Category: Riverwoods Poems

THE ART OF THE POEM

Oh I could probably pen

The enigmatic page:

“In the shattered mirror

At the window I see crows…”

Op Art is all the rage.

As every critic knows,

Poetry in plain style

Is rather juvenile.

But I would sooner share

The loon song on the lake

Or a stand of birches,

One moment that may make

Its mark on the sands of time

In rhythm and in rhyme.

FAMILY REUNION

On the river bank

I look for you

Where the poplars bend

And our green canoe

Hangs under the eave

Of the little shed.

On the grassy heights

Of old battlefields

Where the purple knotweed

Now invades

I trace the trails

Where we once skied.

As your daughters voice

Old family songs

My heart responds:

I sing along.

ON A SUMMER EVENING

Atop the Exeter town hall

Our Lady of Justice

Back-lighted by sunset

Holds high her scales

And weighs the brassy

Marching strains

Of the Exeter town band

As we in our lawn chairs

Watch the frisking children

And smell the popcorn.

A pair of Mexican Hairless

Dogs parade by.

The band segues

Into a medley of waltzes.

ON DEPARTING

We should leave this life

In a burst of glory

Like a Roman candle

Or a red maple in autumn.

On fire is the way to go,

Then a handful of ashes

In the children’s flower beds.

No grieving over

Goldengrove unleaving

But the promise of spring

Buds unfolding.

THOUGHTS IN THE NEWFIELDS WORD BARN

At Open Mikes

The spoken word

Is often heard, but

What of the unspoken word

The forgotten word

The belated word

The word of advice

The word of wisdom

The word of caution

In the Beginning

Was the Word.

Who will have

The last word?

Who will hear

Our last word?

 

THE CCRC COFFEE CIRCLE

The time has come, the oldsters said,

To talk of many things:

Of presidential candidates

And whether it will rain,

Of Bobcats scooping up the yard

And the installation of drains,

Of who is in the nursing lodge

And the state of someone’s brains.

The three percent rise in annual fees

Is always food for thought.

Whoever came up with that idea

In our good books is not.

By this time the muffins are all gone

And the coffee’s no longer hot.

HEADS UP

The snow arrived in April

But it did not kill

The crocuses and snowdrops or

The long-stemmed daffodils.

The daffodils bent over

Compliantly lay down

Accepted their cold cover

Prostrated on the ground.

But in the week that followed

Yellow heads began to rise and

Stems began to straighten.

We rejoiced to realize

That spring was not defeated.

Winter really had retreated.

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.