Rain

I hope you are sleeping well. You should be – if the rain is not too loud . I woke because it was too warm and I was perspiring. The rain is rapping on the roof, walls and skylight of the tree house like it is trying to get in. The dilapidated gutters are overrunning and the water is slapping the wooden balustrade and deck of the veranda like ten thousand angry palms across ten thousand innocent faces. The ground is saturated and the cement walk is flooded. It continues to rain. 

                                                                              

A LETTER TO C.

A LETTER TO C.

Dear C.,

I hope I wasn't too overly cynical in my last e-mail. I am, in most essential respects, optimistic: though cognizant of the muddy playing fields that have been imposed – pressed upon us. Coming from a heart that prefers a forthright skyway; I am not very fond of muddying the trail. All this talk of doing the right thing, while considering what new physical limitations, let alone national, let alone global developments may deter us from achieving what is expected, leaves me unpropitiously estimating, "What next?".

Yesterday, I was without internet and phone service for five hours, (a tornado in Newcastle County?) – and this morning the power went off while I was working on line, ( a transformer blew at Sams?) Speaking of Lame Adventures!

I hope you are accomplishing all you desire.

Longingly,

R.

RAPTUROUS RAPPORT

Passing on the Right

Passing on the Right

I love the smell of iodine in the morning ; for that matter I love it in the afternoon, evening and all night ; I don’t want to be anywhere other than near the ocean. It is no wonder that the earth is made up of over seventy percent water. I could never be happy on Mars or Venus, although it pleases me to have them so near . I have been adaptable at times ; some of you would argue this point, you know who you are, but, your untruthiness be told , it was simply that your agendas and quotas were not being met ; often or not it was your unrealistic and distorted expectations driving you to pronounce me as inflexible. Anyway, I would like nothing more than to be compassionate toward those who would harm me, but, there are too many assholes passing on the right.

– Robert Pennington Price

Lunaris Rarus

Tens of thousands of insects performed a symphony, an elaborate musical composition resonating, familiar and strange, persisting, unwavering notes upon notes – the last hurrah – as I strolled along the cement walk, to view, in an early evening wan indigo sky, the golden orb of a blue moon. Pale purple colored shadows decorated the reflecting surface of the blonde satellite presenting the appearance of a face: still, mute, suspended, shedding an ochre glow, casting mine moon shadow: casting a shadow for all, for all mindful of the rare reverie.

– Robert Pennington Price

TO SENSE

To Sense

With the cooler nights lending themselves to more temperate mornings – it's been a brutally hot summer – I have taken to riding the mountain bike. On the wide open country roads traversing the old railroad tracks and the creeks and streams heading up the St Jones River I was rewarded by the pleasant aroma of freshly cut grass; my path was strewn with an abundance of cobalt blue morning glories and a pair of yellow finches raced along side me, always perching, waiting for me to catch up before taking wing flying another fifty yards before lighting to repeat all over again. Butterflies flittered at lush green foliage, smal winged and large winged, orange, yellow and white. The sun shone brightly and the sky was a paler shade of the dewy and reflective morning glories. On returning to a more congested area at a stop sign – ceding to the oncoming rush hour traffic – I discovered two copper pennies, one heads, one tales; the latter perfectly canceling the former. All-pervading, the adventure leaves me with a sense of gratitude and the recognition of good fortune: and two cents richer.

– Robert Pennington Price

Bike Ride Apple Pie Breakfast

Bike Ride Apple Pie Breakfast

In the cool of the morn

Devoid of all scorn

I inflated bike tires

Beyond all the mires

Rode; less forlorn

Returning to home

Cut oats not alone

Golden Delicious

Coconut, raisons judicious

A pie all my own.*

* Add ginger and walnuts!

– Robert Pennington Price

THE CANOPY

The Canopy

The verdant cloak, inching closer to the bay window overlooking the head of the St Jones River where I write, is glistening with the continuing precipitation – each leaf a sparkling emerald –  droplets the size of quarter dollars rap and tap on the sky-light at the apex of the vaulted ceiling of my tree house. The verdure is eerily still while starry openings reveal a silver-gray yonder. The usually sun-bleached white walk is tan, colored by the moisture that refused to cling to the lush vegetation that drapes an arbor of branches like long arms and fingers reaching, reaching until autumn and then winter, perforce, amend the green and disrobe the wooden structures.

– Robert Pennington Price