Sunset Two Ways

A reader, a critic, said
“Your poetry is not
poetic enough. Not
enough layers and what
layers there are
are too damn thin.”

What point obfuscation,
What point incomprehensible simile,
What point hairy metaphor,
What point the flowery
Language of
Yore?

Isn’t the story enough,
Aren’t the realities
Full of adequate
Realism?
Wonders described
Fairly well
Don’t need to make
One wonder.

I took the criticism
To heart and looked
At the sunset…

And I saw blood on stones
I saw a melting
Into orchids of shadow
I saw a christening
Of stars flying slowly free
And I saw changes
Unwanted but
Unavoidable.

There was more…

Clouds like silver ships
Breezes like the breath of cowards
Eyes fading and shrouded
With sensual doubt
More blood
Fewer stones
Cascading shards of concrete
Clear glass and computers.

But then…

I grew tired
I longed for a mountain
The sun slipping softly down behind
Leaving a bruised sky
Showing gentle purples
Powdery blues
Elusive greens
Then finally, darkness.

There are two ways to sunset.

An Artist In Film: Nature Series # 24

for Linda

She faithfully records milkweed
With silver nitrate reactions
On the purest white paper
As silken pods explode in
Chilled near winter
Bursts of wind.

She takes note of footprints
Wild tracks of wild things
As they lead her on trails
Pushed softly down
Into freshly fallen
Clean white snow.

When spring arrives with
Fiddleheads fine pushing up
Through leafy loam she is
There with her close-up
Lens making pictures, lying
Still upon the earth.

And then on a hot summer’s
Day I find her in the nearby
Woods lifting logs, searching
Stumps full of hidden mushrooms.
She is seeing, sensing, snapping
An artist in film, my love.

The Big Rock: Nature Series #3

Steely grey it rises along
A country road veiled by
Trees shedding their
Summer finery.

A cottage sized hulking
Presence living there since
Cold white masses left
Scars and boulders.

This huge rock stands
Alone in a field of
Yellow flowers and
Autumn’s glow.

Like a sentinel through
Centuries it watched the
Passing of aboriginals
Pioneers and machines.

Native folk and pioneers
Must have noticed and
Used it as a marker on
The old time river trail.

Rare is the walking person
Rarer still the pausing driver
Who goes up to the solid rock
To stand next to the past.

Those who do are treated
To strength and silence
To rough and smooth
Surfaces carved by time.

A coolness lives there
Perhaps an ancient remnant
Of the passing ice as it
Left this great stone.

I stop often to consult the rock.
Massive and steady it listens
Words of sympathy are unspoken
But shallow worries fall away.

It’s said that stone is a living thing
Someday I hope to hear it sing.

October Morning: In Memoriam R. V.

October winds shake seasonal
Death from the trees sending
Waves of debris rustling around
An empty back yard.

Last night’s news leaves an
Empty spot at the family
Table and a void in all of
Our saddened hearts.

We look on as life sends good
And bad without regard for
Changing seasons hopeless or
Hopeful or indifferent.

At today’s end rest will come
Memories will be shaken through
Our mind as sleep eludes us
But only for a few moments.

Those moments will fleetingly tell
A story of days past and laughter
Shared yes mostly laughter
Always shared with joy.

Apple Pie

There’s an apple pie baking
All cinnamon smelling
Full of autumn’s pickings
And the house is alive with
That warmth.

Apples from a farm way
Up in the North Country
Are the heart of the creation
Crisp and clean
Hand picked and fresh.

Woe to the calorie counters
Those who refuse to savor
A gift so fine and true
Worshipping at the altar
Of cholesterol free food.

What could be so bad?
Some fruit and flour
Sugar pure and fine
Spices butter lemon
Lovely stuff melded gently.

But oh the fat and oh
The ice cream on the
Side of that warm
Delicious dish so
Rich and good.

One slice only I
Promise with fingers
Crossed. I’ll give the
Rest away tomorrow
I lie sincerely.

Damn it’s good.

The Dying Goes So Slow

They sit a death watch
Now for the not so old
Man lying still slowly
Slowly breathing
So close to the end

His wife years younger
Confused yet sure of all
That must be done in hard
Days looming ahead and
Seeing painful relief.

Grown children gather
Bewildered watching the
Strong man laid so low
Sons and daughter
Waiting waiting.

Strangers come to the house
Helpers along this final path
Caring and careful
They’ve seen it all
Many times.

The dying goes so slow
A list of those to call
Sits ready on the table
Another list of final
Things to do.

Far away we wait for word
No comfort to take or give
We go about our daily
Business as the dying
Goes so slow.

We wait not watching.

Winter Forecaster: Nature Series 17

Today my walk was
Interrupted as I paused
To watch some
Woolly Bears those
Colorful crawlers as
They crossed my path.

Pyrrharctia Isabella
Science books say
Soon to be a sunlight
Shade of yellow
Flying towards my
Back porch light.

Grandmother said
Brown bands wide
You’ll play outside
Brown bands thin
You’ll be
Staying in.

Harbinger of winter’s
Strength or sign of
Nature’s power to
Renew I watch
As you make your
Way to greener grass.

Today furry friend
Your brown band seems
Very wide.

Mountain Top Missing: Nature Series

We climbed the mountain
With the help of a V6 since
Debilitating age won’t
Let us walk.

We took a road that switched
One way then another
In seemingly endless
Tight fitting esses.

Then down we rode
Into a gray canyon and saw
The mountain top had
Gone missing.

Stepping out into silence
We turned a slow circle
Marveling at sheer rock cliffs
On three sides.

A history is written in those
Cliffs etched by generations
Of miners taking layer upon layer
Of that living mountain.

Ages of rock were peeled
Off and ground into stony waste
And garnet crystal to feed an
Industrial need.

As our gaze slides down the vertical
Scene it stops to see new trees on
Narrow ledges then further down
Two ponds glimmer.

This canyon floor is littered with
The chaff of mineral harvesting
But ponds deep and pure are
Reclaiming the land.

A summer’s growth takes the path
Towards autumn and flowers bloom
Still in rocky shadows where birds
Sing echoing hallelujahs.

Fish and frogs jump and ripple
The surface of what is now a new
Mountain top as it evolves shrugging
Off the marks of men.

Fading Light: Nature Series

She was looking in
Through the sliding glass door
That overlooks the river.

A small doe standing
In the yard bathed
In the fading light
Of a Fall day.

Curious. Wary posture.
Looking at us in our
Rocking chairs as
We drank a beer
And looked back.

Her deer logic worked
In its wild way
She reckoned us a
Threat and tensed
Her whole body coiled.

She made a half
Pirouette on pointed
Hooves, muscles bunched
In her back legs and she
Exploded, springing
Away into the trees.

She left only the fading
Light and an indelible
Memory.

Turkey Trot: Nature Series

It was a little after
Sunrise when the
Wild turkeys came
Strutting into the
Front yard
Two big birds overseeing
Five youngsters.

Pecking industriously at
Whatever it is they
Eat, all business
Building up their
Reserves for those cold
Winter days soon
To come.

Subtle colors all
Brown and gray
With hints of blue.
Can birds be proud?
They seemed so
Doing their work
Imperiously moving in
Solemn procession along
The road’s edge.

I went out the door to
Cheer their parade but
They raced away in a
Feathery flash.

Usual Things

Today the sun came up in the usual way
As the world lightened
Everything around seemed about the same
Carefully nature’s common events
Came to pass
Breezes blew their soft fingers
Against sheer curtains
Clouds made their airy journey
Across early autumn skies
Birds began their melodic work
Using the same refrains learned
Over centuries
Grass continued growing and fall flowers
Cast up their familiar blooms
All the creatures of this realm performed the
Necessary tasks of their existence

You didn’t need to continue to love me
And yet you did.

Night Came Creeping

Night came creeping into the woods
So I took my chair out on the dirt lane
To watch.

Enough wine had made the mosquitoes
No problem at all and the azure sky promised a
Good show.

The forest was first to be smothered with
Shadows as sunlight fell away behind the hill
Fading quickly.

Then the forest pushed its evening shroud into
My clearing, covering me as I looked on with
Rapt attention.

From East to West the darkness deepened
Until I saw only the shape of the woods not
The substance.

My little cabin was unlit behind me, the river
Murmured softly in the ravine below, the water
Late summer low.

But then, rising above the shoulder of the valley
Crest came the Moon full and platinum bright starting
Its night time journey.

And the stars, brightest at my back, turned on
Their diamond points and littered the blackness with
Dazzling brilliance.

No city lights in this place to dim to dullness Nature’s silent
Show, a dark and lustrous duo, as it plays to an audience
Of one.

I own this night. It is my woods. It is my Earth and sky.
But you my love, far away, can have all that I own if you will
Only join me here.

ABANDONED HOUSES, ABANDONED LIVES

Standing empty, no longer proud
An old two storey farm house is up at the end
Of an overgrown lane. Tall maples being eclipsed
By wild brush and vines once stood sentry along
That old lane. The house is leaning, clapboard siding
Once white and fresh now weathered gray like a cold
North Country day. The roof is bowed the porch floor full of
Open places. Empty windows look out on empty
Fields. Inside the house is littered sparsely with broken
Furniture, things once treasured by a family long ago
Departed.

A cemetery on a hill, twin to the hill with the house,
Tells part of the story. Names and dates, dates lasting nearly a
Century. Children’s names and old people and two who died
In war. Men and women, boys and girls who worked that
Land who laughed in the rooms of this empty, no longer
Proud house. A family through generations, first growing
Then fading away and leaving. The last who lived
Here must have grown weary of the struggle to bring prosperity
To the home, lost their will and could convince no
Others to carry on. No sale made, no taxes paid.
Now just an empty place no longer proud.

The house now abandoned once held hope and love, lives lived
Tending the land and the animals. Lessons and learning,
Work and play, sowing and harvesting all had their times,
Their seasons. There was a rhythm to their lives that is no
Longer felt in the house or on the land. Were those last souls
Who are not resting on the nearby hill, but who lived and
Worked here for a time the people who abandoned their
Lives and this place? Or did they just decide to stop the
Struggle and the fading it caused? New lives elsewhere, a
Springtime in a different place. Was it a gradual thing the
Leaving, a slow abandonment or sudden?

The house holds few clues, the cemetery stones tell only
Abridged stories. But we see the ending, a house empty
No longer proud.

STANDISH ROAD

Almost falling down, the home that was my
Great-grandparents. A big wing on each end of
A center section that once housed a store
And post office. Grandpa would give us a
Nickel and send us up the street to get
Some candy. My Great-grandmother, old
And ailing but glad to see us. My Grandma’s
Sister sorting mail talking and laughing.
A phone would ring, but not their ring,
Someone else on the party line. They knew
Them all and sometimes would pick up the
Phone and listen quietly, then interrupt.
And laugh and gossip. On a warm day
All the doors and windows would be open.
Curtains flapping in the constant breeze.
Comings and goings.
Living and dying.
They did die of course, over the years.
Then so did the town. And it wasn’t so long that
No one in the family wanted the old, run down
House. Year after year it sat decaying and
Dying. It’s still there. Given up for taxes with
Signs tacked up and yellow rope around because
Of the danger. The center collapses more with every
Hard winter storm, and there are many there on
The back side of the mountain.
The sides lean in and soon it will all collapse
Upon itself. I remember it freshly painted and
Clean, clean, clean.
My Great-grandparent’s abandoned house.

STONES

An old cemetery, really not too
Old as these things go, is cut into the forest
Behind the little white church.

I walked there on a clear and cool
Mountain day to look at the stones, some
Bearing my family name.

Passing souls all.

The oldest markers were from late in
The century before cars and all the roads
That carry them.

Then, in those days, it was a wagon that
Hauled a body to these burying
Grounds, or if a child, someone’s loving arms.

Passing souls all.

Many of the stones bear the dates
Of the great epidemic when the raging flu
Took so many children.

Two sisters and a brother my father never knew
Bear those dates. Small
Markers for small children.

Passing souls all.

Those years were a time of war an ocean
Away but there was no way to fight for the little ones
Long gone from the little town.

Many stones are missing from this disorderly field
Or worn to smoothness by years of harsh
Winter wind and snow.

Passing souls all.

Many lives now unmarked and no longer
Remembered have left only the faintest impressions
On this grassy ground.

Some markers are still strong and shiny
Sitting up over others who bore my family name.
Some have a blank for that final date.

Passing souls all.

On one side of the clearing a small niche catches
My eye. Just inside the trees an old wooden cross
Hand carved a single name, a date.

The name is Simmons the date looks like 1937
Or maybe nine. An unfamiliar name in this town
Of French and Irish and Slav.

Passing souls all.

And how does this wooden marker still stand after
So many years when granite has faded and
Disappeared into hollows and gardens?

In truth someone came later, perhaps a son or
Daughter, to mark that last bed of a long dead
Parent, remembered a little.

Passing souls all.

But the price of stone was too high so wood from
Nearby trees was fashioned into this
Cross for this grave.

But this wood marked grave is outside the lines
And limits of the registered and written
Down citizens of the cemetery.

Passing souls all.

Perhaps a mystery is waiting for unraveling
Here behind the little white church whose missing
Parishioners will not talk.
Passing souls all.

RENOVATED MOUNTAIN TOWER

go out on 374 and follow some other
roads towards the back side of chazy
then you'll come to the trail head

climb up that trail, it's steep and some
spots you might lose it but work your
way up because it'll be worth it soon

so you get up to the clearing where
the renovated fire tower points to
heaven and you look at all the steps

after a rest climb the steps and follow
all those rules and instructions and take
your time because you're not a kid anymore

finally up in the tower with your eyes
pressed into your binoculars you look
around and the clear hard blue sky gleams

up north there is montreal, a patch of
smog and a flat topped mountain showing
you where millions of people crouch in their lives

and east is champlain, blue reflecting
blue and green in between stretching like
patched carpet old and friendly and warm

but now look down and the mountain town
sits quiet and the dead sand hill like an
apostrophe marks where the old mine was

the town is not dead but it lives well
beyond its thriving past of train cars and
humming machinery and dirty miners

this renovated mountain tower lets us
see all around and it may be a sign of the
time to come but it can't show us the past

to see the past climb down the tower
climb down the mountain and go to the
churches and the graveyards you'll see it

sit in the legion home talk to the old men
go to the old train station talk to the old
widow ladies they'll show you the good and bad

you'll hear the past and some hope for
tomorrow, you'll learn some history and
tales of those gone on their many ways

but the mountain tower newly painted
and safe again will bring you to a high place
and is worth the climb and effort