When did the springtime of youth turn into the raging storm of old age? 

When did the bounce with every step change to the shuffling of slippers?

When did I get old? Why didn't I see it coming? I looked into the mirror to shave or jokingly count the wrinkles, which eventually became like road maps to my life. I still laugh, but it's not the laugh I had when I was young. It once came from deep within my heart, and now you must listen for it or look into my eyes and see the silent laughter. Growing older lets some memories fade away, but blessed are we who can still reach back into our past and smile.

Mike 2024

Ghost train?

 An old steam locomotive lies in a forgotten field covered with vines. Time is disguising it as it is reclaimed by nature. The wooden box cars have rotted, leaving metal hinges and door handles swinging in the wind, playing a song no one will hear. The passenger car, with its once elaborate seating made of leather, is home to rats who, along with time, took all the beauty away. The club car, once a small gathering place filled with laughter and song with bottles of fine liquor, is now filled with broken pieces of glass, never to pour again. The tables and chairs more food for termites and beatles. The caboose was once where the mail was carried in burlap sacks; some were still tied up, just dust and lost letters never to be read. Decayed Packages ride the rail towards someone eagerly waiting but only disappointed when the tracks remain quiet. How long has it been hidden in the weeds? Something tells me others like me have explored the wreckage and wondered where the skeletons were. Was it a ghost train? Who knows? One thing is sure: I'm out if I visit here at night and see a conductor waving a lantern.

Mike  2024

His woods

 He walked in the woods while other little boys played stickball and teased the girls. It was a lonely place filled with voices heard by those who would listen. He connected with the trees and those who dwelled in the protective branches. They spoke to him with sounds and sometimes quick actions to escape something that must have seemed so large. He learned to walk quietly, and in time, the creatures of the woods didn't fear his presence. Like his ancestors, he had to hunt for food. It was an honor to take the life of an animal that gave itself freely to me with sadness but also understanding in his eyes.

He could hear the kids laughing and playing in the distance, never caring who or where he was. He was the odd one. Don't pay any attention to him. Others chimed in. He supposed things were said to hurt his feelings, but words can't hurt if you don't hear them.

The woods and all their wonders became who he was as he aged, and in time, he walked away from the noises, smells, and lack of kindness forever. Deeper into the woods, he ventured, learning, feeling, and, as he liked to think of himself, a Stuart of the forest. He had no contact with life outside of the woods. All he needed was within his reach. Time passed but held little meaning for him. He didn't need a watch or a calendar. The woods told him what season was beginning and ending and when to prepare. It wasn't because he disliked people that he lived this life. He sometimes came across others like himself who walked away. He found a sense of brotherhood talking to them but knowing their paths would never cross again.

He lived in the woods and would die in the woods. He sometimes wondered how he would end. A bear, a blazing forest fire, falling down a slippery slope. Who knows, but whatever the way, he was good with it as long as his body returned to the soil of his beloved woods and his God claimed his soul.

Many years ago, a group of nature lovers came upon a run-down cabin deep in the forest. They found artifacts of hand-made garments and crude tools. There were faded pictures half-covered with moss showing a family and a smudged mark of a young boy with a vision not shared. Tattered furs hung by hooks to cure left unattended for many decades, and empty canned goods that once held seedlings waiting to grow up but never did. Broken snow shoes, a makeshift sled, and a small pile of firewood covered in vines were another vision of who this man was. 

His God called him home one cold winter day as he prepared his supper. His weathered hands held onto the old photograph clutched with purpose and memory. His place in the world was this crude cabin he built himself, which he seldom left because there was no need. Now, as he looks down at his life and the brightly colored backpacks of the nature walkers, he is at peace, realizing that after all this time, some people maybe did care a little bit about who he was and the chosen life he never wanted to share.

Mike 2024

Tree soldiers

 As I walk among the three soldiers, I pause to look up and wonder what they have endured to be where they are today. In the dense forest, there are many who have gone undisturbed, never feeling the sting of an arrow or lead ball now and forever embedded in their bark. There are those who never heard a child's laughter as they wrap their arms around them playing hide-and-seek, and many of these majestic wonders go to eternal sleep, having been blessed with a lifetime of silent growth. As I continue my walk, I see the white birch standing tall, and I reach back in history, seeing the people of the past stripping the bark and making a canoe to get to other places or hunt for waterfowl as the river guides the way.

My love for the trees in the forest and the small animals dwelling within them is a part of who I am. In years past, my grandmother and I walked into the shade of the tree soldiers, away from the noises of life, and sat down on the soft moss, where she told me stories of the land and the respect it deserved. She passed a while ago, but I continued our walks with her memory always within reach. I can still hear her soft voice teaching me the ways of those gone before us as the gentle breezes blow and my tears fall on the soft moss of the forest.

Mike  2024

Hoping to be read

 I've been asked where the ideas I write about come from. 

When I sit down to write, I grab a passing thought and begin. Sometimes, it's a place or a person or a strong feeling. Whatever the reason I have for writing, it's who I am and how I see things. I choke up hearing songs that move me or watching a child with her first bottle of bubbles. I never wipe away a tear but let it dry where it stops. I mourn the loss of a friend or loved one and do so with written silence. Not all writers research. Some just put what lives inside them on paper, hoping to be read. I tell stories that may or may not refer to anyone I know, but seeing a familiar face or a voice I hear in my head will inspire me to create a character around that. 

Looking in the mirror, I see many faces of myself: my inner child, my rebellious teen, and a weathered old man trying to complete sentences. Being able to bring these reflections out of the mirror and create a story around them is my most treasured gift. Writing isn't all about selling books. It's about telling stories that come from deep within you. It's your heart, soul, and understanding of a craft you do not have to make difficult. Writing is personal but also shared. It's a voice only you can hear and hope someone will read.

Mike 2024

Dirty laundry

 I watched her as she hung clothes on the line to dry. She looked like she was in deep thought as she took a shirt from the basket and held it to her face. I wondered if she was checking to see if it got clean and smelled good or if she feared the scent of another. She looked lonely, standing in a summer breeze, her sundress blowing ever so slightly. When the last piece of laundry was on the line, she picked up the basket and walked slowly back into the house, leaving her doubts behind her in the autumn breeze.

Mike 2024

A healed heart

 They didn't argue about many things in the years they had together. Sure, there were what I'd call Spats, but they lasted only a short time. And making up was always fun. He was a farmer, and she was a farmer's wife. They worked together side by side for fifty years, never knowing where the time went until one day, darkness settled into the old farmhouse. He was gone in a second when lightning struck him as he tried to get one last bale into the barn. She was a tough woman and continued working the farm the only way she knew how, but without him by her side. One Spring Day, she drew her last breath as she sat in a cluster of wildflowers, looking at their farm, their dreams, and their faith in being together again. They found her there at peace, clutching his favorite hat with a smile on her face and a healed heart.

Mike 2024