Spring’s Renewel

The day is bronzed and bright.
The summer days will be coming on.
The green ripeness of growing leaves,
The earth, fresh and fragrant in the
Spices of a fair and balmy breeze.
Every thread of spring is at last unwoven,
And the last patch of snow dissolved,
From an earth-warmed washing of wind,
Somewhere in the great foyer of spring,
I welcome back all its verve and virescense:
The sunlight dancing in the new leaves;
The croaking crane’s cacophony in the far field;
A hawk indolently riding a thermal;
Wren and catbird flitting in the thickets
Of lavender lilacs lined with yellow daffodils.
A bird, small as a leaf sings in the first sunlight—
I find a song in myself in that large green day
And grandeur that God gave us as a gift.
The light of spring—the warmth it brings,
Renews my take on so many things;
I’m as light as air—I am just there.



Sonnets for the Seasons


Awake―listen to the songbird’s aubade,
In the mist of morning’s essence,
Where peace comes to me ready made.
Albeit fleeting in the dawn’s evanescence:
Deer grazing in the sun-washed glade,
The flight of a goldfinch portrayed
A golden light―the morning gives no pretense
As dawn goes to day―the light delayed.

Moments in time between daylight and dark,
Across thresholds of sunlight and shadow.
Nature’s hues of light found their mark;
A breeze draws across the meadow,
Wherein sings alone the meadowlark.
Inside inspiration flames from a spark.
The ragged low clouds of a day gone dim,
Against the lucid green of the still harbor,
That cast a dory to rest on her shore.
To late in season for swimmers to swim,
To early for the northwester to roar
And strip the leaves from a sleeping tree’s limb,
And blow out fall’s flame. The gold seraphim
Finds freedom from flight summoned to soar.

All is now calm―autumn’s light pacified;
The water like glass, turns a deeper hue
The silence in season―the sedges all dried;
And when summer birds leave, I shall leave too.
All colors colder, I dreamed I had died,
While overhead a soaring gull cried.

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Ode to the Wrecks Upon the Hill

I remember the wrecks, scattered, disused:
A ford Fairlane candy apple red,
A blue Buick crumpled and bruised,
A mangled mustang and a ford flatbed.

I remember Grandma would say, “Those boys
Wreck more cars; now look at that mess up there,
It makes me think, they think they were just toys.”
She shakes her head and mumbles a prayer.

Those August days, the buzz of cicadas
And how the sun would make the shattered glass
Seem jewel-like, blue-green gems strewn on seats;
The oppressive odor of grease and gas.

What a treasure trove for a twelve year old;
Contained within a rusting hollow hull,
An eight track player with Queen in its hold
And sun faded albums of Jethro Tull.

Half pack of Marlboros and a zippo,
And how excited I was when it lit;
Slipping back on a seat, sun-stained yellow,
I found my first rush, when I took that hit.

The cars are gone and daisies now pervade,
My memories are all that remain here:
The spaceships and Indy car escapade.
How some reflections never disappear.

Evening Star

For him, it was only the sound of evening—
The sound of the last song of meadow birds,
In the last of the lingering light.
Only this evening, he saw low in the sky,
The evening star, at the onset of autumn—
The star that in spring ruled the western horizon.

What had this star to do with the world it shown below?

With the darkening skies over the meadow,
Over the forest, over the bordering bogs?
There it was again in the autumn sky
As if it came back-as if life came back,
As if evening could always give solace
And the star comfort in some diminished light.

He thought he had this that he could love,
Like the evening sound and the song of things.
How the capricious night sky sparkled in silence.
From the middle of the meadow and mist
The odor of earth penetrated more deeply than any word,
There he touched his being
There as he is—he is.

To an Old Friend Not Forsaken

A misty morn, I walk the beach alone,
As well I should, it just seems good,
To feel the cool sand beneath my feet.
It was a day the sun had not shone,
I found myself walking between shore and woods.
A fog rolls in from where air and water meet;
Lost in thought, I skipped a stone,
It skimmed the water, then slipped into a wave.
I thought of a time―a memory bittersweet,
About a friend who’s spirit I tried to save;
Of a day in my youth where time meant more,
Than it did today walking this foggy shore.
That diminished time of youth, as was his time
On this earth; but a friend to a friend I was in the end.
How our lives are blessed, then turn on a dime.
My road is my own to pave,
Thoughts go out to him―a prayer to send.
I think of that stone that sank into that wave,
And my childhood friend thirty years in the grave

Cloud Dreaming

The boy came to a hill and his favorite tree.
His world was his own, so were his dreams.
He sat in its shade where he would see,
How clouds formed to shape his scenes:
There came a bear right out of thin air,
And a unicorn with a swirly horn,
There swam a dolphin with only one fin
And a chimpanzee, he could clearly see.
He made a wish, then saw two fish,
Where another he swore was a dinosaur.
Looking to the east, he saw a beast,
And a cat all billowy and fat. So
What came forth out of the north?
A dragon pulling a white wagon,
And a giraffe―but only one half.

Out of the west formed what he loved best,

An elephant with its trunk all bent,
And a polliwog that turned into a frog.
It was in the shade of that old tree,
He came to see what clouds could be,
And what forms his mind could set free.


Together whether in a bind, we may find

Relevance in trust; cling to it we must,

Understand without it – a useless writ.

So trust and love – where it like a glove

Together, trust is a rock – a foundation block.

Trygvie Jensen