Questions.

 

Questions.

 

Where in the world is my mind?

Where in my mind is the world?

Why do I act like it matters?

While my thoughts are endlessly whirled?

Why does this world spin in circles?

Why does it endlessly turn?

Where is the place where it’s headed?

Where is the care and concern?

What is its ending and purpose?

What is the goal of the game?

Is it nothing but vanity shining?

A fight just for fortune and fame?

Nothing but questions, no answers.

Come to my mind in this dark.

I’m recklessly running in blindness.

Looking for one single spark.

 

©James L. Frady

November 15, 2021

 

The Old House

 

The windowpane of dirty glass

Kept the cold from getting past

The snow outside lay cold and still

On ground and tree and windowsill

The neighbor’s house not far away

Was alive with the sound of children’s play

But this old house up on the hill

Stood silent in the winter’s chill

 

One small chimney in the back

Puffing out a plume of black

Against the sky of cloudy gray

The only sign of life this day

Nothing stirred on porch or yard

Life itself seemed frozen hard

Inside the house though, anger raged

Within a man trapped by his age

 

No one stopped to say hello

They passed his drive and on they’d go

To town or visit with some friends

He wished someone would visit him

Day turned to dark and then expired

Still he sat beside his fire

Never came that friendly knock

Only the toll of the mantle clock

 

Why is it that no one cares?

To go and see who’s living there

When they pass, they sometimes slow

Then reconsider and on they go

“Much to busy, he won’t mind

if I come back some other time.”

Other times are busy, too

Soon enough it will be you

Shut in and so all alone

Trapped by age within your home.

 

©1990 James L.Frady

Note:  I wrote this 31 years ago and it still crosses my mind when I see an old house where someone appears to be still living.

The End of Day

 

The End of Day



The day is starting to fade.

In this quiet mountain glade.

The sun is sinking low

As I quietly watch it go.

Behind the mountain I see,

it slipping away from me.

The shadows of the trees

Are growing by degrees

They’re stretching across the ground

Creeping without sound,

like cold, black and long

skeletal fingers that belong

To some dark and deathly hand,

stretching across the land

reaching and straining

and slowly gaining

to once again this night

extinguish all that’s light

I watch the world slip

into their dark chilling grip

the night has quietly fallen.

My distant home is calling.



© James L. Frady

November 14, 2021

Lonesome Music

 

Lonesome music.



The sound of wind whispering

through barren trees.

The far off cries

Of crows in flight

Trees rattling their limbs

against each other,

in the frigid air,

creaking as they sway.

A squirrel barks

and digs in fallen leaves,

Looking for a nut

That may have fallen there.

From a lofty hickory

Or an old majestic oak

The soft whistle of the wind

blowing down the mountain hollows.

Moaning an old, cold song

From the dawn of time.

Leaves rattling along the ground

seeking a resting place

where the air is still.

Chords of nature, mellow

And softly playing

To the listening ear.

Living breathing music,

Lonesome music from the ancient hills.



© James L Frady

November 14, 2021

Note:

It's not very often that I write a non-rhyming poem, but this one just fell into place this way after reviewing some thoughts from a trip into the woods on a cold and windy day.

Mr. Spock Has Beamed Up.

 

Mr. Spock Has Beamed Up.

 

I heard the news today, so sad

About a childhood friend I had

I left the crowd and hung my head

Because I heard that Spock was dead

 

We met daily when I got home

And far across the stars we roamed

Logic was his life and way

That so many times had saved the day

 

Kirk, and I, and Mr. Spock

Explored new worlds at five o’clock

We took an hour to overcome

What some enemy had gone and done

 

And along the way we learned to live

What to hold to and what to give

And before each episode could end

We remembered the power of having friends

 

“Live long and prosper”, Spock would say

And we departed until another day

At warp factor six through the starry skies

Across the galaxy flew the Enterprise

 

I dream still of planets, far

And often look up to the stars

I wonder if man will ever go

I wonder if we’ll ever know

 

The magic of interstellar flight

Through the galaxy’s eternal night

With my friends I have often gone

But too soon we all depart alone

 

I heard the news today, so sad

About a childhood friend I had

I must admit how I cried

The day they told me Nimoy died.

 

James Frady

© February 27, 2015

Dogs

I don't think I know what it is about dogs,

that wraps my heart strings all in a bind.

I'm not sure why my heart gets so attached

in spite of the thoughts, saying no, in my mind.

I can't figure out why there's something inside

that responds so fast to a dog's wagging tail,

or why I fall so easy and quick 

but I do it ever and again without fail

Could it be their eyes so brilliant and dark

that see through my shell and know I will fall?

That look up at me with mischief aglow

that remind me of every dog I recall?

Do they see me and know that I've had dogs before 

that left great memories of days in the sun,

of running and walking through fields and wood,

and wandering in the dark when the day is done?

Could it be that they have such  energetic zeal?

They think each day is a great day to live,

and life is a grand big game that they play.

Or is it the joy in abundance they give?

Maybe it's  the instinct, though they see it as fun,

to chase every bird, every squirrel and rabbit.

Though seldom successful they go every time

trying to pursue that deep seated habit.

Maybe it's the way they look lying down

in a bright sunny spot or in the deep shade.

How they stretch out and circle and let out a yawn 

then  drop all care like they've got it made.

Maybe it's the tongue all hot and sloppy 

and wet and smelly with doggy breath.

that they try to use to lick hand and face,

a happy assault,  trying to lick you to death.

I think it's all of these things, and more.

I think it's the way they sit by your side

just being your friend that you so badly need

when you're sad and alone and wanting to hide

It's it's the way they're there and ever true

and always support you when push comes to shove

It's companionship on every road

But most of all it's unconditional love.

dedicated to all the "good boys" that have each enriched my life

with something only a good dog can give 

every dog is different and they always take a chunk of your heart 

when they go.

(c) May 4, 2021.  James L Frady 

Shaconage (The Smoky Mountains)

I lift up my eyes unto the hills.

Beneath the blue sky, they quietly lay

Rolling into the distance soft and still

The mountains called Shaconage.

Ancient long before man found them here

One can feel how much the years do weigh

How the ages come and disappear

Yet remains primeval Shaconage.

I see your forests coat your gentle slopes

A canopy that blocks each golden ray.

And shades in mystery the grounds below

And the dim-lit paths through Shaconage

The waters spring up in its hollowed hills

To gurgle and flow down their shining way

They water the valleys below as on they spill

Through the land they call Shaconage

The moon shines full on valley, ridge, and Dale

The land is haunted, dark, black and grey

By memories misty, thin, and frail

Of ages past here in Shaconage

The Ancient hills and valleys roll away

the smoky haze across this land does lay

My thoughts come here any time they stray

My heart belongs to Shaconage

(c) James L. Frady April 15th 2021

 The name “Smoky Mountains” is derived from the Cherokee word “Shaconage” (Sha-Kon-O-Hey), which means “land of the blue smoke”.