The Far Side Banks of Jordan:

Field-space

2026-10-18T17:14:46.367-04:00

While driving about

I put my mind

in the cornfield,

whether the corn

is high or stubbed.

And I know my

heart will follow.

Connecting the land

between the pieces

of my me. Mingled

among the brown or

green it does not take

long for me to dive

full on into the dirt;

head, heart, and all.

Along the line of sight

and feeling, the self

sets out to play. The

hands tend to follow the

movement of the eyes.

The heart, the movement

of the mind. It’s not long

before the whole of my

me is getting into the act.

Imagine my amazement

when the murmuration of

starlings first lit their curve

across the tree-line along

the edge of the road. My

eyes dragged my mind

to their edges, first up

and then down; first right

and then left. Almost

instantaneously I forgot

my center as if I had lunged

pell-mell into this echolocation

of their movement through

space. It takes an instant

to be transformed, if we let

loose the reins of the soul.

Freedom is just that close.

On The Way

2026-10-18T11:59:18.389-04:00

On the way

to on the trail,

a perpetual lean

toward moving ahead.

Burgundy and gold

sassafras under foot

and in the trees tickle

my eyes and soul into

recognizing we are

back in the thin time

again. The time when

meaning is mingled and

multiplied by the dampening

aroma of leaves beginning to

become undone, by the wind in

the trees caressing and rattling,

and by piles of apples laden with

the bodies and carcasses of

yellow jackets consuming their

fill. The orange lancets of the

sumac point us in every direction -

to wander and wonder ourselves

into being undone for a season;

undone with the purpose of simmering

in the strong and occasional

warming sun of day. Because.

Just because. The becauses of Autumn

hold me close and tight; close and tight

to my being and my reason for

breath. Because. Because. Because.

All of my becauses are hidden;

hidden in the beauty of the Fall.

Listen for Me

2026-10-17T12:43:36.794-04:00

Listen for me just below the surface of

the ground, below the face of the dirt.

Listen for me among the dry and almost barren trees of autumn as they let go.

I will be softly singing among the mycelia, and all around their fungi and their spores.

I will be the blow and rattle between the browning parched oak trees’ falling leaves.

I won’t be very far away, my fondness for the beauty of nature will keep me close.

I’ll be under every new greening piece of life, pushing itself up out of the soil.

I’ll be on the back of every piece of lice between the feathers of the croaking raven.

On molds, and newts. In springs, and sand. Aloft in zephyrs and tornadoes all.

Every quark and quasar will whisper my hope; each star and nebula my poems.

I will not escape beyond the beyond that has riveted my soul with wonder and awe.

I will have nowhere else to go, but everywhere. Listen for me and look.

Poems and Air-Fried Taters

2026-10-10T10:04:11.008-04:00

I’ve come to the place this morning,

the place we’re feeling is vitally important

in meaning. The place just before where

one thing gets converted into another.

Like a word between languages. The place

just before where “feasgar math” becomes

“good evening”. The place where the notion

to offer up the salutation is a feeling - a feeling

of wishing to connect and bond. Not the

action itself of moving toward a one-ing of

people. The heavy place where there exists

gossamer wisps of fragrant dreaming; and

they are indistinguishably mingled among

early morning sunrise and crusty eyelids

being formed. In that place, there be magic,

and endless possibility. Poems, and

formulations live there. Waiting. That’s the

place I’ve come to, and dammit, there I long to

stay. But alas, I’ve put the potatoes on to fry,

and will have to settle for writing it out instead.

EVER ON AGAIN

2026-10-02T06:10:09.888-04:00

I was wanting a stretch a land

for settling down on, not for

forever, but just for a spell.

A generous space to spread

out some of my favorite ideas,

and words, images and sounds.

When prices grew too high, I

looked beyond the usual fare.

To nooks and hidden hollers.

And then I found it. Right here and

right now inside my morning. A place

so familiar; one I had overlooked.

I had needed to stop searching and

instead to start making. The things I

longed for became things I now shaped.

Stillness. Ample openness. A touch of

fondness for what is. A listening sense

of inquisitiveness. A deep satisfaction.

There’s no regret for the time spent on

questing and exploration. It is that hard

effort that multiplied my contentment.

The river of loving friendships and

relations runs swiftly by the hills and

knolls of tender kindnesses unearthed.

The dazzling awe and wonder of an

expansive vista are made more clear

in the presence of a simple silence.

The map for uncharted awareness and

unspoken exhilaration were on the back

of my impressions of this new day.

Here. Here I will linger, until the gentle

breeze of clarity says it is time to go.

To go there, and there hope for a new clue.

Ever on. Ever on. Ever on, again.

Learning to Invite

2026-09-06T12:11:30.246-04:00

The concentration of

a poem is focused upon

each word. Its each and

every place. Here. Now.

Listening for which words

should come before and

which should come after.

Learning to invite some to

stay and others to leave.

Poem is mine, ai generated poster.

Chambers of Stillness

2026-08-17T10:47:32.877-04:00

And what is it

you will hear today

in the chamber of

your stillness?

What distant echo

from the silence?

The warbler will

return atop the tree

just outside meeting.

The purple of the

bruised memory of

your fathers death on

the road will arise.

The creak and the

pop of the drying

of the church bench

will fill your ears.

What is it you will

hear today in the

chamber of your

stillness? Or, will you

choose not to sit and

away yourself within?

No Permanent Self

2026-08-16T10:38:33.977-04:00

Spider walking through

my morning, I collect the

habits and the hobbies

which help me construct

a separate self - which

apparently does not exist.

A few mugs of

Indian tea, the first

meds of daylight,

scrapple, and some

time on the shitter.

Here I am. The self

that does not exist.

That explains a lot.

I just want to know who

it is who smells the rain

heavy in the air; and, feels

the moisture on the humid

wind of the day?

Who tastes the dripping

tang of the apple or

slakes itself on the cold

draughts of spring water?

It is that one I have come

to love to be with, who

I have trusted to take me

into a living consumed by joy.

But yeah, he is not quite

who he used to be.

Audacious Light

2026-08-11T13:40:50.397-04:00

I wonder at the shy light

of morning that sneaks out

slowly from the edges of

the darkness and the new day.

Like it is trying to hold back.

Light that so gently crawls

at first and then harshly

gallops itself upon the scene

in full and all out display.

Like there had been no night.

That first light and its crescendo

is what interests me at first rising.

It draws back the curtains on the

mystery of having one more day.

Like I might live forever.

That light. That new light, even

wet with rain, is a hope for yet

another day. Another day to conjure

words into poems and live audaciously.

Like that is all there is.

Catbird Journey

2026-08-11T13:26:35.807-04:00

Deep in the recesses

of the tallish hedgerow,

the Gray Catbird peers

through the tattered

crevice, planning the day.

Coffee first? Or, pie?

Smile of Strangers

2026-08-09T16:55:34.301-04:00

THE SMILE OF STRANGERS

The squirrel at the feeder
jitters about trying to keep
track of his hoard of seed -
which I put out for the birds -
suspiciously clutching more.
It would be annoying if
I didn't expect it so.

And, while it is comforting
when a thing goes as you
had planned in your head,
there is nothing like the return
smile of a stranger - rich and
deep and in earnest. A sturdy
railing on the way. A sunbow.

I look for them each day,
wondering what is going on
inside and how it keeps them
from or helps them to curl
their lips richly with character
and assurance. All is well they
say to the world. All is well.

Even when it is not. Thank you.
Thank you for changing everything.

Just Because

2026-08-09T13:36:54.078-04:00

Just because

they’re gathered

all around;

doesn’t make them

friends.

Autumnal Shift

2026-08-08T07:08:49.695-04:00

E’en with ferocious

gusts and winds,

amid the humid days,

a silent shift from

now to then, itself its

presence made.

It comes like that with

slant of light, or wind

throughout our lands,

e’en though we may not

nod assent, Autumn

has touched our hands.

Some Days

2026-08-06T07:39:48.096-04:00

Some days

I like to wear Skin Bracer,

by Mennen.

So I can still smell

Dad, that handsome

guy.

Today is one

of those days.

Work

2026-08-03T14:28:48.502-04:00

I don’t want to

leverage my skills

in a robust supportive

environment.

I want to get

through the week with

energy left over and a

feeling I have done good.

Like when on Fridays they

announced our Scholastic books

had arrived for us to take

home over the weekend.

That joy.

Time’s hands turn

2026-07-30T20:35:54.717-04:00

with ne’er a regard

for the meaning in the

offing, but only w’the

constant need to plow

on ahead, past all

wha’ is into the next

iteration of all we shall

ne’er be able to grasp

or hold onto. So slow

it down w’the steadiest

glance y’can muster -

staring straight into

whate’er y’may befall

with a crazy gale o’laughter

tha’ belies your understanding

tha’you are but dust. Dust.

Nothing but dusty dust.

I Grew Up Painting Bricks

2026-07-22T06:35:30.262-04:00

I grew up painting bricks with water when I was younger; and, I learned to paint them with paint as I got older. The practice of painting bricks with water began when I was five and six years old, waiting for my father to come home from work on Saturday. I was waiting for him to get done so he could take me fishing.

The waiting was hard for me and so my father and mother devised a practice that would become a profession. It started with a Maxwell House coffee can, water, and a three inch wide brush. They would fill the can with water and tell me to go paint the brick wall on the side of the walkway up to the house.

There was a wisdom in their prescription. By the time I would get to the end of the brick wall, the beginning of the brick wall would be dry and need water again. I would start all over again without skipping a beat. So whether they planted an OCD pattern in me, or were simply maximizing on an OCD pattern they saw, I cannot be completely sure. But, I could not stop painting the wall with water. It was a drive.

Later in life, when I was between careers, I had my own painting business for several years. I had painted a lot in the summer during high school and college days. But, just before our first son was born, I was painting houses in an historic borough in Bucks County, Pennsylvania - and all around the county. It was what my father did for 30 years of his life.

Painting bricks with water was the first inkling I had that there is often a natural hunger built into the work we do. A hunger that would allow us to keep going, to keep doing, until we achieve what we set out to accomplish. A hunger that sustains itself, even as we grow weary. Some would call it an obsession. But I think they only do that because they fear the hunger. Those who understand the hunger do not need to call it an obsession at all. They just listen to its urgings.

Hunger can root us in our daily lives and look like habit. The learned behavior that allows us to return to the same activities day after day after day. This hunger drives communities as well as individuals. It moves history across time. It is responsible for all the great developments we love; the culture and art and science in living itself.

It is hunger that gets me out of bed in the morning. That calls me to hike three miles before work. It is hunger that helps me to overcome the difficulty of working with the dying - day in and day out. And what begins me to long for the sweet creams and crepes of sleep.

Hunger is the very pulse that moves all life forward; evolving into the next way we will be. And the next after that. I love that longing ache to move ahead and grow. I am enchanted and haunted by that hunger.

Collaged Gelli mono-print accompanies piece

Across the Trail

2026-07-22T06:30:14.645-04:00

Across the trail of time I go

to the place I had once found

my pace in hiking - the first

time. Hiking the Horseshoe

Trail, each step reminds my me

where the gentle portions of my

soul had picked out the way a

footfall feeds a heartbeat; and a

heartbeat lulls the soul to

sleeping while yet wide awake.

The scent of the earth here is

made up of hickory bark and black

walnut shells. The sight of humus

is fraught with worms determined

to consume every nutrient at

their surround. So pebbled is the

dirt it crumbles as I pull out

strands of Canary Grass - in

great clumps - fistfuls at a time.

How can so much from the past

be laced into my very steps today.

Does not the earth herself re-

member me from passing this way

more than once. She must. But still

my life has meanings here, if she does

not. Meanings bent on giving me

over to the grandeur of becoming

more than a man. But, less than a

god. Pure spirit, yes spirit. Hope.

After

2026-07-22T06:22:45.747-04:00

After placing the final stitches on the denim patches of your poem, try it on. Wear it for a week.

Make sure you have it on when you

go out in public. Have it on when you hike

the trail. Even when you sleep.

Wear it inside out to make sure it is versatile

and capable. See how it looks on you when

you wear it backward. How about wet?

Study each stitch to see if it will bear up

under long wear. Are the threads showing

integrity and truth? Will they last?

If your poem can bear up under such

regular scrutiny, it may be a good one. It

may move people to satisfaction.

Listen to the sounds it makes as you walk.

Try to hear its unique tones while sauntering

in it, and then again at a full run.

Is it a pleasing tune? Or, perhaps it is an

alarming melody? Does it ring true with a

clarity that makes folks hungry for more?

After placing the final stitches

on the denim patches of your poem,

try it on. Wear it for a week.

It Matters How We Do This

2026-07-18T13:48:23.947-04:00

Stand here in the heat, in the hot and blazing heat of morning that feels as if it is ten times hotter than it should be.

Stand here in the smoke that is as dense as fog; that flies south from the Northlands which seems are all on fire.

Stand here and hang your head in silence. Open your heart to the anguishing world that is coming undone - COMING UNDONE.

In this same space remember with joy, the countless days you have stood here with rain and foxes, and spindly legged fawns.

Times before the troubles. But know this. It matters how we do this. Acknowledge the anguish; and acknowledge the joy.

For grieving goes this way. To ignore the sharp pain of loss would not be kind to the owl, the bear, and the ginseng; nor the fireflies.

It would be an affront to the children born this day. An outrage to all our relations. It matters how we do this.

Start ‘Em Off Young

2026-06-26T18:08:45.226-04:00

I can remember trying to catch

the screen door with my foot

before it would hit the aluminum

frame and announce it’s having been

opened and closed one more time.

For some reason, there was a rule

about comings and goings and

how many could occur. Which, by

the way, was never discussed

with me. But don’t cross the line.

“Tommy Medland, if you come in

from outside one more time today

you’ll be stuck inside the house

for the rest of the day. You’ll not

be allowed to go out anymore.”

With the stalwart innovation of the

explorers I read of at the age of seven,

I thought it within the rules laid

down that if I should need to pee

that outside is where I should go.

And so, to the tallest of the poplars

I went. It was the last of four that would

die and need me to cut it down and

into pieces to burn. I peed on it and as

the Ackers drove by, I waved to them.

And there was my one flaw. As still today.

In the social kindnesses expected and shown,

with my right hand I did my business; with my

left I acknowledge our neighbors driving by.

Who knew they’d call?

Mixed messages. Everywhere. Waiting

to confound the logical constructs we

thought we knew. Adult-speak always changing

into something we never heard before.

Neighbors betray us, as we wave.

It’s so treacherous to be so young!

WITH NO CARE

2026-06-19T07:24:20.606-04:00

Sometimes a morning poem emerges from behind the scenes you are seeing just this moment, but has been simmering from a life; a lifetime. Such was what I wrote this fine day:

"I give you the end of a golden string,

Only wind it into a ball:

It will lead you in at Heavens gate,

Built in Jerusalems wall." Jerusalem,

by William Blake

Without a care the deer

sauntered casually across

the backroad and ever so

gently into the woods - like

through a door that did not

exist and was gone - all gone.

Like what I remember of the

crossing out of mid-life. It’s

time to trace those steps and

see where I have been - where

we have been. Pinsky of Dante

was spot on:

“Midway on our life's journey,

I found myself in dark woods,

the right road lost. To tell

About those woods is hard—so

tangled and rough…”

Step back out my soul, onto

the road that was yours, before

you did what we must do to

live and survive amid the masses.

Find that golden thread and follow

it back to the ball wound up and

in the center of your you - in

your heart space, and weave the

blanket you will share and some

day leave to warm your wife and sons

and all they bring into this world - both

now and when you are gone. It’s what

we do - we men - when we find our

road - again. We weave; we wind and weave.

The Dandy-Lion

2026-06-16T16:54:02.996-04:00

Billions have been

trodden under barefoot

toes, in just my humble

life alone.

Weed, weed decry

the masses of

suburbia. Jealous

they can spread so

easily on just the wind.

Dandelion, oh the flower

of our youth. When we were

yet able to forestall the

judgement that a thing could

itself be worthless through and

through. This herald of glory

picked by chubby hands.

While toil we must from

sun to sun to make a

simple meager wage to

tend the need of all our

days we pass upon here

from cradle to grave.

Sacred flower picked endlessly

by the harbingers of whimsy

and delight. Might I never lose

my infatuation with your downy

flower and bitter leaves; the purple

in your stem ever the vein of joy.

Arise each year, again and again,

and cause the miserable to grumble.

As If In Stone

2026-06-16T16:11:47.287-04:00

I love the gentle viscous

flow of the blueberry ink

across the page with a

squirrel tail Sumi brush.

And the staccato, grainy

feel of the Applewood cinders

mulled so small for the crow

quill pen to scratch out words.

But the greatest joy comes from

writing life with you across the

wrinkles of our aging skin and in

the chambers of our hearts.

As if in stone.

As if forever.

The Taste of Morning

2026-06-09T18:59:01.091-04:00

he Tastes of Morning

A Pewee and a Bunting
just over there, in the high
branches of the neighbor’s 
tree - just out of sight.

A sampling of words
going this way and that
down sentences that
may or may not come to be.

A chime in the wind 
tinkling and gonging out
notes that lull me into more
birdsong just beyond view.

So many broken threads
line the walls of morning.
Each a possibility of Blake’s
winding ball of Jerusalem.

Perhaps Frost’s road not
taken was one of the many
tastes of morning that assail
us - each a possibility.

I’ll take these all on my 
walk, and look for something
on which to dwell, before the
sun rises and I need to look busy.