If There's a Hell

If there’s a hell in which I find myself

at the end of my life for sins unconfessed

and taken to my grave, it will be a dark room,

expansive and immense, completely dark

without so much as a distant star to light my way,

nor walls to grasp and grope in the blackness, 

the darkest pitch giving sound to the voices

in my head, those same voices that haunt the dark

that I fear even now, still alive and present

for redemption, a darkness easily overcome with the flick

of a switch or a candle lit, giving light

to the ghosts and ghouls and things that go bump in the night,

driving out my fear, squelched in the light of day;

but the experts say we need the dark,

even as we need the light, to reflect upon and find

our place in the universe measured against a deep night

with the Milky Way over our heads, lost in the stars,

so the dog and I, tethered together,

leash in one hand and sturdy flashlight in the other

- six volts of power to light our way -

venture out into the dark of a moonless night,

to confront the universe and ourselves, and the voices

calling out from the woods surrounding us, dark and deep.

Our light provides a small circle of safety around us,

to guide our steps forward, lighting the darkness ahead, barely,

and leaving a trail of shadow behind us, enclosing us

and holding at bay our fears at the unseen noises calling out,

noises, rationally, we know aren’t there,

are nothing but the ice melting or leaves falling,

perhaps a deer or foxes crossing at a safe distance,

unaffected by our intrusion, but I turn my light

to search, for proof, proof it’s not what I fear

it is in the darkness swarming around me, snapping,

calling out, and lurking in the shadows to drag me away,

but find instead only the woods, dimly lit and silent,

quiet in my passing, at peace in itself in hushed darkness;

and in the clearing, a field we know well

in daylight’s sunshine, the night sky

stretches out to eternity above us,

a galaxy of stars, home, we’ve been told,

to earth’s billions, I but one of the many living here,

small and tentative, awed, lost and looking up,

the dog still beside me, quiet and still and small herself,

knowing, perhaps, what I don’t, can’t seem to grasp,

she and I just a single speck, standing here unseen and unheard

from the Milky Way’s distant shore, far away, light years

across this milky river of stars we inhabit,

and I turn off my light, a silent click, and let the darkness

I fear envelop me, take me into itself,

a moment of panic passing, gone

as fast as a light extinguished,

a light absorbed into the darkness

and reflected back, perhaps, in a star,

a faint glimmer reflecting me, a single star shining

in a field of stars at the end of every darkness;

the darkness fades, standing here, pales into billions of stars,

billions upon billions amassed into this one galaxy,

this Milky Way shrinking me, made smaller by its vastness,

my fears, of noises calling out, of ghosts and ghouls

and unseen voices lurking to drag me away, so miniscule

in this star-filled clearing stretching to eternity,

my own light, short-lived and reflected, a faint light

shining in the darkness fading around me.

So we venture out now, the dog and I, most nights,

tethered together, safe in our circle of light

but less afraid these days of the darkness around us,

the unseen noises calling out, the ice melting

or leaves falling, a deer or foxes crossing at a distance,

unaffected, for in the woods, dimly lit and silent,

I have found my place among the stars,

my life absorbed into the darkness and reflected back

from a single star small among billions, a single star

reflecting me, quiet and silent and redeemed.

Christmas Poem (2014)

Luke’s angels and the Christmas cards

proclaim “Peace on Earth,” but the local news

calls for more of the same, unrest and bloodshed,

hatred and anger answered with guns and death,

revenge in a world gone cruel and selfish,

even men of God, by whatever name He is called,

and politicians, the cynics, forcing themselves,

their self-proclaimed prophecies, on the diverse,

the different, the unorthodox,

and “Peace on Earth” is now but a dream gone in waking

and a Christmas Card’s pretty wrapping on a lost

and empty tradition of cards exchanged and greetings 

choed, Christ in Christmas and Merry Christmas not a Happy Holiday

of political correctness, adding to the stress

of the season, last minute gifts and forgotten

friends misplaced in the rush to Christmas morning’s

stockings hung and packages torn from under the tree;

but on a clear night here at the lake on Christmas Eve,

clear and quiet under a starlit sky of darkest blue, moonless

and far from the guns of war and domination, us against them,

a light snow begins, this silent night, this holy night,

the faint jingle and jangle of sleigh bells ringing out,

somewhere, and perhaps in the soft silence

of snow falling, a chorus of angels’ voices is raised,

angels singing that glorious song of old, softly,

hushed, “Peace on the earth, Good will to men,

from Heaven’s all gracious King,” and in the solemn stillness

lies the last strain carried heavenward,

echoing in the quiet of a carol ended;

and in the Peace of that moment, standing there,

I can believe again in Christmas, in Luke’s angels’

and the Greeting Cards’ proclamations,

believe again in the good will of men seeking Peace,

a Peace shared this moment, standing here on Christmas Eve –

“… and on earth, Peace, Goodwill to men.”

Opera House

Across from the hardware store, vacant now,

a parking lot, too, sits empty,

necessity that it was back then,

but short-lived, these days cracked and dry,

grasses sprouting up to fill in the

space chained off, inaccessible,

a car-less void that was once

the Opera House where at ten, a dollar

gave entrance to a Saturday afternoon’s

adventure, the big screen, Necco wafers, milk-duds,

and a box of popcorn all to yourself.

After the Storm

After the snow storm is done,

and the shoveling and the plowing,

the clearing away and the cleaning up,

and the resting of our tired muscles

with heat against our backs

and a mug of coffee, dark and hot,

to warm our spirits, a new snow falls,

light and enjoyable, and we bundle

up in hats and mittens and take

ourselves out into the night,

the tiny flakes cold against our faces.

A small voice, hushed and gentle

A small voice, hushed and gentle,

rises up from the earth and is carried

on the streams and the falling snow, on ocean waves

and the winds, gentle breezes or gales raging,

and it speaks of balance, steadfastness,

the triad of earth and man and the divine;

but in the busy-ness of our lives,

the pursuit of materials, wealth and power,

or merely the means to support our lives,

we fail to hear, fail to listen,

and are lost.

When I Was Six

The Russians hated me, when I was six,

those people from that big red space

ten inches from a yellow USA

mapped on my classroom wall,

a red space that meant so little to me

as we marched single file, quietly and

quickly, to the hall and took

our places, kneeling on the floor,

one child in front of, behind, next to

another, hands holding our heads tucked into

little human balls, practicing those drills

as we practiced our numbers and letters, art and music,

preparing for them, their bombs, their hatred

of us, our hatred of them ensuing,

just ten inches separating us, us from them,

and tucked there, at six, I wondered

if they were practicing, too, their numbers

and letters and drills as we were,

little human balls huddled, afraid, fearing each other,

across ten inches of blue on a classroom map,

and I wonder even now, has anything really changed?

A Celebration

It’s quiet after the summer folk have left

and the leaf peepers, too, gone, returned to their homes,

the leaves now muted and fallen, dry and brittle, scattered,

and out walking, walking freely,

satisfying our souls, the dog and I

breathe in the Sunday’s silence broken

only by our own footsteps’ plodding,

the dirt road’s gravel-crunch under our feet,

and the rustle of the leaves, lightly blown,

while across the lake an eagle sings out, unseen,

his chattering song celebrating life amid life’s turmoil,

echoing in the still air of this late autumn ramble;

so I, too, celebrate life, celebrate myself,

in these words penned across a page torn out

for moments like this, moments to share

in verse, in celebration of all that is good,

all that is life, as it should be, celebrated.

Sin

Ya know, back then, even Jesus would

have climbed the clock tower,

the steeple of the Elm Street

Church, much as we all did

in more youthful days, when it was forbidden,

sneaking up the back stairs

to the store room of

old chairs and hymn books,

perhaps a Bible or two,

laid open or tossed into a corner;

and finding the trap door and the ladder

up through the ceiling,

up through the clock works,

we climbed, Baptist boys, growing up,

up and out into the open, revealing

the river on one side going ocean-ward and away,

the shipyard and houses below, fixed, keeping us here;

but it was a sin, then,

to do what we had done, Jay and I,

sneaking up to that forbidden height,

forbidden place, and, worse yet, we sinners,

carving our names – desecration! Hell and Damnation! –

among the names of other

boys who’d sneaked up before us

as we did now, adding our names

to prove we’d done it,

done some forbidden act,

a sinful act of disobedience

blemishing that image we wore of “good boys,”

obedient boys, yet a blemish we wore in secret,

bearing our guilt alone, as a medal, a medal earned

with a name carved into the church clock tower,

the steeple of the Elm Street Church.

And ya know, though, I bet if we searched

long enough, hard enough,

we’d find Jesus’ name

carved there, too, His medal

earned, like ours, in this sin

of young boys sneaking, disobedient

Baptist boys, now tarnished and hell-bound,

seeking the forbidden life of sin.

Readied

Autumn is but half-way done,

half-way to winter’s scheduled date,

yet a winter wind comes early, blowing in

cold and strong, reconnoitering, perhaps,

our readiness for the season ahead:

corded wood cut and split and stacked

to stoke the hearth and stove

against the cold; and provisions laid in,

stored up, in case, just in case, the heavy snows

and storms forecast should strand us, cabin-bound;

and our spirits, too, readied, anticipatory and joyful

about the changes changing the landscape

and our lives, lives bound to the seasons here,

coming when they do, in their time, and leaving,

leaving us, like the seasons themselves, altered,

readied for the seasons ahead, the seasons

of our own lives, changed and changing.

Untitled Poem

Vibrant colors fade and fall

in the autumn winds and rain,

revealing a barrenness, stark

against the harvest season’s muted sky.

Family Reunion

In summer’s high light, she stood at the sink,

the dishes stacked haphazardly, teetering,

or drowning in sudsy water, hot and steamy

to rinse them clean, and cleared now, washing away

the remnants of a family reunion, an annual gathering

of dysfunctional relatives hanging about,

their voices slurred and hushed, the clang

of horseshoes pitched or the whine of children,

tired and restless, parent voices raised and calling out

threats and promises made to quiet them, drawing

her back to ’65 and Uncle John’s leering,

luring her, grabbing and groping hands, his

breath sour and lingering … still … her calls unheard

in the din of a family gathering no one cared to attend,

but feared to stay away from, even now,

to quell the rumors and stories best untold;

and with apologies, threats, and promises made,

her innocence was taken in a gathering of family,

and in summer’s high light, she stood at the sink,

teetering, the dishes stacked, drowning

her tears behind sudsy water, hot and steamy,

the remnants of a family reunion that can’t be washed away.

Carpe Diem

The fishermen and the lobstermen, up before dawn,

long before the sun lifts herself above the dark

horizon that blends earth and water and sky into one,

long before most men have finished their dreams,

dreams forgotten or vaguely remembered

when the alarm sounds and they rise

to face the daily chore that has become their lives,

just as the fishermen and the lobstermen have risen long

before dawn to face their lives out on the dark ocean,

they say, the fishermen and the lobstermen,

there’s a flash of green heralding the sun’s morning appearance,

a flash of green light just before she raises her head

to a new day, illuminating the earth, enlightening it,

a verdant flash missed by most men, still asleep

and warm under quilted covers pulled tight, and secure,

that momentary radiance seen only by those rising early,

a brief green flash just before the sun rises,

turning darkness to shadow, to gold to red to blue,

separating, again, the earth from sky and water;

and that flash of green, a mirage at sunrise

heralding something new, is missed by those of us asleep,

afraid, and trying to remember the dreams we lost,

an opportunity lost because we slept.

October's Windfall

A single autumn leaf, just one -

October’s windfall - pasted itself

to my window while I slept,

and in morning’s sunlit brilliance

drew me from my quilted warmth

into today, one more day,

with hope for the changing seasons ahead:

a single autumn leaf, October’s windfall

in morning’s sunlit brilliance.

An Indian Summer

Indian summer left us as abruptly as it arrived

with temperatures back up to summer’s warmth

at the end of early autumn’s first cold week,

a deep blue sky accentuating the changing leaves,

yellow to orange to red to brown,

forcing us to dig out the shorts and T’s

we’d packed away, no longer necessary

with summer done and gone into the season’s changing,

enjoying now this sunshine arriving, temperatures rising, 

forgetting any chores and projects we’d promised to do,

screens to take down and storm windows to put up,

until this morning, fall returned

with a sky gone white and mottled gray,

a breeze blowing strong the low temperatures’ return,

our collars pulled up tight against the cold,

the weekend but a dream gone, too, in waking, a reminder

of what we’d had barely a month ago, a tease

as we looked ahead to autumn’s season, autumn’s reason

but to take us gradually into the cold and snow to come,

yet for a couple days, a weekend at the lake,

summer returned, rewarding us our diligence,

and reminding us, lest we forget, that nature is like that,

unpredictable, unbound in its course, ever changing,

seasons stopping in their moving forward, moving onward,

seasons stopping to give us a rest in our own courses,

our own seasons, like nature’s, moving forward, moving onward,

unpredictable, unbound, ever changing.

Ghosts in the North Country

There are ghosts here in the North Country where I live,

those disembodied spirts, dispossessed, who stayed behind

after the body was buried and the eulogy finished,

the grieving done, for they still had work to do,

death unexpected, so they stayed on into the years to come,

the decades, centuries even, well beyond time’s reaches;

there were fields to cut before the storms arrived,

and fences to mend, in need of repair, patching up,

the fields now, for us, gone to forest and woods,

the stone fences but rubbled piles upheaved, fences

that we marvel at, awed by the craftsmanship and care;

their late autumn crops will have to wait until the morrow,

for the house needs to be banked before the winter’s cold

returns and settles in, as it has for us, looking ahead,

banking our own houses, readying ourselves, preparing

for the autumn’s cold and winter’s snows to follow;

and sitting here on the front porch, looking out,

our hands wrapped around mugs of late night coffee warming us, 

and entwined, laced together, the night’s silence closes us in,

surrounds us, and in darkness falling, if we listen closely,

we can hear them, their voices, these ghosts, North Country

spirits of the farmlands around us, farmlands gone to woods

and summer homes, to leisure time in our waning years,

preparing ourselves, hearing their labored settling,

restless in their sleep, the creak of old springs

shifting against their weight, ageless old men,

old farmers still working against time’s changing seasons.

God, it ain't easy some days

God, it ain’t easy some days

when what you want and what you got

ain’t the same thing and it ain’t on backorder no more

and all you can do is take what you can get

and make it a meal to keep you going, but

God, it ain’t easy some days

when there’s nothing to wash it down with,

not even a glass of water from a tap run dry

or a leaky faucet dripping to the floor

and there’s nothing to clean it up with

but an old used up mop that

don’t hold no water but only spreads the dirt;

and God, it ain’t easy some days,

that dirt, gritty underfoot, turning to dust

and blowing, settling on what you got

which ain’t what you want, but all there is;

some days, God, it just ain’t easy.

Grandparenting the Loons

Like grandparents, our own children gone

and with them, theirs, we watch from a safe distance

the young loon grow from downy hatchling

to brown-plumed chick, learning

to swim and dive and fish and feed,

fend for herself, and we anxiously eye the eagle

perched above the lake watching, too,

our chick and the squawking diversion

of larger loons, the raucous call of her parents,

sheltering her as we did our own, readying them

to take their place in a troubled world, surviving

and making their own journeys, ocean-ward, without us.

On a Cool Evening at the End of Summer

On a cool evening at the end of summer,

the sun setting sooner than in June’s lengthening days,

we sit around the camp fire, wrapped

in sweaters and sweatshirts pulled tight around us

to guard against the chill air of the season ending,

the season winding down into autumn, fading even now

into yellows and reds and browns, too soon perhaps,

summer passing quickly and catching us unprepared;

and wrapped as we are against the cold,

we wrap ourselves, too, in our own thoughts,

silent and staring into the blaze, yellow flames

and glowing embers, red and black, snapping,

rising lazily with the heat and smoke

and the acrid scent of seasoned wood burning,

warming us, so, too, our thoughts, each to himself

remembering, a self-reflection on the summers of our lives

and the summer’s end leading into autumn

and the winter ahead, warmed now by the memories of our lives.

Welcome Company

At night, in darkness or moonlight

reflected back, the loons call out,

raucous, or low, warbling, mournful,

their calls, though, welcome company

on a night like this,

quiet and alone,

breaking the silence,

breaking, too, my solitude,

a welcome company welcomed

in the quiet of my night.

Beach Towels

At camp, our summer home lost in the northern wilds,

the beach towels hang in the evening breeze at day’s end

shaking off the lake-water soaked up from tanned

and reddened bodies that live there,

diving and swimming, cannon-balling

from the dock’s end with a scream resounding

and rebounding, echoed only by loons and bullfrogs

unseen in the shadows lengthening along the lake,

darkening as night settles in, sunset’s colors reflected,

matching the beach towels hanging wet on the clothesline,

a rope strung taunt between two trees,

a line connecting us, pulling us back each summer.

I Heard on the News Today

I heard on the news today

we’re dropping bombs, again,

to kill off the terrorists terrorizing us

and fighting just as hard as we are

to kill off what’s terrorizing them,

but it does no good,

no more than it does

for the young boys and men, fully armed,

fighting off their own terrors

here in the streets of the cities we call home.

Boxes

Late in summer’s months, pawing through boxes

for something, I can’t remember what, now,

something buried deep and inaccessible,

and I spill out some old pictures, old photos come loose

from the pages of an album over the years

packed and repacked away, the glue

dried and flaking, letting go the hold

on little 3 x 5 images, grainy and faded,

years old, agéd years since I captured those faces

squinting into the sun over my shoulder,

children the ages, size, and shape of their own children,

“the spitting image” perhaps only a grandparent can see,

holding them up and squinting myself, bi-focaled,

peering over the tops of my glasses, or down my nose,

remembering the date and place, the occasion captured

years ago, a Kodak moment, left to fade, occasions slipping

into memory in the letting go, losing my hold on them,

letting them grow, memories buried deep and inaccessible,

late in summer’s months, pawing through boxes looking for them.

Eden's Garden

Life’s goal, if there is one,

is to return to whence we came,

not dust to dust, ashes to ashes,

or some form of life from which we evolved

perhaps years ago, eons ago from

a single cell that emerged from

ocean depths to spawn shamefully on terra firma,

but it is to return to Eden’s Garden,

mystical roots of a creation story,

Adam and Eve, naked, shameless then,

and blameless, bare limbs and breasts,

exploring life’s pleasures freely,

in wonder of each other and self,

time not a clock with piercing alarm

reminding where and when to be, or who,

but a rising and setting of the sun and moon

signaling nothing more than light and dark

and hours passed in between, hours passed hand

in hand, upright, unimpeded

through grassy bowers and glades

shaded by trees but a few

days old, or billions of years,

where age and origin mattered little;

And Adam and Eve, upright,

hand in hand, naked and shameless, blameless,

roamed Eden’s Garden, a borderless

garden lacking white picket fence

or stone walls that separate and confine,

that define our space, your space and mine,

bordered and hemmed in; just Adam and Eve

through a garden roaming, naming the un-named

nameless in a language not English, French,

Latin or Greek or Germanic, no one’s native tongue,

perhaps even a language not yet spoken,

but understood by two, each a part of the

other, from Adam’s rib, from the dust

of earth’s new formed crust, dust and ash

to mud to man and woman, taken from man,

creation unconcerned with cause or process,

creation content only with being.

To Eden’s garden returning, gateless now,

gates long torn down, Satan’s Serpent

cast to the ground and ground under foot,

an object of wonder and study, no longer

a voice tempting woman to eat, to share her sin,

for knowledge’s tree long ago outgrew

itself, rotted, decomposed, earth to earth

returned, crushed to humus, all god-given

restrictions lifted, for all knowledge,

all truth, was learned, not there, but

in the expulsion and in the journey back

to Eden, to the truth, blameless,

naked and unashamed, hand in hand --

creation’s mystical roots, Eden’s Garden,

is but the goal of life.