For Jody Arno

As summer started, Jody Arno of DF lost her beloved son, Dacano, in a tragic drowning accident in Sebec.  This poem is for Jody:



                    A little bird fell from the nest.

                         Yet, he didn't go far away.

                      He made a promise to himself

                          To be with them every day.

                     " I may come back as a pretty flower,

                           Or a cloud up in the sky.

                      You'll know I'm watching over you

                            each day as time goes by.

                       Some day you'll join me where I am.

                             How happy we will be.

                       To laugh and joke and sing once more

                              Back in our Family Tree.

It Must Be

I have to write the following poem for myself.  I may later delete it, but for now it must be.

                         I want desperately to hate,
                              but I have been told and taught
                         by those no  longer here
                               that I must never do that.
                         Hell, can one tell a rainstorm
                                it must not allow the fields
                          to get trampled on and wet?
                                When the deer is confused
                          by the hunter's cruel guns,
                                 Does this confusion protect it
                           with a bullet-proof vest because
                                 it sickens non-hunters like me
                           to see the hanging tongue and
                                 dried blood in an old pick-up
                           as the mighty hunter transports his trophy?
                                 No, good often dies as evil or
                           what seems unfair, lives on and
                                  continues to confuse, but keeps
                           life as we know it continuing in its
                                   unchanging path.
                                  

One Last Clear Picture of Home

I have always like seeing old house and old barns and let my mind form a picture of what once was. This poem speaks to that.


                    The tree leans forward,
                         and still tries to protect
                    the old abandoned barn.
                         Its shielding leaves were
                    long ago  swept away
                         by the blowing wind,
                    yet, tangled branches still hold
                         broken shingles.
                    Cracked window panes remember
                         when a placid cow stood
                    chewing her cud during a storm.
                         A weathered door, hanging
                    by one rusty hinge,
                          is framed by milkweed seeds
                    trapped in decaying spider webs.
                          A cold wind carries the
                    first flake of snow
                          that soon will cover
                    the last clear picture
                          of home.