Category: Tamworth Poems

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.

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?

THE WORKS OF JAYS

As autumn leaves begin to fall,

Blue jays suddenly appear.

Although we do not hear them call

They fitfully flit here and there.

All summer they have silently

Flown about their busy-ness.

Some say that they’ve been stealthily

Stealing from their neighbors’ nests.

In spring we heard them constantly

Sounding their rude and raucous cries,

Warning their fellow flyers away

From male-selected nesting sites.

But now it is the acorn crop

That they are fiercely focused on,

Interring nuts in shallow tombs

For winter harvest under snow.

It’s said, without their ministries

Our oaks would not be so widespread:

And so it is that minor deeds

Have wide and weighty consequence.

HIS EYE IS ON THE SPARROW

This morning before the service began,

With caution and care and celerity

Lyn captured a bee on the coffee stand

And carefully gave it its liberty,

Freeing it from its glass enclosure

Over the rail of the little back porch.

Though fearful of bee stings and fatal reactions,

She practiced Schweitzer’s reverence for life,

Which later proved an apt introduction

To the blessings of the animals rite:

A concept which folks would do well to extend

To all of their dealings with fellow men.

ON WATER

What can we say,

What can we not say,

About water?

Water, water everywhere.

As foetuses

Afloat in the uterus,

Cradled and comforted

By water

We are in our element.

It is our only element.

Seawater runs in our veins.

Not wine but water

Is the elixir of life,

Adam’s ale,

Without which we mummify

Into leathery dried sticks.

Without water

Our blue planet

Becomes a desert.

And water transports us.

It floats our boats.

We see it flow

From our mountains to our seas

And we know

That we are on a journey.

We are on life’s journey

Back to the sea our mother,

Back to the single cells

That merged into our selves,

Becoming one with the universe,

Becoming one with the water.

 

SEPTEMBER SATURDAY

Misty hills on the horizon,

Woolly clouds spread overhead,

At the Bearcamp, black-eyed Susans

Glow along the river’s edge.

 

Farmers’ market up the street,

Ripe tomatoes still for sale:

I will sip a robust coffee,

Listen to the guitar wail.

 

Wild blueberries for my freezer

From the hilltop we once picked

Will bring a taste of yesteryear

Through the coming winter’s drifts.

THE SUPER MOON

On August tenth the full moon rose

As close to earth as it ever comes

And lit the sky with a rosy glow,

An aspect as rare as it is handsome.

On that same day a minister came,

Newly invited to our pulpit,

And said that he was not so vain

As to be guided by fateful signs,

But that he hoped to bring some light

To help us define our destinations.

Let us hope that propitious moon

Illumines the journey we are on.

HANDS

They all called him handsome,

But it was not his face

I loved, though he was comely,

And his smile could erase

Any hint of gloom

That ever lingered on

In any darkened room.

It was his hands I loved,

Strong and long-fingered,

Hands that gripped an axe

With purpose and affection

To cut our yearly firewood,

Hands that drew the hoe

Between the beans and cornstalks

And arrowed our canoe

Around the foaming rocks

To where we had to go

To reach our evening campsite,

Hands that pounded tent stakes

To secure us for the night,

Loving hands that gave me

Memories of sweet delight.