Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

I have come to the conclusion that there isn’t one.

I have come to the conclusion that there isn’t one.

My wanderings,
whether night dreams
of familiar faces
or morning walks
in a new neighborhood,
always seem to lead
me in a circle.

I enter
the cul-de-sac
and return the
way I have come,
still talking to the sky,
whispering the same prayers
past the aspen groves,
my longings like the
silver leaves
glistening in the wind.

Yet somehow
on the journey,
a small something
has been made
in me.

July 8, 2019

Posted in The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane



Yesterday’s fog reminded me of that morning mist hanging above Monte Verde long ago,
hiding the future like the road before me behind a wall of white.

Had I seen what would be today, would I have taken this road? I do not know. Perhaps that is why it was obscured.

Sometimes I wish I could close my eyes and be back among those strange trees filled with the weird sounds of creatures unseen rather than on this hidden highway racing towards I know not where.

Posted in Travel

Message from the One Perpetually Left Behind


I would love to go with you on your trip.

It’s not like I’d be able to leave anyways (tied down by certain responsibilities), but it would be nice to at least be invited.

I am at heart a homebody, so it would be hard to relax and forget about the ongoing renovations here. So much is incomplete, the hours of my days most often spent in maintenance, cleaning and reorganizing. But perhaps this time I could forget all that I seemingly need to do.

It is interesting, don’t you think, that vacation for someone is a lot of work for someone else, the ones who make it possible to leave, who help along the journey, clean rooms and serve food at the destination. The ability to vacate is thought to be brought about by the hard work of the vacatee, but I wonder if it is more so made possible by the work of others. And I, like those unknown many, do need the work.

I know I can travel to other places in my imagination and I do. I read profusely, watch travel shows, and I write. Though the lethargy of medicated depression seems to constantly weigh me down and the novels in my mind are as yet untouched and unfinished. Perhaps getting away would be the catalyst for the writer to finally break free.

I doubt it. There is always the returning from where I have been to what was before. I am already burdened by too many so-called fond memories. The thought of making new ones, of meeting new people who I will miss along with the host of others in my head and heart, is daunting.

I do crave connection.

Yet perhaps it is safer here, dear reader, amongst these lines. You have traveled to these words from your faraway land (at least that is what the WP stats tell me). I am amazed. Hello. I am so glad to have you on this flight.

Welcome to this journey. Consider this my invite.

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

In The Woods To Home

I have felt so lost lately
like those two children in that old fable
circling around to places once familiar
to find that the landscape has changed
and the costumes and masks once worn
no longer fit.

The world around us changes so fast
and the world within has a hard time keeping up.
I want to find a place that doesn’t change,
some place that is always the same,
some place that no matter what happens to me or
in the world around me,
I can be.
Such a place is called home.

Even the word resonates deep within.
It strikes a chord of such longing
that it never ends.

I used to know these trees.
I used to climb them,
spend hours in the comfort of their bark-covered arms,
but now they have been cut down,
eaten by moth or beetle,
and the new small ones growing up to take their place
I don’t know.
They are too young for me to understand.

I fear what these woods are becoming
and who I am when I am in them.
I wonder if they will ever end.
The trees seem to go on forever.

I ask myself why I am on this path.
Why did I even start on it in the first place?
Who gave me directions?
Why has it gotten so dark so fast?
It seems like I am moving in circles not going anywhere
and yet nothing is familiar.
How can this be?

I have tried to live my life the best I know how.
I have tried to find something deep down inside to guide me,
but I can’t do it anymore.
I am so tired,
I am so tired of wandering,
I am so tired of wandering alone.

Have I actually let others into my life?
I look back over the journey and it seems
that I have always been alone.
I have filled my life up with more people
and I feel more alone.
The more I come to the city
the lonelier I become.

I can’t seem to bring myself to be with me.
There is no Gretel here.
It’s just me.
It has always been me.
It will always be me.

I can’t go back to the witch
and her gingerbread house,
so sugary and sweet.
I can’t keep throwing my bread down for the birds to eat.

I just have to keep plodding away,
hoping I find some way out of these woods,
some path to a place called

(from Car Musings 8.2.98)

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Lost, But Not Really

wp-1467825903751.jpgOnce you were hesitant and you decided to go further this time through the woods on a myriad of meandering trails until you are lost, though not really, only far away from where you began.

Down below by the river, the realization grows that this is not the direction you thought you were heading. The land is unfamiliar and you no longer know where you fit in the geography.

You stop. You turn around. You find your way back. The journey longer than you thought. Its substance unexpected.

You took courage. You began. The circle has come round again. And somehow, someway, something has been made complete in you.


Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

The Journey


not every knob needs turning
not every bridge needs burning
not every road needs journeying

in the dawn of discerning
in the midst of the yearning
the way you will be learning

Posted in The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane



Often I find myself stuck
between the slow
and the fast,
fitting into neither,
never finding
a comfortable

I am impatient with those ahead of me, whose slow progress impedes my attempts to reach my destination.

I am angry at those pushing me from behind, so concerned with reaching their goal that I am just another obstacle in their way.

I must remember that at times I have been both.

It is the engine within, not the speed of those I encounter on the road, that drives me to anger and impatience.

O Divine Driver,
Grant that I might have a
more compassionate
awareness on this

Posted in Finding Frost's Road: Encounters with the Culture

Running Old Routes Three

(One man’s continuing search for the journey rather than the destination . . .)

Route: 40 east from Penn Alps, MD through Frostburg and Cumberland to 51 to 9 to 29 to 51 to 127 to 522 to 37 north (then brief stint on I-81S) to Rt. 7 to 340 N. To Rt. 9 East and home.

Time: App. 2.5 hours, about 30 minutes SHORTER than the interstate. Yes, believe it or not, the scenic route took less time then the Interstate normally does.

The Experience: Penn Alps is pretty close to halfway between our house and my wife’s family in Ohio, so we met them at the restaurant to celebrate Thanksgiving. My wife and I then stayed overnight next door at the Stonebow Inn, a truly delightful place. Cathy and Julyen were excellent hosts, the inn and rooms were gorgeous, and the breakfast in the morning was exquisite. The drive home was beautiful, passing through the Green River State Forest and beside the C & O Canal so there are plenty of places to stop and get a view of history and ecology. I was actually surprised at how easy it was to traverse Frostburg and Cumberland especially, which always feels pretty squeezed. All in all a great experience and as mentioned above, it actually took less time than the interstate.

Possible Changes: I accidently tried to go through Winchester on 522 and that is not a good idea. Stick with the 37 north route and avoid the conglomeration of roads in Winchester.