Christmas

No poem cometh…and
Momentarily I am
Mute in the
Silence…and e’en
My unharnessed thoughts
Are made to be
Bridled and to bow,
As my mind recuses
Itself before the
Awe of today’s humble
Majesty, and I realize
To do nothing is
All I am allowed.

Light in Dark

Every night
I light my lights, and
Make my rounds
The dark despite,
And every
Night, room to
Room, into
The corners I peer
To illum…

Musings

Knowing

If only I knew that I would
Never know, that I was merely
Destined to sit a beach
Like this, and to always
Wonder the meaning of a back
And forth, tidal flow…

If only I knew that I would
Never know, would I still persist and
Sit this beach, and in tremble
And awe be satisfied
With what had been gifted
So exquisitely…?

Seasons

…The eternal, intriguing
Nature of your smile, felt
Particularly in autumn, and
Fleeting, but always long
Enough to me beguile…it haunts
Me still, ne’er too far away —
What once I felt I knew,
But now the meaning I
Cannot explain…

Feelings

Puget Sound cold are my hands,
And cool across my brow brushes
A wind which also cloisters
And huddles shoulder-to-shoulder
The grains of sand, but
Blessedly and thankfully,
Faintly still warms the sun, and
About me circles the lingering
Season of someone.

Poems from Plum Island

Preface
(In the Beginning)

“Brrr!” says my
Soul, “This place reeks of cold
Not poetry …”

“No!” chides the
Marsh, “The ice, fog, and clouds
Offer immunity.”

Reprieve

All I saw was the boardwalk, its slats
Grey winding their way through ice, snow,
Memories, and past winter storms,
Showing me the path towards a beach where all
I hoped to do on its sands was to bask
Like a seashell and to be washed smooth
Like a cradled sea stone …

View from the Boardwalk

As if a cold compress had come down
And flattened the sea like a hot steam iron once did on
My mother’s ironing board on a long ago, frigid
Winter’s night, thus before me stood the
Gateway to the Atlantic with its cobalt-blue color —
And it seemed spent, or was it just simply sated? It was as if the
Waves had neither the strength nor the will to lift their
Heads for one more tide, as if an exhausted,
Hunched woman with an iron had creased flat
Their mood, taming them despite how hard they tried.
And so it stretched before me without ripple –
Having clearly surrendered to a February freeze —
This on a sunny Saturday which was otherwise
Grand and glorious, and snow on the
Sand was setting a white tablecloth to
Showcase the finest shells and stones and
Seaweed I had ever seen …

Beyond the Boardwalk

… And so, bobbing, about a quarter-mile
Offshore, I see the shape of a seagull, and it is
Observing me as I sit this snow-covered
Sand — and both of us marveling at how the sea was so flat
And cobalt-blue cold, and how nobody else
Was on the beach to see it, because
February was deigned only in quiet solitude
To be shared and known…

Ode to Cold Beach

I knew your waters would be flat and calm.
I knew in color your waves would be coldest, cobalt-blue.
I even knew winter’s windswept
Sands would run across your boardwalk …
But I absolutely did not know that snowdrifts
Would conceal my footprints,
From where they stood in praise
To you this past June …

Merest Flesh

Why should I be any
Different than all else that waits to be
Swept off of this winter strand!?
I am made of only the merest, weakest flesh and
Blood, while even gets shoved aside
By every tide and storm this faithful and
Snow-laden, February sand!

Winter Beach

Down to the very shore’s edge runs a
Six-inch layer of snow, and from there extends out to the
Horizon the coldest cobalt-blue I ever saw …
The sun peeks over my right shoulder while a mighty
Sand dune behind me stands disheveled in awe …
And in approval from a quarter-mile out,
A seagull rides each light swell, and points at me
Its beak, because in solitude we are
Brothers, and that is our unbreakable,
February bond.

Postscript
(Ode to Seashore)

I would lie down with
You gladly and close gently my eyes.
I would weep knowing that my
Tears would be accepted by
The lows and highs of your tides.
I would even scream if I thought my
Voice would reach your ears —
But alas you await far deeper
Calls than mine from all your
Canyons of fathomless fears —
So all I can do is sit here
On your snow-covered sands,
And marvel at how cold is your
Cobalt-blue hue, and how
Empty is the sea of any daring
Small boats, and how I
Can only see a lone,
Bobbing seagull, and how
The sand dune to my back
Thankfully blocks me from the
Winter wind, and how the
Sun bleaches yet another inscrutable
Puzzle of jumbled pieces of
Seaweed and shells and
Stones left by the last rush of
High tide … all placed in a
Mysterious pattern to proclaim
God’s message in primordial parable –
And writ solemnly on this
Strand of a February paradise.

Deerfield’s Words

Searching for a Spot along an Old Stone Wall

I search, looking
For those perfect stones, as if
Made from a shop press,
Against which my
Back to lean, my body
To conform. I
Follow this wall, and
It keeps me on a
Heading east-west,
As if a farm horse by
The bridle, being led home
To its night’s rest…
And then through
The oaks and beeches
I see them — grey, rough
Stones, mottled in
Shades of black
And green lichen —
The sweet, autumn
Fruit of some
Builder’s tireless,
Calloused work,
Against which I’ll
Nestle, until is
Whispered what
Comes to be heard.
 

In the Woods against a Stone Wall

They sit as they’ve
Always sat – these woods as if
Jewels, as if decreed by
Primeval fiat. Oak and spruce
Stoically watch me in my
Every move and mood,
Content to leave me quiet if
I promise their wooden
Fiefdom not to disturb nor
Intrude. They watch
Me, reading my flesh’s
Mind and its flight, and
Then shake their heads slowly,
Because they know I
Have not yet mastered the
Fine art of sitting in a
Stone wall’s silence.