Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

Saturday, November 30, 2019

Poetry: Deer and Heron

Deer and Heron

I am in his power.
He flys away. Seconds
passed before he looked
at me. Before he decided
I could not be trusted.

Ashamed of everything
in his world, I look at the
deer in the same way,
only minutes before
it sprinted
into, what was for me a sad
and delirious neighborhood.

Read More Poems From The Adirondack Almanack HERE.


Saturday, November 23, 2019

Poetry: Sermon in Your Stones (For John Burroughs)

 

Sermon in Your Stones
(For John Burroughs)

I began to sense that I was saved
when I gazed at my reflection like a
river otter studies its own teeth;
or how a nine month old falls asleep, head first
into her own lap.

Without judgement, I began to sense it.
Looking down I thought that I heard
sermons in your stones. An intelligent, loving,
laughter-inducing possibility that I was never lost
to begin with.

Read More Poems From The Adirondack Almanack HERE.


Saturday, November 16, 2019

Poetry: Wind Refreshing Cabin Memories

Wind Refreshing Cabin Memories

Wind pushing uphill cannot clear
the mountain of this mist
nor quite bring on much-needed rain.
Aspen leaves quake on no ear,
their timeless tremulosa dismissed
with the white-throated sparrow’s refrain.

In the fireplace a green-cut round
of mountain ash boils out its sap
with flames pulled tall by wind
— that shouldn’t be bound
uphill. A freakish front’s mishap
let such a breach of etiquette in.

Crane Mountain lurks cloud-hidden
whereabouts unknown, memory
layered deeper than kitchen middens.
Dad recites Sandburg’s “There Is A Wolf in Me.”
until we’d pray the Lord our souls to take,
while the aura of the wolf kept us awake.

Read More Poems From The Adirondack Almanack HERE.


Saturday, November 9, 2019

Poetry: Run With The Dogs

Run With The Dogs

Run with the dogs,
Through thick carpets of burnished gold leaves,
In charged air, with frost crackling at each footfall,
As sunrise shows welcome in pink.
Run with them, they beckon you.
They teach you to see, to be with joy, reveling,
Howling to the wind and sky with abandon,
Every second savored to the limit.
They live their truth,
Happily, generously, with love unconditional,
Trotting down worn Adirondack trails through ribboned creeks,
To music only they hear.
How pure are they,
Brothers of wolves, with hearts tethered to man,
Adoring, protecting, sharing precious primal freedom
And warmth of breath on chilled skin.
We, tied to them,
Follow their lead and trust instinctively, as confluent souls,
For their eyes are wiser, their understanding deeper,
Their grace, a greater mercy received.
With them, we can be wild.

Read More Poems From The Adirondack Almanack HERE.


Saturday, November 2, 2019

Poetry: Self-Portrait as an Eagle

Eagle nest by George Cassidy PayneSelf-Portrait as an Eagle

Hatched 30 minutes earlier
than the day before, I am placed
between a hot-water pad and a towel
to dry. Pecking an air hole in my shell
and beginning the ordeal, as the warm
air feels like Tegaderm on my beak.

Eight hours after hatching, I eat my
first meal-bits of lean quail raised
on my uncle’s farm. Feeding from a
puppet as to avoid being mistaken
by humans; in a week or so I will
see what it means to be wild again.

Read More Poems From The Adirondack Almanack HERE.

Photo of Eagle nest by George Cassidy Payne


Saturday, October 26, 2019

Poetry: Night Songs

Night Songs

I waken, alert,
To the songs of the dark night,
Hunkering shadow-shaped coyotes,
Mimicking, throwing plaintive howls,
Against the stark, crying vibrato
Of sleek, red-eyed jurassic loons,
They worship in tandem,
Pledging love to the spectral moon,
A timeless nocturnal duet.
Tall conifers and sleeping mountains harken,
Sheltering those calls, echoing, echoing,
Magnified across still, silver water,
Lonely sounds, proud, primitive, wild,
Undaunted,
Triumphant melodic affirmations of survival,
Of life bravely continued,
“We..are..still.. here…”, they sing,
“After all!”

Read More Poems From The Adirondack Almanack HERE.


Saturday, October 19, 2019

Poetry: Petting Zoo

Petting Zoo

I still have this picture of myself
when I was 7 months or so in a
fold-out camping chair at a petting
zoo somewhere in the Adirondacks.

I’m touching the snout of a ram.

And judging by the look in my eye, I
would have turned down knighthood
just to grasp a few strands of his wool.

Strapped in. Two creatures sent along
different neural pathways but attuned.

Locked in the symmetry of boundaries held
in place by a universal grammar of touch.

Read More Poems From The Adirondack Almanack HERE.


Saturday, October 12, 2019

Poetry: The Eye Of A Bird

The Eye Of A Bird

And so I came to a place,
Wondering what could be seen and understood,
In the eye of a bird.

Happening with unexpected connection
While walking on the moist, brown earth,
Amid scattered pine cones,
And memories.

The black eye of a pristine, hunting robin, held mine,
Pausing in her success,
Undulating worm held captive in a beak of supremely,
Pointed delicacy.

She nodded contemplatively upon her russet breast,
With wise, black eye holding mine, communicating,
Appraising, knowing, going on with her very life,
As she alone was meant to do.

This bright spirit, shining from the eye of a bird,
Pierced the doldrum of my morning and granted me
A brief, blessed epiphany of consciousness,
That touched my deepest soul.

Read More Poems From The Adirondack Almanack HERE.


Saturday, October 5, 2019

Poetry: 400 Feet Closer to Heaven

400 Feet Closer to Heaven

Maybe 400 feet closer to heaven than we were
When we started climbing we sit beside the outlet
To the sphagnum-bed spring atop Eleventh Mountain
We siblings in age-order to the youngest, me,
Being Matt Esther Karen and then our Mom Alice
The logistician of our many wilderness forays
As even now we pause to sit beside the streamlet
To lunch on gorp and our tunafish sandwiches
And stare out across the valley and then low hills
To the mountains off toward and then in Vermont
But the view can’t compete with the big surprise
Of tomatoes we watch Mom dole out until Karen
Incredulous asks “We each get a whole tomato?”
Only her inflection giving away that it’s a question.
This unheard of event in our 1950s family life
Turns out to be a plump round juicy fact indeed.

Read More Poems From The Adirondack Almanack HERE.


Saturday, September 28, 2019

Poetry: Remote Viewing the Five Ponds Wilderness

Remote Viewing the Five Ponds Wilderness

Just like smelling pheromones in the armpits,
there has always been evidence, the human
system knowing the future. A series of arbitrary
numbers.

Walking out into the unknown depths, we can’t
think of these things as being separate. Like Thoreau
said, “the old upon the walls…”

There are no bodies without energy, and there is no
energy without consciousness. Awareness enhanced,
activated senses, the other things appearing even we
are not supposed to.

Heralded by the rain. Clutching a clump of fur in our
talons. Just insect-eaters feeding in fissures and furrows
on the bark of Weymouth pine.

Yet made from a spiritual sinew and holy rocks from the shells
of angels.


Saturday, September 21, 2019

Poetry: Threads Of Gold

Threads Of Gold

Up and down and all around,
Stories of this lake abound.
Tall tales of youth and friendships strong,
That stood the test of time along,
Dirt roads, backyards, small towns were shared,
Hard work, hard fun, in mountain air.
These stories born of times they had,
Girlfriends, wood camps, the good and bad,
Lake families bond from way back when
The 40s, 50s, summers sans end.
Sharing love and laughs and tears,
Retelling stories year to year,
Fellowship, community,
Like threads of gold, stitch solidly.
Words flow like ink upon a page,
Of memories cherished,
And memories, saved.

Read More Poems From The Adirondack Almanack HERE.


Saturday, September 7, 2019

Poetry: Below Crane Mountain

Below Crane Mountain

The barest puff of wind
makes poplar leaves tremble but
when we think “tea leaves” we visualize
chopped bits in their tissue-like bags

that hint at protocol, or Miss Manners,
maybe Hints from Heloise. Few now think
of the perforated-metal “tea ball”
— properly called “tea infuser” — that

Monica nicknamed the “weather vane.”
Back then we were all still native
poets who had not grown out of the role
by studying poetry in public schools.

We even had a name for the one-pound blocks
of store-brand A&P oleo margarine.
We called them “Marfak” for Texaco gas stations’
big red sign above their lubrication bays.

Even in light winds, cut tea leaves go poof ,
to scatter like our close friends from youth.

Read More Poems From The Adirondack Almanack HERE.


Saturday, August 24, 2019

Poetry: Sleeping Bag

Sleeping Bag

Such a supple anomaly, to lay
inside a
sleeping bag. The carcasses
from roads could not have it
better. Attuned to abeyance,
rolled up like a napkin in a
French bistro, and zoned out to
the blithe, unconditioned air
measuring the exhalations of
a fly caving with the rain that only
falls during childbirth. In a word,
assuaged.

Read More Poems From The Adirondack Almanack HERE.


Saturday, August 17, 2019

Poetry: In This Perfect Moment

In This Perfect Moment

Let us sojourn, amid sentient, sentinel pines.
Let us sit and pass the time, forgetting all care,
Sharing our true natures, and smiling confidences,
Under the shelter of a weathered porch,
In sleepy, soft shade of a sultry, summer second.
Let us talk in this brief, perfect moment,
Amid the chatter of busy squirrels,
And the lulling drone of hummingbirds hovering,
Amid the sound of children running down stone steps
Of Camps of generations, to waiting lakes below.
So many lakes, First, Raquette, Indian, Big Moose, more,
Teardrops of past errant glaciers, all,
And Limekiln reigns regally, clad in grandeur of diamonds
And fern lace. Feel her calm,
As she bathes sandy shores in gentle waves and wake.
Feel her calm,
Let it infuse us, as we sit and pass the time,
With sun peering at us gently over a sea of high peaks,
Bathing us in light,
In this, so perfect, moment.

Read More Poems From The Adirondack Almanack HERE.


Saturday, August 10, 2019

Poetry: What Carries No Weight

What Carries No Weight

Miltonia orchids swaying
the way planets orbit
and the Moon
shining on the spine of
Whiteface Mountain.

Clothed in briny ash,
Black Willow and Douglas fir.

The Mourning Warbler’s
song, when the sun is nearly held,
in the soft spot of the palm,
weightless like
a grenade exploding.