Not a Poem, really
Sometimes a moment
Crystallizes itself before a poor poet
Can help it along
For others to see.
So was it on the frigid
Anniversary morning of Sunday when
Instead of St. Helenic
ashes falling,
Icy pellets had descended
Certainly and uninvited
Upon the deck.
Otherwise eye-popping
poppies
Bent in submission,
And the usually startling yellow borders
Of the Euonymus
Curled from the cold.
The deeply pink chandelier snapdragons
Had the wrong kind of
snap.
Yet oddly from four houses' distance
Came an unmistakable defiant intrusion;
Louder than a livid
swarm of bees
Was a neighbor starting his mower.
And mow he did
And more and more
So that only thoughts and smells
Of cut, fresh grass could waft here and
there,
And insist on what's warm and right and good
Through the much too
cold air.
Don't stop and let back
Animation of all kinds suspended.
Keep the engine cranked,
Blade sharp,
And the world seasonable.
But, of course, no,
Exactly because the sharp blade
Had done its appointed
task.
With the renewed silence
Came back the unwelcome chill
For Eighteen May . . .
No-wait--
What sounds now come
from where?
The strings and sway
And melody are unmistakable.
I listened and listened and and
heard it,
But didn't believe, so listened again
Since sometimes
The music you hear is from inside
And can trick you too easily.
Again a check, then double.
Yes, in the neighborhood,
From an unseen but very real source,
Then, no doubt:
What had replaced the brash
And angry, grating rant of the mower
And had finished this poem was
Percy Faith
And his "Theme
From A Summer Place."
Words Hide in Shame
(For Steve Fischer 1968-2002)
Words hide in shame
When called upon
To even hint a little
About him.
They cannot use letters
For life embracing natural talent
And deep, magnetic charisma and wit
Will neither be bound
Nor characterized.
Words soon give up
And give way to thoughts
So unthinkable
They too must look
Beneath them
To places we can seldom visit
Where pain so raw can kill.
The bottomless shadows there
Allow us but one way out:
To follow that singular spark
Of his grace and humor
And spirit
Which lives inside us still.
Consolation
No, no,
"Our hearts
Go out"
Doesn't do it,
No matter
How well intended;
Nor does
"You're in
Our Thoughts
And Prayers."
Neither will
Any heart
Other than
The throbbing,
Red kind.
I'm sorry, but
No.
Dasein
Uncaring grand skypiercing spruces
Guard ancestors' tombs
Which, beneath the two lanes,
Rot and shrivel and move
Under pressure
From logging trucks.
Here and there
A bulge or bump in the blacktop
Pushes up;
Hardheaded highway engineers scurry
To fight back,
Stern in their careful vengeance
While a robin glances down
From atop a fir
And blithely swoops away
From the wrath
Of a nearby wren.
On the Brink in Oceanside
Crashing brilliant waves
Melt under a northward bounding mutt;
HIs face is aglow with the fierce fire of purpose
As a jury of sandpipers prepares to flee,
Remaining long enough to tease the hapless canine.
But somewhere in the dog's well of memory
Rests that solitary bird, the one
Too weak to make its indifferent escape,
The one which, for eternity, will prod
The pup to chase in vain, eagerly accepting his futile quest.
I sit at the end of the world where, on this day,
Images of beauty and joy rush over an arid eye.
Visitors, windswept,
Will take their careless knotted hair
Back to Squares and Drives and Places.
But here I must remain
To grasp the moving tides
Of change and life and death,
To bathe this cracked and filmy skin
Of evaporated tears.
It's On Us
We wish we could
Find the one way
Or
get that magic
Pill or potion.
We'd
love to just once
Prove it
And
make it perfect
In one easy motion.
But it's not out there,
Like we're taught.
It's
really
An inner notion.
New Growth
Bluetipped, hopeful bottlewasher feelers
Dart from the dark
And droopy shadows.
They stretch and rise,
Both softblue and sharp,
Yearning for sun
To nurture their
Delphic, patient mother.
Going out on a lambent limb,
They seek a sustaining
Truth and enlightenment.
Their adventure is
Charted from sky
And is a grateful repayment to
Their deepdown core.
Watch the Children
Watch the children,
Who, without trying,
Do some unwitting
Heavy lifting.
They raise hopes
And spirits,
Knowing no better,
Knowing nothing of
Mortgages and alimony,
Bitterness and acrimony.
Watch and learn
And see lifted
The veil of
Deadening familiarity
We've woven over time
From skeins of uncertainty
And trepidation.
See and emulate
Their love of life
And remember
And reflect
It back with care.
Watch and wonder with them
To learn
And relive their easy oneness
With the world
For a time.
In This Corner
In this corner
Can we play and rhyme
And greet Jack Horner
For a time.
A singsong ditty:
Let's all hold hands
And dance with Walter Mitty
To escape from life's demands.
We too may
Find here a moment
Captured
Caught
Where time stops
Just long enough
For eyes to close
And, when opened,
See.
Most Graceful of the Three
"Telmetale of stem or stone."
--Finnegans Wake
Both
Ethereal and steadfast
You stand.
Enigmatically
Not of this world
Is your tree,
Defiantly vital,
Reaching for
The heavens' luminous truth
While your improbably fertile
Rock rests heavily
In the darkdeep baymud,
Anchored eternally.
You are
Both aspiring dreamer and
Earthly pragmatist,
Mind and body,
Immortal and timebound--
Both hope and despair
In one.
Real Rain
It was real rain today,
Not the tentative droplets
Which too shyly
Fell here and there,
Acting like a late guest.
Real rain it was,
Sideways sheets
Of windwet life,
In our face with no apology.
In the garage,
Lawn mowers
And garden tools
Mournfully rest,
Conjuring up dated,
Dry scenarios of dust
And brown
And burn permits.
But today
We are freshly bathed and baptized,
Alive from drinking in
The elixir of
Real Rain.
The Authentic Life
Is it fair
To grow up,
Head in the clouds,
No need unmet,
Expecting the best
Always?
Then to be dragged
Through the vicissitudes
Of what life becomes,
Struggling in compromise,
Yet remaining true
To what we were and
could yet be?
Truth is not forgetting,
The philosopher says.
Remembering can soothe
Our near fatal scars and
Make us proud
Of them.
Mother
Darkgreen and forestdamp she is.
Just for show,
Like a strutting peacock,
She'll flash a stunning brilliance
So bright
So very opposite
That we reel from her
unexpected mystery.
As if in judgment and impervious to time,
She has no care
For our daily concerns,
Drama,
And oh so crucial plans.
Patient has she been
Before we arrived,
And after we leave
So too must she be.
We find terrible
And shortsighted reasons
To ignore or defy or
exploit her.
Can we not instead take a lesson
From her,
To temper our fleeting illusions
And alleged truths
With what she
shows us to be real?
Day Six
Hurry up, and
Call Hans Blix!
It's now day six
Off the awful offal
Cancer sticks.
I can breathe so well now
I could work construction,
Now that I've forsworn
Those Weapons of
Self-Destruction.
Taking Stock
Just over the dark summit
at six a.m.,
News of a piper cub
type accident
Over Manhattan.
Traffic damp but light,
with a young, playful sun
Finding small success
against the thickening clouds.
At Airport Way,
All American Skies
Are Closed.
The Market followed
The buildings down
And down
Came shameful
Self-indulgence.
And further down
We go,
Innocents paying for
The sins of others
Still.
Toto Too
I need to get back
To that green place
And get something
I left there.
I had it when
Authorities were credible
And before my heroes
Were assassinated.
I think I left it
Under the blankets,
Next to my also green
Emerson
Eight Transistor Radio.
And when I
Get it home,
I've got the
Perfect place for it
By the fire pit
In my backyard.
Two Doubters at Twilight
It's not always
Best to be of one mind,
Single-headed and certain,
Comforted in monomania.
For every stubborn tunnel
Is there a periphery of grace
Once blinders are off,
A richness revealed
By a skeptical pair of
eyes.
We needn't be forced
To choose between
Deadly opposites.
We must find that elusive "and"
Which takes us closer to the
Bothness of truth than
A solitary
"or."
Ode to Turftoe
O Turftoe,
Blight of
nether digits,
Scourge of
pitcher Wells,
Who
now but idly fidgets.
Out, out
brief gout
And help make David placid;
Plague not
our southpaw stout
Who brims
with fatty acid.
Vaughn Meter
There once
was a Mo from Pawtucket
Who always
did step in the bucket;
Donning pads he would cry,
“I’m
protecting my eye
‘Cause I don’t wanna end up like
Puckett.”
© Ken Greenfield
Bay City, Oregon