Okay, all of y’all who follow this site gotta know by now what to expect this time of the year, so without further ado, here goes:

Determined as one tends to become on sunlit afternoons of majestic October essence to experience peaceful rejuvenation of soul and spirit, these famished eyes set out today to relish an Ozark feast of dazzling color and give thanks and glory to the Creator for the grace that is undoubtedly bestowed upon our existence in these brooding autumn hills.  His perfection is on display here for all creation to behold, especially during early fall when gum trees emerge from sylvan dressing halls in gaudy scarlet as they join fallow and orange sassafras preparing for their roles in the celebration of this year’s festive autumnal potpourri.  

I shall pause here for a long, deep draught of brilliant, gilded hickory mingled to perfection with silent crimson sumac; assuredly a drink deserving of place in a celestial banquet such as has appeared before me, much to be savored and without brevity.  As I relish this event, a fleeting dark realization captures my thoughts – ere long, alas, villainous icy fingers of winter shall steal into this wondrous realm of color and as required in her annual pilferage, pluck the boughs of oak, hickory, and gum barren of hue, casting spidery shadows where autumnal glory does now abound.  Today’s walk under slow dancing towers of amber and pastel, nevertheless shall remain unencumbered with notions of tomorrow’s boreal malignity and instead ply with soul wholly enraptured this day’s intoxicating halls of splendor that only the skilled hand of the Creator can be imagined to lovingly endow of all these immaculate tints with His delicate brush.

Moss-darkened limestone escarpments gather along silent rims of the ravine to witness a symphony of windblown amber oatgrass whispering an autumn song played in chords known only to the gentle northern breeze.  Fallow shadows find their way down rocky winding creek beds, now long devoid of water and in undoubted reminisce of misty April days when their banks were full.  At this stage of the seasonal march, ochre leaves vie with desiccated limestone and agate rocks for places to rest and watch this autumn spectacle unfold.  Somewhere above – far above – swaying golden boughs, the Savior undoubtedly watches, indeed it is He who is directing to perfection the extravaganza.  

As I appreciatively devour my generous portion of the servings so graciously offered this day, a solitary traveler of honeyed oaken amber in final descent drifts aflutter onto the table before me.  Having selected a suitable resting place, perhaps yesterday, perhaps months ago as he held onto the branch that bore him, he chose this day to let go and lend his mote of sublime texture to what is becoming a lush carpet of autumn hue.  As he descends inexorably onto the earth, he silently waves farewell to the somber giant oak he came to know. Then he rests.

Pray, beloved child, your prayer in sadness, silence and wonder for He patiently waits in silent and peaceful places where He watches for wholesomeness of heart, even – and especially – on somber mornings of clouded silence.  His gaze is ever upon your humility and compassion, for the blessing he desires to visit upon you is predicated on these.  Keep your own eyes to those fellow travelers endowed flush with righteous purpose and bestowed with wisdom; emulate such as you may be able and as your spirit allows. Surely the Creator will rest His mighty hand on your hope, for shipwrecked ever become ambitions elsewise, although it may seem not so for now.  With purity of heart, keep your sanctuary of solitude in His reach.  For it is but with purity of heart that we may behold Him.

Take shelter there and trust your tears go not unheeded, that your despondent mourn is indeed regarded by the Master, whose abundant presence ever awaits your return to that burning bush in your place of solitude.  Weep then, loudly if at all – fervently cry for mercy and for justice – for assuredly He gives pause to those hopeless, woeful echoes such as fill the heavenly censer.  As surely as the morning star arises from a pale dawn of twilight to beckon your spirit, encouragement such as may be rightfully and fruitfully gained from His compassion and wisdom shall blossom from the very despair you presently endure.  From eternity itself, incomprehensible peace shall indeed reveal to you His presence and the depths of His love.

Go then, to your fortress of solitude, that simple haven chosen by you among strewn leaves beneath oaken boughs where your tears as rivulet testimonials entreat His presence into your spirit to lift, to promise of eternal hope, eternal life, eternal love.  Consider always your burden as a blessing, through all awaiting sorrow and trepidation to which you must return from this sanctuary of tranquility ere you suffer the beastly conflict once more and with such steadfastness as you are gifted. You need not face it alone. Reap and gather courage here, then embrace it as you return to that life of need and poverty.  With passion, regard such destitution as His grace to you, for the wealthy ever deny themselves purity of faith.  Consider the patch on your garment as witness of travail you’ve endured in humble determination to remain faithful in the tempest. The wealthy cannot fathom a need of fortress against those merciless winds blowing covetousness and impurity upon the dark, endless paths they travel.  Such need is never regarded as they dwell within ornate decadence of realms unknown to you, but trust that unfamiliarity is for your benefit. They have no place to pray.  They have no place to weep.

Few souls among the multitudes of the uncompassionate whose hearts are laden with envy and desires of the flesh – sadly so few – shall ever come to know the blessing to be had spending time and tears of despondence in His presence.  Burdened with such pursuits of vanity as they carry, they deny themselves the incredible grace that awaits their presence in those humble silent places where Jesus Christ seeks to meet them!  To mend them. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.  Walk upright, holding the hem of His garment through each emerging shadow and understand that misfortune befalls every soul, therefore find that sacred place and avail yourself of an instance to pray.  And as need demands, to spend tears.

If the Almighty awaits our fellowship beneath forest boughs in a misty wood or within a secluded glen among rocks on a mountainside – a meeting place where thoughts and tears are spilled before Him, there go I.  If we must shun the allure of worldly lust and desire so that we may be comforted in such places where it is meet to tearfully implore the mercy and compassion of Jesus Christ, there go I.  If I might find that place where God abides awaiting the piteous cries of the needy and destitute so that there I too may be blessed – blessed indeed to be one with fellow sojourners in poverty and tears in the sanctity of His Holy Spirit – there, in poverty and purity of heart and by any means, go I.

Forlorn she lies– alone but for bedraggled spirit of helmsman eternally clutching fast to rotting wheel, and ghosts of able-bodied crewmen drifting unseen across ancient deck planks now claimed by urchin and prawn. Upon her bed of ancient sand in silent darkness hence besieged by clutching barnacles and starfish with bonds of rueful memory bears she of daunting breaker, of ravaging gale, yea of merciless night without moon dared she ply an angry ocean darking and fearsome.  Sails became naught but billows of trepidation lashed onto masts of terror broken by courage abandoned in blackness of merciless winds come screaming on a night of terror and loss.  A sorrowful midnight of lightning did shew once a hellscape painted with black mountains of brine sent to rest her here, now rests she. 

No more laden of goods bound for ports afar, nor resourced with wherewithal to challenge that dark foe aweather, nor rests upon her further need.  The darkness and serenity concerns not with cargo for a distant port sought.  Merchants in harbors of yesterday grieved their loss.  Mothers that time ago grieved lost sons, bones forever bound in bucklers and lanyards, no more to carry smiles and embraces proudly down the fresh painted gangplank, alas, no more lamp lit nights spent in breathless stories of adventure in mysterious lands abroad.

Deep is the sand where feathers of rust claim fittings of iron in endless dark, silent the pulleys that once sang comforting melody to captain and crew.  Sea birds no longer watch from rail and crossarm for minnow or scrap of doughcake, nor do soar through unblemished marine sky with endless song of cheerful seabreeze and sunlight, no, forsooth; her fate became to languish henceforth and evermore among melancholy recollections and brooding creatures of profound darkness. Whether the sun smiles upon the world above or a fresh tempest sweeps new breakers across the sea, she no longer gives thought.  Her mission is never to be fulfilled, unless it be that of accompaniment to other hapless vessels laden with lost cargo and unfortunate souls who have in their turn found the briny path to that oblivion where resides a mysterious existence of odd fish and quiet damnation.

Let your mind take you somewhere special. Maybe a place where tall oak trees gently and silently stroke a placid rivulet with shadows as a cool summer breeze whispers a symphony of blue serenity; of yesterday’s innocence come now but memory. Perhaps old soldiers and sailors consider, as is fitting, thoughts and former notions in this serene woodland of wisdom that yesterday’s briars and paths of tragic confusion were only obstacles to overcome; and at last, amid sylvan wonders of reverent and Godly peace, they have opportunity to reflect.

Indeed, the cannon yet speaks in a strange and morbid tongue little known to those of peaceful intent, yet many too, only yesterday were deceived to think they could comprehend a grievance offered, some beckoning, yet deceitful cause brought forth by those of no substance, so are all conflicts. As wild songbirds dart among greenery of an understanding wood, he watches, hears the songs, comes to see the futility as if it were a long-embarked sailing ship slowly emerged from a hazy ocean, the error of such deceit. Fields stained of darkening blood look to the azure heaven and cry, of sorrow and earnest no less than that of Abel, for justice, for truth, which a covenant has promised. It awaits an appointed time.

Convinced now of darkest betrayal, amid the rapacious clamor and echoes of another war, a grey cloud descends upon youthful hearts as at last, on wings of understanding they depart; yet those who send them, those who burden them with instruments of destruction, will not reconcile. Damn them! Green leaves are not meant to fall! The infernos of hell await and shall torment forever those of pernicious bearing on whom final judgement fall, who value not tears of mothers or children, nor precious blood spilled to purchase another hour of decadence.

A day will come for a great and wrathful wind sent forth to scour the land. Savagery of evil shall succumb to His judgement, and knees shall bend. Belated regret shall avail not the guilty. No, for that day, the glory of Him who came from heaven and stood in the form of man upon His creation among His brethren shall be revealed and require that the evil soul be denied forevermore a place with Him. Only on that day will the man of perdition realize the depth of his loss. He who seeks redemption, be it sought belatedly in some peaceful forest of old age, or in a forsaken trench filled with blood, tears, and agony – will find it.

A day of peace in the serenity of a wooded hillside, a day of meditation when the simple wonder of creation strikes the heart of the old warrior who has long-since repurposed his sword, shall reveal to him the futility of war and death and the inestimable value of that knowledge. He shall cry on that day for those not blessed to see it and wonder that destiny was shaped for him to seek a wooded solitude where he finds the heart to shed tears for those taken in youth.

I mentioned in an earlier post that I lost all of my old site content. I found this one in an obscure document file and reconstituted it for the new and improved Folkpotpourri:

Reach with open hand and open heart; take hold, if you can, those delicious hues of autumn sunset draped in lonely north wind mingled with bedraggled cloud, soon to be brooding for times of verdant summer mist, already near lost in forgotten stories of yesterday.  Indeed, yesterday, the stately woodland rang with melodies of summer, orchestras of wild birds and breezes generously blown from tame southlands where it is easy to imagine such ambience is nurtured.  Yesterday, where shadowy vines of darkest green wound grandly in a tapestry of misty treetops, trains of scarlet now cling to amber and golden hickory crowns revealing they indeed claimed for their own the loftiest boughs of the wood, as indigo and silent winds increasingly and incessantly coax them into a cumulative slow dance to the autumn symphony.  The autumn stage is set, hasten to allow these scenes of nature’s marvel into your memory, do not ignore the accompanying sound – aggrieved rasps of black birds, lonely and whispery whine of the grey squirrel; cold, clear water from unseen woodland fountains trickling over limestone escarpments, soon to be immobilized by icy silence in bounds of copper and yellow leaves.  Every roadway becomes a wonderland.

A great oak stands sentinel, watching somberly, attentively, as the furnace of summer wanes once more among the last few cauldrons of October, now interrupted by nights of cool mist wafting about starlit glens of intruding autumn shadow and whispering threats of rime to brittle, fallow leaves.  His watch unbroken through countless seasons, has once more patiently awaited the gum tree and sumac to emerge from sylvan dressing halls where the Master adorned them with exquisite gowns of profound crimson; they drink from deep, unseen vessels to another celebration of inimitable woodland hues.  Hordes of squirrels secret away for winter scraps of wild provender breathlessly scavenged among leaves, rocks, and prostrate moss-covered sentinels of yesterday.

Raindrops bide, percolating in low-hanging, leaden billows, at last to wrestle free and pitch to a bleak arid earth and to darken streams of dry stones patiently awaiting; blessed raindrops, to soak desiccated trails through endless thirsty hollows. Cold, autumn raindrops, to silence the crusty blanket of new-fallen leaves in expectation of the stealthy white-tailed stag; soon he will need the silence of wet leaves as he busies himself dutifully tearing openings in the fallow carpet to provide irresistible earthen patches to be searched out by does, in obeisance to the ritual that makes them this year’s concubines.  A seasonal urge will soon take him and for weeks he will pursue his regal posture of golden but waning autumn and brook no interloper into his realm.  He has no choice; his role is assigned by the Master.

In the coolness of the October night, as a full moon assumes command of the celestial ocean above, coyotes gather to discuss in shrill voices those pertinent notions of interest only to themselves (and perhaps the bobcat), but in nocturnal earnest, as shadowy breezes drift over a moonlit landscape abundant with small prey lurking fearfully, silently, and most intently eavesdropping on the conversation.  Ignoring the crazed chorus of coyote howls, secretive night birds take notice of the changes in weather that are upon them.  Occasional hoots and rustles in cool oaken boughs hint of their disdain; indeed, some have, in fits of irremediable insult, even departed to spend winter in climes greener and more amenable. 

On most afternoons now, a murder of raucous crows stationed along the edges of the wood take up hurling insults and name-calling; not at all pleased with nature’s effrontery.   Through tears in the dark clouds, rays of silver sunlight reflect from black feathers, perhaps illuminating, perhaps illustrating their displeasure at the way of things.  Their antics and curses go unheeded however, by the autumn wind; it has chosen to stay and it will, mirth or grief of irascible birds notwithstanding.   

This post is somewhat different from the kind of things I normally write about. It’s more serious and maybe it comes from my views on war back in the 60s and 70s when Vietnam was going on. In the unlikely event y’all haven’t heard, there’s a terrible war happening right now in Europe, with staggering casualties, and my thoughts are with those boys on the battlefields. No matter which side they’re on. Hope it strikes home:

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God. 

Dare to stand and face the stoic reaper; he approaches, borne on a flight of burning metal shards blown nigh from the thunder of an unseen, faraway weapon.  He wears no smile.  He strikes. The rain of warm, scarlet droplets suddenly marking the persons of your companions comes from naught but your own torn and shattered body.  Perhaps you hear your own last agonized scream; perhaps you hear nothing.   

Your time to fall is come, to repose upon this melancholy swath of beleaguered, cratered pasture, a diminutive pitch of earth now coming soaked with dark and boding crimson.  Dare to release your temporal, mortal confine amid somber tendrils of pale cannon smoke wafting over the tracked steppe, as your final breath departs and so leaves the form silent and still forthwith and evermore.  The echo of cannon carries on; that morbid rumble – heard by your ears no longer; felt by your body no more.   

How your mother would grieve to hear the precious son she once nourished at her breast – lies mangled, broken; whose last thoughts wane ‘neath the startled flight of a thrush in his piteous effort to flee from the chaos you could not.  Now, as your form lies motionless upon the mournful, scarlet-spangled carpet of damp grass and ochre leaves, might there be left fleeting memories of wine and mirth and home, or the companionship of a dog or precious children joined for a warm and lighted supper in the aroma of fresh-baked bread?  Is a peaceful evening with your beloved under a canopy of silver starlight dimly woven among ebbing recollections ere your thoughts are completely taken?

Have angels appeared to bear your exhausted soul away from the carnage?  Has the vacant pallid body, waxing cold and mingled with mud, and for all of your short years the fortress of your soul, at last been left behind?   Have you only now come to realize it was never yours; nor was it ever you, and do you feel no loss for abandoning it? Do the anguished cries of your compatriots echo in the place to which you have since arrived?  Or has your spirit, no longer haunted with terror of the long dark stillness, finally come to that unimaginably serene and peaceful shore where angels sing unimaginably beautiful songs? 

You now realize love is the only thing you’ve brought with you. You’ve left love behind as well. It will remain and it will follow. Love takes many forms; perhaps now that this journey is over, you understand.  Or perhaps you simply sleep, at rest from the horrors you’ve endured.  Perhaps a tearful salutation from the heart of someone far away, blessed (or burdened) with compassion for youthful strangers fading in horror on cold, muddy, and blood-soaked fields among terrified and spiritually wounded companions – may serve to impart some notion of understanding; somewhere.  Of sympathy, both to you and to those who love you. Eternally, in God’s children of pure heart love endures, and it shall endure; for God is Love.

Fare thee well for now.  Rest in the peace with which you are blessed.

May you walk in paradise in the blessed company of the Lord Jesus Christ, young friend, forevermore.