HANGING IN THERE
The flashy flaunting maples
Have had their say and oaks
Now hold their tawny sway:
Orange melanged with bronze
Mingled with hints of green
The eye is pleased to linger on.
And so too do slim beeches
Add ocher notes to the scene,
All joining in fall’s final fling
And in no hurry to let go.
Skiers will find leaves lingering
On branches laced with snow.
A tip of the hat to tenacity!
Why not prolong the final bow?
THE OSAKA VASE
The lamplight glides off the sloping sides
Of the blue-gray stoneware Osaka vase.
My daughter, the potter, had asked advice
From her teacher with the long black hair
And gentle hands on how to inscribe
In vertical kanji a plea for peace
Inspired by her Hiroshima pilgrimage.
This old vase of some thirty years
Has suffered breakage and repairs.
Equally old are the skeletal stalks
Of the dried flowers and reeds it holds
Which we found in the Victorian home
A block or two from our children’s school.
It sends a mute and ancient message
Still falling on deaf human ears.
THE WORKS OF JAYS
As autumn leaves begin to fall,
Blue jays suddenly appear.
Although we do not hear them call
They fitfully flit here and there.
All summer they have silently
Flown about their busy-ness.
Some say that they’ve been stealthily
Stealing from their neighbors’ nests.
In spring we heard them constantly
Sounding their rude and raucous cries,
Warning their fellow flyers away
From male-selected nesting sites.
But now it is the acorn crop
That they are fiercely focused on,
Interring nuts in shallow tombs
For winter harvest under snow.
It’s said, without their ministries
Our oaks would not be so widespread:
And so it is that minor deeds
Have wide and weighty consequence.
THE SOUND OF POETRY
(Inspired by the Concord Inn Open Mike Program)
A song is meant to be sung.
A poem is meant to be said:
Here are the ways I’ve gone,
Here are the thoughts I’ve had.
Vignettes along the road,
Bits of scenes remembered,
Sightings from my window:
A poem is meant to be read.
Music of assonant words
Strung like the notes of a bird,
Joined in a measured tread:
A poem is meant to be heard.
(October, 2014)
HIS EYE IS ON THE SPARROW
This morning before the service began,
With caution and care and celerity
Lyn captured a bee on the coffee stand
And carefully gave it its liberty,
Freeing it from its glass enclosure
Over the rail of the little back porch.
Though fearful of bee stings and fatal reactions,
She practiced Schweitzer’s reverence for life,
Which later proved an apt introduction
To the blessings of the animals rite:
A concept which folks would do well to extend
To all of their dealings with fellow men.