The Seward House still stands tall!

Seward House

The sage of Auburn lived here,

Among the books and fine adornments.

Was Miller’s home for many years,

Filled with history and refinements.

Scene of dinners, fetes and friends

Who ruled New York in years past.

Weed, an honored often guest,

As well as all the famous rest.

A Stone fireplace...at site of a CCC Camp!

CCC camp at McDonough

It is silent there now,

No sound, no sound.

I heard a faint call of a bird…

It seemed so far away.

Where men once worked,

And learned a trade,

And helped to make a way!

The forest stands as a monument,

To the men who planted trees;

They were a force of hope and growth,

Those men of the CCC!

A Summer Storm......

Rainbow

A Summer Storm

Wind of summer’s discontent,

Trees and tearing branches bent;

Waking early to driving rain,

Is summer relieving herself of pain?

Dancing rhythm of the wind,

Echoes of thunder’s brash alarm,

Hidden deep beneath my covers,

I feel safe from summer’s harm.

Lightning breaking in disjointed form,

Striking down at earth.

Plant life and creatures holding on,

Clinging to life for all they’re worth.

Gray and somber the summer sky,

Dark, ominous, filled with gloom,

I look about in midnight colors,

Searching for a clue, why summer’s mood?

Perhaps it’s summer’s hidden anger,

Sweeping earth to rid it of its sins.

Perhaps it’s summer giving life,

Her love showed while being stern!

Now with great relief I sigh,

As the summer storm passes by.

I search the light that breaks behind

For any kind of hopeful sign.

Maybe beyond it’s blue and clear,

Hoping a rainbow might appear.

A Small Piece of the Country and its Barns

A farm near Palatine Church

A Small Piece of the Country

I own a small piece of the country; 

It is hidden beneath this shirt, 

Out of eyesight, unable to seen, 

Not to be found, touched or heard.

It is winter in its somber white suit; 

It is fall in its vibrating colors; 

It is summer with its kiss of warm breezes;

It is spring and all that is new.

I own a small piece of the country; 

It is hidden from view, 

In remembered feelings and words, 

of all the friends I knew.

It is open like a window, 

Letting in the fresh country air; 

It is golden like the morning, 

When the sun warms me there.

It is dew upon the grass, In the morning fresh and new; 

It is the sky, the night of the full harvest moon.

I own a small piece of the country; 

It is hidden in my mind, 

Of the fine folk Who make up the country kind.

It is the farmer harrowing his field; 

It is the preacher holding together his small flock; 

It is the neighbor helping a neighbor; 

It is my friends and their warm hearts.

I own a small piece of the country; 

It is my own special part, 

I own a small piece of the country;

I keep it here within my heart.

The Country Grave Yard...a final resting place!

The Graveyard 

The town’s family tree lies here, 

Guarded by an old iron gate 

That creaks in the wind 

On the short ride it takes. 

Here generations rest together as a history, 

Total and complete. 

The cold head stones, 

moss covered and worn away, 

You gaze upon at your feet. 

Tranquil and secluded, 

On a hill beyond a glen, 

Safe from the bustle of the world 

And the noise of modern men. 

Honored, the ones not forgotten, 

For you, flowers bloom in spring; 

To the others less fortunate, 

Honored only when the church bell rings. 

A mourning dove cries for you, 

And the breeze warms your resting place. 

Those gone before us, 

Who look up at God’s face. 

The Moon......on Green Lake..the dancer!

Moon on the water at Green Lakes State Park

Moon’s Shadow

Stargazers watch the swirling sky, 

As dots of light go rolling by. 

The sky’s dark envelope closes overhead,

As we watch in wonder and delight;

For the moon, our very fickle friend, 

Will dance a dance for us tonight.

Shimmering, glimmering, moving but still, 

As we lie on our backs at the top of a hill, 

Dancing and prancing across the velvet sky,

The star show for us goes gaily by.

Hours pass, the night is still, 

As we sit on our perch above the hill. 

So beautiful and so hard to believe 

That it's with a mere shadow you deceive. 

Then slowly you pull the mask from your face, 

And again bathe the earth with your silvery grace.

Young Pilgrims on the shore.......

As children on the shore..

Oh! To be like children,

As they stand as Pilgrims

On the shore,

Waiting at the start of life.

The wind and warm breeze touch their cheeks,

They are unaware that the sands of time

Have started down the hourglass,

In the measurement of their days.

Unaware of the past and its history,

Encircled by lofty ideals,

Filled with dreams “a-plenty”,

Their time has come,

Yet they are unaware.

To you I wish life in its fullest;

To you I wish understanding

Of life’s uncertain ways.

And yet there is life everlasting,

Viewed in the shifting sands,

That will greet the generations in their day.

Silence prevails in the lonely north,

Where only wind whispers its thoughts to man;

Dreams of summer,

Dreams at night,

As the earth sleeps until awakened in the spring.

Rest and comfort by the fire,

Man lives away from winter cares.

While beasts outside

shiver and wait,

For the warmth and comfort of springtime air.

The solitude may be quite needed,

Rest for earth, this I know.

Yet deep within my soul,

Summer's warmth is what I long for,

Not winter's cold forbidding snow!

A light that once showed the way in the darkness....

Selkirk Lighthouse at Port Ontario

Now dark in the gloomy clouds of day,

This trusted light once showed the way.

Asleep in the ages and next to the lake,

A beacon to all a safe haven to take.

Now its uses are left to the few,

Who venture to take a picture or two.

But mighty its pull to a time once known,

When leading the way from peril it shown.

Awake from your sleep those that rest in the sea,

You are not forgotten by the likes of me.

Let this lighthouse bear witness to your life now gone,

A lasting testament to the history of those you left forewarned.

The Sadness of Oriskany...

The place where General Herkimer laid directing his troops

The sadness of that day seems to leap from the quiet air... the spot now holy in the annals of war.  But what of his comrades the Indian friends... whose presence is forgotten by local lore.

Arise dead soldiers unite as one 

to lift war's curse before the sun.

To mark a spot on sacred ground 

where fighting spoke words so profound.

Nothing solved, nothing gained, 

by war's red horror and blood red stain.

For ages and ages hence from now,

no spot will stand not even  bough!

Monticello Flowers - The tapestry of history.

Do the flowers embroidered by time remember days gone by?

Perhaps these flowers have sprung from the seeds of the same flowers that watched a Nation grow so many years ago!  

Do they remember the man Thomas Jefferson who watched them grow and recorded their story?  

Do they remember the touch of the slaves who cultivated them and worked his gardens for his pleasure?

As the sun beckons us to walk near them and smell their perfume do we appreciated the darkness that brought them to being. 

The threads of life's tapestry have been captured by time on the fabric of our Nation in places such as this.

Mr. Johnston is not Home!

Mr. Johnston is not Home!

I sit and wait for him to return, but he does not come.  I have grown tired over all these years, I have become lonely and I despair, for Mr. Johnston has left me alone to grieve for those happy days and loving nights.  There is no laughter to fill these walls, there is no joy.

The children have left for their future but alas, I have none. I can only listen to the vacant haunting sounds of the wind while I wait for Mr. Johnston to come home to me!  

The Silver Chain is Broken!

The sound of the drum has ceased to be!

The sound of our drum has ceased to be - like so many stories and promises made.  What was sealed with blood has bound no man or country.  I see the eagle above my head, I see the earth under foot, I see the blood and tears that have been shed.

The silver chain is broken..though each year we polish it bright.  The days of meaning have long since passed into time like the faces of our ancestors.  We call upon the spirits but they to lay sleeping in the bosom of the earth!

Arise and march for for us o'spirits...the time has come to renew your people and place them back as the keepers of your earth!

The Lady of Rose Hill

The Lady of Rose Hill

I can hear her petticoats rustle as she scurries across the lawn.  I wonder what she is searching for on this peaceful day.  Perhaps she is looking for the past and her place in time.  A time she can step into with little or no trouble, a place that has no future.

As I marvel at her house so beautiful and neat, a setting from a movie or perhaps or a setting from a time gone by.

Let summer's breath keep you lingering for my camera's eye, 

so that we can glimpse you in your time gone by, 

and catch your image at that ethereal portal,

to make you and your time immortal!