Category: Tamworth Poems

ENCOUNTERS

When I see the deer in the meadow

I brake the car to stare.

They seldom allow us to know

That they like to forage there

Unlike the wild turkeys who march

Their rapidly fattening families

Into suburban backyards

Where feeders scatter down seeds.

A handsome red fox used to score

Always available dog treats

At my son-in-law’s front door

But we’ve learned to limit these

Handouts to creatures untamed.

When a moose steps over the wall

We take the flare gun in hand

To encourage him not to call.

When a burly bear knocks on

The window and breaks down the door

We know we’ve made him too welcome:

We know we’ve gone too far.

BELGIAN DRAFT HORSES

Huge and heavy-hoofed,

Wide-eyed but placid Pete

Gives me a curious look

While slightly shy-eyed Fred

Stares modestly at the ground.

Patient, they stolidly stand

As straps are buckled round,

Collars and spreaders hitched

And wagon tongues hooked on.

Twelve tourists climb aboard.

Our driver flicks the reins.

Fred and Pete ease forward

And then with a powerful trot

They pull us up and onward

Until we crest the hill

And feast our eyes upon

A long lake filled with isles.

Springtime in the Notches

We should have known what April fools

This winter was to make of us.

It piled the snow up to our roofs

While Arctic winds assaulted us.

We looked in vain for signs of spring,

For daffodils and crocuses,

But now in May it’s happening:

The woods are where the action is.

Below these west-wind-blocking cliffs

Beneath their blanket of dry leaves

Shy yellow violets persist

And Dutchman’s breeches are perceived.

Where phoebes and song sparrows peck

The squirrel corn plants its fruity roots.

Wake robin trillium are on deck.

Hepatica promises liver cures.

Dogtooth violets belie their name.

Spring beauties herald what has come

At last, unnoticed, unproclaimed,

Our longed-for time of procreation.

SPRING FEVER

The sap is rising and the stallion rears

To clap his mighty hoofs upon the mare’s

Frisky rump, but she whisks away

As if inviting him to come and play

And he is game.  Off and away they go.

It is the season that does stir the blood,

The time when every river is in flood,

And my old heart is gladdened by the show.

BY A BROOK IN MARCH

Our micro-spiked boots crunch

On the icy trampled-down snow

As we scramble over the drift

Thrown up by the highway plow.

We’re next to the Wonalancet

Brook which feeds the Swift.

Today it’s flowing handsomely,

So close to the coming of spring,

Around and between its rocks

And logs, all whitely domed,

All smoothly frosted, silent

Except where it chatters on shoals,

Intent on its seaward journey.

In the forest beside us loom,

Caped in regal white furs,

Majestic glacial erratics.

There beside the trail

We see the blurred old traces

Of hoof or paw or claw

Leading down to the lapping water.

We pass an ancient tree trunk

Riddled with woodpecker drills.

We’re approached by a feisty red squirrel

Who blithely bounces onward.

At the bridge we make our turn

And retrace our steps to the car.

A PRAYER FOR OUR PLANET

He came to our UU pulpit,

A self-confessed atheist

And erudite eco-biologist,

Not to redeem our souls

But to attune our thoughts

To the awesome universe of microbes

That shape and manipulate our bodies:

Our bodies that themselves are habitats,

Complex eco-systems,

Some of which will endure,

Some of which will go extinct.

Our eco-mentor mentioned

That we are part of a larger

Biota, our region of earth,

And we are all connected

To every living thing,

Some of which may endure

Most of which will go extinct.

That is largely up to us.

Master of all universes,

Almighty Force and Source,

Guide us in our choices.

THREE HIKERS AND A DOG

A flash of orange bounds across our snowshoes.

Checker, the black and white Australian shepherd,

Wearing his lustrous “Hunters, don’t shoot me!” coat,

Checks up on us as we crunch along White Lake’s shore.

We watch him tree a saucy squirrel not at all

Fazed by his leaps and sharp impatient barks.

Our eyes are drawn to jagged cavities drilled

In the trunks of pines by woodpeckers after bugs.

We hear a raven’s hoarse foreboding croak

And note the jumbled prints of skittering voles.

Here where the track accesses the shore we take

A shortcut over the lake.  Checker says “Hey!”

To an angler who’s driven his truck and fish shack

Onto the ice but reports, “No dice!” for a catch.

Halfway around we reach the beeches.  Our poles

Break free of entangling brush whose name we can’t

Recall.  We learn the dog has a checkered past:

Rejected by his siblings, he was the outcast,

The runt about to be dispatched, but love

Has prevailed.  He’s now a lively obedient rover.

Nearing our cars we are brought to a halt.  A mountain

Bike with snow tires stops our forward momentum.

We understand Checker’s anxious barks.  We feel

These forest paths were meant to be trodden by feet.

Out of the west a wall of darkness dispatches

The sun and a wintry wind assaults our backs.

We are just in time to retreat to Rosie’s for lunch,

Safe from the blast of a fast moving polar vortex.

Checker curls up for a nap in the back of the van.

It’s time for next week’s outing to be planned.

AS PLAIN AS BLACK AND WHITE

Except when the next polar vortex

Launches its ice shafts from the Arctic

The winters in northern Maine ain’t

What they used to be.  Our partially frozen

Lakes no longer hold up our trucks

And fishing shacks.  Our skis skid

On glazed and glistening worn-down snow.

On this first day of the new year

The Androscoggin still flows free

From Gorham east to Rumford, where

Another dam delays it long enough

For icy platelets to collect and merge

Into almost-circles of white on black,

An abstract Escher-like design or pattern

That seems to hold some urgent message

For those with eyes wide open to see.

A CHANGE OF MOOD

The storm has passed.  The pines bend low

Beneath the ruthless weight of snow.

The air is thick.  My spirits sag.

This dismal day bodes news that’s bad.

Our power’s out.  The house is dark.

The frigid car is loath to start.

But down the road an hour or so

A patch of blue sky starts to show.

A hint of sunshine lights the sky.

And soon the pines begin to rise,

Flaunt white Christmas bows and ties

Sparkling gaily in the sunlight.

Then I begin to realize

That my despair will lift in time.

CALL OF THE WILD

Driving north in the pelting rain

I see a line of wild geese arrowing

Southwest toward more clement climes,

Harvest gleanings on their minds.

I hear the faint persistent calls

By which they organize themselves.

Already one is flapping forward

To take the lead, relieve his comrade.

Why is it that I feel compulsion

To join this southerly migration?

Is it the winter that I’d flee

Or would I be one of that company?