I’ve never been me before

October 5, 2018

With the early morning fog
All was white-gray
Seeing nothing for more than 100 yards
Islands were not to be seen
Nor the far shore

Silence
Well, not quite
Soft, gentle movement heard
Water caressing the rock-strewn
Beach

I was thinking, for me,
This is a new experience
And certainly so
On this day, in this place
At this age

Who I am today is new
What I experience today is new
All I see and all I hear, new
The me of now
Has never existed before

I’ve never been this me before
I should be in awe of everything
Tired of nothing
Open to the grace
Of all things

©2018 Thomas W. Cummins

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Like molten metal

August 12, 2018

North woods of Minnesota
Smoke
Haze
Deep red-orange rising sun
Shining through the effect
Of Canada’s wildfires

Reflecting a gray sky
The lake below is calm
On the surface comes a disturbance
A boat’s wake
Catches the sun’s iridescence
And for a moment
Like a fluorescent orange molten metal
The rays are stirred into
Slate gray water

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Storm Remnants

June 15, 2018

Following last night’s storms here in the woods by the lake, a reprise of an earlier post.

In a dim light...

—∞—
Like old crones
In tattered dark gray cloaks
Last night’s storm clouds
Shuffle off to the east
 
Hiding the rising sun
They prolong their gloomy pall
Leaving behind sodden leaves
Plastered against windows
Overlooking the slate-hued lake

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A reminder of the men I visit in segregated cells

March 8, 2018

I was reminded of this quote when a book was returned to me this morning. The second sentence is, to me, very rich in meaning, very relevant.

‘Many prisoners find themselves stuck within a present that seems to go nowhere, with little to lose and little to look forward to, waiting for a future release that may never come or that, when it does, might not deliver the longed-for sense of freedom. They find themselves haunted by a past that cannot be undone and that may return obsessively to dominate the present and drain the future of hope.’

Lisa Guenther, Solitary Confinement: social death and its afterlives

I was quite young

December 11, 2017

Going through boxes and boxes of stuff in preparation for downsizing during the next decade, or so.

I was quite young when I wrote this. Perhaps it was 55 years ago. Nevertheless, here it is

If I could choose

A New Day

October 4, 2017

Gilt by a setting sun
Trees
Golden
Across the lake
On the shore
A window on an unseen cabin
Angled just right
Ablaze with reflected light

This side, this shore
Could seem gloomy here in the woods
At the foot of the hill
No sunlight on grass or leaves
But tomorrow’s coolness of morning
Fresh sparkle of sun’s rising
Brings a new day
A new beginning

©2017 Thomas W. Cummins