TheOquagaSpirit

OF FOG AND SPIRITS

Fingers of fog moving quickly,
Gliding across the lake…

Almost at jogging speed-
Leaving no apparent wake.

Why are they scampering about
At this early morning time?

Thousands of fingers in motion
Moving gracefully with rhyme.

Perhaps each one is a spirit
Released from the depths of the spring,

Enjoying an hour of freedom,
Almost ready to take wing?

This spring fed lake is enchanted
As such water bodies are.
I actually saw its essence

While viewing the Morning Star.

OF GOLD AND BERRIES I understand the fever
That swept the country then,
We went a-berry picking Just from picking berries-
Around the hills and lake- How easy to develop a yen.
Blackberries by the thousands
Free, for Heaven’s sake! Men still seek out such treasure
In the form of lottery
Some bushes were thin and sparse, Hoping it will turn into
Others were heavily packed A present, “I-got-tery”!
With luscious, juicy fruit
That we put into our sack. Stuck was I in prickers,
I managed to get free-
The bushes are full of thorns Not so for most ‘49ers
And painful prickers galore, Who followed their reverie.
But the reward was so great,
We just kept picking more.

From time to time we’d find
Berries as big as grapes;
So big and round were they,
Our eyes would be agape.

I suddenly became transformed-
Both in time and space,
To the gold rush of ’49
In California place…

Looking for that vein
To fill a pot with gold;
Nuggets as big as boulders
For fortunes are they sold.

People left their homes-
In jeopardy all the way,
Leaving behind possessions
Oblivious to what other might say.

OF SAILORS AND HIKERS

A Martian-red sunrise
Took a peek at me…
One reddened eyeball-
Then seemingly dropped behind trees.

Before I ascended the slope,
It was engulfed by clouds.
Why did it seem bloodshot?
Is it wearing shrouds?

Oft, I’ve heard it said:
“Red sunrise in the morning

Is a dangerous sign,
And sailors should take warning.”

But yet, the birds still sing
On both sides of the trail;
Two deer splash in a pond
And happily wag their tails.

Mountain laurel is lush;
Dense with white and pink.

Everything seems fine
As I write on pad with ink.

Alas, I’m not a sailor
And should not be alarmed,
But rather, a morning hiker.
I’ll not be scared, but charmed.

OQUAGA OFFERINGS

Activity around the lake
Has come to an abrupt stop-

School has just reopened
So attendance at cottages has dropped.

All but for the sound of ripples
Lapping at the shore,

And an occasional noisy bird;
It’s silent to the core.

But in this quietude
I find a moment for devotion;
The flavor of nature is savored
As I imbibe its magical potion

Two kayaks are in the distance
Working their way to shore-

The one on the left holds my wife
Who I absolutely adore.

The lake offers so much beauty;
Even my maiden so fair.

And as schools of fish swim by,
I’ve forgotten all worries and cares.

PAIN

Up the tortuous trail
Bending and pushing on knees

Tripping on buried sticks
Covered by layers of leaves.

Each step feels like a stair
But slanted like a slide-
A bumpy and rocky trail

On which no vehicle may ride.

Upwards and onwards we go.
When will this travail stop?

Our muscles are quite fatigued,
Will we ever reach the top?

I just tripped on a rock.
Sound the bugle of retreat!
No, at the tops are blackberries
With sweet and juicy meat.

When rewards are great,
Pain we can ignore.

Free and fresh berries
Is opportunity at the door.

PAINT BY NUMBER One day she’ll add some red,
The next she’ll add some yellow.
A popular way to paint Then purple, orange and brown
Subjects from men to trees From shades both bright and mellow.
Is called, “paint by number”-
Art works done with ease. Way up in the Catskills
By October’s second week,
Oils come in a pack; Her paint by number is done-
Each color has a digit. The Leaves have hit their peak.
As does the object on canvas…
With choices you need not fidget. Take your pictures then,
Of her paint by number.
One is forest green. So colorful memories you’ll have
Two is bright pink. After she paints winter’s slumber.
Three is burnt brown.
Four is bluish ink. Nature painting winter’s slumber

First paint all the ones
Then paint all the twos;
Up to thirty we go-
No more painting blues.

Nature uses this method
Starting on canvas green,
She keeps adding colors
Till autumn’s hues are seen.

The numbers by which she paints
Are also by month and date:
Each day some color is added-
October one, two or eight.

PINE QUILLS

Pines as thin as needles
Stretching toward the sky

Tall as twenty men,
The short need not apply.

All around the slopes
By the thousands, straight and narrow;

For a giant bow,
They could be the arrow.

Straighter posture and poise
Than an athlete’s spine,
Or quills on the back
Of a giant porcupine.

Bamboo of the North
But taller yet they be.
What outdoes the pine

Left in forest free?

Pines at the edge of Oquaga Lake

PUZZLES

People purchase puzzles The puzzle- makers come to the
From dozens to hundreds of pieces; Catskills
The finished product is beautiful
When assembled without creases. Hunting for their game;
The beauty of all these puzzles
A field of wild flowers, Lies within camera aim.
A forest full of ferns,
A barn next to a pond, The lake, hills and woods
A farm where butter is churned. Are not puzzling or perplexing.
Enter into the picture,
The silhouette of mountains Relax, there is no vexing.
Against a painted sky,
A tunnel of tall draping trees
Through which the birds will fly.

Sailboats gliding on a lake
Against some spruce and pine,
Old decrepit shacks
Built with archaic design.

Autumn with its colors
Of red, yellow and brown,
Distant mountain vistas-
Erasing every frown.

Puzzlers work for hours-
Piecing it together.
Oh the aggravation
And many a ruffled feather!

QUATRAINS Melody

Against or for Me? Time is just like music:
Do not play too fast;
Though the wind’s against me, Speed burns too quickly;
I’m running down the hill. While melodies linger and last.

The force that blows against me
Will keep me from a spill.

Wrong Conclusions

Thick and puffy clouds?
You’d think it was some smoke?

It’s only water vapor,
So do not start to choke.

Flowers and Fruit

Flowers and some fruit
To freshen mind and body;

Though I walk for miles,
It feels like rest and hot toddy.

Fog of the Day

We live in an age of information.
Information spreads out like fog;

Incite burns it away
So truth we are able to log.

QUEEN ANN’S LACE

A royal aisle-way of lace
Lines the morning lit road.
A species called “Queen-Ann”

Or so it is, I’m told.

Spiraling out from the center
Are these swirls designed,

These visible galaxies in daytime,
So remarkably refined.

THAT FEMALE DESIGNER MAVERICK!

Each side of the road
With lace is lined;

An intricate embroidery
Of Queen-Ann’s design.

The lace is but a hem
Stitched on floral fabric,
The dress of mother nature,
That female designer maverick!

RUSTLE, RUSTLE, RUSTLE GOES THE WIND

Rustle, rustle, rustle goes the wind;
Rustle, rustle, rustle goes the wind-

As branches wave up and down
To the rustle, swoosh and sound of wind.

The forest has checkered patterns of light
As the bright summer sun shines through.

Rustle, Rustle, rustle goes the wind-
As fresh air blows in to renew.

The summer is scented by the smell of pine-
Being nature’s own perfume.

Rustle, rustle, rustle goes the wind -
As the scents of summer blow on through.

Open the windows of your mind
To let the summer breezes through.

Then, the scented summer wind
Will swoosh by to renew you.

SCOTT’S SHOWBOAT OF SONG

Scott’s showboat of song
Daily circles the lake

Giving lakehouse guests
A melodious afternoon break

Leaving a trail of ripples
Circling to the left,

As they toot the horn
They sing from musical clef
The kids run to the docks
To hear the tunes they love
Sung by the guests on the boat

Seated below and above
The notes blown on the trumpet,
They chords struck on the grand,

Make it a musical mobile
On a covered stand.

What pleasant memories
For those who live around
Who quickly run outside

To listen to its sound.

This celebration of music,
A floating hymn of praise…
Will stay with all the tots

Into their adult days.

This celebration of music,
A floating hymn of praise…
Will stay with all the tots

Into their adult days.

SEASONING

Youth is mainly for growing:
Reaching appointed height
Developing skills of mind
And sometimes being contrite.

Active, strong and vital
By leaps and bounds it be;
Not to overlook romance
And tempestuous fertility.

It is a time for adventure,
Fun and carrying on.

And wild schemes and dreams
By the dozens do we spawn.

Often elders disparage
Denying the Spring in man.

To be mature from birth
Is their infernal plan.

But soon the temples grey,
Like autumn’s tints of color.

Nature ripens her fruit;
Man gathers his dollar.

The harvest of life begins
When man is middle- aged;
Vegetables are ready for picking,
Time has made man a sage.

To understand your cycles
Study ye the seasons.

They’ll tell you what to do
And give you all the reasons.

SEPTEMBER Seeds are ready to drop;
Leaves are coming down-
The hot and hazy days Twirling in cosmic spirals
Of July and August are gone Until they hit the ground.
Along with sleeping in
And lounging on the lawn. But in nature’s flurry is grace,
Never as frantic as man;
The cottagers are closing up, She calmly faces each day
Children are returning to school; Unfolding by divine plan.
September has rounded the corner
And crisp, cool days now rule.

A flurry of activity
Anticipates flurries of snow…
Like a hot bed of bees,
Bustling wherever you go.

Packing up belongings
Returning to city life,
Shopping for kitchen and clothing-
There’s traffic and urban strife.

The clock becomes the king-
Enthroned over school and work;
The untimed days of summer
Are now quite jumpy and jerked.

Nature dons new clothes,
Shedding her uniforms of green-
In favor of brighter colors
As far as can be seen.

SHANGRI-LA

Enter the valley of flowers-
The path just down the road,

Both sides lined in beauty
With every floral mode.

Daisies are opened and bright,
Their faces one big smile,
Mixed with purple clover.
Stop, and look a while.

The spider’s spinning his web
Which catches sunshine rays;

Butterflies are lilting about
Deciding on which flower to play.

The air feels, oh, so friendly,
Warm with a touch of cool;
Breezes brush by my ears
As I pass an olden school.

The birds lend their voices
To this June-lit trail;

It seems like Shangri-la!
Who knows? There’s no news or mail.

TALL TREES

Walls of forest shade,
A fortress of mountain green

All around for miles…
As far as can be seen.

Taller than tidal waves,
Hundred feet be they,
But rather than hit the shore,
Stationary they stay.

A fortress against the Sun,
Blocking bright summer rays;

Standing still like a citadel,
Giving shield each day.

Guarding either side
Of winding mountain road,

Trailing around the lake,
Covering every abode.

This wealth of greenery
Is shelter to four-legged beasts,

Home to flying foul,
And full of berry treats.

Such trees are God’s guardians
Standing tall and erect,
Helping man and nature.
How majestic and select!

THE BIRD WITH THE There suddenly was a hum
DRILL And music filled the air;
Here come the humming birds
Into my neighborhood To drink the sap that’s there.
Came the bird with the drill;
A long spiked beak And so it is with workers
And a hard worker’s will. Who come to build a city;
Though they move not in,
Tap- tap, tap- tap, tap- tap; For others, they make life pretty.
Bang- bang, bang- bang, bang- bang;
He drilled so intently,
He didn’t care if he sang.

And when I went outside,
He did not fly away,
But merely rounded the trunk;
Hide and seek he’d play.

Then back to work it was,
As soon as I passed he sight;
His head bobbed up and down
As he poked with all his might.

And why all this commotion?
This bird was after sap;
He must have been quite hungry
Because he never stopped to nap.

And when he had his fill,
He promptly flew away.
What! Not even a song!
Oh, the musical dismay!

THE CHANGING OF THE GUARD

Pomp and circumstance!
The changing of the guard-

Red and black uniforms
At the palace front yard.

And as the sentry leaves,
A new one marches in-
Neat and laundered attire,
Men rigid without grin.

Together in precision
March right, then left, then right-

Camera carrying crowds
Marvel at this sight.

Look, nature’s changing guard
Marching out the green-
In come troops of colors
As far as can be seen.

Crowds come to the country
With canvas and camera-
To the temperate North

From the tropics to Antarctica.

Be it of man or nature
How much we love a parade-
From the halls of hardy hardwoods
To the Windsor palace charade.

THE FUN NOT HAD

The diving platform is to the right
At the end of the extended dock.
Canoes and kayaks are nearby
The woods where birds do flock.

The swimming area is marked
By yellow balls on rope;
Fastened to a rubber raft

Beyond which the lake has slope.

A second dock is to the left
With a speedboat at its end.
On its left sits a showboat
Built just for voices to blend.

A playhouse is to the rear
With grand piano and stage,
Near bowling, ping pong and pool;

Games all quite the rage.

Around the lake are cottages
Built for summer’s fun.
Yet after Labor Day,

I look around and see no one.

Fun just waiting to be had
Yet not a soul in sight!

The lake should be packed and busy.
So why have all taken flight?

Perhaps when the wind changes
The folks will catch the scent,

Of fun waiting to be had
Be it in hotel, cottage or tent.

Singer Sharon and poet-pianist David with the world’s greatest harmonica
players: The Sgro Brothers from Elmira NY. Tony is on the left; Dom is on the

right. Their music and comedy were simply terrific. What fun!

THE LAST DAY OF JULY Oquaga Lake on a Calm Day
A small canoe paddles by
The gentle waves on the lake
Glide up against the shore. Rowed by a brother and sister
They make a lapping sound
From the edges to the core.

The breeze that brushes by my ears
Makes the wind chimes sing
With pleasing, mellow tones.

Who cares what tomorrow might
bring?

A small canoe paddles by
Rowed by a brother and sister.
They drag their boat to shore

Without a misses or mister.

A mother with her children
Are visiting the ice cream stand.

And as they taste their treats,
They know that life is grand.

The clouds above are fluffy,
The grass is vibrantly green.
Twigs are gently swaying;
Everywhere beauty is seen.

The last day of July
We now do gaze upon.
Vacations are at their peak…
As August we soon will spawn.

THE MAPLE LEAF AND THE BUTTERFLY

Daily the butterflies passed,
Bright and beautiful wings
Going from flower to flower
So many flirting flings.

Color fun they had;
A beautiful life to live.
If I could be a butterfly,
Just about anything I’d give.

And so throughout the season,
A maple leaf I stayed.

Stuck on my maple branch
While all the butterflies played.

Until a September day
When I started to transform.

Glorious autumn colors,
I was blown free by a storm.

I flew and danced and whirled
And passed the butterflies.
I shined as brightly as they,

A miracle from heavenly skies!

So if you have a wish,
Patient must you be.
To turn a new leaf over,

Is a possibility.

THE MORNING SUN

Golden solar rays
From millions of miles away
Darting through the trees…

Peek-a-boo they play.

They say: “Catch our illuminations.
Catch us if you can.

We’ll elevate your minds;
And give wisdom to man.”

THE SACRED CALM OF MIND

In calm, we see a mirror of God.
The lake that’s still reflects the heavens;

A vision not spoiled by wave or ripple
And is just as perfect as the sevens.

Be like the uncrossed morning lake,
Not touched by boat nor swimmer.
Maintain that sacred calm of mind
And in your eyes will be God’s glimmer.

THE OQUAGA SPIRIT

Our family in 1983 having just arrived at Scotts and about to enjoy our new summer home in the
Catskill Mountains of New York. From left to right are Abe, Kathryn, wife Sharon, Daniel, and

husband-poet David. We are about to enjoy the “Lookout Cookout” with the other guests: A
great barbeque lunch with live, country music performed by the extended Scott family.
No wonder they are called the American Van Trapp Family (ref. The Sound of Music).

Doris and Scotty called
With an invite to Lake Oquaga-
Where I met the spirit on walks
That led to the rhymes of this saga.
I played the piano at night
And afternoons on the boat;
But in the mornings, I’d stroll
And the spirit would be afloat.

What a communicator was she,
This sprite both blithe and free…
So much he needed an ear,
She ignored my tranquility.

But I was more than willing
To listen to his story
About his lake and hills
With all their beauty and glory.

I know it loves the Scotts
And relatives that be-
For they make music daily;
And with her, live harmoniously.

They celebrate this year
One hundred and twenty-five
From eighteen hundred and seventy
And still the families thrive.

View from the other side-lake is down below

THE PHILOSOPHER’S PATH

In the fog are footsteps
And the tapping of a stick.
The philosopher’s on the prowl,

Reality he tries to prick.
To find the source of fire
That keeps us all in motion…
Up and down the slopes
With fanatical devotion.

Step…step…tap
Step…step…tap
Until he finds the spot
That covers life’s true sap.

Caspar David Friedrich - Wanderer above the sea of fog

I FOUND THE SPOT THAT COVERS LIFE’S TRUE SAP AT OQUAGA LAKE!
IT’S A SIMPLE MATHEMATICAL PUZZLE.

CHILDREN TRY TO SOLVE IT BY THE 3RD GRADE:
TO ARRANGE THE NUMBERS FROM 1 TO 9 SO THAT
ANY STRAIGHT ROW OF THREE NUMBERS TOTALS 15.

BECAUSE OF A DROUGHT DURING THE SUMMER OF 1993, OUR
WELL AT BLUESTONE FARM DRIED UP. WE HAD TO MOVE. ON OUR
LAST MORNING, I LOOKED OUT OUR WINDOW TOWARD BLUESTONE
MOUNTAIN. THE OQUAGA SPIRIT SUDDENLY APPEARED AND SAID:
“LIFE’S TRUE SAP” IS THIS CHILDREN’S PUZZLE.” HE GIVE ME A THINLY
VEILED CLUE. AFTER A 22 YEAR SEARCH, I THINK THAT THE OLD INDIAN
SPIRIT WAS RIGHT! STAYED TUNED FOR MORE BLOGS.

The Tastes and Smells of The smells of childhood remembered
Autumn Harken back to fall;
The kitchen congregation,
It’s half past six in the morning. The festive banquet hall.
The rooster starts his call;
It used to be four-thirty, With a fresh cup of cider
But now it’s closer to fall, Just pressed at the mill,
Let’s toast this tasty season
The blackberries have finally ripened- And pies on window sill.
From green, to red to black.
They take their time all summer These blueberries are destined for pies!
And wait until autumn’s back.

The berries are the bells of summer:
Wild strawberries in June,
Then raspberries and blueberries.
Blackberries bring the harvest Moon.

Apples have reached full size
Looking Luscious on the trees.
Gold and red and green
All sweetening before the freeze.

The acorns and the chestnuts,
The pumpkins and the squash
Are readied for the table,
The season’s almost awash.

The baking warmth of kitchen,
The smell of apple pie;
Excited chattering children
Can’t wait to give it a try.

THE WINDS OF CHANGE

Yesterday was calm,
But then the North wind came-

Blowing across the lake,
Forming waves no longer tame.

Making choppy sounds
As they crashed onto the shore;

Millions of hills in motion
As at me came more and more.

The cool breeze made a crescendo
As it swept right past my ears.
The winds of change are here;
Bringing joy or tears

So is all change choppy-
Just like the wind- blown lake.
And even when things improve-
It’s often rough in the wake.

CHESTNUT INN ON OQUAGA LAKE ON A WINDY DAY

THE WOODWINDS

They pass by every branch
And every nook and cranny-

Even blowing bonnets
Off strolling child with nanny.

They toss seeds in the air
So many it looks like snow;
And make it difficult to fly

Even for the giant crow.

They turn leaves into kites
Broken loose from their string.
And as they pass the tree trunks,

They make the forest sing.

They accompany the song
Of every type of bird;

Each one a prima donna
Competing to be heard.

So rest on a rocking chain
As up and down you go,
Keep time to nature’s music.
The woodwinds, how they blow!

TRAIN WHISTLE

Somewhere around the bend
Are the sounds of civilization;

The whistle of a train
Reminds you there’s a nation.

Only before it rains
Can its sound be heard…
For then, it soars easier
Than a nighttime predator bird.

Remote in the wilderness
Without communication,
You’ll find nature’s network
And spiritual sensation.

It runs on its own clock,
Without temporal regulation,
Timed by the arc of the Sun;

No clock-made tribulation.

What in the world’s going on?
Who knows or really cares?

Just when the whistle sounds,
Do you turn around to stare.