Blackberries

I love blackberries, but it is a torture to pick them.  It has always been my job, however.  I wrote this in honor of  the sweet black things protected by needle sharp thorns.


                               The blackberries are ripe---
                                guarded by sharp thorns,
                                but sweet enough to risk
                                the pain.
                                She will use them
                                to make jam---
                                Purple sweetness loaded
                                with seeds to be
                                spread on toast.
                                Wearing scars made from
                                puncture wounds, it was my
                                job  to store the jam until
                                it was the right time
                                to use it to impress
                               some guests or relatives
                               that had come from a
                               long ways off.

The Sound

This is a poem I wrote for myself on a   melancholy day. I share now on my blog:


                                               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 direction that
                                                       I knew I should
                                                             be going.

???????????????

This poem will have to explain itself because I'm not sure I can explain it.


                                       The night covers me,
                                         But no darkness can hide
                                            my thoughts or denials.
                                        I seek a cool drink,
                                          Yet the streams of truth
                                             dried up soon after the
                                        last storm.
                                           Walking through tangled
                                              leafless branches,
                                        I find no solace.
                                            Although no branches
                                               have slapped my face,
                                         the tears
                                             still fill
                                                my eyes.

Woodstove and Woolens

  When I was a child, I never walked into my grandma's kitchen when it wasn't hot.  I wrote this poem as a memory:


                                         Her kitchen was warm every day.
                                         Some say it was the biscuits
                                         that did it,
                                         But I knew better--
                                         It was the woodstove and woolens.
                                         Gram would never let them dry outside
                                         stretching out of shape and freezing
                                         into hard rocks that had been flattened
                                         and shaped by the hand cranked wringer.
                                         Selecting the right pieces of wood
                                         for the stove was an art
                                         learned from another kitchen expert.
                                         The white cat would pant from the heat,
                                         or perhaps from contentment,
                                         watching her cover the wooden rack,
                                         then put it in the right place so as
                                         the woolens would dry
                                         as she mixed the dough that would
                                         become biscuits--hot and ready
                                         for the newly churned butter.

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.