OUTLOOKS
Not every opening
Is a crevasse
A crack in the ice
An earthquake fissure
Or avalanche launcher.
There are breaks in the clouds
Job opportunities
A sermon’s first words
Clearings in forests
And strokes of good luck.
Whether the gate be
Elysian or Stygian
Depends on whether
The eye looks up
Or keeps to the ground.
THE CHOICE
In autumn the golden willow weeps
While saffron leaves still cling to the beech.
In a lengthening line we’ve come to stand
For the water of life in an arid land.
As wildfires rage in southern climes
As aquifers shrink, as wells go dry
We hold our protest signs up high.
Cars honk approval as they go by.
It’s oil or water: they do not mix.
In the end the choice comes down to this:
We’ll keep the petrol in the ground
Or life on earth will no longer be found.
This morning black ice, a dusting of white
Remind us of winter’s implacable might.
WAKE UP CALLS
I heard the crows; their raucous cries
Awoke me from a restless bed.
I did not know what rude surprise
Their harsh insistence might portend.
The day was sunlit, clear and cold.
I saw no reason for alarm,
But on my neighbor’s patio
The usual bread for birds was gone.
And then it was I understood
What their complaints had been about.
No imminent evil was foretold,
Just calls to send their vittles out.
So let it be with all alarms:
False, and signaling no harm.
WHITE MOUNTAIN ART
The artists stayed in grand hotels
Leaving in payment for their keep
Saleable oils or watercolors
Where light flickers through lacy leaves
Bounces off rocks and sheep or cows
Gleams on waterfalls and soars
All unconfined to the mountaintops.
Always something catches the eye
In the foreground – a red coat or a dog.
The trees are finely drawn and shadowed.
You can tell weather by the clouds
In skies of varied blues and grays.
These pictures are easy to live with.
Small as postcards or too big to hang
On parlor walls, they hide themselves
Murky with dust in farmhouse auctions.
Today we point the lens at the mountain:
Snow flocks the firs on high ridges.
The alabaster peaks are carved
Chrystal sharp by the cold blue air.
Among the hardwoods a smoldering fire
Of fall foliage lingers – beech,
Birch and the last of the sugar maples.
Catching the eye in the foreground, framed
By telephone poles, lettered in gold
Is the sign of the Up Country Saloon.
A SHOW OF COLORS
At first we thought the lengthy drought
Would quench our usual fires of fall
And we would enter winter without
Our annual foliage spectacle,
For many of our trees went brown
As summer neared its torpid end
And leaves dropped serely on the ground.
What else could this sad sight portend?
Some say that trees can communicate
By underground telegraphic systems.
Perhaps they sent word to their forest mates
That the time had come to show resistance.
So our maples were able to concentrate,
Condense their chromosomes and atoms
And flare up in a blinding last display
Of death-defying radiant patterns.
ON OCTOBER 12
A cacophony of geese flew by
As drivers all used to do
Honk, honk honking vociferously
In the streets of Lima, Peru.
As we watched, they shifted formation
Forming two separate Vees
But maintaining their congregation
With graceful and admirable ease.
We knew where they were headed
Though they were soon out of sight
Bound for warm waters, determined
To leave behind long wintry nights
And we applauded their foresight
Well aware that their instinct was right.
ON PERFECTION
The moon was a crescent ornament
On the ebony curtain of night
Hung by a master scene maker
A mesmerizing sight.
I could not take my eyes off it.
It glued me to the screen
Too perfect for my mortal eyes
Unused to a flawless scene.
We need limits to our horizons
Some rain in desert climes.
Our heroes are not paragons
Nor our ointments without flies.
So I’ll welcome a cloudcast moon
And not expect heaven too soon.
REQUIEM
The skeletal tree
By the roadside, in the meadow,
That seemed to greet me
When I drove into town,
Its jaggedy branches
Held stoically high
Whatever the chances
Of windstorm or ice,
Gave me courage to face
My ninety-plus years
With a modicum of grace
And a drop of good cheer.
But today it is gone
And I can’t help but mourn.
LOOKING BACK
I see them now, the friends of my childhood.
We had the run of the Pine Hill neighborhood:
Out on the vacant lot swinging at softballs,
Called home by porch bells and whistles at nightfall.
Pauline was my first mate, found at age three.
Then there were Millie and Peewee and Jeanne.
We walked as a foursome to the Anderson School,
Played Cowboys and Injuns in adjacent woods.
Weekends and evenings older brothers joined in
For Kick the Can, Ringolivio or Sardines,
Scrambled on cliffs overlooking the hospital,
(Conveniently placed should one of us fall)
Or perhaps tried a game of croquet in our yard,
Rollerskating or biking or rainy day cards.
Those were Depression days, parents worked hard.
Those were our glory days, fondly remembered.
(Inspired by our Chorus’ rendering of “Song for the Mira”
EARLY WARNING
For all you leaf peepers who know
To come up to the Whites in October,
You may be too late for the show.
Our maples are reddening early.
Leaves and needles are brown.
It is only late September, but
We are suffering from a drought.
Some branches are already bare.
By the time most of you get here,
We may have no vistas to share.
Is this the promise of the future?
Has the time come to mourn the maples?
That is a most depressing picture,
And for spring sugaring it bodes ill.
BIRD LORE
“I saw an eagle in a tree!”
She cried. “I know it was an omen
That God intended me to see.
And yesterday I saw a hawk
On top of a telephone pole.
Oh how I wish it could have talked
And told me the meaning of it all.”
The pagans thought birds could predict,
And Indians tell us what they mean.
An eagle is a holy spirit.
A hawk is wisdom with vision keen.
There is much comfort in such beliefs
Though eagles do winter on our bay
And hawks seek prey on our highways.
WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE?
I take no little solace
From the thought of being free
Of crypt or tomb or coffin
When I cease from being me.
I do not want to molder
Underground or in an urn.
No, my elements should mingle
With the mosses and the ferns
Or perhaps make up an atom
In the branches of a tree.
How else can spirit wander
Blithely through eternity?
The Christian tale should teach us
That the tomb did not hold Jesus.