Birds
Companions of a listening life
© Copyright 2026
E. G. Happ
5551 Huron Hills Dr.,
Commerce. MI 48382
All Rights Reserved
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Focus (1990-1999)
Abundance (2000-2009)
The Seven Deadly Sins
Abundance (2000-2009) (cont.)
Listening (2010-2019)
Horizons (2020-2025)
Epilogue
Dedication
For Alice Smith, my patron saint of the grace of birds. See the poem Passing, which is in her memory.
Prologue
One autumn morning in a Nature Center close to our home, I stood on a path through the tall grass with my hand extended, palm up, a mix of seeds and nut crumbs in my palm, holding still so as not to startle. Soon a chickadee landed on my finger, bold in its small frame, and paused. It flicked through what I was offering, chose its seed with great deliberation, and was gone to a branch to peck the soft morsel from its hull. I was transfixed, blessed by a grace light as the breeze.[1]
It was not long after that I finished a manuscript of poems about maple trees and found myself wondering what else had been traveling alongside me through the years. I went back through four decades of workbooks looking for birds. What I found surprised me. The words I searched for (feathers, wings, the names of birds) started as a handful and grew to a list of over forty. A flock had permeated my work without my realizing it. They appeared in laments and love poems, in dreams and meditations, arriving not as chosen metaphors but as companions. The way a bird arrives at an open hand, not because you called it, but because you had learned to be still.
My cousin asked me recently what my spark bird was, the one that first kindled my interest. I thought of the cardinal at our winter feeder, the one we call Fred, who peers in at us while grinding a sunflower seed, and I found I could not answer fully. I am still not sure who noticed who first. So, I invite you, dear reader, to walk these pages with that question open like a hand: who has kindled whom?[2]
Focus (1990-1999)
Single Notes
The words of a poet
are a fragile thing,
like an egg of a robin,
a vessel of song and flight.
encumbered with the asides
and explanations,
it hardens like an ornate
Faberge'.
it loses the simple script
of a scene from an ordinary life,
a basic comedy and tragedy
that speaks more than the adjectives
that hang on every word.
4 July 93
Christmas 1991
Good News sometimes
comes on the wings
of angels,
or the musty air
of a dark stable,
But rarely does
it change a heart
all wrapped up in
sweet success,
as much it does
the fallen star,
clenched in the
fist of a
new Christmas morn.
25 Dec 91
The River
whether a
Frost-like
'lump in the throat'
or the wings
that press up
against the diaphragm,
begging to be free,
sometimes the words
must be spoken.
getting up
from an hour's sleep
(or its attempt),
pulling the car
to the road side,
grabbing the
tablet
before it slips away.
dipping toes
in the cool water
as it rushes by
once more,
filling the pen
and wetting the
pages with
something new
and old
and most alive.
13 Sep 93
April
The late April
maple leaf
hangs like a wing
tucked in semi fold
ready to burst
into flight
drawn by a warm sun
like a moth
to the evening window sash
relentlessly trying
to break through.
The sweet syrup
in the veins
surges from
the grubby roots
dark, damp, buried
it kindles
the wake-up call.
29 Apr 94
Scarborough Fair
Simon and Garfunkel are asking
the same question almost three decades
after I first
bought the album and sheet music
I can feel the guitar in my arms
my fingers on the strings connected
to notes I pressed
in the rosewood as leaves in a book
"Are you going to Scarborough Fair?"
The melody is a time machine
tossing me back through the years at once.
I am driving
down the highway to my boyhood home.
The road is still the same though the stores
along the way have changed names and hands
or been replaced
like the fields and woods once in between
One town and the next now run from sign
to sign, and never seem to begin
or ever end
home has spread like the years in between.
The Hills market where I worked in school
is now a discount computer store
Hills is no more.
rows of corn flake cartons now software.
"Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme."
The gen'ral hospital has changed names
Church tulip garden has gone to shrubs
nursery greenhouse
now a post office with new zip code
Soon within a mile of the driveway
I felt like geese must feel when the spring
time flight draws closed
slowing down, circling, landing in ponds.
When we moved in, trees were only twigs
Between two stakes that were chaperons
holding up the lad
like the first night I had too much beer.
The wood houses did not fare as well
they were small as if rain had shrunk them
like old sweaters
accidentally tossed into the wash.
"Remember me to the one who lived there."
It was on the corner, diff'rent color
three or four skylights poked in the roof
new wood siding
with the deco mail box built to match.
I remember much more land and lawn,
'specially in fishing season when
I was mowing
against the Saturday morning clock.
Cycles scattered in front the garage
not a child in sight, strangely quiet
a photograph
with yellow edges they tried to change.
"She once was a true love of mine."
1 May 94
Pass the life II
Generations
holding hands,
a growing chain
reaching out
for the future,
rescuing her
as she flounders
in the lake,
a human ladder
stretched from the shore
of yesterday,
the waves of minutes
lapping at the underside
of soles,
you let go
or was it me
I held the wooden
dock in place
anchor bound
to blend into
the wood work
the fabric of the past
cast off the cloak
and feed upon its warmth
and shelter
there's a babe thrashing
in the water
step out to save her
reach behind and
take the wings
unfold the lifelong grain
give her wings
give her wings.
19 Jun 94
Looking for the Saint
We came to find St. Francis'
and gaze upon the plaster
murals of his life,
the renowned frescoes up above
in the basilica superiore.
down the steps descended
the darker work was done,
here he preached to the birds
in the basilica inferiore.
further still
down to the chapel of the tomb
hung in rock below the marble altars
a group of pilgrims sang and prayed
a mass we did not understand
but here at the roots of faith
with St. Francis now we were.
22 Oct 94
In Assisi, Italy
November in the Vineyard
Each year
we come to give
thanks, and rest
on the island
in the sea,
shallow water
cuts us off
from the pressing
world of mainland,
it hums with
the buzz of
electricity.
Here the sea gulls
softly screech
and small waves
tap on boats
and docks,
the only morning
bell sounds
from the deck
of the ferry
leaving town.
20 Nov 94
In Martha’s Vineyard
Cardinals Stalking
They stood
in an old English living room
with antiques
populating every corner
and crevice
like wild flowers on a rocky hillside.
The two as cardinals
in the rites of Spring
puffing their necks
straining to shine
a brighter red
in the morning sunlight.
Here, inside
the discussion was of the merit
of silk versus tapestry
for this old chair and that,
the cost
was x dollars for one and y
for the other
where x and y had obviously more
places and commas
than the single pseudonym used
all in good taste.
Rising to the challenge he switched
to the value
of junipero granite from Sri Lanka
(worth the year long wait.)
Yes, this was truly worthy fodder,
far more durable
than seat cushion covers,
a trump
to your exorbitance,
and three steps
forward with feathers flaring red
in the sunlight.
Such is territory gained in the
rites of spring.
24 Nov 94
Book Jackets - 2
The reviewer said
the book of poems
closed with five
longer pieces from
the poet at the height
of his artistic life,
as if more words
should be spoken
at the end of things.
But when I read his words
(from both ends in)
it was clear it was
not because
he had more to say,
rather less,
-- like the Fermat scholar
circling in on the 600 year old
problem with his life --
finding more ways
of listening to the finches song.
15 Feb 95
On the Port Jeff Ferry II
Crossing the Sound
on the Port Jeff Ferry
in the afternoon,
with sky so blue
it was the inside
of a robin's egg,
the underside
of a beach umbrella,
beneath the roof
of the universe,
this island boat
moved freely.
uncluttered
by clouds,
the changing breeze
refreshes the mind.
from Manhattan
this is crossing
right to left.
on a smooth body
of water, one
glides to the other side
with ease.
what was a
distant shore
soon becomes
a point of departure.
here you may find
you can surely walk
where others walk
and look back
at a distant home.
those who govern
would do well
to travel on
the Port Jeff Ferry
in the afternoon.
13 Sep 95
Elder Best
"We have the best church,
the best preacher
(the best faith),"
the feathered elder said,
with chest puffed
a spring robin
stalking subterranean prey.
the church was so white
so tall , so old,
the faithful few were lost.
when it came time to pray,
for the Spirit to descend
like tongues of fire,
he knelt a fallen man
with arms spread wide
above his head,
his eyes squeezed shut,
head bowed and trembled,
waiting for the tongues
that never came
thinking on what was only best.
16 Oct 95
Oasis
she sat
with hair
almost black,
eyes of walnut,
deep red lipstick
in two shades
at Sandcastles.
against a mural
of pastels --
sandy beach
blue-white ripples
in the bay,
he watched her smile
between the gull
and pail with shovel.
here was the oasis
of deep hues
in the worn field
of sunbleached
time in blur.
23 Nov 95
Morning
In the
curtained
hours
before
the shade
of night
rolls up
in a ball
of sunlight,
there are no
birds
singing at
the feeder
that hangs
in stillness
in the yard—
yet
everywhere
there is
music,
and I hum
along
repeating
your name.
10 Feb 96
Shadow
the new snow
wilting under
an emergent
sun, slid down
the bird feed
dome
to one side
like a floppy
summer
beach hat
on a breezy
August day,
it cast
a long
and binding
shadow
across
the here
and there.
2 Mar 96
Rumors of Spring
The poem starts
in a long
winter,
the words
move slowly
syllables bump
up against
the end
of a line,
and fall in
chunks
like ice
from a floe
in thaw.
under a
solitary eye
that peers
longer
day by day,
things fall
into place,
words start
to poke up
in rows,
birds come
to sit
on the edge
of the book
and watch
the pen
start to glide
and furrow
the page,
hoping
for worms.
the warmth
of the muse
causes images
to sprout and
predicates
to rhyme
windy rain
turns to showers
ideas start
to flower,
birds start
to sing,
bees in
ears ring,
the music
starts to play
the words
begin to sway
line to line
edge to spine
to the end
of the page
bouquet of parsley
and sage.
the poet
rises from
the desk
pen capped
at rest,
(the muse curled
up he'd say)
book closed
for the day
on this Sun-
day of May
17 Apr 96
For the Mother's Day Slam
Muse
She is on
one toe
at the point
where the pen
touches down
on the page,
a spin of
grace,
white veils
trailing
a torso
turned away—
a turn ahead
of the end
of the word,
arms as wings
about to
unfold—
always about
to unfold;
her lips leave
consonants,
her eyes,
vowels,
as pearls, fall
from a golden
string.
The pen
rushes after,
placing each
calcite jewel
in a
graduated
row, as morsels
marking an
unknown path
in a deep
forest wood:
she is ever
out of reach,
even as I
grasp one
arched
point of her
being
at the end
of the poem,
she vanishes
with the pen
set to rest.
10 Nov 96
Peace
“I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.” --Wallace Stevens
Is it the peace
that comes at morning,
before the town awakes,
or the one that follows sunset,
after the last cardinal
sounds its call?
Could be the quiet
before falling off
to dreamful sleep—
or the slow stretch
after a Sunday nap
when the house is yours alone?
Is it the calm
in the summer air
before the pounding squall
or the purple
smell of ozone
after the thunder’s gone?
Perhaps the lovers’ pause
across the candle light
knowing they will now retire,
or the soft sigh
that follows ragged breathing
and the sparking coals of passion?
No, It’s the soft gurgle
of a newborn
before the cry—
or the tiny gulp and gasp
after grabbing the warm breast
with his hungry lips.
Then it’s the serene
contentment of two friends
sipping tea at three--
or the silence
that follows the forgiven
angry word?
Maybe the pause
before the trumpet
sounds the Armageddon note
or the stillness
as the dust of battles
floats to earth at last?
Is it the peace
of a child’s sleeping
innocence,
or the embrace
of an old man
who has breathed his last?
No, it’s the peace
of Eden before
the fratricide;
the stillness
of Easter morning,
before the tongues are flamed.
10 Oct 96
Two Lovers
“that which is loved romantically is, for the lover, an image of God.” --Mary McDermott Shideler
Two lovers
gray with age
arrive at the door
of an old white
church,
where their life
as one began,
fifty years ago
they walked this
aisle hand-in-hand
from the garden
into the wilderness,
now the wilderness
has bloomed,
now the garden
is filled with hours
of ruby slipper sand.
1.
There is a longing
in the soul
that dreams
and waits
impatiently—
it is the owl
who’ing in the dark.
2.
There is a moment
when lovers know
the dance of courting,
romancing,
sweet seducing,
draws to a close
as a curtain
marks the acts
when lovers know.
3.
There is the pause
that is so short
so eternity
when the breath
is held
when the words
rush out around
the periphery
and the sun sets
without a glance.
4.
There is no time
like the time
that falls away
when there is
only knowing
the face of time,
the beauty out
of time.
5.
There is an ache
of absence so
minutes swell
and drag as drops
of water on a
pane of glass
in the wind,
the clock moves
in largo,
the passing is ever
out of reach.
6.
There is this table
where I sit and gaze
upon the sun and moon
as they drift across
your eyes
and fill me with
their light—
I can see
a thousand suns
and moons
in the turning
of your eyes.
7.
There are the
walls that echo
carpenters
who labored
long ago,
in this darkened
room, where the
lovers blow
upon the coals
that glow so
orange red—
you can feel it
in the bones
that pound
as hammers with
a rhythmic slap
of a banjo clock.
8.
There are the days
of looking back,
the days of birth
and wedded bliss,
the photographs
that now amuse
and soak up
hours that spin
into a woven
cloth, for lovers
to dab the eyes.
9.
Lovers know the
history
the winding
of the vine,
that carries them
in pumpkin coach—
these roots
hold all the
seeds of pain
these roots hold
all the bloom
of time
the lovers
only know.
10.
Lovers know the
fullness
lovers know the
ends,
the empty heart
is never larger
than the swell
that is uncaptured,
the last beat
no larger than
the first.
Two lovers
gray with age
arrive at the door
of an old white church,
where their life
as one began,
fifty years ago
they walked this
aisle hand-in-hand
from the garden
into the wilderness,
now the wilderness
has bloomed,
now the garden
is filled with hours
of ruby slipper sand.
22 Oct 96
Stephen Sametz composed “The Return,” a chorale piece from this poem[3]
[3] See https://stevensametz.com/composer/works/info/the-return/ This is the first of two pieces on which we collaborated.
Finding the poet
Finding the poet
in his words
is entering
his bedroom
before the glow
of dawn
and watching
the dreams
play in the
movement
of his eyes
as the trance
in his pen,
without the
knowing.
Finding the poet
in his words
is exiting the soul
through the
chimney flue,
turning around
and taking in
the whole of
the house,
with a bird’s
eye,
and being
blind.
Finding the poet
in the dimples
and peaks of
pliable tar-
paper roofs,
in the wisp of
smoke
curling up
that betrays
the fire
that burns
within—
clouds the page
that is
the heart.
Finding the poet
in his words
is missing
the other rooms,
the places
that are
simply
other.
14 Nov 96
Thanksgiving
It is late
November
at the edge
of evening
as we fly
to the vineyard,
cold
with the first
dust of winter—
the withdrawing
sun has left
a deep orange
canvas behind
the silhouetted
dots of charcoal
clouds,
and the lights
of street and
home click on
in waves—
they glitter
in the sea mist
wind
of a squall
that hovers
at the shore.
As we turn
for our descent,
landing lights
flick on;
a shower
of tiny crystal
flames of snow
on one side
is lit, as
the wing
slices through
like a child’s
hand cuts
the edge of
the ebbing
wave
on a summer
beach,
gathering shells
and mortar
for a castle
of sand—
it is ages
ago.
We as the geese
of winter’s gate
are gliding
with outstretched
arms and feet,
to the land
of plenty,
the harvest
of blessing,
the sating
of lovers,
longing
for a place
called home.
28 Nov 96
Solitary Gull
On an island
in the ocean sound
somewhere far
sounds somewhere
near,
a solitary gull
cries her plea,
she is flying
to the mainland,
flying out to sea;
she is sitting
on a piling,
circling in the breeze—
the song comes
without eyes
from somewhere
deep inside,
it finds you
at the widow’s walk
leaning out
with longing stare—
the soothing ocean
southerlies,
the warming lap
of waves,
brings no vision
to the heart
that cries out
to the endless
sea.
30 Nov 96
Love Poem
“Metaphor sinks what I meant to say.” –Erin Belieu
How can I
say the words,
form them with
my lips and tongue,
articulate
majestic?
They are too
large.
My mouth is full,
feasting on the
curves of vowels,
the delicacy of
consonants,
and the perfume
of white space.
I try a whisper
and it is
understatement,
smaller than
a comma—
even poetry
can do no
more than
sing in harmony
as background
notes, or
tap rhythmically
on a metaphor
as it sinks.
The flat-liners
talk of bright lights
at the end.
All I see
are suns coming
over the horizon,
and finches happy
in the dawn.
I am with them
and my eyes
and ears
are aflame,
blind without
a sound,
at the
beginning.
3 Dec 96
Two Roses
She is standing
over an
open drawer
of an old chest
in the attic,
dropping petals
of the roses
as holy water
on the memories
collected there.
The poet stands
behind
a dress-form
mannequin
watching as
she performs
this careful
ritual,
each petal
a dream
a hope
a poem—
she gives
them up
one by one.
These soft
palms of
fragrant
silk
open from
rose to
stamen,
as life
springs
from the
words that
nest in a
poem on
a page,
as a barn
swallow
warms the
eggs
in the
rafters of
an old attic,
one behind
the other—
A young
girl plucks
a daisy back
to its
essence,
the question
that is at
the heart,
that we
must know.
Two poets
write about
this image,
telling
stories
of its
unfolding—
two poems
dance
as one
on this
page,
about
the other’s
page,
these words
about
the other’s
words,
one behind
the other,
behind
the other.
It is a cold
and rainy
afternoon,
and he is
waiting
for the roses
to be wrapped
with ribbon
and baby’s
breath,
so he can
give his
living gifts,
as she does
hers—
and the
rose
becomes
a rose
becomes
a rose.
15 Dec 96
Giza
We are
two
children
standing
hand in hand
on the great
plain of Giza
before the
ancient
pyramids.
The wind is
howling
from the
south,
blowing off
the sands
of time
that hold
these tall
stone
monuments,
turning them
green
with waters
running
from their
peak,
palms
ringing their
base,
macaws
echoing their
mating calls
from
peak to peak.
We are
Ramses
and Neferteri,
lovers
ancient and
eternal—
all this rich
history
came rushing
in
in the moment
I held you
close,
and we were
born
so very old.
17 Jan 97
Leap
I am standing
on the precipice,
waiting for the
clouds to clear
to gain a sense
of distance
to the other
side.
If I were a bat,
I would sound
the notes to
tell me,
If I were an eagle,
I would soar
above the mist
and see,
If I were free
my toes would not
be frozen,
curled over
the razor
edge.
I assemble
all the climbing
gear,
safety ropes,
and detailed maps—
the accessories
of feeling safe,
risking
surely.
There are no
winches
strong enough
to pull the canyon
to a close,
no magic gesture
to cause a crystal
bridge to grow
from here to there,
no lightness of
being to walk
across on air.
At the end of
the column of
numbers is a
line that marks
the sum.
At the end
it is still
a leap,
a step
into thin air
without the
ropes.
I roll this
pen between
my palms
while head
and heart
debate.
I pace back
and left,
as a place
kicker
measures
from the tee.
The clouds
hold the wind
as breath
sucked in,
and the land
about me
catches fire.
18 Feb 97
Waiting
Waiting
at the beach
in mid-winter,
thirty-five
degrees,
gray sky,
gray sea,
gray me.
A solitary
gull
stands on
the sand
preening
feathers
waiting—
the water
deceptively
calm,
scarcely
a breeze,
just the
hum of an
engine
parked
in idle,
waiting.
4 Mar 97
Crows
Crows
stationed in
tall trees,
next to
the road,
watchful
on a
Sunday
afternoon
in March—
it is
no day
of rest,
yet they
know about
Good Friday
and look
expectantly
up the
byway
for the
parade
on the back
of an ass,
the broken
palms
such able
girders
for a nest,
the March
wind
howling
hosannas,
spring
still
a week
away.
16 Mar 97
Origins
The photograph is
of the unborn
in the embryonic
sac, against the
darkest background,
sucking on her thumb,
the translucence
of her fingers
as if a pink x-ray
or Polaroid
not fully developed—
these ethereal
angelic limbs were
the wings of life
itself
descending,
pouring into opaqueness,
flesh.
Years later the imprint
returns, as the oil
of the flesh drains out
leaving skin as over-worn
gardening gloves gone
loose with a soft
lumescence of candles
in a mirror,
the carbon smoke
ascending into
darkness.
17 Mar 97
Crow
As each
gray squirrel
is flattened
into asphalt
as scaloppini
hammered on
a cutting
board,
crows applaud—
these gourmets
of the
aftermath
with visions
of marsala
wine and diced
mushrooms,
wait expectantly
for the
discarded
morsel—
that the
carne is
of a thief
who had
incessantly
pillaged the
bird feeder
is sating—
the boy is
reminded of
his uncle,
the hunter who
taught that the
eating
justified
the kill.
19 Mar 97
Communion
He is looking
into her eyes
from the
raised end
of a hospital
bed.
She is holding
his hand,
smiling back
in a connection
so strong,
all the lights
go out,
and there is
only the glow
between
them.
She lightly
strokes
the back
of his hand
with her
fingertips,
as what
sounds like
a muffled
laughing
sigh
escapes,
as if a
secret has
just been
exchanged.
And I feel
as if I am
looking through
a bedroom
door,
spying on
intimacies
I ache to
feel.
So I quietly
back out
of the room,
down the hall,
outside the wing,
and look with
longing
at the sun
sinking slowly
past the
tree line,
while the
birds are
chattering
in its wake.
18 Apr 97
Mom & Dad
Out of the Woods
Out of the woods
the trail turns,
the field rises
verdant,
dormant grass
now impetuous,
wet with morning drizzle;
the path narrows,
a bevy of birds
an urgent chorus,
moisture seeps
thru the eyelets
of my shoes,
my socks are damp,
the bottom of my jeans
capillaries,
the bark on my
walking stick
peeling away,
a dry stream bed now
gargles;
all is naked,
insistent;
I float
thru morning,
become a lifting fog
2 May 97
Melancholy
Melancholy
comes uninvited
as a fog
permeating
the pre-dawn
night.
Insidious
as the fingers
of death in
a DeMille epic,
it creeps
into the psychic
cracks,
the scars
still unhealed,
and waits
like water that
abides in winter
frost heaves.
Sunbathers run
for cover
as the unexpected
shower rushes
up the beach
on a bronze-washed
afternoon.
Holding towels
and canvas
beach bags
they wait it out,
numbly staring
out to the sea,
while fitted bricks
of the walk
steam as ghosts
into cooler air,
lost in a
cerebral fog—
like crows are
interrupted
by a passing
car—
then resume.
13 May 97
Crosswords
Sitting
in an aisle seat
here among
the rows
and columns
of the modern
plane,
I take up
the puzzle
barely begun
by the last
passenger
who I will
never meet.
I imagine
a young woman,
perhaps a student,
the neat hand
and r’s
that look like
graceful birds
turning in flight.
She knows
the French verb
and valuable fur,
but mistakes
the bird for roasting,
the flower,
and synonyms
for valiant
and final—
I am itching
to take out
my pen
and show her
the way,
but I don’t.
I stop
and think
about how
we leave clues
for each other,
how we want
to be solved,
completed,
to feel
the sure pen
of another hand
writing,
trying letters,
leaving words
as woven
epiphanies
up and down
or lives.
As this
hulk of
hurtling
titanium
turns polished
in the sky
I close the
magazine
and write down
this poem
before we
land,
placing the
words
in a column
down a clear
white sheet
for the next
passenger
to take up
with a pen
in hand.
28 Aug 97
Touch II
He proceeds down
the line
of kneeling
confirmands
at the railing.
In black robes
solemnly
processing
one head
to the next,
he commands
the holy
dove’s descent,
his hands
cupped down
as wings
at the start
of flight—
touching hair
as if it were
air drifting
down
as wind
on fall leaves
about to stir.
He whispers,
“Receive ye,”
rustling down
the line,
and we
are silent
in our
strangeness,
unknowing,
becoming
known.
12 Sep 97
Rituals
She stood
nonchalant
a beacon
on the guard rail
on this highway
that rises up
to an eternal “yes.”
He,
with tail feathers puffed up,
shuffled tiny three-steps
as if his pants were caught
about his knees—
a solo swing
on the macadam below.
Such is the
mating ritual of
grouse along the byway
to a mountain castle.
We who have slowed
on our time away
stop the car,
silently lower
the windows,
and focus cameras
to honor
such foolish things.
14 Jul 98
Sun Mountain Lodge, Winthrop, WA
Walking to the Saugatuck River
Blue Heron
watching,
waiting—
one eye to
the murky
tidal pool
of the river,
the other
on me—
who will move
first and change
this balance,
this frozen
panicked
pause?
Ambulance doors
open in the back
as I walk by,
blue lights
swirling on
the escort—
old folks sitting
on the balcony—
crows
watching,
waiting.
Two cars stopped
and two drivers
asked for directions—
bookends
on my noontime walk
to the Saugatuck River.
Crouching over
to their dark glass
windows,
I point
and gesture
to the way,
or what I suppose
it is.
28 Sep 98
Walking to the Saugatuck River, CT
Crowns
When spring comes,
his walks grow longer
with the days,
the sun higher in the sky
his eyes follow
the sounds of new birds—
every new green shoot
and bud are a distraction
and a joy.
This is the week when
maples wear a thousand
tiny crowns of red
with flecks of yellow stars
on smaller slender staffs.
Next week they will horde
on the black macadam driveways,
and green leaves will arch
like elbows
and open as a mime
does an awning
slowly cranked.
But now it is this sea of red,
this multitude of crowns—
These are the days before Easter,
with no quenching green hands
waving from the tree.
This breaks him in full stride—
he reaches for his pen—
but it is not in his pocket,
nor clipped inside his coat.
He stops and breaks
a new moist maple twig
to bring back from this high
noon walk,
to place in a vase on his desk
and wait for the words
to come.
5 Apr 99
Abundance (2000-2009)
Driving on a Country Road
I slow down
to watch a flock
of wild turkeys
cross the road—
they stop to look
at me
and I at them.
It is raining,
the second week
of March,
and I have not
driven this small
country road before.
But now,
all that matters
is in this
moment when
the only thing
that moves
is the rain
that curtains
between us.
11 Mar 00
Weather-Vane
A weathered
weather-vane
outside the window
on a point of
roof.
A once coppery
goose,
in stationary flight,
points east,
impatiently
waiting for sun
or wind—
we don’t know—
now still,
it promises
of squeaky
flight,
a move south,
portent,
hope.
11 Mar 00
On Leaving a Noisy Room
Getting to that
silent place
sometimes takes
a storm,
raucous rain,
thumping thunder
late at night,
a river rushing
to expel itself—
I go out to listen.
On the underside
of a white porch roof
is a small muddled
swallow’s nest
silently wedged
in a corner
empty.
My thoughts rush
up to it,
settle into
its hand-cupped
caress,
and rest.
12 Mar 00
At the Cornwall retreat center
Late in Lent
Late in Lent
comes the Requiem
after winter,
yet still the snow
falls
and clings to branches
not yet heavy
with new leaves.
The choir cuts
to the root
of my being,
rings with first notes
of the first crow
in the morning--
and I hear the past
shudder as shoots
in the winds--
this snow
is blown as dust,
preparing the way
for a future spring
I have not yet
become.
9 Apr 00
Opened
I see the poem
unbutton you
as he reads it
with the passion
of unearthing treasure—
the moment
a yearning search
becomes the naked truth.
I see the
layers of wool
and cotton
peel away,
and the drum beat
of your heart
plain on the
skin at the
base of your
throat,
flush with
the redness of truth
that escapes
like a bird
from an opened
cage.
22 Sep 00
Statue
I have
an allergy
to pigeons
they make me
itch
If I could close my eyes,
I’d itch
for regal
birds—
tall,
still
like an eagle
before
the prey
moves.
18 Aug 01
I go back to the pond
Driving the back-roads
of Goshen,
I take the long way—
a weekend waits—
there will be
the gathering
of dear friends,
the once-a-year
pilgrimage
of the faithful—
I press
the curves and hills
with the carefree skill
of a Bavarian driver
on holiday—
the imagination
accelerates,
but I am early;
I take in the terrain:
spindly birches,
gray maples,
the late low sun
of early March
running along side
through the trees.
Down the hill
past the marsh
and beaver pond
where just last spring
a painter stood
catching the same
elusive light
on a slow canvas.
At the rise
on the other side,
I realize I
caught somewhere
in the corner
of my eye—
almost missed—
the motion
of what I presume
to be the tireless
beaver tending
to his dam.
I stop,
turn around,
and go back
to the pond,
to sit and
watch alone,
waiting for a sign,
some shift
in the light,
the smooth surface
of the gray water
circling the lodge,
where only mallards
peddle
about the edges.
8 Mar 02
Pond at the end of a mountain trail
Afterwards,
I go
into the
woods—
the solitude
of hemlocks
canopying
a trail
up the hill—
over brooks,
rocks carpeted
with green moss,
and a stretch
of mud-soaked
rutted path,
to a small ridge
that circles
a clearing
where the
brush
changes—
briar,
pussy willow,
remnants
of goldenrod—
then the
pond opens
in a punch
bowl
among
the mountains—
different
birds three-note,
the wind
hums a
background,
clouds curtain up
to late blue
sky,
the water
goes placid,
and I see
an early tadpole
swim with
new
legs.
9 Mar 02
A bird gets into the garage—
fluttering
against the
windowed
morning sun—
the silence
breaks—
it must
have waited
all night
for this sun—
now a clear
curtain
stops it
in mid take-off
again
and again.
With an open
door,
a newspaper
adds a push
to shrieks and
flying feathers
fear—
this way,
this way.
Swept up
In a
dawning
finally a flight
above the trees.
8 Aug 02
Wild Turkeys
As I slow
down,
one of
twenty
wild turkeys
feeding in
the unmowed
grass
next to
the road
stops and
stretches
his neck—
a periscope
looking up
to my
passenger
window—
as if I
interrupted
him.
3 Oct 02
Driving on a country road
“Love would be safe in his own storm…
Do you suppose that storm can ever touch the Fool?”
Charles Williams, The Greater Trumps, pp. 127, 139
I find
the turkeys again,
on a
narrow lane
through the pasture—
and they are there,
meandering—
there is no other
word—
across the road,
up over
the snow bank.
I slow down.
They stop
and stretch
long necks
up to have a look
at me,
and I at them.
The males
have a strange
beard
tufting out
mid-chest
like a shock
of unruly hair
gone awry,
growing out
a hole
in an old
sweater—
red wattles
jangle
from their chins
as if a
loosely tied
party hat
had slipped around
the face—
I am mesmerized
at the majesty
and the comedy—
like Williams’
Greater Trumps—
the Fool divine.
8 Mar 03
Questions
Tell me who or what you love
she asks us.
And we begin to write our lists—
I love my wife,
my boys,
my job,
my parish church;
I love my house
in the woods,
and I love the woods—
each is a turn
I love the gift
of poetry—
the images that come
while driving
to work,
hearing a bite
of conversation,
seeing turkeys
cross the road—
an act
of kindness
in the midst of illness—
in all of these,
a going down
into the image,
the pen dancing
on the page,
a word rising,
a name said
aloud
that calls me
home.
9 Mar 03
At the Silent Retreat, West Cornwall, CT
Cherub lost in thought
When I dream
a dream of bliss,
it may float
on wings,
swoop in hunt,
or simply flutter
with feathers—
but it is always
with you
as the canvas
sky
10 Jul 03
Driving to the top of Mohawk Mountain
a week before spring,
trees still stripped,
distant fields and snow still
glimpsing through.
Loggers have been working here
thinning the forest
for the younger trees—
so the “pardon our appearance” sign says
as if the woods were under reconstruction—
on the cusp of spring.
Driving through the woodchips,
around the logs stacked in same-length piles,
tires tracking through the sand
from a winter of tending snowfall—
up the narrow way,
above the tree line
where the March wind still howls
like a tamed lion.
The mountain top draws us in—
seeing in every direction
beyond what’s seen,
finding a point beyond which we cannot go
without wings—
feeling the passion of a night bug
against the screen door
again and again.
I am struck by the silence
and air so crisp
it snaps like two fingers
quick together,
then apart.
13 Mar 04
Goshen, CT
San Mateo, October 1989[4]
Years later
I remember the day:
sunshine in the windows,
a hummingbird hovering,
peeking in,
quiet.
The train approaches
from the distance
rumbling, building, shaking,
passing underneath--
cars in the parking lot
ride wave after wave
across the asphalt,
my desk chair rolls
on the carpet pad
as if on the deck of a ship
pitched in a storm
back and forth.
Across the way,
aluminum lamp posts
on a highway bridge
whip as hickory sticks--
the world moves in unintended ways.
I hold on to the desk and credenza,
riding the bull beneath me,
raging on,
wanting to be
at an end,
to have this pass,
to be on the other side
of terror,
with the distance of years,
the morning
after the dream
returns.
13 Mar 04
[4] Day of the Loma Prieta, CA earthquake, October 17, 1989
Silent
It is a morning of silence,
when the hinges
of a swinging kitchen door
and the creaking of old oak floors
are all that is heard,
all that signifies life—
this movement
and stillness—
when these little sounds—
the chicks of daylight
who otherwise would be drowned
in a rush of banter—
are.
13 Mar 04
The Hawk
I dream of the hawk
diving and rising
with prey in its talons—
we are too close
and whether near food
or young
we do not know.
The hawk is angry
silent
stops me cold
as a frosty muse,
swoops to my arm
as if to land
and admonish,
looks at me
with owl’s eyes
digs in its claws
then flies away.
Looking at the marks
it left and asking
if the skin is broken,
what I worry most
is that I don’t have time
for the inoculation.
9 Dec 04
Paths
In the silence of new snow
a solitary skier
glides the long left-right
of the Nordic trail--
to the right, a river
runs it rapids,
to the left, the rails
of a train long quiet--
the skier makes his way
between the voluptuous murmurs
and the cold straight steel,
making his own sound--
a swoosh, then crunch
as shifted snow packs
under the weight of his wooden rails;
the sun is watching over the arms
of pine tree sentinels,
a lone bird calls from a perch
somewhere unseen--
these are the sounds of holiness
on a path of straight lines
that meander,
that are true only to
the one who follows himself
like a cat watching from the hillock.
12 Mar 05
Sitting on a park bench by the Potomac
watching the sun set--
cherry trees starting to dance
in long shadows—
joggers and rowers jitterbugging by,
magnolias wavering like flamingos in the wind,
lovers pressing up against a red brick wall
birds chatting up an evergreen with urgency.
The far shore's still gray with winter,
sunset brushes the clouds on the underside
in a Miami copper pageboy--
it is early spring and
hope jumps up and down
in the palm of a hand as a silver dollar,
wonders if it will reach across
to the other side.
7 Apr 05
Pride, Aging and Stupidity
I've seen the turkeys crossing
the road in the rain,
shepherding goslings
in late spring,
stretching their necks to stare
at me in the car,
window down,
speaking to them
as if they were an oracle--
all the while realizing
they're a metaphor
for stupidity.
But this morning on the drive to work
while turning left
on Cross Highway,
I see a male
in a neighbor's yard
flare his feathers out
like one of those crepe paper turkeys
on ice cream sticks--
he turns to the right
in a turkey pirouette
and looks over his shoulder
to see if any females
in the bush are looking his way--
but there are none,
and I think of the long
narrow mirror on the back
of the bedroom door
and viewing new slacks and a starched shirt
turning left
to see a graying man
checking himself out
and thinking:
how did I get so
puffed up?
29 Jul 05
The Great White Ferry
Here on the deck
of the ferry landing
a scavenging sparrow
and I are waiting
for something to come
our way or go.
Blue sky
sparse clouds
a late summer breeze
and young Rolling Stones playing on the PA
"Running to the shelter
of a mother's little helper."
What ships of refuge
on which we ground our feet
leave this afternoon?
Destination and arrival
are a sparrow's feathers
scared off its wing
by the horn that blows
as the ferry makes its turn--
all will board
for a port of belonging.
3 Sep 05
Autumn Again; New England Shouts
The October geese align
in a honking vee,
starlings infect a maple tree
with a storm of chatter,
and screaming orange is
again the rage--
Such is the noise of autumn
in New England,
a grand shift into the cool
internment of days
that end before the evening repast--
it is a wonder that hope
still takes wing
that these Crayola leaves
that fall and blow
to heaps crunching brown upon the ground
rise up as swollen buds
of singing green
some other day
too far away
28 Oct 05
Passing
In less than a season
of Sundays
all these gray and broken limbs
will be swept behind
in a sea of green
I will remember
the robin's nest in the tall rhododendron
and the chick out on the branch
not sure this is a good move.
Parents will be screaming from the oak
encouragements,
reminders to flap hard,
don't look down.
I will remember then
that you left
at the turn of spring
and despite all the wishes
platitudes and best intentions
this will become an empty place.
Friendships evergreen
winter with their leaves;
we will pull up empty chairs
to a table with white linens
and wish
for the warmth
of a listening ear
the touch
of a knowing smile.
28 Jan 06
The Edge of Epiphany
On an afternoon walk
in the infancy of January--
a baby-blue-eyes sky--
the edge of freezing--
gloves on--
headphones pumping
into my ear canals,
I pass a jogger
for the second time.
She smiles somewhat perplexed,
gesturing above her head,
something about her hair.
I nod and smile
wondering
what in the world
she said as she runs by.
Looking up in the tree-tops
I see
a hundred starlings
shining in the spaces,
late for the flight south.
I silence the music,
take off my gloves
clap my hands
and they flock to the next tree
like early pollen in the wind.
Perhaps she said:
It's raining birds
in my hair
and I don’t have your hat.
Head uncovered,
I hear the chatter
from the trees
between the gray and blue.
7 Jan 06
Epiphany: that period in the church calendar, following Christmastide, when the Magi arrive bearing gifts for the Christ Child. What’s the epiphany here? What is the flash of insight? Where in the poem does this happen?
Race
On my 30th birthday
I ran around Jamaica Pond
passing the walkers and strollers
the mallards paddling from the shore--
I tell myself
I am running over the hill,
an imaginary race in spring
like a cloud in the wind
I float with alacrity
past the cheering section of my office mates.
Now the race of doing
is a backpack filled with files
cell phone in hand
Blackberry on the belt,
and the nagging thought
that if I put these down
mallards and strollers will fly past me.
If I stop
I will know that I am
out of breath.
20 Jan 06
The thought here is that I want to slow down, but if I do the younger will run past me, which I’m not ready to let happen—just as I’m not ready to die just yet—and that retirement may be the discovery that much of what I am has indeed die when I stop.
The Juncos Sing
A dozen juncos
have gathered on my lawn
with their blue-grey coats
and rhythmic pecking
that is more like bowing—
yes, this is a gathering
of the extended junco family
greeting each other
by keeping their eyes
on the ground
and bowing
like geishas—
yes,
wearing blue-gray silk
kimonos,
holding fans
of tail feathers—
this must be a dance
an opera perhaps—yes.
If this were not
a warm spell in the midst
of winter
and I had not paused
at the kitchen window
with my empty teacup
I would have missed
this elegant
performance
and it would just be
another day.
5 Feb 06
Meter
Walking back
along old railroad tracks
I am aware of feet,
the uneven rhythm of ties
the careful steps
to stay on smooth wood.
I do the work of walking,
watching my running shoes
timing my stride
step one, skip one,
avoiding the coarse gravel bed.
I hear the river
and the two-note birds
urging April;
feel the warmth
of midday sun,
the shadows of trees
peripherally there.
When I reach the crossing
and step onto the free flow
of macadam,
I look up and see
not one cloud
or syllable
on which to trip.
11 Mar 06
At the Silent Retreat, West Cornwall, CT
The Faith of Juncos
“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul” --Emily Dickinson
Gray juncos gather
on the softening sod
pecking for...
what.?
There cannot be
a bug alive
that withstood the feet of snow
that stomped down
weeks ago—
there's still a trace of white
on the river bank
across the lawn
among the trees.
Soon fishermen will descend
down paths
in green chest waders
and stand in high water rushing
to the Sound,
cast flies in arcing lines
and float through the eddies.
When winter's washed away
I'll think of the juncos
casting beaks into the blades
of dormant grass
and hope will again become
a feather.
11 Mar 06
At the Silent Retreat, West Cornwall, CT
No Return
I imagine
all sorts of endings
testing out each
before this audience
of one.
Will this flight
to some far city
not return?
Will the car drift
with sleep into a tree?
Our brief trip south
for Labor Day
came and went--
skies were blue,
clouds were soft--
the plane touched down
without a bump
I remember my daughter
chasing the ducks
and after a squawking flutter
of flustered feathers,
they coast
into smooth water
and do not look back.
1 Oct 06
Fresh Kill
While hiking on a well-worn trail
we come upon a squirrel twitching on its side
blood oozing from its neck
the cry of a hawk echoes in the air;
we've been here before,
the trail familiar in its rise and turn;
a field stone wall bounders along,
a carefully set companion
where once fields of corn or wheat were planted,
now trees, saplings, vines, briar--
and a dying squirrel.
We are startled by the drama--
nature runs its course across our sometimes path--
and we are immovable at our foundations;
heads turn, eyes avert;
there is an exhale of breath,
a morbid sigh,
and we wait for it to pass--
this moment of respect
for what was gathering among the fallen leaves
the seed of a rugged oak or smooth beech
that will not be.
30 Dec 06
Answer to prayer
On the third day
of the retreat
there is fog--
so thick the river’s
senses are gone.
There is suppose
to be clarity,
sunlight,
blue sky
and spring.
A bird sang two notes
at dawn,
but he is quiet now,
stilled.
We should have planned
better.
11 Mar 07
At the Silent Retreat, West Cornwall, CT
Seventh Day
Six catbirds crowning the oak
greet me as I wheel luggage
to the car—
they are announcing the turning
of the play—
their Greek chorus of clicks
and caws,
bobbing in turn
like a stadium wave,
an omen
beyond the point of rest—
I am wary,
full of joy on this spring
Sunday morning;
the week dancing
out ahead,
I close the trunk
and drive.
22 Apr 07
The turning
Barn swallows cut
large sweeping strokes
across the top
of a field gone to weed;
small insects dodge,
grasshoppers jump from my path
and the grass elbows
A cedar stump
has turned to iron ore
green hickory nuts
fall thru leaves
with a sound as if reaching out
for a limb again and again.
I sidestep an old pile of manure
and witness raspberry bushes
gone neon wild--
plantings from jays engorged
last year;
Small black butterflies
with lightning royal blue stripes
stand out smartly.
In the distance
the high cry of a red-tailed hawk
Looking hard,
I stumble
as I should.
The white cloud
opposite the sun
is so bright
the sky glows blue;
It hurts.
White tail deer flash as
can-can dancers
When the twig breaks;
Toto is yapping in some yard
and Lassie adds the baritone.
I am so far from home;
I am on my way
22 Jul 07
Parting the Red Sea
The wood is not accepting;
each twig cracks beneath my shoes
as small shots—
deer choose,
run left then right, to the road;
a squirrel accelerates,
shaking its tail like a finger,
bounds up the far side of an oak;
chipmunk is an exclamation point
appearing now and then.
In the field,
the blades of tall grass
bend before me;
grasshoppers jump ahead
again and again;
the cicadas loud
on this cloudy late summer day,
hold their wings;
even the red-tail hawk
soars to a higher tree.
Along the near-dry stream bed
frogs sound the alarm,
hop into dark pools
and disappear
Turning into the clearing,
the wind fresh in my face gasps
I,
a Moses sent,
stand still before my Red Sea—
in the silence
before the demand of the divide,
I part the world
22 Sep 07
South
Autumn has taken a deep breath
and is blowing out bits of summer;
the late white wood asters are waving wildly
among browning blades of grass;
hickory nuts fall with thumping finality
in the wisdom of latter days;
the red-tail hawk circles,
has yet to fly to its south.
29 Sep 07
Stopping where the path turns from the field
Something has spooked the geese
at the other end of the field
and they startle me
enough to stop and write this down.
I should say how the sun is low in the sky
and the shadows of the border trees
are long in the pale grass,
how all these brown and yellow October leaves
sound like chewing corn flakes
as I shuffle through;
there is an insistent one-note bird
yelling go, go, go, go
willing me to make my south;
the wind wondering, wild,
rides the hair from my collar;
overhead are unseen aircraft
one after another
traveling elsewhere.
I thought you should know
before I move on.
6 Oct 07
Starlings
The starlings are staging
a mass demonstration
out my wall of windows
their silhouettes x-rayed
by the sun against my blinds
shut for the southern glare
a week before the solstice.
I thought they were late leaves
blown by the gale gusts
of wind in the wake
of the weekend storm.
Peering out between the slats,
half-blinded by the sun,
I'm startled by the feathers
hitting the windows again
and again like moths around
the back-porch light.
I presume it is their reflection they see,
only so at the angle of the light,
and they are trying to be
a flock of one that keeps mirroring
instead--
all at once the tragedy
of love is illuminated.
17 Dec 07
Punctuation
A red-bellied woodpecker
(it has that weight)
is writing down his story
at an Underwood;
his hunt-and-peck story
deliberate
measured
I stare hard into the barren crown
of the tree
but do not see him;
I catch only the punctuation,
the emphases,
and long intervals of silence
when I imagine he is checking
my every move.
Later
approaching the edge
of the field that ambles down
into a dark wood
I hear the rush that first sounds
like tires on the gravel drive
but soon adds the gurgle
of a telltale stream after a mid-winter thaw,
I push my pace
anticipating the rapid flow
around the boulders
and large branches
fallen in the way
27 Dec 07
End of December
At the edge of the field
a light wind teases the dry brown leaves
of the beeches still holding
onto their withered stems,
shakes them as if a tambourine of shells;
in the distance the stream plays clarinet
while two crows and a catbird
sing the chorus;
for the finale
the geese return with horns
crying
29 Dec 07
Omens
Behind this eighteenth century rock wall
a fallen cedar is rusting to an orange stripe
across the path;
the stream is eating thru the ice,
gnawing at the fixed and stolid edges;
a hollow trunk, a ghost,
barely stands on two toes
curled into the earth.
I weep for the owl
hidden in its temerous bark[5]
In the distance
a hawk is hoarse in the winter air;
the sun is a memory
in the barren crowns of tree.
Half a dozen geese fly
in funeral formation, lights on,
a sign in the windshield
and a slight tap of the horn
to cause me to stop
left turn signal blinking
26 Jan 08
[5] This poem may better end after the first stanza. To follow von Rohe, often less is more!
Pileated
A pileated woodpecker swoops
in from the field and settles near the top
of a rotting tree.
He works his way down
oscillating from eyeing
the fractured bark
and me.
I wait for the crack
of it's hammer-to-chisel swing of a beak
with a thwack into the softening wood;
but the rapid running timpani stream
behind me plays over the solo shot
to the rim of a snare drum afternoon.
3 Feb 08
Not yet March
Not yet March,
the wind is the lion’s breath;
at the top of the rise,
it lifts.
Limbs of two trees
rub together and omen
like an un-oiled hinge to an old oak door opening—
difficult, memorable.
The wind is the underside of a river teeming
where a lone goose cries
and circles,
headlining its loss.
The red-tail hawk swoops
further away
and I
in the midst
of starlings in a coffee shop
chattering each over the other
am lost.
10 Feb 08
After the storm
After the storm,
the river surges
angry at its banks;
in a small eddy
four white mergansers
forage;
the sun is still new,
the shadows long,
and this quartet
eats the silence,
feeds on the being in the world.
9 Mar 08
At the Silent Retreat, West Cornwell, CT. After a day and a half of heavy rain, the Housatonic is back with a fury on Sunday morning. While eating breakfast, Alice points to the four white ducks in a place of serenity in the midst of that swollen torrent. I ask her to write down the name. Mergansers. Beautiful. Those three syllables ate of all the silence for me by just being. Those who like to read the philosophers will also see the Existentialists in the final line.
First Impressions
As the trail crests
to Gile Mountain,
past the lean-to,
I hear chatter
of what sounds at first
like ducks,
or maybe geese
flying in the distance;
but as I draw closer
to the glacial punchbowl
before the summit,
filled with winter melt,
snow still on its banks
and floating,
a symphony of frogs
out from under the ice-lid
call to each other:
here, here, here—
but swim in circles.
What I thought was a frenzy
of mating, was a song
of freedom.
19 Apr 08
Hiking near Norwich, VT
At the lean-to on the velvet rocks trail
A stillness in the pines
has my ears aching—
a three-note bird
whistles far off—
and I remember
27 Apr 08
Velvet Rocks trail, Hanover, NH
On Top of Balch Hill
The path winds steeply up
between pines
then opens—
grass and wildflowers amass,
tresses left behind
to a grassy knoll,
a solitary maple sentinels
the peak.
To the side, a stone bench,
young lady stretched out in jeans
and white sneakers
a book shielding her eyes
from the sun—
she is immersed.
I tip-toe past
cut to the maple trail
and stop before a huge Sugar;
a barn owl asks from beyond
who goes there?
I listen to the wind
and branches stretch against
each other—
Who, is one waits and watches,
sun full in his face.
25 May 08
On the Appalachian Trail, Hanover, NH
Sigh the blues
I stop at the poet's bench
beneath the maple
where a two-note bird
opens and closes.
It is the last day
of school;
ease has settled into
the gait of students.
I sit under grey sky
that asks for water
and sigh the blues
for the ebb of beginnings,
the grieving of ends.
News has accumulated
in fat tufts of clouds
that cannot hold up.
It rains.
30 May 08
Tuck/Dartmouth Sabbatical, Hanover, NH
Turkey Brood
Pulling out the winding drive
I see the movement on my left
on a knee of a hill covered in pines
a brood of a dozen wild turkeys
Mom and Dad
out in the morning shade
foraging among the needles;
as I slow, they scatter
faster, into flight across the road
just as a Beemer brakes, stops,
driver leaning forward
arms crossed atop the steering wheel
looking up at the flurry of fledging feathers,
sharing the wonder
of being engulfed.
13 Jun 08
Roadkill
The starling is looking sideways,
wings unfurled,
mimicking the eagle.
The frog has jumped
into his shadow.
The infant raccoon
still has its smile.
Even the worm is not busy
14 Jun 08
Paris, as the lights come on
There is nothing as alone
as in the midst of a horde of people
powering down the Seine
on an end of day cruise,
sun splashing Notre Dame,
Eiffel dancing with lights,
the left bank limestones
coming to light as the sun
dips behind all that fills the eye.
A cry goes up from the deck
filled with celebratory youth
as we go under each bridge
a wave of "yes," while you, unknown
turn to look out your window
and see a sole cardinal come to the ground
beneath the feeder.
6 Jul 08
Raspberries
In the clearing
ringing grasses
soaked in sun
the mid-July feast of raspberries
begins;
jays keeping watch
call distractions
as I near.
I remember taking salad bowls
with you into the thickets
between our house and road that leaves;
we would pick and eat the fat ones,
save the rest into clear freezer bags,
our fingers sticky from the ooze.
I reach back and pluck,
pop them in my mouth
and savor.
12 Jul 08
What Merritt Brings
Driving through a canopy
of maples,
Chris Trapper performing
through speakers at my feet,
I’m back in the far country,
watching a white feather
drift down in the summer drafts
and the song in the air
is of angels.
15 Jul 08
Adam with child
He whisks her up into a one-arm perch,
speaks softly about what to see
and heads for the flower garden;
she is all eyes and an outstretched hand
that is an extended question mark;
three women failed to quiet her
as she wailed and twisted
to gather a glimpse of mom.
The "baby whisperer" says one;
another nods.
He offers her the half apple shape
of a late lavender echinacea;
she gathers her hand around three petals
and pulls--
the curtain rises as barn swallows dart
across evening sky
and we know, we know, we know.
29 Jul 08
Morning
The monk parrots are loving me this morning,
heckling from one tree to the next
as I walk new ground
I never catch up to them—
they let me know
horizoning with their call.
I am humbled that I name them,
hold them in eyes and on my tongue.
On the beach, seagulls walk faster
not willing to take flight yet
while a covey of mourning doves
bursts up from behind a seawall
as I jump up.
Two terns fight over a fish,
a pair of crows choruses from the beam
of a rough hewn swing set—
I, the morning walker pass through
announced;
I, the morning writer am in their glassy
eye
7 Aug 08
Black Crowned Night Heron
A bird in an overcoat
sits on a perch,
one foot up as if to take a step,
a black beret and long black beak
give her distinction;
she does not move until the truck ambles by,
then looks slowly with disdain;
I applaud;
She puts the foot down
opens umbrella wings
and lifts
7 Aug 08
Marvin’s Beach, CT
Half Moon
Half moon hanging in the evening sky
Looking right and question why
All is nigh
You can see the distance
If you only blink you eyes
Half moon sigh
Half moon sigh
Into the dark of wayward sigh
8 Aug 08
Sung to George Harrison's "blackbird"
Mother and child
Mother and child trot the trail
knowing they can out pace me,
wings are untapped;
she zigs and zags
and he follows as if tethered.
This is the edge of the fallen pines
where I tripped on loose rocks
and toppled into Burberry;
now dusted off, I'm staring off
at the dust as two wild turkeys
make tracks.
I go after
2 Sep 08
Muir Woods
We are walking among giants,
redwoods grounded in the earth and sky
long before we set foot beneath them—
the air crisp with the scent of pine
the sound of a hairy woodpecker
unseen until homing in
to the very branch that stands out
in a sea of branches
15 Sep 08
Four Geese
The cars have stopped on River Road—
four geese crossing
cause drivers at the end of day
to come to this pause;
reaching the far side
they seem as if to have further thoughts—
the grass in the school-yard lawn bends;
four geese about-face,
go back to the river,
lengthen our wait;
leaning on his horn,
as the last goose lingers,
the first driver swerves wide,
goes quickly on his way.
17 Sep 08
Growth
The machine chirps like a chickadee
when I move its heft too quickly,
each repetition deliberate,
harder ;
I choose the greater weight
and feel the muscles tear down,
breathing quicken,
sweat bead—
fatigue its own reward.
Three days later
I move the pin down the stack
and lift more with ease.
I remember all this
when telling the chairman
I’m ready for the next assignment
and feeling sick to my stomach
that I’ve moved the pin too far.
2 Oct 08
The food of flight
In the morning
sea gulls raise muscles
to dizzying heights above the horizon
and drop them
on a wooden bridge
where they now lay opened,
the food of flight
there for the winging
3 Oct 08
Watching like a hawk
I drive down the highway
in the early morning gray
of a clouded fall day;
seated on the lamp post
is a red-tailed hawk
watching as the cars go by
one by one;
wondering what’s crossing
her mind,
whether there will be a swooping and grabbing
of anything that moves;
the thought grabs me in its claw
as I gingerly pass by,
thinking about the mice in the field
next to the road
moving in a more hidden,
perfect way
of which I think more closely,
pay more attention,
become the red-tail hawk.
5 Oct 08
Evergreen
The room fills
with the after-lunch voices
arriving sated
ready banter
old friends
colleagues
reconnecting.
I am in the midst of a forest
yet still the lone evergreen
yearning for the sparrow
that has flown in amongst my boughs—
an attentive ear to all around me,
I lean west and strain to hear
her song on the wind.
21 Oct 08
Morning Poem
I am waiting in the cafe—
what travelers do between flights;
in the in-between time
I replay each time you have been
within my reach,
no further than a glance,
no further than a finger tip—
I retrace each inch of you
as if you were a map of every journey
I have traveled
and I remember your countryside,
The rolling hills,
cafes and trattatoria—
Yes, here was where we saw
the old man beside the seagull
on the pier
watching wisps of sails on the bay.
I run lips up your neck
and inhale the shampoo you
used this morning;
I feel the press of you into me
as you stand on your toes
to fit just so;
I remember the stairs, the first landing,
that brought us eye-to-eye
before we closed them
and leaned into the kiss as if drinking from a fountain.
And all that is me comes alive
with an acuity that transcends the miles
yet to go,
the hours still to unfold.
Perhaps it is the sweet agony
of a child most aware in the days
before a birthday,
when at long last the candles on the cake are lit
and the blowing out
is the dusk of waiting,
the rise of beginning.
29 Oct 08
Morning Poem, before the airport
I sit at the kitchen table
and watch the birds
rediscover an empty feeder
now brimming with sunflower seeds,
and I remember the sunflower
you picked in Sausalito
and how you said
you took it with you to each room
and spoke to it while I was gone.
One by one the sparrows,
finches, juncos, jays and cardinals—
even the puffed-ear squirrel—
come back.
Each is a memory of how well fed
the minutes are
when face to face—
each a little package of hope.
I hear the shower water run
and know across a room
rain falls, sun returns
and green shoots yearn in the spring of every day,
feed on the touch
of soil and warmth of a waiting voice
coming close
and connecting anew.
3 Nov 08
At Norman Avenue, Marvin’s Beach
My father's yard did not have squirrels
My father's yard did not have squirrels—
the simple feeders
he built of solid wood,
clear glass,
had no Lucite domes,
chicken wire baffles
or strung piano wire;
just dowel foot grips
that the chipping sparrows
grabbed with both feet—
squirrels add complexity
of the chase,
one for the food
and the other for intricacies
of that which keeps us from food.
6 Dec 08
Red on Gray
In a red hooded parka
she stretches to fill the feeder;
birds rimming the yard
wait their turn on barren branches
reaching to a dark gray sky.
It will snow today and she will feel
the weight of white flakes around her boots
for the first time.
A red cardinal sees her—
the early one,
timid under the fence,
he crosses the lawn in hops
as she reenters the house
to wait and watch.
I see all this from the window
at the top of the stairs
whose shade I've just lifted;
and the gospel I've just written down
witnesses to the advent of red
on a gray winter day.
19 Dec 08
New Year
On a low branch
sits a cardinal, still.
The southern morning light
casts a long shadow of the house
across the backyard.
Puffed up juncos hop in the snow,
scratch a shuffle of both feet together,
like pulling down a comforter from the bed
searching;
squirrels twitch tails—
a tentative telling of a story—
but this regal, head-high primordial cusp
of stand-out red
sits watching for the opening.
1 Jan 09
One
I offer to get the laundry
from the dryer today,
pulling the tangle of clothes
from the drum,
leg wrapped around arm
wrapped around leg;
it comes into the basket
a loose knot and spills out
onto the bed as one,
a birds nest from the mold.
I take a turn
at folding,
your petite pullovers in every color
and make small envelops;
socks go in one pile
later paired,
my shorts roll up like poster tubes,
your panties too small to fold,
lay like stamps
and I notice I've adopted your way
of folding things
the roll-ups fitting in drawers like
crayons in a box.
When did this happen,
this transfer of your way into mine,
as if making love were
a stenciling
one form onto another?
Two birds write new Cang Jie
letters in the snow
and they melt together.
25 Jan 09
Muscles
I stop to watch the gulls prepare a meal;
they glide in slow arcs
and pause in mid-air
letting the muscles go
and flutter-dive like autumn leaves to follow
to the rocks at low tide
a cold muscle tight within itself
splits as an egg left for an instant
rolls off the table
and anchors to the floor
its yolk blooming from the sharp edge of it shell as a sunrise.
A gull picks the center of openness
tosses his head back
and gulps it down
7 Feb 09
The Sign
For Ash Wednesday.
I lean into the priest as if he is a shower head,
into the ash flowing from his thumb;
as a river parted,
it flows from my forehead
divided by nose and mouth,
over my rising arms, to my feet
where it pools in soot around each ankle
until my toes are rooted in the carbon soil;
it rises slowly, each year another ring of grounded being,
the strain toward light more urgent,
bees stick to my forehead,
birds sing in my ears,
I drink sun from my mouth.
2 Mar 09
The Seven Deadly Sins
Pride (7)
It’s the last painting;
a red lobster glistens,
claw held in the beak
of the gull
whose eye looks up,
a half moon
lit to the heaven
he rules,
blind to his brothers
buckling under the web
of his strut
one’s shriek,
another’s objection;
one complicit,
one eyes closed,
already tucked to the death
of resignation.
7 Mar 09
Greed (6)
The gulls beak opens
to a grey billowed heaven
and breaks the silence
of a shared repast,
its body barring the boundary-less-ness
of a sandy beach,
the hungry to the south,
the feast to the north;
popcorn floats,
an egg sunny-side up:
a perfect yellow dome;
a cherry wet with sun—
even as the ice-cream melts the irony of blueberry pie,
and runs over its starving feet,
the single spoon resounding the shriek of
mine, mine, mine!
7 Mar 09
Sloth (5)
The gull settles into the afterwards,
the banquet taken in
as the wisdom of the slow times,
soaking as a full sponge—
the “yes” and the “no,”
where the angels dance,
the demons lurk;
in the restful wings
and neglect of now,
while Prometheus, consumed in the dream,
has not a leg to stand on,
the fire has not gone out—
so to fluff the feathers and loll,
while the soul is renewed
and plucked from us.
7 Mar 09
Envy (4)
These two with the red-ringed eyes
are steepling their beaks,
one just a feather higher—
there is the noble gull
there is the mirror gull
reflecting not himself
but this other.
The wise gull below,
with closed eyes,
is walking away.
7 Mar 09
Lust (3)
I save this one
until after making love
after holding your arms
taking flights
taking wing—
gulls feet upon
the shoulder,
gull shriek
at the taking
the taking
the taking
7 Mar 09
Gluttony (2)
It takes the divine cinnamon baked apple
in maple puffed pastry with crème anglaise
to send me over the edge.
A gull in a sea of beached catch,
fresh from the net
holds a fish aloft
in triumph
in giving up to this god
who so filling
we gag
7 Mar 09
Anger (1)
They are screaming
south and east
one over the other,
not at each other,
not at the god
who anchored them
to this stretch of gull sand,
but in an aria
to the god
shimmering off the still sea
the silver-backed god looking in the glass
and blind.
7 Mar 09
Abundance (2000-2009) (cont.)
Feeding frenzy
I hold a bag of sweet potato fires
left from last night’s meal—
too much to consume in one sitting.
The gulls swarm, fall over each other and the swans
diving for any morsel
as I toss them one by one
into the air;
the gulls hover, timing their stop and lunge
to catch the bit of broken orange starch
in mid air as you click frame after frame.
there is no end to the feast
and I am feathered in the joy
of the Lord.[7]
7 Mar 09
[7] See the video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f5lFrpiQfCA . Thank you Shirley for the inspiration.
Blackbirds
Six blackbirds pepper the still barren tree
eying the high-rise feeder
made for smaller birds;
not quite half of thirteen
they whistle just after we fill
the feeder and wait;
the chatter of the sparrows call
and the blackbirds come
and watch
before taking all the seats;
hanging sideways
they try and curl their beaks,
flecking out the smaller seeds
in search of smoky sunflower gems;
now the squirrels gather on the picnic table below,
and eye the tall speckled column
even as they pick up what rains from
this little oasis of heaven;
everything points to God's
bounty,
His scarcity,
and this ache for something higher,
something more.
21 Mar 09
Reversal
Sometimes we are so startled
we stop in mid flight,
almost as if to go backwards
and see what just happened here,
what death has just become a life,
what life has been caught up in such reversal,
killed and lifted up?
what surprise
grabs us by the outstretched bones and feathers spiked
pulls and grounds us even as we soar?
what startling morning bursts
onto this night
and stains even the stones a linen white?
[so we are turned around
looking at the stones rolled away
from where we entered
and never saw it for
what has closed
to us ever flying that way
again.]
8 Apr 09
Attentive
Until I watched the late May robin
four-step waltz and pause...
waltz and pause,
I thought I knew.
Until she cocked her head
and laser-stared,
waiting for imperceptible earth
to shudder;
Until she plucked three times
and came up with the wriggling prize
from the ground of her
attentiveness,
I thought I was watching
ever so closely;
her magic
had me fooled and feeble;
I can only notice in silence
as she wings away
1 Jun 09
Broad Court
I stop on Broad Court
to watch the gulls above
time the wind
to stop time itself,
look not ahead
or behind,
but to the very ground
beneath them,
for the morsel of food
that gives the captive now.
18 Jul 09
Night Heron
I will not have the patience
of the night heron
perched on a rock in Norwalk Mill Pond
As the moon pulls the tide past,
she is staring into the silty waters
with a reverence that is beyond me
For what seems an eternity
she has not moved,
the exclamation of her desire
has not yet come
yet she is not deterred,
she sits hunched over
the curve of rock
as if the hardness of it
shapes her
I can turn to stare at the ocean
and write it down
in short lines,
small stanzas
as if my eye is shaped
by the enormity of the gap
between a silver flash of minnow
caught in the lightning bill
of the night heron
and the endless sea,
as if she nailed the line
so high
I can't see over it
[So I sink into the open spaces
that I've not gotten hold of,
not sunk my teeth into
like the night heron
swallowing as surely as the ocean
swallows the sun.]
26 Aug 09
Outplacement
I walk out to the river,
out from the whispering halls
and quiet flat screens
to where the sun still shines
among the tufts of even gray clouds
and the river murmurs out
to meet the tide;
there is always a hush around death
and the portends of death,
as if full voices would hasten
its coming—
a seagull screeches as it circles another
with food in its mouth
10 Sep 09
Continuing the downsizing poems, STC, Westport, CT
Thermal
A flock of sea birds
are turning in a twist
of air rising
we imagine;
the trail crests the hill,
we see them
above the bay
that stretches wide below;
they are a mobile
hanging in this rotunda
of California sky,
turning clockwise
wing to tail,
disappearing
then reappearing,
now dozens of white
handkerchiefs
waving hello
and goodbye.
18 Oct 09
On Coyote Hill, CA
Half a Dozen
Six geese crossing River Road,
have a flock of late model SUVs
flying south
and north
stopping for half a minute
to let them waddle through
the parted sea
of rush hour--
what was gritted teeth
and hands tight around the wheel
melt into smile
and a drop of the shoulders
as orange and yellow leaves whirl
and the ripples of the wind dimple
on the water as it ambles
into the sea
under this steely bright November Day,
the cusp of woolly winter.
6 Nov 09
Listening (2010-2019)
Advice to the ones I love
Be the leaf;
When there’s a beginning,
Unfold
In the toughest storm of summer
Hang on with equal relentlessness
Have guest
Even if a fleeting bird
Change color
Blow in the wind
At the right time
Let go
Make someone’s path
softer
Saturday, 27 Feb 10 (Lent XII)
For my Memorial
Frederick Buechner suggested we write in 50 words or less the advice we want to leave those we love. (He actually said 25 words of less, but what is poetic license if it cannot break the form?). I thought of the leaf in yesterday's poem--that reconnecting with the deep parts of our lives that flow. Letting go and knowing when to release the anchors--perhaps this is a life's work.
Ooothecae
In the fall
I tie an insect cage
in the lilac tree
and in its wire mesh
place four oothecae the mantis laid
in the hibiscus and hydrangea;
I read that these eggs
are a delicacy for the foragers
and I’m determined
to see the nymphs survive.
For many days
the cage is filled with snow
and though nothing moves,
the squirrel has been by
to test lid a dozen times—
sometimes hope is in a cage
of our own making.
Tonight
after I signed the papers
and the judge made the decree
that put an end to the winter
of a love long lost,
I sit and stare
at the cage
in the moon of the porch flood light
and think of spring
when a string of warm and humid days
will stir the cases of the mantis
and the ones with small pale wings
will learn to fly and feed—
and I swear
I saw the oothecae
in the early wind of March
dance.
Friday, 5 Mar 10 (Lent XVII)
It is so hard to find hope in the midst of despair, a beginning in an end, new life within a death. That Easter is within three days of Good Friday is, I think, not an accident. “That this cup may pass” is a prayer in which I participate. But it is not the final word.
I know you
“When you remember me, it means you have carried something of who I am with you …” –F. Buechner
The second time I met him
he said, “I know you!”
For a three-year-old
this was stretching new wings
of remembering;
now he is learning to drive
and venture further out
into his world yet to be,
but when I drive back
to pick him up
where he last was,
he turns into me
and remembers what it was like
to be gathered in
and asks.
“how about a hug?”
And when I am so remembered
He creates me
and I him,
into the garden of belonging.
Monday, 8 Mar 10 (Lent XXI)
For Scott
Tail of the Wind
Grab the tail of the wind
it will take you where you haven't been
it slips between the fingers
run to catch up;
it turns corners before
you know it's gone;
go back to where you felt
the lick of air;
imagine riding
on wherever wings
3 May 10
There’s a place in the hot springs region outside Taipei that Shirley said was called the “Tail of the Wind.” She said it was poetic, and I said it was the beginning.
Strange Dream or Blackbirds
There is the cast of a long novel,
Yet I am the only one I recognize.
Two or three are dropping a blackbird
Into a round grave dug in yellow earth.
One holds a shovel.
Someone has given birth to the bird-like creature
And it has happened twice before.
I say with conviction
To convince the others:
One is an anomaly,
Two is coincidence
But three is a sign.
Drawing part of the conclusion
I say to the leader
We need to figure this out.
We have the wrong hope.
1 Jun 10
Gull
The gull lands on a weathered crossbeam
Over the old dock
And folds its wings
As wrapping paper
Creasing here
And folding there
Until a sleek slipper
Of white and gray
Poses in the waning light
Overhead another gull
Circles and arcs
Making bows of crisp air
Looking for the opening
7 Jun 10
Drawn
Even at the dusk of day
the birds call;
from their night perches
in the pines
they peal;
I am drawn as a canvas
and I await
the first stroke
of your brush.
15 Jun 10
Goose bumps
As the temperature drops with the sun
the cool breeze raises goose bumps on my arms;
and I wonder from where this phrase comes;
every goose I've seen is a sleek oval of feathers,
a long tapered neck
and smooth black bill;
when they are cold they fluff up their down
and settle into the warm comfort of a winter coat.
But the little bumps on my skin
strain up for attention, breaking out as little fingers
crooking for a closer look,
perhaps a brush of lips
a sleek swipe of tongue
wetting it to the tip
sucking it in
as I did as I pulled up your shirt
over your up-stretched arms.
23 Jul 10
Early Morning
Before the light
has spilled over the rooftops
and through the frosted glass
the crows are at a beginning
or an ending--
it is hard to tell
in this darkness
that is passing,
in this dawning
that is knocking
once more on the drum
of my ear
like a lamentation for the night,
a calling for the sun.
12 Jan 11
Wind
The wind is whipping to the west
with the fury of a front marching through
without regard for who stands shivering
in its wake;
were it not for the blatant blue sky
and sun pulling itself up over
the clouds wrapped around the mountain,
we would think this was a winter storm
standing with our backs to the gusts
we line up on the platform
like crows upon the wire
confused about why the trains
are stalled upon the tracks below
21 Jan 11
Waiting for the Nyon-Geneva train
Bad Poetry
Reminds me of the scene
in Mondo Cane
where the farmer
is force feeding the goose
with a funnel and grinder
to get that silky smooth
liver of the finest pate—
an over-sated rhyme
where the words are tortured
into a form
until the reader gags—
like a reviewer
with pen in hand
who has just tasted something
that he cannot believe
is being passed off
as pate.
8 Jul 11
A Swallows Song
I hear the swallows signaling
as I imagine them swooping,
a single swarm
outside the smoked glass
window above the shower--
so shrill
and so sweet
a summer's day could sink
even as an August Sol can rise.
28 Jul 11
Pileated II
A pileated woodpecker swoops
in from the field and settles near the top
of a rotting tree.
He works his way down
oscillating from eyeing
the fractured bark
and me.
I wait for the crack
of it's hammer-to-chisel swing of a beak
with a thwack into the softening wood;
chips flying as if he were the sculptor
and I was naked in a moment
when I could not move.
3 Feb 08
17 Aug 11
Poetry by Numbers
Foot tapping to the syllables,
counting the strong verbs;
how many poems written this year?
were there a dozen birds winging in
as lofty metaphors?
should I add a line break
here?
I wonder about such things
when I awake mid-morning,
after late night hours
balancing the accounts,
and realize it is still days
until the rhyme of your lips are here
to part.
21 Aug 11
Under the Wisdom Tree
Under the wisdom tree,
the statue of Pan is silent;
his flute ever poised upon his lips
as if waiting for the measure
when he comes in with first notes.
A fountain of three strings trembles,
gently plucking the pool beneath its feet;
and in the distance behind me,
the mid-morning sun pushes
over the mountain chop
and makes the lifting fog glow
a yellow-pink.
The lake shimmers
a silk veil in the breeze,
ferries make their way
from town to town,
leaving a streak of finger paint
to show their sending port,
on the hillside are dots of roofs
and bright stucco walls,
catching the upper rays of light.
Here under the ancient cypress,
two-note birds call from tree to tree,
and in this shock of abundant life
the air is chilled,
the bench damp with evening,
still.
27 Sep 11
At the Rockefeller Center, Bellagio
Setting
I don’t think
I will ever tire of setting suns—
those little deaths
that come upon the lake
and splash with life
as toddlers in the shallows;
yea, they come with wings
that lift and soar
even in their ebbing—
oh to live
and like a light of burning amber
go out behind the silhouettes
of Alps
and name
upon the wind.
2 Oct 11
Evening in Nyon, Switzerland
Serenity
Above the wishbone of this alpine lake
when the wind is held
like a breath before the dive,
there is such a quiet
that the mountains in their distance
press upon you
and hold you clenched
within this openness--
a single speed boat throttles up
and races for Varenna,
a hidden train slows for its station,
and one bird twitters twice;
then all are gone--
and the sounds of sighs
as I write this down
are all my own.
4 Oct 11
At the Rockefeller Center, Bellagio
Owl and Moon[8]
The barn owl sits
on a sloping branch;
it is dusk
and the quarter moon
is playing saxophone
to a setting sun;
soon there will be lanterns lit,
hung from porch ceiling hooks
and in the evening breeze
swing arcs of light--
a splash to the wise
6 Feb 12
For the Lantern Festival
[8] See the photo by Nigel Blake, http://www.flickr.com/photos/nigelblake/4179951362/sizes/z/in/faves-nhathatran/
Verona
A fairytale
on the other side
of the mountain,
you have called
from an English class
two lovers
and gentlemen await--
we head south
against the tide of birds
in spring
to see
in our imaginings—
we are deceived,
we come alive.
29 Mar 12
Unfinished Poem II
A wing of a bird
graces the gateway path,
left behind
(I imagine)
by the large angora
who lives under
Annex II;
I am stunned
that this freedom, this flight
ripped from the very core
of what makes a bird a bird,
has fallen
before my uprightness
of step after step,
and I grieve.
18 Apr 12
Awakening
The jackhammers begin early
silencing the mourning doves
they stutter into concrete
walls to make a new way,
a portal that was not there before
but now lets in the early sun
that comes up over
the east roofs
looking for an opening
15 Aug 12
Lyre
I am captivated
by the video of the lyre bird
in the rain forest
and the sound of the chain saws
he has reproduced;
this could be a poem
about conservation,
injustice
and the threatened lyre,
but it is the sound
of falling trees
to the left
and to the right
that has me holding
my breath,
feeling the heart jump
against its cage;
being the last tree standing,
whistling the warning
to those who stand behind.
15 Sep 12
Flight
In this small commuter jet
the seat is so close to the skin
of this white and blue bird
I swear I can feel the feathers
ruffle in the wind
that rapids by;
the Blue Ridge Mountains below
stretch as spines
far to the south
into the blue-white haze;
and I am commuted
as my skin tingles
with the wonder
of the snow that ridges
here and there
feathering the mountains
under wing.
23 Dec 12
Apres Midi Poem
Blackbird harking about his branch
to the pigeons who scatter
in his wake;
he leans into his role,
tail up, head down--
"I am talking to you!"
he caws.
pigeons strut securely
on the ground
having left their balcony seats
in the theatre of pines.
blackbird not noticing the audience
had left,
the door of crisp winter air
swinging.
14 Jan 13
Evening Poem I
As the light of dusk drains
from a late winter night
the crows come
circling in groups of dozens
they check out barren treetops
and an idle crane
high above this main street
where commuters trudge
to homes after long days
at the end of the train line
that runs through this wayside town;
the crows remind me,
that this is not the story,
calling to each other
again and again
as if saying: this is familiar ground;
if we look at the arc of the sky,
we have been here before.
13 Mar 13
Owl 1
This petit one with feathers going in their own direction
leans into something with a cocked head,
round eyes wide as questions
hungry and baited for the first that hops up
a grasshopper will do
or a grape wet with morning sun;
but if you imagine you are on the other side
you may be looking out
at a strange lens and rounded lips
breath held to a silence
that hopes you will not move
until the poem is done.
28 Mar 13
Owl II
She has an angle on the world
that only a tilt of her head can see;
in a market of a hundred edibles,
this one will become something new,
something you will mull over
on your palette and remember;
but for now, you hold still wondering
what ripples the dark pools of her eyes,
what has caused the new feathers
to ruffle up and knit her brow,
what thoughts have weighed in so the slant
of her body almost seems to topple
were it not for her tight hold on the ground
of this branch that is hers alone;
and later as she sounds the story
you see sights you could never imagine
alone.
30 Mar 13
Owl III
Life should be at full tilt
an almost falling over
with eyes as round as questions
hanging on with toenails
while feathers ruffle up,
as if out of place
is its own goodness,
for which we occasionally need
an amusing reminder.
31 Mar 13
For Shirley’s birthday card[9]
Owl in Twos
This is a menu poem
a collage of couplets;
For I have been staring at this photo of a fledgling owl
starting a trio of poems,
None of which has a clue
what this fuzzy creature is thinking...
This petit one with feathers going in their own direction
leans into something with a cocked head;
She has an angle on the world
that only a tilt of her head can see;
What has caused the new feathers
to ruffle up and knit her brow?
What thoughts have weighed in so the slant
of her body almost seems to topple?
Life should be at full tilt,
an almost falling over;
With eyes as round as questions,
hanging on with toenails;
Feathers ruffle up as if
out-of-place is its own goodness;
For now, you hold still wondering
what ripples the dark pools of her eyes,
If you imagine you are on the other side
you may be looking out
at a strange lens and rounded lips—
breath held to a silence
that hopes you will not move
until the kiss is done.
1 Apr 13
For Shirley’s Birthday
[9] For the artwork, see theheartofagarden.com
Birthday Morning Poem
Today we are in the cookie jar
the silver lid of clouds
fits tightly over the valley lake
the bird-songs softer
somewhere there is the sun
of hands that toss
the seeds and crumbs
for the sparrows
somewhere there is the day
I eat and sate my feet
that walk a common path
11 May 13
On my 61st
Writing chair
I come back to the path
that winds up the hill
to search for the wooden chair
where I sat and wrote
each morning
in a green notebook
while looking south
toward Lecco;
but it has been moved;
I circle up and back
the flimsy rail at my side,
I am the hawk I saw
earlier in my climb,
looking for that tree
where the nest my parents built
was anchored
and I took the leap
all before me have done,
and I wrote
and wrote
and wrote.
6 Jun 13
In Bellagio
Morning Poem xxv
On this path
the mourning doves glide
through the tall junipers
in arcs as if on a gentle slalom
and the sky a sea of blue snow;
that it is the first of summer
is no mind to the evergreen,
but to these two
who have finished
the work of spring
there is rest
on a bough beneath the ever
green of heaven
22 Jun 13
In Lyon, walking in the park with Flavian and Elise
Nap after Lunch
He lays arched
as a ballet virtuoso
would reach for a star
in another dimension,
his paw curled on the edge
of the patio where sun meets shade
and birds chatter persistently
announcing that the cat sleeps,
there are pieces
of torn bread the visitor has tossed
from the table, whose cloth flaps
like a tail in the gentle breeze;
and I think that this is the border
between aware and oblivious,
something this sleeping hunter
is teaching me again.
6 Jul 13
Evening Poem iii
The swallows are rushing the sun
as it drops behind the Jura
screeching to each other
as if to yell "hurry";
I imagine their mouths gulping
in the mosquitoes and gnats,
feeding as though the night
will last forever;
ah, it is no wonder
why after the long winter,
the summer festivals abound .
14 Jul 13
Morning Poem xxvi
At the end in the road,
where the village square opens
and the steps are few
a sky of such blue beauty
makes me stop
and lift up my head
in all my male-ness
as if this curve of light
had the laugh of youth
and my step had the feathers
of spring
30 Jul 13
The stillness on the pond
The sparrows come to the goldfish pond,
stand on its stone rim
and lean into their reflection
taking in this liquid glass;
the light from the midday sun
and the stillness on the pond
presents them with an image
that is only theirs,
one where they appear
to lean into a kiss
as the master avian
grips the edge
and bends for a drink.
12 Aug 13
Morning Poem
Blending with the grey
winter tree against
an overcast sky
two mourning doves
look to be large buds
waiting for a sun
to paint the yellow and red
as it dips beneath the cover
that lay in this valley
between the Alps and Jura,
but not yet;
the time has not yet come
19 Jan 14
Morning Poem iii
I remember my father with a bag of grass seed
walking the lawn a throwing a swarm of seeds
onto a bare patch or wisp of thin blades of green;
weeks later there would be the most fragile of growth
like new hair, thin but glowing its lime green.
Today I read about physicists imagining what existed
before the big bang; some said nothing, not even time,
but others imagined seeds of universes, so densely packed
they held all the stars and galaxies we glimpse in the night sky
and on the pages of science articles that have us marvel;
tiny seeds, maybe embryos of universes.
awful and impossible;
remember the mustard seed, the prophet said
“it grew and became a tree,
and the birds of the air made nests in its branches.”
19 Feb 14
Ski School
He extends his arms
as if this is a flying school—
raise the right arm
and bend to the left,
the rest of you will follow;
yet each adult
looks to be the bird
at the edge of the nest
with the look of falling
as clear as the blue sky
and crisp air that paints
this Alpine school.
Later an experienced toddler
of 3 or 4 shows how it's done
left arm up
then right arm up
threading the slalom;
at the end, she fluffs her feathers
and heads up the lift again
9 Mar 14
Morning Poem v
I turn a corner
into a swirling flock of pigeons
and that this is
an old town of cobblestones,
narrow ways
and the air is chilled
more than spring promises
is gone in a flurry of feathers
9 Apr 14
Sprite Island Bridge
It's a banner
over a walkway that stretches
out forever into the bay;
in the distance, the island
bobs in the bay;
small boats ferry sun worshippers
with picnic baskets
and fold-up chairs
this is the weekend of the summer
and all who toil ache
for the sounds of gulls
and lap of the waves
the slow sun
and fluffed up clouds
tease the shadows;
remember when we got
off our bikes
and looked with longing
out to that horizon
to the island that skipped
on the sound
like a shiny stone
28 May 14
Evening Poem ii
Every edge of night
in this season of long days
the swallows race and whistle
scooping any small gift
in their path; the relentless noise
is as if referees are calling
a continuous off-sides;
these are the fighter jets
of the avians
chattering their ordinance
against the dark cruel night
the we-will-not-go
without a fight
5 Jul 14
Mother and Child
She asks me to help tilt her forward
so we can together put on
her snow-white fleece,
the warm one that is a blanket
with sleeves;
I have her wrap her arms around my neck
and as I straighten
she curves
my hands feeling the bend
in her spine
each disc a fin that cuts me;
she sits deflated as a Christmas
lawn figure that has not been fully pumped,
but her spirit is strong
and we grunt and twist as first
one arm then the other
are bent and threaded
in their eyelets;
it is the white heron I saw earlier
being folded and reassembled
as origami;
I am careful not to crease her,
but it is she who has creased me
and I find new edges
where my fingers bleed
28 Dec 14
In Mom’s hospital room, Port St. Lucie, FL
Foz Torto
Walking down the
back-and-forth terraces
of the Douro vineyard
I uncoil with the empty vines
and olive trees;
even the rows of planting
have a curve to themselves;
in the distance there
are ducks chattering
and four-note birds
hidden in the branches
with sinking sunlight—
they do not reveal their names
and I do not tell them mine,
but now having reached
the bottom of the earthen road
where the chain gate is tossed
among the rocks and wildflowers
I wait for the sound of others
with the lean-into ear
of a disciple.
25 Jan 15
Yoga on your birthday
In the morning before you wake
the sun is edging over Italy
looking for the openings
in the Alps that now glow as beacons:
this way;
the birds are singing their early songs
to each other and anyone who'll pause to listen;
I feel my heart and hear my breathing rise
and I am thankful and graced
by all these
that your being
awakens in me anew.
1 Apr 15
For Shirley
Easter
The wind is howling this morning
the French doors creak and rattle
with each intake of breath,
the rain clouds have been blown
through the valley,
the blue sky trumpets,
daffodils bow,
and still empty branches wave as palms
to this day,
the one that tells us death is empty
and new life follows winter
as sure as the swallows return
5 Apr 15
Midday Poem
The crow looks at me
as if I’m stupid;
how could I miss the wooden landing
on which he clicks with quick steps
to the edge
to watch the bread fall
into the goldfish pond?
The goldfish are delighted
but lack that turn of head
and glassy ebony eye
that steals from me
another morsel
a word tossed out
a bit further this time
29 Sep 15
Crumbs beneath the table
The swallows are gone
before the first leaves yellow,
their high-pitched swooping
moved to other valleys;
It's as if they knew
that the crumbs beneath the table
would come
before the sliced roll
was ever toasted warm,
while it was still fresh
with the smell of yeast
hanging above
the oven door
15 Nov 15
for Shirley’s challenge to write about the crumbs
Morning Poem ii
The blackbird shrinks
into itself
on the walnut tree branch;
the cold rains stretch from
Sunday to Sunday
with little sighs of sun
only at the end of day,
when there's a peek
under this blanket in the valley
that keeps even the short
flights of fancy
in check
10 Jan 16
Evening Poem III
It may be the radio
a lyric
or a light aching yellow
and I slow the car
lift my right toes from the pedal
pull toward the right
and coast
if I have the presence of mind
to put on the flashers
I’m still bumping on the tarmac
not yet airborne
I have time to write the journey down
still
this down time
before the verses take off
has me reaching for the glove compartment
where there are no gloves,
just a smattering of pencils
and a smear of bank envelops
the ones that slide into the ATM with a whirr
and click
as it pulls from my finger tips.
These have a new purpose
they can be turned inside out
and the clean white underside
with the proof holes
will take a few words
that are a deposit
saved for another day,
when this fragment latched on
like a prickly spoor
and would not let go until
it took root,
the holes let in the water
the paper stained with earth
took this turn of phrase
and edged it to the sun
so it's pencil shavings became the bark.
punctuation was the turn of bud
and the vastness of the sky
the only place I’d make a deposit
and catch the red tail hawk
as it flipped its page
21 Feb 16
Morning Poem vii
I am late to the train today
still working on the rush of the hour;
I pass a class of tiny students
no older than six
coming toward me
as I hustle the other way;
and it is as if I’m in the midst
of a flock of very excited sparrows
chirping one over the other
with a delight in nearly everything;
I turn and see the smart bows,
bright shoes and ever-shining smiles
and if vow as the moment passes
that I will not leave the child behind,
soon I will turn
and he will be there
holding my hand.
24 May 16
Toulouse
The swallows are still screeching
through their turns
as the glow of a new evening
in Toulouse
provides the last glimpse
of horizon
at the end of may;
this is not an early spring
many pages turned
with the barest skid
the swallows dip
into grooves of the narrowest way
and still they don't collide;
the sun is swallowed in the night
dreams turn over
in tangle of pages
not knowing where this book
will go
or when.
29 May 17
In Toulouse, France
Wings
They gathered round the bed
at the top of the stairs
and talked her into flight,
reciting a familiar prayer,
holding her hand,
so the stepping over
the threshold of this nest
could be a foot at a time;
sometimes forward
sometimes back,
and at the moment
of courage
on both sides,
we let go
as we must
and the breath of wings
left as quickly as it came.
Later, looking out over
the beloved garden
they created together
a hummingbird lingered
at the pane,
steady on its wings.
6 Jul 17
For Betsy on Patsy’s passing
Shingles
When the circle of rash
begins to slowly multiply
I show it to my wife
and ask,
"is this shingles?
For she, having it a year ago,
was imprinted,
as if pain makes a duckling
out of us,
all we can do is follow;
the name has the ominous
tone of common words
of dread
like the cause of a leaky roof;
that it lay dormant for 60 years,
like death waiting, is so unfair
what did I do to wake it up?
What happened to the wisdom
of letting sleeping dogs lie?
And at the time my life
is leaking change
and deadlines loom
like dark and lumbering clouds,
putting out shingles
should signal I’m prepared
and I’m ready to see a client
or two?
9 Aug 17
Hummer
Then there is the hummingbird,
the newest visitor to our kitchen window feeder.
They are in another time zone altogether.
Before I finish saying hello, they’ve recited the daily news,
downed two cups of coffee and are off to the office.
Everything seems to be accelerating for them.
Perhaps that is getting older,
but in a way we may not expect.
We seem to slow down in many ways
We don’t move or think as fast;
we take turns on the road more deliberately,
as if the cues need to catch up in our minds
before we can act on them.
My father liked to say,
“I don’t know why they call these the Golden years;
they’re more like the rust years.”
In all these ways, we are not the hummingbird.
But something that does seem to speed up
for us
is time.
Whole seasons seem to fly by.
In the morning mirror, we age before our eyes,
like the fast motion videos of flowers blooming
and fading in seconds.
"when did all that grey happen," we mutter.
The little bundle of frenetic, humming energy
is challenging us to slow down
in ways that are coming alive
rather than getting busy with dying.
To delight in the grace of a divine visit,
that pauses for only a sip of time,
that is the poem of the hummingbird.
11 Aug 18
Passing
The nod of the head
as the cross goes by,
this recessing with honor
I learned from her,
watching on a Sunday morning
in an old white church,
sun streaming in the tall side windows
slicing up the room
into photographs;
there were no words said,
no caption,
just a subtle bow
that spoke more benediction
than the blessing;
not that she was one of few words
when she was riled by some injustice,
and there were many;
she’d mutter to herself,
and if you heard between the lines
and said so,
she’d say an emphatic “that's right!”
…
It was an early foyer dinner
at someone else’s house
that another new parishioner
leaned over in my direction
in the kitchen, holding a glass of wine
and said,
“Isn’t she wonderful?”
I nodded,
as she passed
holding some dish
that needed bringing to the table
in the next room.
She wasn’t referring to the hosting
but rather all the moments of accepting us
in our frailties,
and there were many.
From her I also learned
that Grace comes in small gestures:
a touch on the back of a hand
a prayer at the window
with the birds flurrying around
a feeder just filled
as we were;
You adopted us as your children
and we adopted you as our great Aunt,
if ever the word great was understated
It is now Dear Alice
when we each bow with a nod
as you pass by
with a cross in your hand
smiling about some secret
we have still to live out.
30 Sep 18
7 Dec 19, revised and
read at Alice’s memorial service, St. Francis Church
Circling
It flies into the bedroom
with furious wings
that are not wings,
sounding out the walls
that limit its flight;
it circles,
the covers that
in earlier years
would protect against
imagined terror
pulled up over heads
in the hope it will just
go away.
But it circles
pinging its silent pings
until one of us creeps out
furtively to the bathroom
to grab a large towel
and play the toreador
to get this creature—
more frightened than us—
to find the doorway
and exit,
down the stairs
to where the front door
has been flung open
and the welcome mat
jeering.
But it will not leave,
such denials of escape
and freedom
boxing it in,
fear causing
the endless circling.
6 Oct 18
Written after a midnight of nightmares woke me up, straining to hear any movement in the house. The fear palpable, proving the tiny fur for the fright of impending heart surgery and what may be found.
Dipping in and out
Sitting on the old sea wall
watching seagulls try their luck
these fish too large
too fast in their turns
the brackish water stirs
from fins, tails
and web feet
dipping in and out
leaving footprints
that spread to glass
and are gone.
29 Dec 18
Ft. Pierce, FL, at the harbor and the outdoor market
Great White
A great white egret
is periscoping
atop the neighbor’s fence
getting a good look
at each of the yards
within its grasp,
while i am hidden
behind the glare
of the sunroom windows;
we put out some mixed seed
last night
but it’s not moving
and the egret is especially
watchful of the moving;
I read they are birds of opportunity
but prefer the small fish
or frog
or the slow mouse;
that neck stretches for the sky
but all I have are tidbits on the ground.
1 Jan 19
At our back window, Anna Maria Island,
Holmes Beach, FL
Kensington
An outstretched hand,
palm up as a vessel,
bits of seed and nut crumbs
and a holding still
so as not to startle;
they come alone,
gather behind leaves
and look;
a flit down and arc away,
a toe dipped in the pool
of early autumn air;
then the chickadee
bold in a humble frame
lands on a finger,
flicks around the handful
to find the perfect seed,
then off to the branch
to peck the soft morsel
from its hull,
while I the giant of the woodland
am blessed by a grace
light as the breeze.
14 Sep 19
After feeding the birds in Kensington Park, MI
(the last 3 lines for a plaque on my memorial bench?)
Thanksgiving
“You are journeying from the beginning to the end, and what makes it sacred is that in the process of this journey you encounter the holy in various forms which, unless you have your eyes open, you might not even notice” —Frederick Buechner
In the late afternoon
I will call my brother and sister
So we can groan
And joke about how we cannot move;
We are thankful for the short distance
From table to couch
Perhaps we have misnamed the day;
For many in this rich land
it is Engorgement day;
The symbol is not the turkey,
but the stuffing
The realization that we cannot fill
our clothing encasements more
without popping buttons,
Splitting seams;
Some call it food coma
It is one of the deadly sins
“limitless appetite”
the dictionary says
“overindulgence”
“no longer eating just to live,
but rather living to eat.”
at least for a day.
What if we come to the word
Through its back door:
The secret that in giving away of yourself
you find yourself;
kindness and generosity
yield a fullness of being,
a swelling of the heart
and the dawning of gratitude.
I am grateful that I have the opportunity to give,
and the grace to be thankful for it.
28 Nov 19
Horizons (2020-2025)
On the pond with you
When we set sail
on the same pond
years ago
we could not
anticipate the tidal waves
among the vistas,
but a true heart
is like the wings
of the Alibangbang
of Orchard Island,
in its season
both a delicacy
and a coming of age,
calling out to
hoist your flag
and fly.
1 Apr 20
For Shirley’s birthday
On Orchard Island and the Alibangbang[10]
[10] See https://sites.google.com/site/callfinalproject/taiwan_flying-fish-festival
Fragile
He holds the egg up to the light
and satisfied that it is good
turns with a knowing smile
places it my young, cupped hands
and asks me to put it in the carton;
I pause
feeling its warmth
and bit of under-feather
stuck on its side;
with as much care as a young
nation cradles freedom
I shuffle to the table
and place it with the other voices
struggling to sing in harmony
and not fall apart.
10 Jan 21
Remember visiting my uncle’s friend’s farm in Port Jervis, NY
Return
The early blooms are trumpeting
Soon the hummers will return
Others kept us company
at the window
through the winter
again called long and hard;
but this year among all
the others
was long
and was hard,
which makes this day
all the more joyous
when the trumpets
are met with a flutter
of the ruby-throated
27 Mar 21
Nuthatch
It’s all a matter of perspective
I think
watching the nuthatch
walking down the tree trunk,
upside down
against the stream;
what is there to see
that others walked confidently by?
I don’t like to take the same route
going to a destination
as coming back;
there may be something new
to see, turning around
and walking down the tree.
13 Jul 21
Siege (Haiku)
Feeder's empty shells
where black seeds have been plundered
the crows have moved on
5 Mar 22
Saturday in Lent
A Stillness
“As the deer longs for the water-brooks,
so longs my soul for you, O God.” –Psalm 42:1
In the hills above Hanover
walking the blue-blazes that branch
from the Appalachian trail,
I hear the callings
before seeing them:
the chickadee,
chipmunk,
and squirrel;
only the deer practices
silence
a stillness that is the hope
of not being found;
but it is hope I have
on this path
made firm through the forest,
hope that the words will come
and find me
with a calling that demands a stillness.
21 Mar 22
Monday in Lent
Beacons?
The robins have returned
in the mid-March snow,
have these beacons of spring
got it wrong?
They gather in the crab apple tree,
puffed up red breasts,
their pride a dashed contrast
in their hunger;
The dried fruit has hung on
for this harvest
and one by one
they yield to the pull
of these proud ground hunters,
their glory
buried ‘neath the vestiges
of winter
in the north.
13 Mar 22
Sunday in Lent
Annunciation
“He has cast down the mighty from their thrones,
and has lifted up the lowly.” –From the Magnificat, Luke 1:52
The mallards have returned
their exile to the south has past,
now busy with the work of spring,
They march from the pond
to the east
to the one to the west
like the day casting shadows.
I set a ground feeder
on their path
so I can watch from
my office window,
she, leading the way
and he, following behind.
When she stops to eat,
he keeps guard,
his green regal head
looking left and right
then at the King behind the glass.
She scoops with her bill
munching quickly,
swallows the seeds whole,
an array of millet clinging to her
like a toddler’s mustache of milk.
Then she is off, picking up speed
as he rushes to catch up.
She is on a mission
and knows there soon
will be little ones
and all this lowly metaphor
will rise up with meaning
in the midst of Lent.
25 Mar 22
Friday in Lent
Missy
Listen to me, O coastlands,
pay attention, you peoples from far away! –Isaiah 49:1
The mallard we named Missy
has come to the ground feeder
as she travelers the yards
from pond
to house to the next.
She sees me in the window
and calls to me as surely
as the wind:
this feeder is empty
and I have stopped in vain!
So, I gather up the offering
in a red plastic pail
and shift it into the feeders
in the hope that she
will come again
and I will hear her voice.
12 Apr 22
Tuesday in Lent
Feeders
We have seven feeders,
an ark of hanging portals
and ground trays
with a cycle of feasting,
birds, squirrels, ducks
and rabbits--
each with a different eating
schedule.
Most are well-mannered,
except the red squirrels,
they will chase any comers
no matter their size
as if to say in a toddlers
best sense of vocal
indignation,
this is mine!
12 May 22
Main Street
Sampling
is what I’d call it;
she stops in the kitchen shop,
I lure her into the bakery,
the bar and grills outnumber
the florists,
but not by much;
a school has let out
and pods of students
in shorts and backpacks
head south,
the cafe tables provide refuge
under green umbrellas,
the lawyer steps
outside his shingle-front shop
and checks the cars
easing by
blue sky and sun
peak from clouds
easing a taste of rain,
the sparrows
wait for morsels
for their songs;
it is a day in every town
on the edge of Memorial Day
and the banner over Main St.
invites the veterans
one and all
27 May 22
Milford, MI
Calling
Out for a late walk
the birds are calling the dark
to come over
but not yet.
The American robins are dominating
the conversation,
getting in the last word.
I heard a sparrow
and a starling,
the magical Merlin app
helps my untrained ear.
At one point
I butt-dialed
the recording
and robins were singing
all around me.
When I turned it off,
they continued
as if I had called to them.
4 Jun 22
Cayenne Pepper
I read that this
crushed red pepper
will keep the squirrels off
the bird feeder,
but first it must be opened.
A clear plastic ring
requires a knife
then the screw-on cover
can be removed,
next is a thick paper barrier
glued to the top
so it cannot be peeled off
but only cut
then pried off
in pieces,
followed a foil layer
that can’t be poked
so the knife is wielded anew
with a stab
then peeled three times,
finally, the cap is replaced
and hinged lid opened.
And I realize
I am the squirrel,
I have overcome
the barrier.
23 Aug 22
Making the rounds
The great blue heron
walks deftly on the rocky shore
of the pond out back
where I too fish,
less sure of my footing
on the smooth, loose stone.
She is quiet
and slow to move,
sometimes pausing with one leg
up in mid-stride
then she lunges with the speed
of setting the hook
and tilting her head back
like a rod mid-reel
swallows her catch whole.
I cast again
and reel in slowly
waiting for the lunge of the bass
and the scream of the line
connecting us.
3 Oct 22
The Visitation
They come
in search of the shelled peanut
or sunflower seed,
first one
then another,
the regal cardinal has dressed
for the day
as has the red-bellied woodpecker;
we were away
and the feeders ran dry
but now they have found us anew
and the word has spread
far and wide;
love comes again
at Christmas
and visits us
in the tiniest of feathers,
the hope a patron saint
has told us of,
and in the smallest gift
we are renewed.
25 Dec 22
Pair
I read today that the phrase
“birds of a feather”
has a predicate:
“flock together,”
so the Grammarist[11] tells us.
Though we have different feathers
some are yet the same.
And so today
we remember
that we are ever a group
of two.
14 Feb 23
[11] https://grammarist.com/proverb/birds-of-a-feather-flock-together/
Watchers
We have become the watchers:
guppies in vases at the table
red bellies and downy
at the feeders in the window frames,
they come and go
hide and feed,
but in all their motion
they are there with us,
the holy spirits of creation
reminding us in their smallness
they are often larger
than our largeness
that in this
we are together,
ever becoming the watchers
14 Feb 23
Walking the Marsh
“Happy are they who have not walked in the counsel of the wicked,
nor lingered in the way of sinners,
nor sat in the seats of the scornful!” —Ps. 1:1
We hiked the Marsh trail today
Avoiding the soggy parts
Of the path soaked
By the high tide
And rain storms
We sought the counsel
Of the feathered citizens
Of the preserve
And being near midday
Found few
Save a great white egret
Napping on the other side
Of the lagoon
And when I called
He lifted up his head
And stretched his neck
It did not fly away
And we lingered
In all that echoed good
This side of Eden
9 Mar 23
Thursday, Lent 16
Restoring Our Souls
“He makes me to lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside the still waters.
He restores my soul” –Ps. 23:2-3a
It is on the cusp of spring
the faint green lawn
and ice-ringed pond
yearn for the thaw.
The two mallards
have come back
and two geese
as if the ark has docked
and the passengers are debarking.
Soon we will walk
without winter woolies
and lie down in verdant valleys
dip our weary feet in warm waters
restoring our souls
as only the creation can do.
19 Mar 23
Sunday, Lent 26
Mallard
“Ride out and conquer in the cause of truth
and for the sake of justice.” –Ps. 45:4
When the mallard reaches the edge
and casts off into the pond
he shakes his tail
as if leaving the dust of earth
behind
he is catching up
with his bride
who already tips her body
and eats of the early spring moss
He is regal
in how he holds his head in pride
and purpose
conquering the day
with his presence,
so it is so.
25 Mar 23
Saturday, Lent 32
Sunrise
"There is a sound of exultation and victory
in the tenets of the righteous" –Ps. 118:15
Before I see him,
I hear the red-belly
trumpet from the tree top.
In the early morning light
he rushes down
like the wind
to the empty feeder
to eat with the others,
looking left then right,
inviting me to see
what he sees,
and what I thought was an end
was a beginning.
9 Apr 23
Easter Sunday
Breathe
Spirit of the living God, fall fresh on me
I awake with the hymn playing
on my fuzzy radio
and I can use the clarity
of inspiration
as I sit with my coffee
and wait.
the redwing blackbird calls
as it alights on the feeder,
he is not at a loss
for words.
even the chipmunk
stops to pant a verse or two.
why is the idiom
to draw a blank?
drawing would be to create,
yet what I hear
is the morning buzz
between my ears
and the rising and falling
of my breath
that the yoga master
tells me to pay attention to,
and that is the offering
I place in the plate of the day,
an emptying so that I may
be filled.
16 May 23
At the Feeders
The sparrows and finches
seem to have multiplied at the feeders
hanging from our deck railing
where they line up in the morning
and stare at our window
as if to remind us
the sunflower seeds have run out.
First there were the new family
members, fluttering their wings
opening mouths wide,
but now the neighbors
have followed
to check on the commotion.
And then in an instant
there are none,
as if another call
has gone out;
it's too early for the flights south
and the decision to be made
to stay or go
as if they had a choice.
11 Aug. 23
Sparrow
It is a morning of clarity
as I step out on the deck
to bask in the little bit of paradise
that stretches out from our home.
Standing still for a moment
a bird confuses me for a tree
and lands on my shoulder,
my floral summer shirt
changing its perspective
for a second,
then immediately beating its wings
to make its escape
before I turn into its path.
And to think it risked all
to step outside its zone
before instinct clouded
the crisp horizon
30 Aug 23
Ensemble of Autumn
The clouds hang
like a pleated curtain
on the changing room
where nature’s child
is changing into party clothes,
the coordinated summer green
outfit is replaced by reds
orange, yellow, browns,
the ensemble of autumn,
and when the sun
draws open the drape
and an innocent wind
nudges the reluctant one
to dance
she throws stars
like trinkets
to the ground,
twirls
and bows
as a vee of geese
clap and jeer
with songs
of approval.
23 Oct 23
Spring in Michigan
Spring comes to Michigan
as cogs on a wheel,
not a smooth turn
but a catch and lurch,
unwilling to leave winter
save in a disorderly fashion
some years it’s missed altogether,
taking the ski jump
into summer,
but today the birds
are celebrating
the crocuses showing off
and the forsythia hinting
earlier than the groundhog
forecast.
On a walk without a coat
I’ll sail on the warm breeze
and take the turn
of the slow wheel
before the catch,
before its time
12 Mar 24
Fine feathered friends
My father
built birdhouses
from scraps of wood
and hung them
from the maple arms
in our yard.
So sparrows came
each spring and nested.
and there were feeders
and buckets of bird seed
kept in the garage
to ensure they were full.
Now in my retiring years
I have seven feeders
and a dozen feathered friends
who come to sing to me
I know from whom
they’ve come.
I have named each one
and call to them
when I dodder out
carefully in winter
seed bag in hand,
and they chatter
from the maple trees
for me to hurry,
there’s a gala dinner
to be had.
3 Jun 24
Kensington II
They stand still
on this path
through a field
of tall grass
and trees
one hand to the sky
with a mix of seeds
waiting for the birds
in this nature center
to notice
and descend
like little fingers
of God
accepting the
offering
the pause
and those with heads
held high and eyes
on the treetops
are blessed
19 Nov 24
Red
My cousin asks me
what my spark bird is,
the one that kindled
my interest,
and I think
of the cardinal
in winter,
the one we call Fred
who peers in at us
while grinding
a sunflower seed,
and I ponder
what is he thinking
as we sit at our table
and eat a late lunch,
always these two
together
single
together
and I wonder
who has kindled whom?
14 Feb 25
For Shirley’s Valentine’s day card
Anniversary
Each year they return
to our pond
this mallard pair
who I've named
Missy and Benson.
They are tentative at first
but then they remember,
there is food involved
and a meal shared together
is a reaffirmation
of vows made years before.
Come, look at their dance
the bobbing of heads
acknowledging one
and the other,
a mating ritual
where each one says
I am here,
I see you
and I am you.
14 Mar 25
For our tenth anniversary
Lighthouse
The lighthouse
at the end
of the white railinged walk
rests on this quiet day
free from storms
and driving winds,
a lone gull
looks among the seaweed carpet
left open by the tide
but nothing moves,
the absent beacon
says: nothing
here to run aground,
not a ship
or sail to the horizon
just the gentle
lapping of rocks worn smooth.
8 Sep 25
Epilogue
I remember a graduate student working with my high school English teacher telling us that you could gain insights into Shakespeare's work by studying his use of birds. I had just finished a manuscript about maple trees and wondered if what was true of Shakespeare might be true of any poet who had been paying attention during their journey.
These poems suggest it is. Birds arrived in my work not as chosen symbols but as witnesses, to grief and wonder, to love and its complications, to the slow turn of seasons and decades. They came to laments and dreams, to a winter feeder, to a hand held open on an autumn path. They were, it turns out, traveling with me.
Frederick Buechner wrote that we should listen to our lives, because all moments are key moments.¹ Every collection is also a journey. Setting these poems down together feels like watching the heron lift from the pond out my window — the shape of something always present, seen whole only in its leaving. The question the chickadee posed is still open. I am ever learning to be still enough to hear the answer.
