Poems from 2001
ADVICE TO GRADUATES
Fling open the shutters.
Pull up the blinds.
Look out the window
With wide open minds.
Reach for the stars.
Worship the moon.
Banish the darkness
From shadowy rooms.
Harness the sun
To flourish and grow.
We live but an hour
And then comes the snow.
REFLECTIONS
The lambent sun burnishes Cannon’s cliffs
As we draw near Franconia Notch and then
The rock slide screes are sparkling as if
A Titan’s eyes are focusing on them.
Past the verdant vacant ski slopes, Echo
Lake, the “Old Man-Reimagined” park,
Over the top of the notch we gladly go
To reach our destination before dark.
Would that all our trails might emerge into light
And not be dangerous or fraught with gloom.
Let all our journeys be to mountain heights
Ever toward the heavens, not the tombs.
Then might our little lives be richly blessed
Unfettered by fear and warmed with happiness.
ONE FOR THE AUDIENCE
More credit should be given
To brooders, to mother hens.
Surely the gates of heaven
Must be open to them
Whose warm breasts shepherd the young.
And those should be commended
To whom the song is sung,
Who put their hands together
And give their welcome tongue.
Appreciation is due
To all receptive ears,
The openhearted who
Say yes to balladeers
And sponsor new careers.
NEW BEGINNINGS
Unpruned, forsythia explodes
Golden shafts in tangled glory
Glistening with April’s raindrops.
They catch our eye and then we see
A pink profusion, a panoply
Of petals bedecking cherry trees.
Daffodils also have suddenly sprung
Up. Their white and yellow trumpets
Herald the tulips soon to come.
Hyacinths too are blossoming blue
And in the woods hepaticas strew
Vines of pale lilac ground cover.
Spring is busting out all over.
ON THE CUSP OF SPRING
It’s snowing again and yet
The yellow crocus has bloomed
On the lawn, the finches are back
To their nest in the blue spruce.
Flocks of robins have landed
Each to claim his purlieu
His own particular tract
In which to cock his head
And listen for worms. The bands
Of redwings have returned
To the pond. We hear their chirr.
A bevy of female mallards
Was seen on the tidal river
Along with a Canada gang
Of geese heading north. The cardinal
“Cheer cheer”s his mating call.
And yet it is snowing again.
THE LAST WEEK OF FEBRUARY
We hear a cardinal’s nesting call,
Pussy willows raise furry paws,
Canada geese take a southern tack,
Syrup buckets are hung out for sap,
In soaring sweeps three vultures arc,
Peepers are piping in the marsh,
Forsythia’s buttery blossoms bloom:
Who knew that spring would come so soon?
Tropical storms move up the coast.
In balmy breezes we’ve doffed our coats.
Ash Wednesday, heralding Lent, is here.
We think that a verdant spring is near,
Although in New England we never know:
There’s always the chance of an April snow.
A SYMPATHY SONNET
They briefly grace our lives. We know
One year for them is seven of ours.
When we have barely aged at all,
It will be time for them to go.
In parting from our pets we learn
How hard it is to love and lose.
Happiness is not meant to be eternal:
This is the destiny we did not choose.
And when in latter years our friends,
Our partners and our pets depart,
They leave us aimless, wondering, at loose ends,
How to go on with broken hearts.
Our saving grace is comrades in despair.
Such grief our neighbors have cause to share.
MUSIC HATH CHARMS
(Inspired by the British boys’ choir Libra)
Making music is among
The least pernicious things
We humans know how to achieve.
Children’s voices raised in song
Touch our hearts with melody,
Rid us of self-centered sophistry,
Soothe our savage propensities,
Angelicize our bestiality.
While we sing we feel no greed.
No self loathing possesses us.
Conniving envy passes us by.
With ears attuned to harmony,
We open ourselves to beauty.
There’s love-light in our eyes.
BEARING UP
Arising, I open the blinds
And am blinded by oceans of white
Shrouding each tree trunk and limb,
Walkway, driveway and lawn,
Ruthlessly wet and stickily
Clinging to cars and roofs.
Hunch-shouldered firs and spruce
Bow to the merciless weight.
“Too much,” I think. “There can be
Too much of any good thing.”
But here in New England we
Have learned to survive like the trees:
Hunker down, put up with and wait
For the sun to revive us again.
THE JACKET
It hangs in the closet
A comfort to see
And helps me remember
His arms around me.
There’s a faint smell of campfires
In the soft fibrous wool.
He loved to chop kindling
When evenings were cool.
That brown checkered topper
I sometimes put on.
It feels like reliving
Sweet days that are gone.
I can see it ahead
On a cross-country trail
Or a snowshoeing path
On the old Battlefield.
I’ll never discard it,
His lumberman’s jacket.