River Town

In a river town, we, too, are carried by the currents,

strong currents coursing to the sea, wending their way

from the mountains through inland towns, great fields,

and large tracts of forests perhaps uninhabited,

perhaps unexplored, an expanse of fir and pine

and oak and elm, birch and poplar, green to gold,

to rejoin the oceans, vast and powerful, a great unknown,

a destination fated somehow, inescapable, a joining,

a resting place we seek to return to,

and we, in a river town, are called, pulled

by the currents of that river running through us,

currents carrying us to the sea,

currents carrying us home.

We are all Gardens

We are all gardens:

Bright flowers blossoming ‘midst

a sea of green leaves;

 

fertile soils feed us,

hold us firm, deeply rooted,

fenced against the wind;

 

the summer rains come,

soft droplets gently falling,

a cleansing, made pure;

 

Beauty, hidden in

earth, budding outward, to bloom,

to blossom, restored.

 

We are all gardens:

Bright flowers, deeply rooted,

cleansed, restored, renewed.

Windmills

Some days, most days,

the windmills are just windmills,

their giant sails turning to grind wheat

to flour to make our daily bread,

nourishing the bodies of mankind and industry;

 

but then, there are those days

when the windmills, enchanted, raise

their giant arms for combat, to face down

the hard-fought battle of an old man’s dreams

set free by age and rage and Rosinante

carries us forward, enchanted ourselves,

against a madness of men accepting life’s as it is,

bleak and unbearable, men’s murderous ways to man,

and dreaming now our impossible dreams, tilting

at those windmills, shattering the mirror of reality

that would blind us to what should be, to who we are,

but knights-errant seeking truth, righting wrongs,

a gauntlet tossed and the challenge

bravely taken, a banner unfurled.

Yellow

I like yellow flowers,

spring’s daffodils trumpeting

and the upturned bell of a tulip,

dandelions even, a yellow paintbrush

and butter cups, newly arrived,

yellow reflecting back the sun

on a cloudy day, the gift of light, of life

and hope for an old world seeking peace,

seeking enlightenment and finding answers

in a yellow flower reflecting back ourselves.

In a Corner of the Imagination

Mouse sits on her front porch beneath the oak tree,

reading, waiting for us, her teacups and cakes close by,

and a fresh pot of tea ready to share when we drop in

to catch up on The Glen’s news or to hear a story told,

a tale of the woodland creatures living there,

lives we imagine, lives we’d like to live

tucked safely into this corner of our imaginations,

a reality to return to when the world grows cold

and angry, madness abounding, and feeling alone,

needing time away, we return to The Glen, a spot of tea

and cake and a story, a tale told by Mouse or Rabbit,

The Glen come to life while the world turns ever onward.

A Return to Eden

When does consciousness begin, this knowing

who and what we are, the why even of self-awareness?

 

With egg and sperm and cells dividing, becoming us,

our limbs and organs, heart and brain forming in a womb,

connected, a new life’s beginning, growing

into ourselves, shaped and molded, scolded,

and there in that warm sea floating, discovering fingers

and toes, a face with nose and mouth and eyes that couldn’t see,

inhabiting a place, a space of muffled noise and light?

 

Or at our birth, expelled on a tidal wave into light, blinded,

our lungs flooded with air and breath, the screams we made,

first sounds, carried into a cold world, disconnected,

on our own to figure things out, inside a body, a physical form

we cannot control, dependent on others, cuddling us,

coddling us, cudgeling our brains, searching.

 

Or is this familiarity, this knowing, this recognition

already there, a consciousness long before conception,

the who, the what, the why of being, and born, rememb’ing it,

or giving in, giving up what we knew before this new experience,

this inherent awareness, forgetting it all, perhaps, in becoming

what they would have us become, or do, or be, losing ourselves?

 

And what happens when that consciousness, innate, doesn’t match

the reality given us, trying to survive, to please someone, to exist

in that which we are not, expectations we cannot meet, not our own,

but thrust upon us in behaviors and colors and attitudes,

platitudes, our very being called out, gender itself, why we cannot

cry, cannot feel openly what we feel, feminine or masculine but by body

shape and size, or is it, rather, by a consciousness, a knowing who and what

we were long before we were born, our dreams and visions, consciously

aware that we are here now, have existence, as well an understanding

of somewhere else, beyond time and place, before the egg and sperm

and cells dividing, before life begins, a golden sunlight without form

forming us for no other reason than to become us, a body to house us,

to live in, purposeful, perchance to advance this world, this humanity,

this life into which we have arrived, naked and blind and screaming,

to share the who and the what, the why, with skills and gifts and talents

beyond others’ expectations, conceiving, achieving perfection,

bringing together this inherent consciousness with the world

of now, a return to Eden from which we came, before creation.

God's Gold

God’s gold on earth, reflected,

won’t buy you anything,

not fame nor fortune, nor a trip

around the world, but perhaps,

an hour of peace watching the Goldfinches

and Grosbeaks at your feeder, the memory

of a yellow parakeet in a wire cage

next to gram’s rocking chair

at the old farm where she lived.

Night Terrors

(A Poem for Hilary)

You were the child of the night terrors,

not regularly, but often enough to scare me

with your uncontrolled, unstoppable crying,

terrorizing screams in the night, as if possessed

by something haunting you, this unexplained alarm.

So we’d wander the house, you and me, a tiny,

unconsolable body carried in my arms, looking

behind the curtains and inside the closets and corners

of the room, seeking light there, assuring ourselves

no one, no thing was hiding in the darkness,

a dance we did those nights to a music only we

could hear, holding tight to each other until it stopped

and your head flopped onto my shoulder,

your soft snores quiet in my ear, consoled.

 

So I tucked you back into your little bed, secured

you under the blankets and returned the little bear

to his place in your arms, and took myself back

to my own room, lying awake under the covers,

my own night terrors continuing, wondering

if you were safe, if we were safe, you and I,

just as I do even now, wondering what terrors

you face still, wandering your own rooms,

looking behind curtains and doors, perhaps

inconsolable in the distance where you live.

God

If God is, always was, always

will be, does it really matter

how he appears, what form

he takes, where he dwells, who

even he is in these changed places

we ourselves now reside, varieties

of time and space, the cultures

and architectures and languages

assigned to describe and define and

identify? He is, always was, always

will be, a universal truth of some

existence beyond ourselves, greater than;

isn’t that really all that matters?

The Gift of Daffodils

We bought daffodils for the deer,

planting them with love along the edge

of the garden, around the old hostas,

in late fall, a spring surprise for them, yet

hardly a fit gift for deer who don’t like daffodils,

just the hostas and lilies and phlox in my garden,

bountiful meals. But my wife insisted

and the daffodils came up, yellow ones

bright against the green of our lawn, came up

and dropped their flowers, stalks and leaves

turned brown long before the hostas grew

and the deer returned to eat their fill,

our mornings filled with the nibbled stalks

of hostas, lilies, and phlox growing tall.

[Untitled]

And the Archangel Michael blew loud

the trumpet of God, to raise first the dead in the end times;

and the children of Israel encircling Jericho, seven days,

the rams’ horns blaring and the walls came tumbling down.

But I have no such Biblical aspirations, content to play my old horn,

a joyful noise from youthful days, some old songs and hymns,

something new, not played well, but well enough, perhaps,

to calm my own savage breast in these days of chaos and trouble,

restless and weary, finding again the peace of music still playing

in a heart and soul in need of soothing, in need of peace.

Surviving

We survived the Cold War, the arms race,

enough to wipe out both sides, us and them,

huddled under our desks, tucked into little balls,

scant protection for what we knew of war;

 

we survived Vietnam, mostly, the war brought

live into our living rooms in black and white,

the protests and folk songs decrying the war,

the man, the establishment, us against them,

the walkouts, the sit-ins, and the soldiers

returning home, disgraced, demonized, broken;

 

we survived 9/11, the towers falling, death

and destruction on US soil, downtown NYC,

arm in arm united against foreign aggression,

unfamiliar terrain and the bombs and blasts

tearing us apart, us – again – vs them –

 again - a new war, a forever war.

 

And now we wonder, afraid, them against us,

a new enemy, a people attacked fighting for their lives,

self-protection, fighting back, surviving an undeclared war,

one man and his image, his greed, power hungry,

driving us back into war, back into ruin,

a country, a people, a constitution, ignored.

 

But we will survive, we always do, rising up,

united again against this new foe, not a desert country,

but the men who would take us there, a formidable

enemy, for we face our own government, face ourselves,

our safety nets now torn and broken, we the people

divided, but this, too, we will survive, and perhaps,

just maybe, be made stronger in our persistence, surviving.

Today

Today of this year, this time

of dissent and division and darkness,

we seek the Peace of democracy,

a Constitution that binds us

not just to these United States,

but to each other and to humanity,

the global community once but a dream.

Poetry Revealed

“Maybe when the world seems to be ending, it needs poets.”

 -Mohammad Hanif’-

 

Poetry reveals what lies

deep in our souls, our spirits,

who we are, our selves laid bare,

and perhaps the fear of discovery,

the anxiety, the despair of knowing, 

blocks our own understanding

of the words on the page,

the rhymes and the rhythms,

the metaphors we fail to see,

the poetry that is us. 

The Children's Dreams

Overseas, a child dies,

her blue bear stuffed and cast asunder,

collateral damage in a useless war

of words and weapons;

and here, too, a child dies,

more slowly over time, collaterally,

while the fat get fatter, the rich, richer,

her dreams abandoned, lost in poverty and ignorance -

the children dream perhaps of hope,

of love, perhaps of peace.

Spring Crept In

The chickadee and nuthatch, the finch

and sparrow have survived the winter months’

cold and snow and gusty winds buffeting them

flittering between branch and feeder, a quick seed

and returning, or leisurely dining on the railing

outside my window on a warm winter day,

surviving as did we, trapped as we were inside ourselves,

wrapped in the garb of winter cold and darkness

clutched tight about us, hats pulled low, and scarved;

but today, spring crept in, the lion of winter settling down

awaiting the lamb, his roar but a purr amidst the melting

snow and ice of rising degrees, raising, too, our hopes

for change, rebirth and renewal, daffodils and irises sprouting,

the transient birds stopping by, and the birds of summer

returning, old friends gone south, migrating, coming home.

Listen to the Silence

Out quietly walking, deep

in thought, and all sound ceases,

even the music of the wind blowing,

your own breathing in and out,

the footfalls you leave on the gravel path,

-- not a sound, not a noise,

only silence, a stillness;

keep listening, listening for the soft voice

whispering inside you, barely recognized,

the sound of yourself welling up,

asking to be heard, that still small voice

you first heard in the darkness

of the womb, grown silent in leaving,

pushing you into the light, into the noise

and the confusion, the chaos called living,

growing up, childhood into adulthood and old age,

life drowning out that silenced voice left behind,

that same small voice in the darkness calling you now,

to remember, to recall your own beginnings,

your own past, the journeys you were meant to take,

discovering, again, who you are.

It's always the children

who suffer most in war, some adult

squabble over saving face, feeling superior,

accusations made and threats exchanged,

and the children’s lives, their dreams and visions

are sacrificed for someone else’s ancient ideology,

time-worn ideas in need of youthful fantasy and imagination,

in need of the children’s laughter and longings,

not in young lives laid down, taken, or forever changed

by short-thinking old men bent on selfish gain,

forgetting their own childhoods, their own children,

crushing now the innocents’ hopes and dreams,

hopes and dreams full of possibility, dismantled,

their wings clipped by tragedy and fear and death,

wings meant to set them free, fly them upward,

higher and higher, ungrounded, toward the heavens,

setting us all free to see a better world, a better future,

mankind working together for good, for the children

lost in war, working together for Peace. 

Sacrificial

And the blood of sacrifice, flowing

out, is shed to appease the gods,

the greater deity, our guilt absolved,

cleansed and atoned of our sins;

but maybe the gods remain unsatisfied,

the smell of blood, the crackle of burned

flesh an offense, this temporary groveling

soon forgotten; what they want, perhaps,

what they ask of us, is life and purpose,

humanity, again, reflecting them.

Lesson Plan

And so the lesson began,

a brief poem to read, “two roads diverged …”,

questions asked, questions answered,

metaphor and simile, rhyme and meter,

new vocabulary, a new way of seeing,

and a brief essay to write showing meaning,

understanding, new skills acquired;

 

then the announcement came:

“go into lockdown,

this is not a drill!”

 

So we sat huddled in the corner,

away from the door, away from the windows,

the lesson abandoned, the poem, the questions,

the answers, abandoned, too,  a new way

and the essay, unexplained

as we sat, quiet and still, scared

and sobbing, wide-eyed, wondering;

 

this is not the lesson I had planned.

February

Don’t be misled, deceived

by the higher temperatures,

20s, 30s, blue skies and sunshine;

or a rodent predicting winter’s end.

Heaven's Hunter

The heaven’s hunter, Orion, familiar, easily found,

steadfast, a blessing, perhaps, in times of change,

looks down upon us from his place in the winter sky,

a tear falling at the loss of our stories, our lives, our selves.

Still Small Voice

That still small voice we’re taught to listen to is not so still anymore,

nor small, a flurry now of arms and legs and chattering, toddler size,

that small voice I held on my lap and rocked to sleep, followed behind

his clumsy steps to dust off the dirt when he fell, set him aright, and off

we go, reminding me what’s important, where life and purpose lie,

          a voice discovering himself and the world,

                    growing and learning and becoming … Cam.

Foxes in my Yard

His paws are imprinted into the new fallen snow, leaving behind

a path to follow into his wintery world, meandering these woods

we share, but we will not follow him, nor seek him out as we face

our own wintery world of cold and snow and the tasks at hand;

perhaps, though, we should stop and, stumbling forward, seek him out

even as he seeks us here meandering, too: a message, an answer, a sign.

Music Lesson

And the chords were struck in the long, long ago,

some angel’s harp before time or Joshua’s trumpets

bringing down the walls of Jericho’s evil; today’s chords

are still resounding, the root and 3^rd and 5^th, the triad,

adding the octave, in clear tuned tones, long chords held

and arpeggios, up and down, steady and bold, a melody created,

its harmonies played, blending, logically, predictably, a pleasant

movement from phrase to phrase, C major to G to A minor and F,

new voices added, minor chords and diminished, augmented,

notes shifted up that ½ tone or down, changing moods, creating

tension, an emotional arc, or adding a 7^th, bridging the changes,

transitions, progressions from chord to chord, key to key

modulating, new harmonies built on these foundations,

like we who listen, like we who play, bridging ourselves

to the new chords we hear, new chords we perform, new lives we choose,

our own harmonies keeping us connected to the music of earth,

the music of life, embedded deeply into our very souls, this the soul

of mankind, of humanity, chords changing, transforming, like time

moving forward, keeping our melodies, our harmonies alive, dissonance

resolving in the perfect chord, the perfect harmonic, perfect accord.

And so the long cold of winter

continues, a season much colder longer this year, another year

older, colder, and the small birds that flock to my feeder

puff themselves up to stay warm while they patiently wait

their turn to select a seed and fly off to eat it in peace

in the warmth of a winter fir, to return again, puffed up

and patient, waiting, much as we all do, watching

and warm inside our homes and ourselves, waiting

our turns and the change of seasons ahead.

The Playground

This year, perhaps we should return to the playgrounds

of elementary school, our first introduction to the yards

that called us out to play, in sun or rain, out for recess

onto the grass and earth trodden below our small feet,

discovering the freedom of delight, of sharing ourselves,

and the pure enjoyment of others with us, shared

and sharing, long before the bullies came along,

when our size and shape and color, our burgeoning skills

developing, our differences and sameness didn’t matter,

not to us so young, not to the playground, the other children,

but only that we had each other; what mattered then,

those moments in that time in our lives, existing only for itself,

those moments held tightly in our imaginations where everything

good was possible, and that was enough in this little world we lived.

Oh, that we could carry that time with us into this new year,

that moment the ball drops and every moment we face moving

through the days, the months, the years ahead, the seasons beyond,

these seasons we shared there on the playground carried with us now,

where everything good is possible, and that is enough.