All poems
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.
WILDFIRE SEASON
As summer ends we keep our eyes
On the ground for signs of fire.
Blueberry bushes blush unseen,
Sumac turns to red from green.
Scarlet ivies start to wreathe
Tongues of flame around the trees.
In the bogs swamp maples flare
Showing off their autumn wear.
Corner woodlots then ignite,
Captivate us with their light.
Yellow beech and tawny oak:
In morning mists they seem to smoke.
In the end we lift our eyes
To blazing hills and mountain heights.
WE ARE NOT ON THE LEVEL
Clambering up slippery slopes,
Avoiding obstreperous rocks,
Teetering on edgy brinks
On this over-the-hill hike,
We’ve summited our local Everest,
Mounted steep fire tower steps
And gazed with a mild surprise
Over hills and lakes and skies.
Now sprawled on boulder benches
We eat our ten o’clock lunches.
A mild breeze stirs our hair
While Nancy sketches us there.
Wind-bent pines lean toward us.
A redtail circles over us.
BREAKING AWAY
One summer your daughter’s friends
Trucked their hot air balloon
To her annual potluck barbecue
And some of us held the ends
Of the ropes that tethered down
That globe as it filled with air
And struggled up to be gone,
To be off and away somewhere.
I feel you tugging the strings
That bind our hearts to yours.
Our bittersweet memories bring
Less comfort with passing years,
And our own ties that bind
Us to our youthful friends
Are severed one by one
As they too take to the air.
TIME TRAVEL
As I cross the Connecticut line,
I am driving into the past:
Past Norwich, where in the city
Garden across from our house
A half cup, a handful
Of my young husband’s ashes
Are nourishing the roses;
Past the no longer new
Montville city highschool
Where I introduced
The first juniors and seniors
To Henry the Fifth and Macbeth;
Past the enlarged co-ed
Williams School on the campus
Of Connecticut College where
My classes of fifteen girls
Doubted the justice of
Hester’s scarlet letter;
On to the rendezvous
At a waterfront restaurant
Of Ledyard Center teachers
With whom I once taught reading
And took fall hikes in the Whites;
And here we all reminisce
With laughter and a few tears.
ON WATER
What can we say,
What can we not say,
About water?
Water, water everywhere.
As foetuses
Afloat in the uterus,
Cradled and comforted
By water
We are in our element.
It is our only element.
Seawater runs in our veins.
Not wine but water
Is the elixir of life,
Adam’s ale,
Without which we mummify
Into leathery dried sticks.
Without water
Our blue planet
Becomes a desert.
And water transports us.
It floats our boats.
We see it flow
From our mountains to our seas
And we know
That we are on a journey.
We are on life’s journey
Back to the sea our mother,
Back to the single cells
That merged into our selves,
Becoming one with the universe,
Becoming one with the water.
SEPTEMBER SATURDAY
Misty hills on the horizon,
Woolly clouds spread overhead,
At the Bearcamp, black-eyed Susans
Glow along the river’s edge.
Farmers’ market up the street,
Ripe tomatoes still for sale:
I will sip a robust coffee,
Listen to the guitar wail.
Wild blueberries for my freezer
From the hilltop we once picked
Will bring a taste of yesteryear
Through the coming winter’s drifts.
THE FIELDS OF AUGUST
The table is spread with Queen Anne’s lace.
Tapers of goldenrod glow in place.
Modest mauve milkweeds meekly bend.
Ranks of red fescue soldierly stand.
Intrusive loosestrife shoulders in,
A powerful purple infiltration.
With binderweeds along the edge
Creep flowerets of yellow vetch.
This scene that I am driving by
Is easy on the passing eye.