Pier
To righteously ride through NO FEAR.
And three more times for “Let’s Get Wet”
In cinematic fare, I’m set.

More than Quiet, I found here;
Enchanted sparkling paths do tier
Beneath the naked swimming moon
Violent dangerous furies boom:
Boisterous breakers bellow loud
In tempestuous roaring seas proud.
Society is still quite rude.
Since your time, became more crude.

No face, no bodies so hard-tan
Could keep me in the sand a fan.
The face lifting steel blue and clear
Held back, held high by wind so sheer !
In search of those, I’d roam the coast
Not for the sand to roast and boast.
Nor with graffiti marked the pier
Like PB Toads, who themselves cheer !

Warm wine in your garden drinking
Remember:  “Live, for I am coming!”
Vesuvius shot ten and seven miles
Preserved you in your peristyle
Under two hundred fifty feet !
Pebbly-rubbly volcanic heat,
Ash clouds of poison gas did reap.
On the Bay of Naples, I’d weep.

What wondrous life I once had led,
Surf crowned and arched over head,
At glass-off the mirror-still wave,
It’s water paradoxical did pave
A solid face of rigid beauty !
Graceful, its pure fluidity.
I stumbled not to slip the board
Under my feet to plane forward !

Surfing the perfect wave, I find
It’s more than a bliss which does bind,
It is harmony with boundlessness,
Paddling and gliding to caress
Rising kiss of sweet lip forming:
Sunset glass-off, chill-still mornings,
In this vast glory, threading the mind
Its thought quick goes to ride sublime.

Better yet than perfect pipe rides,
When out ahead the surfboards dives.
‘neath white avalanche I egress,
Lost in topsy-turvy deepness.
Palaces of slippery seaweed snare
Me, dropping through into its lair.
Semi-permeable membrane made,
I trust, trust thrust me from the grave.

The soul’s not vested only in mind,
But the perfect state be combined
With body, its osmotic mesh
Through which the Life-Force tests
My truth, when in storm surf ventur’d,
Supplicated nomenclature.
In the drilling of heaving waves,
Ask’d Life! To weave Its breathing rays.

My crooked, crippled knees can’t twist
The board the same to turn it best.
The sea came devastating beach,
No board, I can’t resist its reach.
With Duck Feet, I can feel again !
Or troll waist deep in crashing surf:
Not the garden, the Sea came first.

Notes:  form poem, aligned left, 8 line verse stanzas, rhyming couplets, Tetrameter. KMcN

Millions of volumes start on this journey;
Fragile boats of word pictures painted.
Only to drown in the rapids of blarney;
Waterfalls of reason leave many wasted.

Nobility of thought expressed with allure;
Buoys some on while others just wallow.
Only a few, so very few will endure,
To inspire and to bless the ages that follow.

Pikey.

no, she is not alone
you are here, here with her
here, here, here on this boat
a likeness of a first boat, a trimaran she helped build.
the boat she walked away from, the boat she remembers up on the ways
at Harbor Boat and Yacht dwarfed by the giant hulls
of commercial tuna boats swollen with worm rot
and, yet, as with the first, a big boat,
something you feel.
winch yourself up the main to the crow’s nest and
lean out, spread your arms over her beam - -
the outer hulls are wings, great white wings
which promise other places, the Society and Marquesas.
this boat was built because the woman could - - because she knew
the first boat so well, every detail.
alone she sails, but not alone, Remember
you are here, here with her - - pushing away morning,
winching in the main sheet, dodging sharply tiered straits,
riding out the boils and brews of sucking water,
jibing away from jagged, crustacean encrusted rocks.
Quickly let out the main, raise the spinnaker
- - watch as the sails fill with wind
speeding you by knuckled granite spewed in the way, the way
bones are hastily thrown in an open grave.  There
the soft coast of an overgrown island, opened like broken fruit.
we can nap in the bowed light weaving shadow in the botanicals
amidst the buzz of bees.  it’s the trumpet blasts of the elephants
thundering out of the mountain, the hard split of the camel
and the grind of the work horse calling us back.
here we sail alone, not alone, remember
she is here, here pushing away morning,
pulling herself in and pushing out again.
the light changes on the trunk of a tree, the tree outside
your kitchen window and so changes how to see the tree
and measure time.  coming home to your walls
does it look as if someone has been here - - yes ?
has someone broken in, moved the wall, the one across from your bed ?
after many years do the cycles seem smaller,
happen faster ? - - does the repetition tighten
the walls of your home, a landlocked place,
squeezing everything inside-out, compressing
expectation, expanding dreams ?  the note says she’s out.
she making sail, she knows every detail.

On frosted sturdy leg it rests
On crusted leaves, it’s autumn nest
And when the winter’s snow will fall
Will shed it’s splendor before us all

She said you can see how the weight
smothers pine trees and wheat
and the fat hooked worm swimming
in cold blood wanting to be loved too.
She said the fish loves the worm only at first,
hates the worm when he takes the hook.

She tells me about her dream of riding a horse
bareback up stream.  A dappled brown
breaking sun and splitting waves.
The mane of the horse
yearns like the slant of rain
and its neck leans into the curl of rock
as its gallop makes a rush of wind,
a hard bent blast.
She beckons, holds on, listens,
returns to that dream.
She remembers/forgets her own body.

I hear her singing to the crackling sky.
When I turn I see the lid sucked right off this place
and I see her run to the strike of light.
I see the worm move in a translucent flash,
then crawl in the strobing dragging the hook,
again slowly out of her opened chest
and I see her float again and again
out of the hearts of the worm.

Please note:  this poem is aligned left, integral to its form. Thank you.

Men in a hole
Near a store called
“The Remains of Light.”
He carries me now--passed
A basket store
The reeds assembled,
hanging.
And me, hanging on his arm
Lapping him--like the
Water laps the reeds
Before they’re dried.
Hanging on his every word
The way the baskets are hanging.
Carry me--
Carry my longing
Till you drop
Till the end of the dock
To the water’s edge.
Captain me--
And the moon is
Two moons across the
Water.  Near the pier
A bench appears
Carry me till our footprints
Mesh.
Till our hearts break
and the water breaking in
The dawn.