Michael L. Newell
After spending one-third of my life abroad, often in large cities, I have retired to small town coastal Oregon where I wander past creek, river, and forested hills, living a quiet life of contemplation. I have recently had poems published in Ship of Fools, The Iconoclast, and Jerry Jazz Musician, among other places.
to the wind rushing pell mell
downhill through tree and bush
to every rill reeling through forested valley
with a music wilder than the maddest fiddler's
to all the lasses and lads voices sailing with clouds
their young legs sweeping through meadows thigh high in grass
to every smile that made the heart jig swiftly
and the mind think about staying for incalculable time
crook the elbow bend the wrist and bless
them one and all with whatever blend suits your fancy.
Let Us Now Give Thanks For
the deer and hare, the fox
and crow, the wind
and rain, the thunder's roll,
the night in mist, the sweep
of snow, delicate balance
of the hurricane's eye, the cry
of the lark in the morning.
The damp petal lingers, adheres
I flick it
away, some of my flesh
clinging to its flight
into rough grass,
and I turn
to embrace the spring
wind in my face,
the long road ahead.
First published in Lilliput Review (mid-1990s).
©2016 Michael L. Newell
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