Poems from 2001
FIREWORKS
(On being asked what is the process of writing a poem)
You’ve seen the Grand Finale
Start with a single spark
After which the sky goes dark.
The pause feels interminable.
And then another twinkle,
Faint but unmistakable.
The wait becomes more bearable:
The pattern is predictable.
A snapping, crackling crescendo
Of stuttering gunfire sends
Out strands of blinding light,
Illuminates the looming night.
Likewise can a poem be born:
One spark ignites the dawn.
(January 4, 2014)
SNOW DAY
We welcome snow:
Flakes falling slow,
Concealing our tracks,
Covering our backs.
No place to go,
No rows to hoe,
The world’s gone white.
We’re sitting tight.
We hope it snows
All day, all night.
(January 2, 2014)
EPIPHANY
Veiled by thickly falling snow,
Winter robins come and go.
From my window I can see
Them flocking in the tall pear tree.
Startled by the passing plow,
Scattering in a frantic cloud,
Flitting, fluttering, never still,
They seldom pause to eat their fill.
Off the roof a sudden gust
Convinces them they’ve had enough.
I wish them luck, I wish, “God Speed!”
I hope they find sustaining seed.
I’m glad I’ve had this chance to know
Winter robins in the snow.
(January 2, 2014)
NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION
I have to learn to sleep alone.
With fleece sheets to keep me warm,
Burrowing into my memory foam ,
I do my best to sleep alone.
Curled around his broader form
I felt his heart beat like my own.
Now I must learn to sleep alone.
For all the lonely nights to come
We must be two: I must be one.
I have to learn to sleep alone.
(January 1, 2014)
THE LAST OF THE PEARS
The basket of pears you sent
From Harry and David arrived
On time on Christmas Eve.
They’d tissued each perfect pear
In festive and seasonal green,
Beribboned and bedecked,
But not yet ripe. Each day
I nuked a pair in raw sugar
And rum, and they were tasty.
However, on New Year’s Eve
The last of the pears called out to me,
Blushing and chilling in the fridge.
It yielded softly to the knife.
Sweeter than sugar and more
Intoxicating than rum, the juice
Ran down my chin, and I thought,
“What better way for an old year
To end or for a new year to begin.”
12/31/2013
HOW SOON WE FORGET
Rising at dawn to join the long
Check-in lines, lost baggage,
Missed connections, luggage
Seized by porters speaking
In foreign tongues, on-board
Plastic snacks, and on arrival
Montezuma’s upsetting revenge,
Altitude headaches, the swing
And sway of undulating waves
As we lie in our bunks, unsoothed
By the whining winch and the engine’s drone.
On shore the cobbled streets
And unexpected steps slick
With rain, lintels too low
To duck and then the cough
Bestowed by our plane’s tainted
Air. All these blessings we vow
Never to risk again, But then
The brochures beckon and wea
Recall the friendships, sunrise
On seastacks, sunsets on glacial
Peaks, discovery’s shock of surprise,
Eye-opening, mind-waking and
We begin to plan again.
The loons call out to me, circling below the rim
(As only loons can swim, proudly and gracefully)
At the top of the Leishman cup. I hear their querulous cry
As I raise the cup to my expectant and willing lips,
On the perfectly tapered rim from which no drop will fall
As the curving handle will softly cushion my thumb.
So does the Potter mold a marriage of utility
With art in quiet harmony: the clay then turns to gold.
ADVICE TO A YOUNG POET
Sarah, I was pleased to meet your snowman.
He reminded me of others I have known
And other precious moments with grandparents
Or play with childhood friends who’ve long been gone.
We’re riding high speed trains into the future.
We know we want these memories to last.
But snapping blurry pictures can be futile.
A poem can be a postcard from the past.
So if and when your train stops at a station,
Put down your I phone, take a good long look.
Breathe in the scene, then write an encryptation
To be decoded in your memory book.
LAST WORDS
(from Dr. Ira Byock’s book, “The Four Things That Matter Most”)
“Please forgive me. I forgive you.
Thank you. I love you.”
“The end of life makes Bhuddists of us all.”
We once approached St. Peter’s gate
In fear and trepidation:
Would he let us in?
Or sought the Holy Church’s blessing
The Open Sesame
To Heaven’s bliss,
Or carried coin to hire Charon
To ferry us across
The River Styx.
But now we can elect the manner
Of our dying
If not the moment,
And we can tell our loved ones
That we loved them
The best we could,
And they in turn can tell us if
For all our failings,
We did some good.
(RiverWoods, November, 2013)