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 )

Reflection I Think I’ll Go

Miracle Blue

The water and sky
made a miracle blue

There was a place you could see it
that nobody knew

The sky turns to colors
as the evening sun hid

Thought my words could describe it
but, they never did

Oh, I...just can’t say, cause I don’t know
I always kept wondering how far the road goes

JW Mack   # December 14, 2018 : COMMENTS ( 1 )

Narrative Silver-Winged Messengers


But then there was something else-I began to see the hawks.

This was a new kind of interest. These birds were powerful, illusive; emblematic of feeling so large that I can't quite comprehend and poignant in a way that I can't explain. Though I will not cease in trying.

I began to have vague feelings that my sightings of these creatures coincided with something deeper within myself; it was always at times of introspective significance that a hawk would appear sailing above me, cry out through a thrilling, bleak voice, swoop down into my path while I walked in the fields at home, or appear in pairs, sometimes circling, sometimes perched at rest on a hay bale. My neighbor told me that I was seeing them because the Hawk is my totem; an auspicious messenger of power, clarity, and spiritual awakening. I figured that it was just a renewal of interest in my surroundings, a signal that I was healthy enough to once again find peace in the quiet goings on of the natural world. But at the same time, their movements matched so closely my mind's wanderings in such a way that made me question myself. Was I really just projecting myself into my surroundings; fabricating my own reality?

We tend to do that; environmental sociologists have noted this sort of social projection in a variety of constructs. Some assert that we both model our realities after our perceptions of the natural world and cater our interpretations of that which is not human to our own systems of understanding. It is a way that we make meaning and situate ourselves within the context of our state; as liminal beings that are both part of and separate from the natural world.

For now, I convince myself that this argument can come to no conclusive end, and continue in my walk.

When I first began to take interest in our family farm, I started to take routine walks along the Kentucky Coffeetree-lined stone fences and mused about my ancestors who farmed here before me. I can trace my family back seven generations on our land and now I read their story engraved in the limestone landscape. During each walk, my mind would meander through a rich tapestry of hypotheticals swelling with the nostalgia of things that I had never lived.

I think about my great, great, great, great grandmother Harriette, who raised her daughter and five boys in a two-and-a-half room cabin (the half counts the little attic bedroom that Gentry, Clarence, Cline, Floyd, and Charles shared). I think about her as she made the funeral arrangements for her 20-year-old Idalia, who died of typhoid. I imagine her bitter sense of familiarity in the walk that took her daughter's coffin across the creek and up the hill to the family cemetery where 30 years prior, she had buried her older brother Simeon, on his return home from Camp Douglas, in a rough-hewn casket lined with smudge pots; his pistol carefully situated on his chest. I think about her hardships as the female head-of-household on that rough farm; how bleak and grey the winters must have looked.

But then, I walk up to the highest point on the farm on a March afternoon, where limestone outcrops peek out from the loamy soil and grass that is just regaining its verdant rigor, and I feel her long-awaited exhale as spring renews its promise of another year of abundance. It has been on these walks that I have gained an acquaintance in a silver-winged hawk.

Almost every walk I took, the hawk would make an appearance with such regularity that it became a sort of game. Sometimes she sat in the taller branches of the old, giant Ash trees that are scattered in the rich Maury Bluegrass soil lining the creek-bed at the front of the farm; a patchwork section that bears a semblance of the ancient Blue Ash Savannas that used to characterize the Kentucky landscape. Most of the time, I saw a flash of silver wings and tawny belly as she flew from East to West across the farm (likely in her return to her Ash tree roost). I began to see her as an omen, take or leave the uneasy implication of social projection, of acceptance. I saw her flight as validation of my homecoming-as a powerful indicator that what I was doing in my return was right, was good, was whole. I wondered if Harriette had watched the hawks.

I walked the farm one day with my father, checking the cattle mineral feeders as we made our way to a karst spring on the back of the farm, that my grandfather had allowed to grow up and remain forested. I caught a glimpse of silver above me to my left and muttered, without thinking, "there she is."

... "So you've seen her too?" he inflected.

I don't know if I was more startled that I had inadvertently verbalized my thoughts or that my dad knew exactly who I was talking about.

I continue to watch the hawks. I continue to read into their flight, making note of the direction they go, their speed, the tone of each cry...I am hard-pressed to discount some semblance of significance when I see a hawk perched in the highest branches of a tree, sitting stoically as it is bombarded by three crows crying their outrage, or when I watch two Red-tails circle each other on updrafts and thermals visible only to them, or when a small Goshawk flutters wings against the wind, remaining suspended in place just long enough to mark a target, fold its wings and dive.

Maybe my interest in them is the same mystic pull that lent a sense of power to ancient diviners and oracles. Maybe it is my own personal desperation to find meaning in my experience. Maybe it is both. Or maybe playing the "Other" for a moment, it would be a mistake to categorize my fascination as dangerous practice or delusional pursuit, assuming we don't all want for the same kind of actualization, the same kind of meaning, the same kind of lift in our chests: that moment you feel like you have entered into something bigger that you. Regardless of the whimsy of my extrapolations, in these moments with the hawks, I am aware. I am present.

Anna McCauley   # November 6, 2018 : COMMENTS ( 0 )