By James G. Piatt
A Woodland Scene
“And it’s there walking in the high woods
that I could wish to be, and the men that
were boys when I was a boy walking
along with me.”
Hilaire Belloc
Sounds of ancient forest whispers
moving like lost dreams across my
mind, sang to me as I wandered
along an ancient woodland path.
The misty dawn arriving with a soft
melodic pulse aroused long-forgotten
memories in my mind, bundled
together like soft beams of light.
They were echoing in the pulses of a
peaceful breeze. In the hazy
vagueness of my dreamlike flight,
missing images lost in the haze of
my yesterdays appeared. I observed
sparrows, meadowlarks, and blue
jays scavenging in a meadow painted
with beautifully scented wildflowers,
and saw red-shouldered hawks
soaring up and down mystic currents
of air below huge cumulus clouds
filled with the tears of God. As the
faerie-like winds stood still, my
thoughts shape-shifted over mental
paths that had faded into time. It was
then that the mystic rhythms of
ancient memories became clear. I
observed a small lazy rill gurgling
slowly into a diaphanous placid
pond, like musical notes streaming
harmonious chords, and as I stood
in the midst of the sounds, serenity, and
beauty, I smiled in gratitude.
An Ancient Path
“And into the forest
to lose my mind
and find may soul.”
John Muir
Walking along an ancient dusty path in the
forest, summer embraces my memories as
the warbling of tiny birds enters my ears.
Sweet-scented wildflowers cover the face of
the meadow and enter my senses. Pine trees
with wild scents, sycamore trees with white
and gray mottled skin, and oak trees with
gnarled limbs reaching for ground and sky
shade my path. A hawk sitting in a tall pine
tree beside the path soars to the heavens
with a sharp complaint when I disturb its
serenity. I hear the rustle of the soft
chattering of small animals under fallen
leaves and twigs, as a soft balmy breeze
rushes over the ground with its melodious
voice. My memories awaken, and I recall
past treks to the woods when I was younger.
I release my breath with a yearning sigh and
feel the ache in my limbs telling me that I
am old and my fading hours fight against the
reality of what I am. But I know that what I
am is tied to the beauty and wildness of this
forest, and I will ramble along these paths
until I no longer have hours or breath.
Woodlands and Forests
I love the sweet fragrance of ancient redwood,
pine, and fir trees, the sweet aromatic scents of
wildflowers and their beautiful colorful faces
blanketing meadows, the magical shimmering
face of a slowly moving river holding pied
rocks, and sunken limbs of trees in its watery
hands, pure white billowy clouds filled with a
faint trace of the tears of God floating overhead
in the azure sky, casting shadows on verdant
mountains, a cozy log-cabin sitting placidly
under huge red barked trees, overlooking a
meandering stream below, the voices of a
multitude of birds chirping happily in the bushes
nearby, chipmunks and squirrels running
haphazardly to and fro, and a group of deer
calmly eating dew-covered grass in a field laden
with pine cones, acorns, huge round boulders,
sweet-smelling flowers, and small fallen limbs
from winter past. The woodlands and forests are
surreal, magical, and tranquil places. One can
gain their sanity, forget their sorrows and woes,
and mend their souls, minds, and bodies as they
immerse themselves in the softly serene beauty
of nature.
The Old Deer Trail
“There are beautiful places
in the woods where all
one’s memories are
stored for special times.”
Anon
Walking along an old, dusty deer trail,
the Summer breeze uncovers forgotten
memories. I inhale aromas wafting into the
balmy air from sweet-scented wildflowers,
sitting in a meadow, like beautiful maidens
wearing colorful gems in their hair. Tall
sycamore trees with white and gray coats,
fuzzy ecru-colored tassels rustling in the
breeze, and ancient misshapen oak trees
with their gnarled limbs reaching for ground
and sky shade the trail with flutterings of
light and shadows. I inhale aromas wafting
into the balmy air from sweet-scented
wildflowers, sitting in a meadow, like
beautiful maidens wearing colorful gems in
their hair. Tall sycamore trees with white
and gray coats, fuzzy ecru-colored tassels,
rustling in the breeze, and ancient misshapen
oak trees with their gnarled limbs reaching
for ground and sky shade the trail with
smatterings of light and shadows. I hear the
rustle of tiny animals hiding under fallen
leaves and twigs, sounding like raindrops
falling on paper, and stop for a while to
listen. As the soft, balmy breeze brushes
over the ground with its melodious voice,
my memories fully awaken: I recall
past treks to the woods when I was but a young
lad and release my breath with a yearning
sigh. A new ache in my limbs tells me I am
aging, like the bark on an oak tree that looks
like mottled rubber. The unreality in my
mind, which is what I think I am, a vigorous,
strapping man, is laughing against the reality
of what I am, an old, thin, ashen-haired,
hobbling man with a cane. I stand up as
straight as I can, take a deep breath, adjust
my mahogany cane, and hobble to a
translucent, placid pond. Sitting down on an
ancient fallen log, next to a huge pied
boulder, I notice the blue skin of the serene
pond. It is a peaceful, beautiful pond where
pleasant memories are stored. I sigh in
gratitude for just being here.
Mediter au Sujet de la Vie
It was one of those overcast balmy spring days. By the side of a
path, a rippled blue stream flowed lazily toward a placid lake far
down the meadow. The tepid air was motionless and tranquil, not
even a leaf stirred on the trees… it was as if the old man were in
another place… another time… not even of this world, not the
world in which everyone else existed.
He was a solitary man, a man of philosophical thoughts, and too
frequently lately… a deep sense of melancholy. The silence of the
atmosphere both calmed and terrified him. His thoughts meandered
back in time over his life; it was often like a fast-flowing stream,
raucous, and tumultuous. At other times, it was like a placid pond,
serene and peaceful. He peeked through the veils of time at the
memories hidden in the vagueness of his aging mind, recalled the
happiness and the sadness, the excitement, and the ennui.
Today the clouds, once gray and ominous in the morning, were a
luminescent grayish-white, and the clear blue sky framed them in
timelessness. His aged skin felt the warmth of the sun, and the sad
memories he had experienced in the overcast morning vanished.
He was alive in the present once again. He heard the soft
murmuring of tiny flies as they danced around his head; felt the
temperate breeze upon his face, soft and gentle. Leaves from trees
along the side of the flowing stream wavered ever so gently as if a
fairy had wafted a magic-breath upon them.
He gazed at the ecru shale outcropping creeping slowly up the
sides of the flowing stream, noticed the tree’s leaves were now
sprouting with a verdant newness. He knew that days like this
would disappear, and inevitably, the sun’s rays would bounce off
the earth, and soon after the winds and rains of spring would leave,
and the days would get warmer and brighter. Lent and Easter
would end, as would the sorrowful penitent days, and another
summer season would slowly begin anew, and the days would be
bright and gay. It was all so predictable, so constant, like life and
death.
Tomorrow would be another special day, and soft breezes would
carry a gentle rain impetuously over the hills enveloping them with
moisture. He wondered if he would be here in the coming summer
when the sun’s warmth would cover this silent place again, and a
small placid pond would exist where the swift-flowing stream now
existed. He wondered if he would be able to hike along the
unhurried deer path to his extraordinary serene place and still be
able to sit under the large sycamore tree amid granite rocks and
boulders and bask contentedly in the heat of the summer sun.
Such are the meandering thoughts of an old man whose life span
was slowly dwindling into the past. Such are the thoughts of all
those who think deeply about the wonders of life and who have
come to few conclusions. What are the reasons for man to exist?
Life is so temporary, so transient, so improbably incongruous. Life
is a jealous harlequin prancing to and fro with lighthearted
abandon, with no thought of anything but the present. Death comes
so quickly and everything that was loaned in life is gone. What is
man’s purpose, his reason to be?
Perhaps in death, there is an answer. What would that knowledge
mean to a person if he or she knew ahead of time? Would
behaviors be changed, would life be altered, or would it carry on
much the same as it does now? Life is such a paradoxical enigma.
James, a retired professor and octogenarian, lives in Santa Ynez, California, USA, with his wife Sandy, and an Aussie dog named Scout. He has had five collections of poetry published: The Silent Pond, Ancient Rhythms, LIGHT, Solace Between the Lines, and Serenity, and over 1815 individual poems, 40 short stories, and five novels in scores of national and international literary publications. He earned his doctorate from BYU and his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, SLO. He was nominated twice for the Best of The Net award and four times for the Pushcart award.
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