Category: Riverwoods Poems

SONNET TO THE FIRST SNOWFALL

Behind her wrinkled monkey face

An apple-cheeked lass still smiles

At the wintry woods as a welcoming place:

The trails ahead beckon for miles.

But the creaky old back refuses to bend

To strap on the cross-country skis.

It’s just as well.  Two turkeys send

Their calls from neighboring pine trees.

The winterberries wink red in the snow.

Ahead are the tracks of a snowshoe hare.

Her winter boots will suffice, she knows,

For a brief but rewarding excursion there

Where the red squirrels’ litter will be found

And many other treasures abound.

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.

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.

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”

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.