Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

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.


Saturday, August 3, 2019

How Twitchell Lake Was Named, And A Poem

Hiram Burkes Log Shanty on Twitchell LakeThe Twitchell Lake History Committee is working on documenting the story of Twitchell Lake in Big Moose, NY, and how it was named, with an account of the individual camps, hotels, and highlights down through the years. Twitchell Lake is 5 to 6 miles south of the old Champlain Road, now under the Stillwater Reservoir.

For over 12 years the Conables have hosted a social event at their camp on Twitchell Lake with a poetry competition, the winner receiving honors as “Poet Laureate of Twitchell Lake.” » Continue Reading.


Saturday, July 27, 2019

Poetry: Hummingbird Ballet

Hummingbird Ballet

Aerial ballet,
Allegro avian wings a-flutter,
Humming an accompaniment
For tiny body suspended in tremolo,
Sipping sweet sugar solution
From flowered feeders.
We suspend our disbelief,
For the micro moment you light,
And sip, savor, the pure grace
Of your miraculous presence.


Saturday, July 20, 2019

Poetry: Where Deer Sleep

Where Deer Sleep

That place where the Moon
goes from whole to slithered,
bites of dust, smiles of yellow
rock, strange toenail shapes amidst
a royal navy blue canvas of stars,
growing dimmer the closer they are.

Just hidden enough to be found in
the bushes, sea urchin green, springing
up as coverage for all the earthlings which
do not sleep

In front of a thousand oaks, a family of
Whitetail Deer, each resting on a
pod of grass indented like the forehead of
an infant. There is a nakedness to this ritual,
a non-terrestriality, signs of the Creator’s indivisibility.

A place where deer sleep. Beside the specter
of daffodils blooming in untimely silences, made of
atoms, bones held by the same basic power source
of gravitational waves that only deer listen to.

Wrapped together for some reason, around the Sun, stretching
out into space, atomic reactions to the night. From sunrise to
sunset, turning away from the hours traveling across the sky.


Saturday, July 13, 2019

Poetry: Roughing It

Roughing It

I remember cold backpack mornings in Augusts
in the Adirondacks in the late 1960s, hanging-in
our sleeping bags long after waking from sleep
on our tarps only to watch for the longest time
while sunlight clambered down from tree tops
to give us the warming inspiration to crawl out
our snug sleeping bags and launch the new day.

Once with my late sister Karen in an open-front
lean-to shelter along Diamond Mountain Brook,
where a side trail leads to the Siamese Ponds,
the weather had been so warm that we took
our summer bags, only to find the lean-to floor
bare of the expected insulating balsam boughs.
Just barely past midnight we both awoke

bone-cold, deciding to sit up in our bags, our
feet propped on our backpacks, keeping them
off the cold lean-to floor. It reminded me how
Karen and I once rode eastward from college,
home for our Christmas break in the back seat
of a classmate’s car whose heater didn’t work.
At five degrees, we wore our gloves on our feet,
while we sat on our hands to keep them warm.


Saturday, July 6, 2019

Poetry: Awakening

Awakening

Mottled beams of sunlight
Filter down through dense canopies,
To feed the whispering, wooded forest.
Stirred breezes and shadows move like liquid
Over a carpet of soft pine, fir and spruce,
Signing the expectant dance cards
Of lithe ferns, purple trillium and yellow violets.
Sleepy, hatted heads of mushrooms, peek toward day.
From all directions, tenor trills of warblers
Pierce cocooning olivine and emerald shade.
The shush of fresh streams and creeks,
Stemmed by branch-rich damns of toiling beavers,
Sing of the sunrise, as it is mirrored in a myriad
Of translucent lakes.
Speckled twin fawns are born to greet the world gently,
Bathed in buoyant, healing air.
All breathe,
As the forest revels in the exultant goodness
Of a mountain morning.


Saturday, June 29, 2019

Poetry: A Definition in Mind

A Definition in Mind

It emerges as fungi on
birch logs. Quiet. The mind
is what can exist if we are
not afraid to let it grow. Alone.
Softer than ivory and clear as
a gathering storm. Its dark energy
is all around us. In the dying embers
of secret traditions, it knows the
promises that had to be broken.


Saturday, June 22, 2019

Poetry: Adirondack Mountain Matins

 

Adirondack Mountain Matins

Tremulous aspen leaves applaud
each breeze without discrimination
Unseen hummingbird wing beats
render human heartbeats both
static and ecstatic by comparison

Monarch caterpillars munch milkweed
to make themselves toxic to predators
These mountains are great grandparents
to the far Himalayas and wear down
slower than the novice monk’s stout will