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.
NOSTALGIA
We look at old time pictures
To see how thick the ice
Once froze to hold our fish shacks,
How deep the hole to pull the pike
Or perch or pickerel through.
Those were the days when snow
Would drift up to the windows
And we would hire men to clear
The porch or sun room roof.
The yearly dogsled races
Were held on Winnepesaukee.
There was cross country skiing.
Snowshoes were more than ornaments.
Old photos show how it was.
KARMA
I never planned a future.
I never envisioned a life.
A series of doors opened up.
Like Alice I scurried through them:
Accepted college tuition,
In Wyoming encountered a husband,
Spent two years in Lima, Peru,
Helped to erect two houses,
Taught English classes and reading,
Had five outstanding offspring
Who now keep an eye on me.
I did not pursue my destiny.
My star led me on like the magi.
A MORNING MISSION
This morning a smoking sea
Of fog enveloped my friend’s
Adirondack lake cottage.
The straggly tips of lonesome
Pines poked out of the mist.
Through glassy water we paddled
To reach a secluded cove.
My friend was on a mission:
She carried her cat’s ashes
To lie in a pristine place
Among the wild inhabitants
Close to the sacred stone
Marking her son’s grave.
LOOK TO THE HILLS
I was feeling blue.
I was feeling glum.
My big 9-0 birthday
Had recently come and gone.
The years that were ahead
Suddenly looked too few.
I headed for the hills
For a more uplifting view
But the hills were wrapped in mists.
And yet the morning after,
Patches of sky shone through.
I recalled a lyric line:
“I’m gonna live until I die.”
And I felt my spirits rise.
THE ART OF THE POEM
Oh I could probably pen
The enigmatic page:
“In the shattered mirror
At the window I see crows…”
Op Art is all the rage.
As every critic knows,
Poetry in plain style
Is rather juvenile.
But I would sooner share
The loon song on the lake
Or a stand of birches,
One moment that may make
Its mark on the sands of time
In rhythm and in rhyme.