Winter Stream

Winter Stream

The wintry wind has brought the snow; the trees are bare and lost their glow;
absent is the hearkening starling’s song.
The summer’s warmth is high and thin, the summer geese have left, again
  the bright and cheery grasp of summer, gone.

I walk along the bubbling stream covered in snow like shaving cream;
  the bottom rocks now blackened to my eye.
the sound of swishing in the trees is like a murmur in the breeze
  sparrows noisily fighting,  passing by.

Along this stream in summer time, I like to sit with rested mind
  up against a cottonwood and gaze
far beyond the water’s edge, up the hill and past the hedge
  at fields of corn and ripened wheat, ablaze

in the soaking rays of the summer sun; those lazy days stacked full of fun
  that make the imagination come alive
like when I saw a fairy, who,  blended with the water’s hue
  and danced in tune with a beautiful dragonfly.

I stop and reach down for a rock and throw and skip it toward a block
  of logs out in the middle of the stream
jammed up high like a superdome built by beavers for a home
  as we all await another summer dream.

(third stanza reference to my poem, ‘Cottonwood Stream’  January, 2012)
(fourth stanza reference to my poem, ‘Fairy Jolie’  January, 2012)

© copyright 2013 t. j. gargano

“Fairy Hill”

The fog was thick this morning, playing its usual tricks on eyes and minds that weren’t seeing what they usually see.

Sometimes you see ‘other’ things in the fog or on its other side.  Have you noticed how your senses re-act when normal conditions in a certain space are altered  –  like driving to town and it’s blacked out….an eerie feeling enters your mind and body….the norm is not….fear alerts you.

Driving in fog that is up to your windshield is breathtakingly scary…it nearly immobilizes you.  We don’t know what we see….we sometimes try to help our eyes by guessing or thinking we see something….our mind races, knowing not where it’s going or from where it’s  coming…. everything is ‘clouded.’  We fear ‘checkmate.’

Fairy Hill

Foggy mornings, “they’ll”  sometimes show
and if you look real hard, you will see the glow
through the inner logs at the base of the hill,
and don’t be surprised if “one” flies around
and checks the perimeter from the top on down.

One morning I saw her, on the ground, near the road
singing and dancing in a puddle, for a toad,
who didn’t  seem that interested; more bothered, I’d say
‘cause he wanted a drink and she wanted to dance
and wanted him to watch her, though it was taking a chance.

But the next thing I saw was her backing up slow
and pointing her finger at the toad, to go
and get a drink and then get out
‘cause she wanted to get back in and finish her song
which she did, and she waved, as the toad got along.

Then I saw what was fire, at the base of the hill,
and out came a fairy in a bright colored twill
outfit, that glistened and shined so brightly, it blinded
me and when I could see again , there must have been ten
fairies dancing and playing ‘round the puddle, by then.

And, as usual, my camera was too far away
and I thought I saw, Jolie, who I saw that day
when she danced and frolicked to the dragonfly’s beat,
then flew towards the sun when I ran to the stream
perchance to get closer to this recurring dream.

The screech sound was eerie from the hawk up high
who angled down sharply, down from the sky,
toward the puddle, by the road, where the fairies all danced,
now scurrying around quickly to dress and to dry
for their wings that, if wet, won’t allow them to fly.

But then what I saw, I didn’t see any more
for the fog now had thickened right down to the floor
of grass that surrounded the logs on the pile.
And even the puddle, full of life, now was still
and everyone was safe again…. out on Fairy Hill.

copyright © 2012 T.J. Gargano

Cottonwood Stream

If I write a song for you
and speak of beauty rare
the words I use will all be true
if I write a song for you.
Each word will tell a different view
and paint a picture soft and fair
if I write a song for you
and speak of beauty rare.

Sitting by the lazy stream
leaning ‘gainst the cottonwood
my guitar grabs a sunlight  beam
sitting by the lazy stream
and in that moment, as in a dream
she fluttered in time to my Brazilian wood
Sitting by the lazy stream
leaning ‘gainst the cottonwood

It’s nice down here along the stream
on spring like days when she drops by
and even if it’s just a dream,
it’s nice down here along the stream.
and while I know, it’s quite extreme
her mystic beauty, I can’t deny
It’s nice down here along the stream
on spring like days when she drops by

Waking me gently with fluttering wing
brushing her self ‘cross my eye,
she winks and smiles from the guitar string
waking me gently with fluttering wing.
And I feel thankful for these days of spring
and for dreams and for her….the butterfly
waking me gently with fluttering wing
brushing her self  ‘cross my eye.

copyright © 2012 T.J. Gargano

Fairy

It’s said that seeing is believing.  But we know that isn’t always true.  Illusionists prove that.  Trick photography proves that.

And too, it is expected of us to believe in ‘things’ we can’t see.  A good example might be the air we breathe.

So in many aspects of life, we, as individuals, have to choose whether or not to believe in something.  Some of those things might be important and others, may not be as important.

A case in point might be angels, demons or other forces in the non-reality dimensions of our minds.  Then we might ask…if there are angels then are there demons?  or aliens? or UFOs? or ghosts? ………….or…….fairies?

Fairy

Though I detect that she is near,
I see not yet her fluttering heart
between each drooping willow tear,
though I detect that she is near.
I’ll keep on searching without fear
until I find some little part.
Though I detect that she is near,
I see not yet her fluttering heart.

Though, it’s said they don’t exist,
And maybe that is so,
I know that one day… I was kissed
though, it’s said they don’t exist.
And yet I saw her, through the mist,
fly up and wink and go.
Though, it’s said they don’t exist
and maybe that is so

On days I go down to that stream
to where the fairy came,
I lay down there, perchance to dream,
on days I go down to that stream.
And while I know, it seems extreme,
I’ll keep on looking without shame,
on days I go down to that stream
to where the fairy came.

copyright © 2012 T.J. Gargano