Looking In

When very small

I pressed my face to glass

despite warnings to not

to peer through grime

to see inside teetering sheds

that reeked of mice and mold

to view shabby overstuffed furnishings

broken drums, drawers, and lampshades

soundless, empty, skeletonized,

the obscured trappings of forgetfulness.

I pressed my face to rough boards

splintery shingles on precarious barns

despite warnings to not

to wallow in their chiaroscuro

to stare blinded into dark corners

by sunshot piercing the pinholed roofs

to watch dusty birds bustling between dry-rot beams

sawdust churned by their pattering wings.

I pressed my ear to walls, cracks, grates, and doors

despite warnings to not

to hear whisperings, whimperings, wandering minds,

to steal dreams from other lives more mysterious

pressing to see through others

in danger of one day

shattering the barriers

landing in choking dust

with another looking in.

the wild things

the rough-coated rabbit gray-brown splotched with white

quivering alert ready to bolt

the storm-stripped tree bared to the crown now sheathed by climbing vines

tendrilling out into the air

the tumbling rocks escaping from orderly walls delineating ownership

rampaging weeds that match to either side

the hungry reeling hawks vultures buzzards and crows

soaring over the wildness below

the un-domesticated dog packs bolting leaping splashing

barking howling 

the wild child racing climbing hanging rolling dirty ragged

laughing imagining

the ageless-outrageous lurching raging

staggering masses under the sparkling darkness

the old man rambling ranting glaring clutching his coat

flailing about in the wind of his words

the whirling gales of ice-spiked storms

lashing out from churning skies

and sudden.

stillness.

mountaintop

i am

spinning spinning

the white sky above

curls beneath my feet

the mountain breathes mist

infinite cloud

i drift

cold wind

now layers of sunset

sweep up the slope behind our house

as though the streaks of light

had blown in on the cold steady wind

and were now snagged on rough ground

wind pushing the pond's surface

toward the shore in endless arcs

of blue and black and white

appearing to disappear beneath the earth

in the dim gray of morning

before sun rose to warmth

two large gray deer were blown up the same slope

driven by the same cutting wind

that cleared widow-makers all day

they placed their hooves with precision

on the winter-killed windfall tangle

they nibbled the newest shrub shoots

and sprays of spring grasses

unnervingly they stared directly at me

though i was sure they couldn't see my form

behind the slanted blind-slits of the darkened room

but they stared long and hard and still

moving off deliberately slower

slower than the wind trying to herd them

faster into the deep shelter of the forest

i breathed softer than i rationally needed to

and wavered slightly in my forced stillness

slowly slowly they moved on to graze

raspberry twigs, wintergreen tips,

checking again my darkened window

sure of the psyche if not the sight

of an unwelcome observer

slowly slowly they stepped under too low branches

over too tall downed trees

looking back looking back toward the house

until they blew into the gray morning

drawing the cold wind along behind them

through the day

through the night.

winter greets spring

warming droplets fall

wrinkled leaves unfolding wet

a wrinkled smile smooths

Directions

Look up -

carved animals on the marketplace frieze

look down

at you with disinterest.

Look down -

the homeless

look up

at you with mistrust.

Look back -

the past

looks ahead

past you with no answers.

Look ahead:

How will you create a future worth the

look back?

dream without the i of life

Some fall asleep.

Another falls awake

to stand barefoot among shuttered houses,

coatless atop a barren autumnal knoll,

confused below an abandoned weathered barn,

uneasy over unseen water covered by fog,

desolate between a fence and vacant factory

that does not produce.

The unpopulated scene

creatureless,

soundless,

dreamless,

under the blank sky.

Tissot's "Gentleman in a Railway Carriage"

Swaddled in warm, expensive furs

a confident middle-aged man

sits claustrophobically tilted in his carriage.

Rain beats down on his compartment

from an adjacent painting.

The raw blue rain soaking the city

cannot pierce the complacency

of the gentleman in the carriage.

His milky brown eyes

gaze placidly into the gallery.

He disdains the ribald debauchery

of the laughing Dutch paintings

in the next room.

His reserve is unruffled

as students of art press their noses

dangerously close to the invisible alarm.

Does he know he is protected,

or is it just years of cramped solitary confinement

waiting to arrive on time nowhere

that has taught him this calm?

After Drought

Rain's

chill

thin threads

ripple

gentle waves:

still branches

gathering drops,

electric wires

meting out droplets

in inch-spaced rows,

a falling drop

engulfs one,

splashing down.

The garden's

seeds drink.

Latent

life

bursts.

Weeds

so as I was walking

surrounded by trees leafing out

alone except for the advances of biting flies

I was thinking

   what with Earth Day tomorrow

   shouldn’t I be picking up
trash?

started to think instead

   trash is growing like weeds
around here

        weed: “a plant that is not valued where
it is growing”

asked myself

   what could be the value of
trash, if any?

answered myself

   to a future archaeologist this
trash might be quite a find:

   a memory trace of humans past

redefined weed:

  a shard of memory that is not
valued where it is found

     beer can of teen with no legal place to
party

     hyper-caffeinated beverage can of one past-teen
trying to keep it going

     spring water bottle of a health-stricken
runner

     cigarette
stub of an ostracized smoker

     fruit roll-up wrapper of a treat shared by
children not ready for any of the above

asked myself

   who am I to tamper with the
weeds of tomorrow?

words in mind

nothing that's a poem:



only i revisited a stone foundation

don't recall if it had been the tavern or a barn

or the seed of a town shaded out by a larger one



looked again at the gaping spaces

between precarious stones which would be a rock pile

were they not working together to remain suspended



saw for the first time that

between confidence-inspiring gray granite boulders

were disheveling slips of vivid red sandstone

being slowly crushed by their heavy companions

and weathered unequally between their feathery layers -

but such color!



crumbling to fresh red faces

sparkling with mica glitter

shimmying off the slow-growing grey-green mica

that clings to the granite like the stubble of an old man's beard

warming the body of the foundation, that red sandstone

like bright flowers in a barren field



was it found in this native ground

or did it travel from its own special earth

to inhabit this place



to flutter down reddening

and adding its mica light

to the dark soil?



i took a walk, that's all.

Questions for a Visitor

Who are you?



I almost carried my red-and-white-checked napkin to the trash

to shake you in, thinking you were a thin crust of bread.

You are slim, tan bodied, topped with a dark brown head:

you could be a hit on the beach with that look

if it weren't for your long antennae, one-third of your length,

and six spindly legs, marching in place, and slender netted wings.



You were quite tolerant to be scrutinized

but when I coaxed you onto my hand, you turned frantic,

scurrying from fingertip to palm, over and over.

I transferred you from one fingertip to another to avoid squashing you

while I carried you out the screen door.

Why do creatures panic when you try to rescue them?



Outside, at first, you would not leave my fingertip,

exhausted from scrambling?

At last, I held my finger out to a brown table top printed on a flowery banner,

and there you sat.

Did you imagine that you were now safely camouflaged?

Again you indulged my curious, child-of-57-years-gawking.



Did you know I would soon tire of asking,

who are you?

star

staring in the dark

watching for a shooting star

a poem falls

Lights Out

Near only a green and red CAR WASH sign,

subtitled by one bright white, one off-white

not vintage, just old and tired sign, the

FLASH blue-33, yellow-CITY HALL,

GO-RED-SOX, city bus waits out of place

against the rural sunset, blue shining

back to the sky off the marsh water tinged

with pink, edged by a pumpkin field still green.

The last rose vapor lamp glows behind me,

reflectors click peripheral vision:

red click white click blue click orange flicker.

Few lights, one yellow light warms a window,

road curls round the hill where the not empty

farmhouse stands dark not giving into lights.

Time in Motionless

A week off:

time is moving slowly

through the suddenly thick air,

summer in spring.

Our old dog

creeps, so very slowly,

through an atmosphere thick with

concentration.

I don't have anywhere to rush today

but my inner clock is spinning, spinning,

dial a blur behind swiftly sweeping hands.

I should have wound up the old dog

before stepping out so that he would - burst

out of the starting gate of our back door but

a week off:

Shouldn't I be able

to savor his motionless

zen-like step/pause?

But, there is that sudden, wrenching,

harsh cry from a fledgling hawk,

screaming, hysterically hungry for food.

The dog takes a slothful step.

And, the neighbors across the water, too-narrow-to-be-a-cove,

have cranked up their radio rock-and-roll, old enough

that I'm embarrassed to admit that I recognize the songs.

The dog leans to a new spot.

And, the black flies hatched early, blood-hungry and confused,

to feed April's May wood frogs prematurely trilling and

filling this spring/summer air with alien arpeggios.

The dog ticks down to a stop.

I pick up the old dog, his inner clock now pounding,

and whisper comforting words he can no longer hear.

Dog-time is just too slow for

a week off.

spring is here

spring is here

flaming flash of squabbling cardinals

peaceful pairing of green headed mallards

luminosity of sun-glow daffodils



spring is here

too

for the flashless

the sublime of color



silent in concentration

the two dots of a colon linked

to create its tiny form -

spider



a speck of shine

busy web-weaver

cupped in the glow

of a daffodil petal



beading the tiniest of flies

into its miniscule art

a hearty feast

spring is here

riddles

earthworm quizzical:

if you cut me in two

can i be

my own best friend

?

scientist:

bottom-line

?

half of you

will die

maybe

half of you

will live

really

you can only lose

one-third of yourself

in this quest

max.

 

earthworm rhetorical:

who wants

to talk

to myself

all the time

anyway

?

a poet

?

Two-faced April

flower sweet breezes

a sudden shock - biting flies

midnight frost

Time Pieces

Our antique clock -

dark aged wood and cream enamel face

and a gilded window

for the pendulum to stare out at us -

is still now

because

in this soundless

red green and blue glowing

digital world

the wound clock's tick-tock

tick

tock

tick . . .

was deafening

and distracting

especially when the wind ran down

and you sat on the bed's edge

staring into the dark

waiting for the next

. . . tock

which failed to come 

to complete the round.

Our aging dog

however

at a regular

3 snores per 5 seconds

36 snores per minute

is surprisingly accurate

for a mammalian time piece

requires no winding

and provides a gentler

indicator

of the passing

time.

Insect Victoriana

From Seaside and Wayside, Book 2, by Julia MacNair Wright, 1888 and 1901 editions, reordered, with commentary:



"Mrs. Ant

begins a new hill

and

as her children grow

they help her."



"Mrs. Sociable Wasp

builds her home

and raises

a brood of babies."



"Mrs. Bee

cuts leaves

to line her nest"



    "Mr. Stag Beetle

    with the horns

    fights with and beats

    his cousins

    who have no horns."



"Mrs. Stag Beetle

does not

behave in this way."



Clearly

Mrs. Stag Beetle

is struggling to get housework done,

her brood off to school,

perhaps holding down another job

foraging for food.



Clearly,

Mr. Stag Beetle

needs meaningful

work to do

or, should,

for the good

of the insect kingdom

kick back with a beer

watch the game

and stay

out

of trouble.

Fireflies

    tops

                                                                  tree

           past

 

   g

n

                                                                     i

t

       a

o

                                                                    l

f

insubstantially

mystically

        3                         3         3

two       two

green glow

one

Fireflies

Owls

My screensaver is an owl

super-realistic,

tiny, speckled white on medium brown,

translucent rose gold talons

gripping soft, luminous, yellow green moss,

yellow-rimmed black pupils

staring

into the camera,

eyeshine reflecting the blue sky

on that day the photographer

laid in a belly-flop for endless hours

to

click

one

perfect

shot.



But I

have seen

real

owls

risen

inexplicably

from the dust

of backroads.



They are

silent

spectral

sentinels

of dusk,

soft shadows

noiselessly

effortlessly

mysteriously

rising on humid air

just before

you

blindly

step

on

one.

I Would Not Read My Poems

They don't rhyme

(even if they could)

few are funny

(maybe not even those)

there's too much of that nature stuff

(don't you know that more folks live in cities?)

(who says 'folks' these days anyway?)

but

it's too late now

to

un

write

t

h

e

m

.

The Color of Dusk

dusk lays a gray luminosity over the day

changing the play of light:

warm living objects cool

and cool gray objects revel briefly

before the last light blinks to the black sleep of night

objects glow with their own gray light:

pale lichen on trees

a corrugated tin shed

bright white houses dim to flat gray

a dock not shining but open faced gray

silty clay that seeps upward through the gravel road

a misplaced or forgotten cement block left by a builder

an asphalt roof black at noon but now reflecting gray to the dusk

yet, just now, within this lifeless gray camouflage

creep the tiniest of the warm bloods

voles and

moles 

the mouse

and shrew

invisible to all

but the crouching shadows of night

Ghosts

The beavers' pond drained to mud puddles

(the new neighbor felt endangered)

that hot day churned clouds of flies -

What a grave scene!

But, then, one snow white ghost,

a second,

a third,

drifted

down

stilted

steps

stalking

not a lifeless mudflat

but a teeming bed of slippery green frogs, basso bullfrogs,

stump hopping brown toads,

silvery fish fry,

whirligigs,

dragonflies,

delicate

damselflies -

all very much alive

until . . .

dinner.

Solitudes

motionless crow silent on a tilted birch

glistening turtle neck-stretched at dock's edge

silken cat soundless stepping through rusty woods

crow apart from its murder

turtle apart from its bale

cat apart from its clowder

loners apart from their crowds

poets of silence

Moon Song

morning moon

morning moon

wisp of light glows over blue

midnight moon

midnight moon

glare and shadows slash the gloom

no creature notes

the morning moon

the leaping     creeping

 howl

the midnight moon

Assignment (or The Student's Lament)

Use each of your spelling words in a sentence.

   I can't think of a sentence for hope.

Use each of your sentences in a poem.

   I can't think of sentences for a poem.

Use each of your poems to spell a meaning.

   I can't conjure a spell for a meaning.

I hope I will still get a sticker.

News Flash from the Pond

currents ripple over the pond again

spinning muskrats and beavers

whirling grasses and muck

stirring fish and

tickling the webbed feet

of geese

Poem a day no. 1

reflection

a darker sharper

reality

softened by

sounds

sensations

numbed

silence

hardened by

reality

darker sharper in

reflection