Poems from 2001
:
WISHFUL THINKING
Carbon is not our only bane.
More dangerous is potent methane
Rising from every cattle herd,
From every landfill undeterred
And melting permafrost up north:
In cumulus clouds it billows forth.
Four hundred thousand Hiroshimas
Equal one day of noxious gases.
Oh for a breath of Eden’s clear
Unpolluted ambient air,
Oceans of fat unfettered fish,
Springs of water pure and fresh,
Verdant fields immune to drought
And temperate zephyrs from the south.
ON A FRIGID MORNING
They hang from the eaves like spikes
The fingernails of old man winter,
Translucent tapered icicles,
A warning to stay inside.
A blast of Arctic air
Has caged us in our rooms
Hoping the grid won’t fail,
Fearful of roadside breakdowns.
Some say our end is fire
But we fear more the ice.
We know how to deal with desire:
Hypothermia’s not so nice
Though if one must really go
There are worse conveyors than snow.
MELTDOWN
This morning we woke to a black and white world:
Cars and rooftops, walks and road
Frosted in white. Every deciduous
Twig and branch, every needled bough
Of pine and hemlock coated in snow
Which the sunset last night gave a rosy glow.
Midmorning the drops began to fall.
Drooping pines again stood tall.
Our windows were streaked with watery streams.
Sunstruck icicles softened and gleamed.
By noon the parking lot was bare.
Winter was retreating here.
We can’t yet call it an early spring:
Let’s see what next week’s weather will bring.
THE WINTER THAT WASN’T
On February first the wind
Leapt up in my face and opened
My jacket, which I did not mind
So balmy and soft was the air.
It felt like the first day of March
Roaring in, dissolving the snow,
Summoning vultures whose harsh
Cries raised my eyes to the sky.
And so they continue, these warm
Days with cold nights which cause
Our maple tree owners alarm
Lest their syrup season founder.
Behind us the two warmest years
On record and now a foreshortened
Winter: it surely appears
Our New England climate has altered.
(The poetry group challenge)
Ebullience is the word for a squirrel.
He does not somnambulate.
In his tree-limbed, fence-posted world
He will fly with a flame-like grace.
No dog can travel as he can,
No bird out-fly his act.
When I’m next on a ledge or a precipice
At his antics I’ll take a crack.
Moon Memories
How many moons did we gaze at
From that first one in Craftsbury’s skies
That shone on the cross-country ski trails,
Showed the love light in your eyes:
On the banks of the Allagash River,
At our tent in the Everglades,
In the Lake Huron island campsite
Where our food bag was rifled by bears,
At a midsummer fest in Denmark,
In Aruba’s phosphorescent sea
And Saint John’s coral reefs.
Tonight when I looked at the moon
I yearned for the days that are gone.
A MEMORY
A squealing pulley, flapping angels:
Wilbur’s poem recalls to mind
Sixty years ago in Maine
I fastened clothespins on a line.
At my feet a red-capped youngster
At my back the veterans’ barracks,
Sheets wind-whipped as they were hung
Fingers numb and face wind-slapped.
When I turned to find my son
He was nowhere to be found
Playing hide and seek with Mom,
Laughing behind our open door.
There is no price I would not pay
To live that life again today.
TREES
In years past I’ve laid my hand
On many a smooth-barked tree
On many a mountain trail
And looked up to shallow-rooted
Pines standing stately and tall.
Like Rob Frost I’ve envied the birches
That bend under burdens of snow
In graceful compliant submission,
Then rise up again in the spring
To shake their new leaves in the sun.
Now it’s limb-lopped but upright
Old skeletal trees that I notice
On country roads or in paintings,
Woodpecker raddled and ravaged
By age that I chiefly admire.
Our Last Adventure
We took the icebreaker out of St. John
With her Russian crew and Canadian chefs
To explore the rocky coast of Labrador
And mingle with the friendly Inuits.
In Just spring on the tundra in late July
The alpine meadows were in full flower.
Polar bears were easy to spy
And black bears lolling on grassy shores.
We bounced on kodiaks into the shallows.
Our guides carried rifles and went ahead.
This far north there were no more roads:
Villagers kayaked by sea instead.
Mission churches, schools, meeting houses,
Doctor Grenfell’s famous clinic,
Hopes for renewable tidal power,
Gemstones and carvings in the markets,
You with your daughter, still able to hike,
Relishing views from the sea-sprayed deck:
I cherish these pictures in my mind
Years after our Inuit plane flew us back.
FALLING LEAVES
They lift and pirouette in the pulsing breeze,
These brown and desiccated maple leaves,
Dancing and leaping and twisting, a phantom crowd,
Surrounding me and my car in a thickening cloud.
They seem to have some message they want to convey;
They seem to want me to stop while they have their say.
I will slow my pace but I will not come to a halt,
Whatever these autumn messengers foretell.
Bare branches offer an unimpeded view
Allowing the splendor of sunsets to come through.
Snow-dusted branches also have their charm:
Who strides on snowshoes easily keeps warm.
At any time of the year I’ll keep journeying.
The day has not yet come for tamely sitting.
THE ECLIPSE
Three oldsters sit on a wall to watch
The super moon’s eclipse, a sight
They will not live to see again.
The stars shine faint in the ebony night
As a shadow darkens the moon’s left rim.
This moon that bathes our faces with light
And spotlights the jet plane streaking west
In olden times would have filled with fright
Our primitive ancestors’ childish hearts.
A monstrous mouth they would have thought
Was eating their beacon amidst the gloom.
It is not without some dread we watch
The red cloak spread across the moon.
When barely a sliver of silver shows
We rise and repair to our separate quarters.
The next night we welcome the cheering glow
Of an only slightly diminished goddess
Who yet protects us from the dark.
SEPTEMBER MORNING ON THE EXETER
In the river today the trees
Mirror themselves. As we paddle
Our kayaks we see double:
Two trunks, two thatches of branches,
Two patches of reeds, two blossoms
Of pickerel weed, two bushes
Of orange-bespotted jewelweed,
Two bare and barren wood-peckered
Skeletal hulks with bony limbs.
From the dark woods a hoot owl
Invites us to come on in, come on in.
Bluejays flit across our bows.
Wild ducks practice flight patterns.
The heron is no longer present.