Wednesday, November 27, 2013

His Blue Tower

   I don't believe anything has affected me as much as the loss of Dacano Arno last June 3rd.  I hadn't known much about this young man, but now I know he was loved by many. This poem is to him:



                         I went there
                      for the first time
                         just the other day.
                      There was no traffic,
                         and the river flowed
                       peacefully without
                         beckoning me to join
                       the one it had claimed
                         as summer's warmth
                       was beginning that tragic
                          day.  I wanted so
                       desperately to say,
                          " I hate you," but  as
                       I stood at the blue tower
                          designed to save lives,
                       I could only shed a few
                          tears and say a prayer.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Shells of the Mind

My mind was back on the coast as my body stayed here in DF.


               Trying to appreciate
                the silence
                     was a hopeless task,
                      because my mind was
                full of all the words
                that had
                      once been spoken when
                       they had meant something.
                 But now, like sand-filled shells,
                 they only
                        rattled unheard as they
                        were swept by the rushing
                 tides bringing them to shore
                 only to exist,
                         But remain uncovered
                          until the sea breezes
                 would cover them completely
                 with sand.

Starry Night

I have always felt a bit of magic occurs on a starry night.


                    It was
                             too early
                                          in the day
                    to wish
                             for a
                                          starry night.
                     Dreams seemed
                             impossible when
                                           clouds covered
                     the stars
                              up there.
                      I needed
                               a dream
                      whether it
                                came true
                      or not
                                 didn't matter
                       I needed
                                  to dream.

Monday, November 11, 2013

Used Clothing

My family didn't have much money, but I managed to grow up.


               Everyday
                             she stood
                                            watching the children
                                                                             going by
                her house.
                               Some wore
                                                the styles shown
                                                                         on television
                 that
                                "Anyone
                                              who was
                                                            anyone"
                  would be
                                 wearing.
                                               She, too,
                                                             would
                   go to school
                                   in clothes
                                               that were
                                                              clean,
                   but had been
                                    in style
                                                years ago.
                                                               The
                   church rummage sale
                                    or thrift shop
                                                  was all her
                                                                parents
                   could afford.

Autumn Again

The seasons change giving us hints before they strike us hard.

  
          Stopping
                       to watch
                                    the geese flying
          overhead, I couldn't
                        help but notice
                                    the world changing
          around me.
                        The once
                                    crisp green leaves
          now curled their
                        brown edges
                                    waiting for the wind
          to
                        send them
                                     away from here.
          Spears
                        of yellow grass
                                     were hiding the
         brown
                        cat--tails
                                      by the pond.
         A cool  breeze                                
                       whispered  that its
                                       cold relatives were
          around
                         the next corner,
         and
                       soon would
                                       be coming here
         for me
                        to endure.
                       

Sunday, November 10, 2013

The Leaf and the Cat

It has always been interesting to me to watch cats and see how they are affected by various objects.


                                      The leaf
                                              floated down
                                                        near the
                                       sleeping cat.
                                               After stretching
                                                         itself awake,
                                       it stared
                                                at the
                                                        intruder
                                        as if
                                                 it was
                                         wondering about
                                                 the safety
                                                           of the
                                         changing environment.
                                                  A breeze
                                                           made the
                                         intruder come
                                                   alive once
                                                               more and
                                         fly on
                                                    to occupy
                                                                another place
                                         far away
                                                     from the
.                                                                    porch.

Scrambled Mind

This poem is one that came to me when nothing seemed to fit in place.


                    She didn't sleep
                        because her mind
                                          was full
                     of events
                         occurring throughout
                                            the day,
                     mountains didn't move
                                 and rivers stayed
                                               in their beds,
                     The chick--a--dee
                                 called to let
                                                 his mate know
                      Tuesday would
                                  come and cones
                                                  would fall
                      from the tree
                                   while her mind
                                                   tried to
                       sort it
                                    all out.

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Waiting for the First Snowflakes

 I am not a fan of snow or winter time, but, non-the-less, there is something intriguing about the first flakes of snow.


               The light wind
                     made the night
                           seem colder,
                But, at least, it
                      asked for forgiveness
                            by playing a tune
                 on the wind chimes
                       hanging outside my
                             living room window.
                 Most of the crops
                       from the garden
                             had been gathered
                  So now all we could do
                       was wait for the first
                              flakes of snow to fall.

Stealing a View.

  A poem to think about.  We've all done it.

                    The
                             property
                                            is not
                                                       mine.
                     I
                              do not
                                             feel,
                                                        however,
                     that
                              I am
                                              a
                                                        thief
                     when I
                              capture
                                              the
                                                        view
                     to
                              hold
                                              in
                                                        my mind.

Rocker

I love to watch a rocking chair being used.  I hope this poem shows that this statement is true.


     Never
              fully asleep,
     yet
              only marginally
     awake,
               the old
     man
                rocked his
     wooden
                rocking chair
      causing
                squeaks of
       many
                 mice that
       his
                 old cat
       long
                 ago had
       learned
                 didn't exist.

Protecting Treasure

I wrote this recently from a memory that only I will understand.


               About half way down
                   through the indented
               hollow,
                   the shrubs and grasses
               begin
                   to grow and show.
               Continuing the journey
                   will bring one to a
               thicker
                   hedge that forms a
               penetrable barrier
               that
                   keeps the treasure
                             protected from
               being touched
                    by anyone not wanted
                                              there.

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Sounds, Noises, or What?

I am willing to let the reader take what each will from my poem below.

                                          The house
                                                          is empty.
                                                                       Wind rattles
                                                                                          the windows,
                                           making no sounds
                                                            as no one
                                                                        is there to
                                                                                          hear them.
                                            Apples fall
                                                             from the
                                                                              old  tree.
                                                                                           They roll
                                            down the
                                                             slanted roof,
                                                                              again making
                                                                                            no sound,
                                             for I don.t
                                                             think the ghosts
                                                                                have ears.
                                             The house,
                                                              standing there now,
                                                                               however, remembers
                                                                                           when children
                                              raced through,
                                                                chasing things
                                                                               that were
                                                                                    never caught,
                                              yet made sounds
                                                                   that had
                                                                               been heard
                                                                                    and understood.
            
                                                                                             

Long Journey

    I do not like driving, but sometimes I have to go, and I just have to make the best of it.  I usually find the worrying about it is the worst part..


                    Waiting to start
                                the journey
                                      seemed to
                      be the worst part.
                                The questions
                                      in my mind
                      produced the
                                 worst possible
                                       scenarios.
                     Imagination did
                                  its best
                                        to frighten me.
                     After I
                                  got started,
                                         the humming
                      of the car's
                                  tires and the
                                          many colored
                       leaves on
                                   the trees brought
                                           calm enough to
                       help me
                                    enjoy what I
                                            had to do.

Sunday, September 22, 2013

The Evening Meal

After reading this poem, many of you will see that I am not a hunter, although I do not object to those who are.


                    Silently watching,
                    and intently listening,
                          the doe and fawn
                          munched on the nearly frozen
                     apples beneath the
                     naked branches of the only
                          tree left in the field.
                          Waiting in the firs
                     surrounding the field,
                     the hunter stood with
                          finger on the trigger,
                          thankful he had no one
                     armed and waiting
                      next to his dining room
                          where he would soon be
                           eating his next evening meal.

Harvest Moon

The moon outside my home has been so splendidly bright and round the few nights, I just had to write about it.

                    Last night
                          was the harvest
                                                  moon.
                     It shined
                           ever so brightly
                                                  that
                      nothing could
                            be hidden from
                                                  view.
                       Even I
                            was aware that
                                                   a
                       reflection would
                            not last forever,               
                                                   although
                       the moon
                            said differently.

Sea Wind

As I have reported before, I grew up on the coast of Maine....A place I still feel is the most beautiful pace to see.


                         The wind
                                coming off
                                          the sea
                          used its
                                 mournful mourning
                                            to call
                           me to
                                  the shore
                                             and watch
                           the seabirds
                                  searching for
                                             food or
                           a place
                                  to land
                                             and rest
                           their wings
                                  that had
                                             been struggling
                          to keep
                                 them
                                             aloft.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Rainbow, a Picture?

     I have often thought about what really happens when a picture is taken.  This poem addresses this:


                              Seeing a rainbow
                              was so important
                                      to her,
                               but she couldn't
                               always be there
                                      when it
                               appeared. One could
                               snap a picture
                                       of it
                               which would be
                               nice, yet a
                                       bit like
                                eating chocolate cake
                                and having no
                                       taste buds.                            
                               

The Sound........

This is one of my lonely confused times:




                                          I heard the noise
                                                                   several times before
                                                                                                  I knew that it
                                          was only the sound
                                                                    of my own weeping.
                                                                                                  Strange as it
                                          may have seemed then,
                                                                     I knew it wasn't
                                                                                                  because the clouds
                                           covered the stars,
                                                                     or that the wind
                                                                                                  blew the tree branches
                                           in the directi9on that
                                                                     I knew I should
                                                                                                  have been going.

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Going Home Again?

     I recently took account of the Now and Then of my hometown:
the kids

                                    The old drug store is now
                                            a gift shop where a few
                                     antiques are being sold.
                                            The barber shop  houses
                                     an information center
                                             where one can find places
                                      of interest in my old home town.
                                              Getting across Main Street
                                      was the objective for many of
                                               the kids because Sid's was
                                       always the place to go to
                                               pick up candy or soda.
                                      That, too, is gone; replaced by
                                               a real estate office                 
                                      which completely erases any
                                               need for taking a  chance.
                                      I guess it's true that you
                                               never can go home again.                                  

Policing the Rain

     I composed this the other day after discussing rain with a friend:


                         Driving out
                             of the storm
                                 and into sunlight
                          made me
                              think that perhaps
                                  a silent policeman
                           had held
                               up his hand,
                                  had blown his
                           powerful whistle,
                                stopping the rain
                                  in its tracks.

Saturday, August 24, 2013

On the Farm

Growing up on a small farm didn't always offer the glitz of city life, but I wouldn't have traded it for anything.


          The path started in a mowed field,
            and it was clear except for the middle
              where no steps had trod down the taller grasses                           
          It was easy enough to follow to get to
            the garden and the two plum trees.
               Hours were spent planting,
          weeding, and eventually harvesting.
            The hot sun parched our lips
               and  throat making the
          appearance of mother with her
            bucket of iced-cold lemonade
              a very welcomed sight.
          Late afternoon brought a time
            for fishing and swishing
               in  the deeper part of the brook
          that bordered our land on the west.
             Tall pines, firs, and spruce kept guard
               of our secret places to find
          the biggest trout.  A blast from
            a shrill whistle called us home
              for evening chores, supper,
           and an early bedtime
            that prepared us for
               the same routine tomorrow.
           

Sunday, August 11, 2013

Her Eyes.....My Eyes

This poem was written after my daughter had left home, and I realized how much I had really missed that was there to see as I had been trying to make the "Almighty Dollar."

  Her eyes saw the piglet
          with curled tail and shrill squeal
                   crowding its way in to get its
                         share of the old sow's milk.
   My eyes saw twenty-five dollars
            or meals provided when the
                    cold months of winter made it
                          difficult to let the land supply.
    Her eyes saw the shadows crawling
             spider--like across her bedroom walls
                     bringing with them every hideous
                           monster her mind could construct.
     My eyes saw the coming of  evening when
               I could rest from the labors of the day--warm
                       shadows that brought sleep and caressed my
                             my mind, wiping away worries.
      Her eyes saw the yellow crowns of dandelions
               begging her to make a bouquet which would
                         be destined to become a wilted mass of
                              blooms on the bulkhead of the cellar.
       My eyes saw the weeds that were choking the green
                 grass of my lawn--an enemy bent on destroying--
                          worthless plants  that were
                               disguised in a golden allure.
       Her eyes saw the falling snowflakes  as crystals
                 of magic promising a snowman and playing a
                               a tune that  only  a child
                                 could fully understand.
        My eyes saw the coldness
                 of a snowplow bill, or the backache
                               coming from lifting mounds
                                  of the horrid white stuff.
         Her eyes saw the rainbow arching across
                  the gray sky framed by summer leaves and
                                drops of rain.  My eyes saw this, too,
                                    And, at last, our eyes had met.