Some Poems

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."
 

© Ken Greenfield 

Bay City, Oregon

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