The Songs They Leave Behind

Our cabin here on the lake has no insulation,

nothing ‘cept the walls and ceiling to block out

the outside, just enough to shut out the elements

but not the songs they leave behind,

this music of wind and rain and squirrels

scurrying across my roof, their footfalls soft

above my head in the early morning before I rise

and begin my own noise, my own music softly played

in this great ensemble that has become our lives.

The Duck

Duty-bound, the dog and I made that one

last trip outside before bed, a spiritual

quest, of sorts, under a celestial sky,

illuminating our place, small here in its vastness;

and tonight, late dusk, we flushed out a duck

we had not seen before, hidden in the shadows

below the bird feeder and gleaning what seeds he could,

seeds left behind, dropped by the smaller birds hurriedly

feeding throughout the day, flittering among the trees,

each with his own voice, his own song loudly sung.

Thus disturbed, his wings beat back against gravity,

and breaking free from the earth’s pull,

he rose up as if on a circular stairway,

climbing into the night sky and the heavens above,

silent but for the heavy beating of his wings.

Hank

He lived in the Bodfish Valley,
hermitted away from whatever past
he was running from, undiagnosed PTSD
of WWI or an unfaithful wife,
as the story goes, living alone
off the Canadian-Pacific Railroad line,
deep in the woods, “a tall, raw-boned man 
in need of a shave, social, on his own terms.” 
He lived, too, off the woods, earning his way, 
this honest man, a trapper of mink and coon, 
muskrat and weasel, a cutter of trees, admired 
for his skills, his cutting stride long and deep, 
and a picker of gum, keeping to himself, 
safely hidden, hermitted in these Maine woods.
Here, in these parts, though, he’s a hero, 
his past and then present no matter to anyone,
nor his burley beard and rough appearance,
frightening strangers stumbling upon him, thus confronted.

An April day, the ice “out,” soft and broken,
led Bob and Charlie and young son Cliff, out, too,
onto the lake, spring fishing ahead of the crowds, 
those touristy anglers invading, disrupting, unwanted 
in this secret spot they claimed as theirs.
But a Maine lake can hold disaster for the skilled
and the unwary, the fate perhaps of fishermen too eager,
and Bob in his springtime eagerness stood
to push aside the ice blocking their way.
The lake, then, fighting back, for one cannot
hurry springtime, overturned their fragile craft,
a slight canoe, narrow and long, and dragged him
under, weighted down, to his death, sparing, though,
Charlie and young son Cliff clinging, wet and cold,
to life and canoe, awaiting their own fate
in the cold waters of a Maine lake, unobserved,
their calls unheard, no one to rescue them, save them.
Young Cliff, perhaps too young and foolish, let go
and swam to shore, a feeble attempt, daring but foolish,
shaking now, quaking, freezing alone on the shore,
calling out to the wind and his father, barely hanging on.
But on a ridge above, the only ears to hear their cries
were Hank’s, he about his solitary business, trapping, 
cutting, picking, listening, and hearing, launched
a second canoe, to haul Charlie aboard, safe and cold,
fading perhaps, the feeling gone from his limbs,
numbly hanging on, his last confessions on his lips,
ready to slip under to accompany Bob to the Pearly Gates,
a watery grave for the two below the surface.

But a fire built and fueled, blazing high and hot,
soon had Charlie and Cliff thawed and warmed, revived
and rescued, gracious and turning to find he was gone,
back to the woods, his solitary business, solitary life,
hermitted away from whatever past he was running from,
social on his own terms, this honest man, Hank.

Untitled Poem

No, I don’t get it, don’t understand, 
you sitting there smartly dressed 
in a stylish jacket and matching skirt,
pumps and stockings, your hair
and makeup expertly done, highlighting
a beauty in you I’d never seen before,
not sitting in the back row of a classroom 
horsing around, making fun of old Mrs. Wilson
with the pocked face and tits out to ... well, you know ...
or passing notes and telling jokes, catcalls 
at Becky Sue, hottest girl in school,
nor in feeding you the ball for an easy layup,
slam, dunk, and win! the easy tackle you made 
in the backfield, your grace and finesse there.
But look at you now; you’re ... do I dare to say 
how good you look? So confident, smiling there. 
If I didn’t know you, I’d ask you out for a drink
or dinner, or something. But I know you, knew you,
and I don’t get it, I don’t understand. 

It was hard being a boy when I didn’t want to, 
feeling somehow that I wasn’t, by stereotypes and traditions,
softer and nurturing, playing with my sisters’ dolls,
happier in the company of other girls, sharing secrets 
and talking fashion, hair styles, “girl things,” 
the softness of silk and satin and lace, her dress
I’d taken and worn in secret, afraid of getting caught;
and harder still to keep it hidden, keep it to myself,
hiding it in the trappings of boys, rough and tumble,
manly pursuits of sport and hardened edges, fitting in,
denying it even to myself, who I really was, really wanted to be;
yet I was afraid and alone in that fear, no one to talk to, 
no one to understand, no one who could know, just me,
and the pressure of trying to hide and trying to be, feminine 
in a world that didn’t understand, couldn’t, wouldn’t,
driving me to depression, anxiety, and beyond,
all those days I missed school, too sick to show myself. 
I hated myself, wanted to tell the world, wanted to be my true self
for once, to be loved as I am, as I am now, smartly dressed,
soft and unafraid, this feminine self, my self, but too scared to,
knowing the taunting, the bullying, ostracized
by those I loved, those I admired, like you, my best friend
I couldn’t confide in nor share this secret with, too afraid
to be that open, just too risky, too much to lose, then.

Yes, I’d have been the one to bully you, the name calling,
lewd comments, tormenting you in my own fear, 
of you and of my own ignorance, of defending you.
I couldn’t have been seen with you, a risk even now, fearing
what people would have said, hanging out with you, might still say;
I couldn’t have taken the torment, just so much easier to inflict
it on you instead, if I’d known, then, which I didn’t, didn’t notice,
didn’t suspect, but I find sitting here across from you,
you haven’t changed, not really, still soft-spoken, and kind,
a champion to others before yourself, unafraid and bold, 
sensitive, the same guy I know in the woman I see, changed, 
but still the same; but why this though, this transformation?
But what was so bad about being a boy?

                                                                           So bad?
Nothing, if you’re a boy, and I tried to be one,
tough and unyielding to the expectations of gender,
tried for a long time, long past the time I knew I wasn’t one,
nearing an edge I didn’t want to step across, tempted so often
to cross that edge of destruction, that edge perhaps of sanity,
an edge too close for far too long, but an edge not pulling me over,
but pushing me away, towards myself, to finding myself, this woman
that I am, giving me the courage to be what I’ve always been, myself, 
for I have changed, really, no longer hiding, no longer afraid. 

Covenant

Today, in this angry world,

we are gunned down by people

mad at the world, at themselves,

so hopeless and afraid, angry enough

to take matters into their own hands

as judge and jury and executioner.

Innocent lives, prayed over and grieved,

are taken, their blood spilled in a classroom

or across a busy street conveying our daily livelihoods,

and the uprisings that ensue, carried by some medium

into our living rooms, into our very being, are soon forgotten,

until another gunman, another killing, more lives taken,

blood spilled, children lost, prayed over, again, and grieved:

wild west justice in a modern world, civilized man.

We’ll blame, of course, whatever’s handy, a gun,

the shooter, his mental state, the victims themselves,

as if they somehow got what they deserved,

freeing ourselves of any responsibility, any guilt.

And the newsmen’s exaggerated words,  someone’s truth,

divides us as we seek to find fault even as we cry out

for solutions, doubtful that there are any, today’s angry

world just the way our lives have become,

hopeless and afraid, mad at a world

we feel powerless to change, unable

to see that we are the solution, a covenant

made with humanity and with ourselves,

to care for each other, lift each other up,

to give them no reasons for their anger.