A Clear December Sky, Dark, Cold, and Starlit

So tired of the ice and snow,

freezing rain, and dreary drizzle,

overcast skies and clouds blotting out the sun

and the clear night sky, December sky,

cabin-fever settling in these early winter days;

but tonight, stepping out onto a new fallen snow,

the sky is clear and dark, cold, and star-lit,

constellated, Orion where he should be,

where he always is here in the winter sky above my house,

Babylon’s “Heavenly Shepherd,” the “True Shepherd,”

shepherding me here, small in the universe I share with him,

the great hunter, his belt, three stars - Alnitak, Alnilam,

and Mintaka - straight and bright against the dark heavens,

reminding me, my coat pulled tight about me, hands

deep into my pockets for warmth, a scarf about my neck,

reminding me of things eternal, begun long before our time,

lasting well beyond us, despite us, powerless here,

an eternity we can only glimpse, touch briefly, temporal,

and in touching, transitory though we be,

we are alive, a small contribution touching, too, eternity.

A Christmas Poem - Dec 2013

We each must celebrate the season, the holiday,

as we’ve been taught, as we do, based on our values,

our beliefs, who we are, but here at the lake,

on a silent night, a night holy, perhaps,

all is calm, all is bright, a clear sky’s

moonlight lighting, illuminating the lake,

snow covered now, this winter eve, virginal snow

unspoiled, untrodden, a peace unto itself,

and to the east, a star shines brighter

in a field of stars, and it’s easy to believe

in a child born, a lowly birth, or richly gifted,

a gift himself, this child, love’s pure light,

radiant, a pauper’s child, or a king’s,

and in the breeze stirring up, a slight stirring

blowing from the west, faint and distant, soft

hallelujahs might be heard on the wind,

glories streaming, as we pull our coats tighter

about us, quaking, our fears revealed, doubts

in a world much changed in growing older,

longings lingering to return to a simpler time

of knowing, of faith believing, this silent night,

this holy night, for all is calm, all is bright,

and tonight, this Christmas eve, there is hope

renewed, a child born, quiet Hallelujahs sung;

so sleep well, old world much changed,

old world and us, this night, this season,

huddled here and watching, sleep,

sleep, in heavenly peace.

The Ice is Restless

The ice is restless

this mid-December night,

groaning under a blanket,

pulled taunt, of ice and snow,

snow and ice, cracking, shifting

in his waking, restless sleep,

calling out in a booming voice

to us, warm under our own blankets,

quilted warm and waiting, settling in

for the winter months ahead.

The Walk

The dog always knows when it’s time

to take me for a walk, reminding me

with her whining and pawing,

a soft yip on my more forgetful days,

so we leash ourselves together

and she takes me out, down the stairs

and through the back door to the outside,

outside the house and outside ourselves;

she knows where to take me, down which paths

to go, our route through the woods little varied,

few choices offered us, so leashed and tethered,

she leads me onward, patient in my falling behind her,

lollygagging, lost in my own thoughts thinking,

pulling me forward, to speed me up,

to join her, her muscles straining against my pull,

or me marching too far ahead, too fast, she, patient,

slow behind me, stopping, her nose seeking out a smell,

the fox that crossed before us, or a leaf,

a blade of grass, or the squirrel hiding above, in the treetops,

calling to her to play, calling to us,

and charging forward past me, tail out straight,

ears pulled back, she calls to me, “come, man,

run with me, race the wind, and win” or “slow down,

stop and listen, hear the mouse burrowing below the snow,”

earth’s music, buried there, faintly heard by those in tuned,

as we are, man and dog, tethered, leashed, best-friend-bound;

so I plod on steadily, by rote, listening, feeling

earth’s rhythms in the crunch of snow beneath my feet,

one foot in front of the other, routine,

and she lets me go, go where I will,

an eye kept out for me, as mine for her,

leaving me with my thoughts, composing

lines of verse in my head, composing myself,

walking the dog and wondering, what poetry

does she write, walking here with me,

falling behind or racing ahead, in-tuned?

Wishbone

Thanksgiving day, and the

turkey was cooked and carved,

white meat cleaved from bone,

father’s job, his only other job

but to stay out of the way,

out of the kitchen, his

place assigned elsewhere, hands

folded over belly, full, napping,

football unwatched on the TV,

victory drowned out in snoring;

and the carcass, cool now, stripped

nude but for bits of meat hanging uneaten,

carcass waiting, bare and waiting,

for me, my job but to find the wishbone,

dried and hard and brittle,

a wish made, two halves pulled

and bone broken, splintered,

chips flying from snapped ends;

but wishes made, like wishbones broken, break,

for a brother’s still there when

you wished him away and

on Monday after the long break,

the long break’s wish, you’re

pushed and pulled, picked on yet again,

no matter how much you believed

in the long side of the wishbone,

no matter how much you believed,

it always seemed to be the wrong side,

the wish untrue, the wishbone broken;

and the war raged on

and he never came home;

perhaps on Thanksgiving, in a bunker,

my brother made the same wish I did

and pulled the shorter side of

a wishbone, bone snapping, chips flying, and

his wish, like mine, did not come true

as he lay there dying, alone,

on Thanksgiving day, an American holiday

they wouldn’t stop the war for

and no matter how many wishbones

I pulled and broke, snapped, the

long side in my hand, glorious victory drowned,

his shorter broken wish took priority over mine.

Ice This Morning

Ice this early morning on the puddles and windshields

and a thin layer forming on the lake, in the shallows,

as winter begins his move, driving out fall completely,

stripped now of her colors, reds and orange,

yellows and browns gone to bare limbs reaching out,

imploring, her nakedness laid open, revealed and revealing;

the nights, too, are colder, and a heavy frost settles in,

hoarfrost, coating the world in translucency, changing

what was into something new and different, changed,

and a mist rises from the lake, a fog, blurring

the distant shore below a darker sky, this early morning,

a radiance, a deeper clarity flooded with a moonlit brilliance,

a darkness punctuated by stars, grouped, constellatory,

approving and unmoved, the nature of things unchanging;

and the air burns my nose and cheeks, a biting cold,

carrying with it the rhythmic scrape of ice removed,

scraped away, a reason to be here, in early morning's darkness,

my neighbors and I, an excuse, perhaps,

a few minutes alone, solitary, deliberate, wistful,

touched by winter’s arrival, nature’s cycles changing,

a giving way, changing us, changed ourselves, this cold morning,

readied, awaiting the snows ahead and the days to come.

Birds at My Feeder

They’ve survived for years, millennia even,

well past their dinosaur days evolving

into finch and nuthatch and chickadee,

black-capped, yellow-breasted, barred wings

a-flutter, crowding my bird feeder of sunflower seeds

purchased, monthly, 50 pounds, from the local market

to feed them now in the winter months’

cold and snow, birds flocking to my yard,

scores of them, unbothered by my sitting here

watching from my window, rocking here,

warmed by a mug of tea and their song,

surviving regardless of my feeding them,

feeding them but a reason to sit here,

warmed, watching them, surviving.

First Snowfall

In the darkening sky of a first snowfall,

the stillness grows even more still, more silent

as birds tuck into themselves against the cold

and the squirrels curl into their burrows;

 
and in the gathering silence, falling snow
is the only sound we hear, a softness raining,
snow brushing clear the air around it,
the hush of winter’s world settling white;

the only other sound, unheard, is ourselves, hearts beating,

curled and tucked into our own burrows, into ourselves,

our faces reflected in the glass we peer through, listening
to the stillness, to the soft hush of first snow falling.

The Mechanic

Dad was a mechanic, a damn good mechanic,

patient and thorough, almost fatherly,

fixing errant machines that wouldn’t move earth

or themselves but lay unstarted where they quit,

delaying some progress, a new highway to be built

or a bridge to span a New England river meandering,

a broken something only he could know, only he could fix,

and on weekends, sometimes, a Saturday

before his Lord’s day off, he would take me, too,

to sit at the controls, fueling my imagination,

an imagined life pulling levers and pushing back the earth,

a power around me, the roar of the engine in my mind

louder than the puttering from my lips, oblivious

to the silence around me or to the squeak and clash

of wrenches loosening and tightening, retightening

the nuts and bolts to put this mover of earth

to right again, just as he would loosen and tighten,

retighten the nuts and bolts of my life,

put to right the errant son, puttering, unstarted,

pulling levers that didn’t work, my imagination fueled,

and pushing against the earth of my life, impeding progress,

an unbuilt highway, an unbuilt bridge, where I quit,

the roar of my engine loud in my mind, oblivious,

something only he could know, only he could fix,

patient and thorough, fatherly.

Closing up the Camp

It’s late, later than usual, this moving day,

closing up the camp, readying it

for hibernation in the winter snow, falling

soon enough, sooner than we may be ready for,

but a single pair of loons still calls out,

echoing in the early morning and in late night’s darkness,

enticing us to stay, the loons, too,

perhaps, not wanting to leave either,

like us, remaining here, late in going,

and the squirrels scamper still above us,

foraging for winter’s larder tucked away,

as we lay here, warm under electric heat,

for the nights are getting colder, lower, in the 20s,

the days not rising much above freezing's boundary,

and we fear the pipes’ freezing, and the mess,

this camp not a winter camp, but the summer home

we cling to into autumn, holding on,

a morning fire crackling in the wood stove,

smoke rising acrid through unsealed cracks,

and the cast iron taking on the heat to warm us,

taking off the morning chill, so today,

giving in, letting go -- it’s time -- 

the cold and the fear drive us out,

back to the warmth of our winter place,

furnace warmed, a warmth held in by insulated walls

against the winter cold and snow,

to ward off what we cannot change, cannot stop,

but today, one last time till spring's thaw, we huddle together

around the stove, the fire snapping, sipping coffee, silent

and alone in our thoughts, delaying what we must do,

reflecting on our own lives, our own autumns,

the seasons of our lives, what we cannot change,

what we cannot stop, letting go.

A Brisk Autumn Walk

A brisk Autumn walk this morning,

two or three miles, what my doctor recommends

to ward off familial predispositions,

just a short jaunt in the chill air, to the corner

and back, and a detour to the point, pausing to look back

to where I started, across the cove dividing us,

to my home nestled along the far shore, tucked under trees

stripped bare now of summer’s green gone gold.

The leaves shake and rattle above me in the wind,

hearty leaves hanging on, and below, rustling,

shuffling as I go, dragging my feet through

a thick leaf cover, reds and browns and oranges dropped

and dried and crackling, autumn’s music, Pan played,

and I flush a grouse or partridge, unseen

where she lays hidden in the undergrowth, exposed now,

fleeing my noise, this invasion of space and time,

her wings beating a soft thunder in her escape,

hiding once more, once again, unmoving, watching me pass.

The air today is cold, above freezing, barely, it seems,

and a chill wind, wind chill dropping,

reminds me of winter to come, fast

approaching, winter blowing in, cold and harsh;

but today, I take a brisk Autumn walk

to ward off the familial, seeking peace

in the changing season, autumn

rustling my soul awake, flushing out my spirit,

readying myself for the season ahead, watching, waiting.

Autumn Fog ... Weeping

The fog sits low in the trees -

heavy sagging under her weight –

weeping, her tears cold and wet

in the early morning chill

as we step out, the dog and I,

a ritual pulling us out to walk

into the morning mist this day,

a late Autumn day begun in fog,

low in the trees, weeping, cold and wet;

and whom does she weep for but the changing season,

Autumn’s cooling of Summer into Winter snow,

the days grown short, darkness falling early

and rising late, us, too, warm under covers pulled tight,

a quilted warmth holding us in bed a little longer,

fearful of rising in the morning’s dark and cold,

yet getting up, venturing out, a ritual, the dog and I;

but who will weep for her, low in the trees, weeping herself,

seeking what little warmth there is

rising up from an earth turning colder, darker,

seeking, perhaps, herself, some comfort,

her great tears falling, weeping for us,

and the season changing, bound here,

seeking warmth, seeking comfort, seeking ourselves.

A Haunting

Everywhere has them, an old house,

empty and decayed, set back, alone

on a dark street, unlit, nor candle burning,

or abandoned among other homes, nicer homes,

in a neighborhood of children playing,

their laughter loud and raucous ceasing

as they pass on their way to school,

ceasing to resume again on the other side,

or crossing over to avoid it, its emptiness,

its darkness, that eerie feeling of an old house,

dark and empty, its porch sagging

under heavy footfall of ages past and rot,

years of moisture unstopped, unchecked, seeping,

and a roof to match, all tilted in, ready to topple,

patched or bare, shingles gone or flapping, lifted up,

up lifted, but the glass remains, intact

mostly, a pane or two broken, perhaps,

or gone, though the windows are closed up tight,

stuck fast, or boarded, and at night, looking out,

the spirits watch us from within, peeking

from the spirit world that holds them there,

keeps them in, silent and staring out,

obscured by shadows, a shadow world

we cannot enter, cannot know nor comprehend

except in our imaginations, our fears let loose,

fear of an old place, closed up, boarded shut,

inviting our imaginations in, even as it keeps us out,

out of the darkness where spirits watch,
specters with a past like ours, watching

and remembering, longing, perhaps, to leave,

wondering if they could, could step across

the broken sill and down the stairs,

crumbling steps long unused, unused to human feet,

leave and join us here passing by, walking

where we will, where we can, avoiding them,

those ethereal concoctions of imagination and fear,

imagination and fear giving them life, a shadow life,

a spirit world within ourselves,

staring out, even, wondering, if we could,

would we step across the broken sill

and down the stairs, crumbling steps

into our own lives, dark and empty,

scared and alone.

Autumn Falling into Winter

In the bathroom, right next to the mirror,

is a window I turn to, the act of shaving

such routine, a habit now that doesn’t require

watching myself, nor the gray hairs multiplying

even as they recede, a familial trait

passed down from my father and grandfather,

from a long lineage of old farmers balding,

and turning away to the window, I watch instead

the season changing, autumn falling into winter,

the leaves letting go to fall, to drift, leisurely

gliding down in the morning breeze,

a light wind stirred up with the moon’s setting,

tucking itself over the horizon on the western shore

as the sun rises, celestial bodies opposed,

the patter of their falling, the scrape of dry

on dry, leaves blown, mingling, too,

with the song of chickadee and nuthatch feeding,

calling out, a morning reminder of life’s cycles

letting go to rise again, feeding my soul,

readying myself for a new day, a new season,

autumn falling into winter in the morning breeze.

Standing in the Rain Watching the Dog

The dog, a new puppy, whines to go out, insists,

something I can’t complain about, how I’d trained her,

but it’s raining, so donning my cap,

I stand under a large tree, covered,

sheltered, some, from the rain while she

forgets why we came out, amuses herself

with a leaf blown in the wind or a moth fluttering

in the waning light, or a romp through

the puddles forming, while I stand here,

hands in my pockets, shoulders hunched

against the dripping, brooding,

thinking back to days when the rain

didn’t matter, didn’t keep us seeking shelter

but remaining outside, “a passing shower,”

chasing our own moths fluttering,

leaves blown in younger days, or playing

a neighborhood game of hide-and-seek,

kick-the-can, red-rover, red-rover calling us over,

and there were no rain delays

in the big field of our dreams, a diamond

marked by sticks and boards or a patch

worn bare on summer afternoons circling bases,

and we stayed out, we all stayed out, then,

until some adult, such as I’ve become,

hunched against the rain, watching, impatient,

the adult calls us in, and perhaps,

staring after us, happily rain soaked, remembering, too,

and forgetting, calling again, until,

our business done, and damp, we leave

the play behind, swing wide the door and enter

the dry world we could not escape

but on a rainy day, standing in the rain,

watching the dog and remembering.

Spiraling

Like an eagle perched

taking flight, his great wings

spread wide, brushing back the earth

to rise up and circle the cove,

searching, wing tips curled

to catch the wind, cutting

a long arc, the sky falling

back, giving way to flight,

and tail flared, white and stark

against the sky’s blue air,

broadening his circling, searching

still, lifting and falling on thermals

that carry him upward, skyward

until he disappears into the vastness

that is the heavens; so, too,

should our own lives be carried

into the vastness that is ourselves.

After the Rain

The next day, after the rain –

a soft hush against my windows

while I lay sleeping, the comforter

pulled tight against the chill of night –

the moisture continues, a thin fog clouding

the tree tops, obscuring the sky’s blue

and the other shore; the leaves and flowers

glisten, fresh in their cleaning, scrubbed,

and green, though tinged now, these late summer days,

with orange and brown and red, the season’s changing early;

a single drop of water gathers at each pointed end,

suspended there, held, a tiny rainbow contained, ready,

and letting go, the air clatters with their syncopated dripping,

droplets jumping from leaf to leaf, falling,

free flight, a botanical song after the rain,

in the thin fog of morning,

tinged now, these late summer days.

A Late Summer Night

The nights here, where I live, this far north,

can have a picture-postcard-ness to them:

the beauty of a clear sky, vast and moonless,

or perhaps, just a sliver of a moon lying there

resting atop the trees, and the sky,

punctuated by stars, is starlit, Orion’s

mythological cluster clearly visible there,

three stars aligned, aligned in the late summer sky;

and in that clearness, this stillness of night,

whispered sound carries, a lone loon calling out,

her sharp warble echoing, or the wind,

high this night, rustling the tree tops’ highest branches,

brushing clear the vastness; and the lake, its own vastness

stirred up by a north-western breeze blowing,

lapping the shore, slapping the stones there, wet and smooth,

is hushed, this cool breeze wrapping itself around me

even as I pull tight my coat against him,

standing here, staring upward and taking in the night,

the beauty of a clear sky, moonless, wrapped in wonder,

whispering,

                      hushed,

                                     starlit,

                                                  alone.

Another Painting Day, Painting the Barn

Another painting day, perched atop the ladder,
propped precariously at the top of the barn that isn’t a barn,
painting the trim that frames my home, barn-shaped,
a brilliant red, a barn red, the finishing touches
tying my place together, the dark of brown
and brilliant red in sharp contrast, framed,
each standing out from the other in starkness;
and the eagle calls again, this day too, calling my gaze
away, towards the lake, searching, seeking him out,
following his voice and, my eyes keenly trained, finding him,
a small white dot in a tree, long dead, on the distant shore
opposite my work, a clear view from this height, spotting him
in a scraggly tree, tall and bare and lifeless but for him there; 
he calls me, now, to look there, squinting
across this channel that separates us, him and me,
perched and staring out, we two, here at the lake,
calls me, to himself perhaps, in eagle cry,
away from my chore for a short time, time enough,
perched there on my own scraggly tree of a ladder,
time enough to see him lift up, his great wings spread,
and disappear beyond the trees, above the hills,
over an horizon where I cannot go, grounded as I am,
here atop the ladder, perched and staring, squinting,
small, at the lake, small, in nature’s realm,
and brought back to my task, the job at hand,
another painting day, painting the barn,
tying us all together.