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.

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.

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.