County Fair

We journeyed over miles of cultivated
countryside to the August County Fair,
heralded by Ferris wheels, and acres of sprawling
exhibition barns, where farm families display
prize produce, livestock, fiber − reminding us
our food does not come from the supermarket. 

We ask about the “chickens” − are politely
directed toward the “poultry” barn on West Street.                      
Proceeding past the horses, milkers, breeding
bulls, junior beef and swine, each spiced with smells
and sounds of judging, we arrive at Poultry,
a barn filled with exotic fowl and roosters’
raucous frenzy-rousing crowing cacophonies.                                 

A proud 4-H’er holds some birds for me
to touch and photograph.  I ask about
a regal rooster, war-helmet comb,
iridescent green and russet feathers. long
black tail.  She says he is the only one
she cannot handle.  He attacks with beak
and spurs drawing blood.  I nod: “He seems 
to me the most attractive rooster here.”
She smiles.  “That’s the only reason he’s alive.”                                    

 578    September 2013

The Last Time and Lament for Louie

Today Louie failed to make the jump up to the window seat.

 
The top picture is Louie full grown.  The bottom picture is Charley at 8 months in February 2015  

These two poems were written five months apart and mark two points of grief in our losing of a dearly loved pet and family member.  We had Louie with us a dozen years.  He had no other agenda than to be with us.  He was a joy to the eye and the heart.  

We waited a year to get Charley, a black standard Poodle.  Charley is different, lovable and a sweet reminder of the pleasures Louie brought us.
 

The Last Time                                             #562 February 2013

Today Louie failed to make the jump

up to the window seat. He flopped ungainly                            

to the floor and did not try once more. 

I would not see him on that perch again.   

It must have been embarrassing to him

for me to see the waning of his strength.

I notice now and then he stands there looking up

remembering the sun’s warmth, the view

of birds and squirrels.  He does not seem to hear

as well nor bark at strangers any more. 

I dread his further losses, weighing when

it’s time somewhere along his sad decline.

I watch it all and deeply feel my sighs.

and know that every living creature dies.

Lament for Louie                                                            #568 July 7, 2013

Louie died last night.  His presence shouts  

in the quiet house. We breakfast on the deck

where even the air is still, the wind chimes silent.           

The meadow, where he ran free, seems empty, forlorn.

A flock of turkeys, five hens, single file, 

with a train of chicks, slowly cross the field,

a funeral procession celebrating

the cycle of life.   Our tears lament this truth.

We will spread his ashes in the meadow

where his spirit can continue that

fluid canter and rhythmic trot forever,

doubling back to check a smell, alive,

always in the moment, looking to see

if we were still in the vicinity.

 

Halloween Owl

On Halloween he flew into my window.

I did not hear the awful crunching thud.

I only saw the eerie image, face

and wings, his powder left upon my pane

when sun’s illuminating breath revealed

this apparition.  Huge round hollow eyes

unseeing, stared blankly, no threat to mice,

unnerving to me, this day when dead souls wander.

Coincidence can seem like planned design

And often drives imagination wild.

The owl, I know, was just a bird, confused

by light, transparency beyond his lore.

He was unlucky: wild in mankind’s world.

The ghost I thought I saw was just an imprint.

Meadow Fog Shaftsbury

An image of the meadow fog

Saying Goodbye

In early memory I am riding my six-four grandfather’s shoulders like a mahout.

Saying goodbye                                                 

For James J. Cormier, Jr., Esq., for sharing his personal story.

Booval, QLD  and
Sydney, NSW, Australia

1945-1953

In early memory I am riding my

six-four grandfather’s shoulders like a mahout.

He took me on his rounds – railroad tool shop,

pool hall, pub, racetrack, horse farm, orchard.                                                       4

                                                           

The railroad tool shop rumbled with repetitive      

din of machines dye-stamping, drilling, spinning.

I sat at his desk quietly drawing trains

on green graph paper, using a compass, ruler.                                                        8

The pool hall was filled with railroad workers sporting               

grease-stained white T-shirts, suspenders, steel-toed boots.

Bent over green-clad tables, their muffled voices

barely audible above the crack of the balls.                                                           12

He'd say, “Let's go to the pub." I loved the sawdust

and stale beer smells, my glass of ginger beer.

I laughed with the guys who always asked, "Are you

Aussie or Yank?" I always answered, "Both!"                                                       16

On Saturdays grandfather ran the racetrack tote board. 

Afterward, we picked up discarded claim tickets. 

Every once and a while, we found a winner

I stuck in his hatband like a feather.                                                                      20

My father managed a barn and boarded strangers’

horses.  In fig groves there, I set bird traps

high in the trees for Grandfather.  He would cage

the birds a short while, release and catch some more.                                       24

  

On Guy Fawkes Day when I was six, my fireworks           

jumped the barrel, setting a field ablaze.                             

The fire threatened to burn several buildings,

including the school.  My friends all ran away.                                                    28

I fled to Grandfather’s and hid under his bed.    

The police, firemen, neighbors, family and school

searched until dusk. After the fuss died down,

he came home, looked under his bed, hugged me.                                              32

When I was eight, my folks decided to emigrate.

They promised we would return to see my Grandfather

who came to the dock to see us off.  The steward

handed us each a streamer. Mine was white.                                                         36

I threw one end to Grandfather and kept the other.                      

The gangplank removed, whistle blown, lines cast-off,

the ship carefully backed out of the slip.

I walked toward the bow; he walked along the pier.                                             40

We fiercely clutched our end of the streamer.        

In the channel the ship pivoted like a hippo.

The streamer’s coils stretched until they broke

and each end slowly fluttered to the water.                                                           44

I saw Grandfather bury his face in his hands  

and bow his head.

I never saw him again.                                      

Alaska Life

This is a link to an article our daughter, Eve, wrote for the Great Land Trust.  It has pictures of our granddaughter, Neve, and some interesting lore about AK.  Please enjoy the photos, Eve's blog post and the ambiance of this family.

http://www.greatlandtrust.org/the-case-of-the-mystery-mussels-backcountry-ice-skating-and-a-sense-of-wonder/ 

Winter Fantasy

In green woods stands a forlorn spruce, branches snow

bent to the breaking point, a lost Carthusian,

his cowl askew, bowed shoulders sighing woe.        

Stooped by the cold, red blooded, normal, human;  

has cabin fever, longs to be incognito,

escape his sore knees, create himself bohemian.  

He could be tired or tipsy from abuse

of the green liqueur in their cave, Chartreuse.       

Ottava Rima is 8 lines of iambic pentameter rhyming ababcc.  Ottava Rima is usually a whimsical, satiric or comic form.  Lord Byron's "Don Juan" was a mock epic in ottava rima stanzas. This poem won 2nd prize in the Maine Poets' Society 2015 winter contest.  

608 December 2014

November Deer Camp

The woods are wet, leaves are quiet from soft showers.

November Deer Camp                  

                                                I.m. of Pappy, George and John

The woods are wet, leaves are quiet from

soft showers.  Six stags, still warm, hang, tongues out,

heads down, along the porch.  Inside, a shaded

gas lantern casts a circle through a fog

of blue – from fragrant Turkish pipe tobacco,

and cheap twisted Parodi cigars - hovering

above a green felt-covered gaming table.

The game is poker. Its paraphernalia clutter

the table – chips (red white and blue) and cards                                           9

scattered among empty bourbon glasses,

and half filled ash trays.  Smells from the wood stove,

as deer liver, bacon, onions simmer,

overpower stale tobacco smoke

and wool soaked from hunting in the rain.

The clock face flaunting only 5’s admonishes

“Drinking Allowed Only After 5.”

The picture of marines raising the stars and stripes

on Iwo Jima hangs above the stove.                                                      18

“I sighted in Sy’s two-seventy after breakfast.

A quarter covered all three shots,” boasts Pappy.

“That barrel is well bedded,” George observes.

 “A case of damn good shooting,” Pappy growls.

Army, draws on his pipe exhaling perfect    

smoke circles, comments, “Michael, your Parodi

looks like something a fox left on a stone

wall.” 

            Mike, unshaven, chewing on the black

wet butt, retorts, “It beats that perfumed ladies

lace you’re smoking.”                                                                               29

                                           Jared changes the subject:   

“I heard him (crashing down through pines) and headed

south to cut him off as he crossed the clearing.

A downhill shot, two hundred yards, right through

the ribs. I found the hair plug, followed up

the trail of blood.  He ran a hundred yards,

collapsed, lungs filled with blood.  No need to bleed

him out.” 

                 Heads nod at Jared’s story, his

skilled hunting, running target shot.

Ethan bangs the cards on felt

impatiently demanding, “Are you in?”                                                            40

We hear the truck come up the drive.  It’s Kent

returned from town with groceries.  Rushing in,

he’s agitated, grim faced: “The President has been shot

and killed in Dallas.”

                                                No one looks up from poker. 

Ethan calmly asks, “How many cards?”

                                                                                                                       

“I’m really serious.  Not a joking subject.       

Come listen yourselves on the radio in the truck.”

We all walk out and shiver ‘round the cab. 

His death’s the only story on the air   

and one by one file back inside, chastened.                                                   50

It’s quiet at the table, cards face down.                       

Yellow Goat's Beard

In the meadow, regiment strong, Yellow-Goat’s Beard


“Tragopogon pratensis [he-goat bearded in the field]…flowers close at midday..”  Wildflowers by Roger Tory Peterson

In the meadow, regiment strong, Yellow-Goat’s Beard
stand for morning reveille, each one   
facing the Sun, brightly bearded soldiers
on review, but sound asleep by two, adrift
in reverie from last nights revelry.

Tragopogon.   I imagine you
as bearded Pan with flute carousing through
the night with Daisy and Black Eyed Susan while
Sweet William’s pogonotomy leaves him
a naked wallflower alone in the field.

I admire your ability to rise at dawn
to answer the bugle’s sound, and sympathize
with aching eyes in Sun’s harsh glare.   But what
if you are called to duty after two?

Blog December 4, 2014

One of my former college roommates, Bill Massy, just visited the blog and left a comment on "Halloween Owl".  

I'm busy writing poems for the Maine Poetry Society winter contests.  The poem for the subject contest must be about family.  The poem in the form contest must use ottava rima, any subject.  It will be my first ottava rima and I'm finding it difficult to rhyme 8 iambic pentameter lines ABABABCC.  Both Byron ("Don Juan" and Keats "Sailing to Byzantium") were experts at the form. 

Some new poems to follow soon.

Blog November 6, 2014

Over the weekend October 31-November 2 I attended a poetry retreat in Huntington, VT, sponsored by Sun Dog Poetry.  There were 10 students and 2 leaders.  We read and critiqued each others' work.  It was a rare opportunity to concentrate on nothing but poetry for 3 days, get feedback on your own work and read the interesting and exciting work others are doing.  

I shared "Saying Goodbye" and "Choice" with the group and posted the latter on the blog.  "Saying Goodbye" is still in revision.  I'll put it up later.

One outcome of the retreat is that some of the participants are forming a round robin poetry critique group where you send poems around the  group for assessment and feedback.

Validation of one's work through contests, retreats, meeting with other poets either in person on by round robin email, is important to keep track if one is making any kind of sense or progress.      

Choice

I lingered late to watch the Moon and now

the Sun has found the forest floor. He casts  

a playful shadow of the pasture gate

across the path to gently scold and block                  

my way.  This futile gesture prompts a smile

and makes me wonder what’s the fuss, or need,

to choose between dualities, limit        freedom

and divide us into ever more warring camps?

As I grow old and, can no longer don                          

the youthful disregard of death, the world is fresh

and filled with first time wonder.        I’ve learned to shed

the baggage of long ago as I acquired

further understanding.  I do not regret

the Moon.  The choice is neither yin or yang.         

Blog October 29, 2014

The blog is now officially open which means that all those who have been invited to participate should be able to open the site and read the entries.   Please take advantage of the opportunity to make a comment.  I understand some have had their "passwords" expire.  We can issue new ones if you let us know you are having a problem.    

Forest Meditation

Dawn’s first bright breath ignites the tops of trees

like torches.  Hiking on the trail, the sun’s

insistent rays warm my back through my coat

like comforting heat in winter from a campfire.

I let my shadow lead the way until  

I drop below the ridge where morning chill

and sudden forest silence shiver me.

Tall cedars, close together, stand straight, a stately

august grove of Elders in rusty light.

Across the path a single shaft of sun

breaks over the ridge, through the gloom and strikes

a lone white birch, still wet with rain the night

before, its heat creating steam, incense  

to every forest Spirit dwelling there.

Diner Blues

Janie Bella is a waitress.

She’s always on her feet.

Lift heavy trays, small tips, guys’ hits –

at quitting time she’s beat.

It’s hard to be a woman alone

Dragging along a stone

Shop for groceries going home. 

His only welcome a grunt.  

No dinner cooked or faucet fixed.

She’s tired of accepting the brunt.

           

It’s hard to be a woman alone

Putting up with a stone

The trash not emptied, harsh words yelled.

Fix dinner, clean the place,

run the washer, help with homework,

to bed a frazzled case.                  

It’s hard to be a woman alone   

Dragging along a stone

Alarm at five, quick shower, coffee.

Repeat the day again.   

No respite from the constant grind,   

Gets no respect, plain Jane.

She’s proud to be a woman alone

She does not need this stone

It's been a good couple of weeks

It's been a good couple of weeks for recognition of my poetry. October 23, 2014.  

It's been a good couple of weeks for recognition of my poetry.  On September 20th the Maine Poetry Society (MPS) awarded "The Perfect Wall" first prize in it's contest where the poem was about a wall(s).  "Diner Blues" received first honorable  mention in MPS contest to write a ballad .  

On October 18th "Yellow Goat's Beard" won the 2nd place from the Mary Margaret Audette memorial award conducted by the Poetry Society of Vermont (PSOV).  In addition, "Forest Meditation" was received a tie vote of the membership for 3rd at it's fall meeting.  

I continue to be heartened by the reception of my poetry by MPS, PSOV, friends and family.  Contests help me check that my poetry is technically competent and that it connects emotionally with anyone beside myself.       

The Perfect Wall

This dry wall was designed by a master mason.

He quarried shist, and cut each stone to the inch,

to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle,

to make a split in-line sixty foot bench

– individual stones like scales on a giant snake –

to grace the lawn between the house and meadow.               

The break between the pair directs the eye’s arc               

a quarter mile down the pasture like an arrow      

to boundary trees and ever changing mountains.

Its axis bisects our pond in perfect symmetry.  

This wall wasn’t meant to keep things in or out.    

Its sun warmed rocks are homes for frog and snake,

a hunting roost for bluebird, robin, wren,   

while mosses cling to its shaded northern face.

Alone on the wall, I have watched bluebirds fledge,           

turkey broods cross the meadow at sunset, deer graze

in early morning fog, unquiet hawks hunt.

It’s stark, enduring in the summer sun,                               

in winter, wind whipped snow waves gently blunt  

its flanks in ever shifting drifts.  This brace

of open monuments anchor landscape and people.

Its level line creates reflective space.