Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

Saturday, November 24, 2018

Poetry: Maundy Thursday

 

Maundy Thursday

In my canoe on the Raquette,
I saw smoky, hexagonal,
cream colored osprey eggs
appear out of the premature
slush on the lurched pillars.

On those yawning coppices
and Eastertide melt,

I felt the holy.

Like resplendent, lukewarm
air on my neck.

For the first time


Saturday, November 17, 2018

Poetry: Last Virgin Pine

Last Virgin Pine
Solitary and heavy
under the unseated saddle
of an infinite sky,
Immortality is a ruthless
harvester of data: an endless
string of half breaths from the
last remaining virgin pine.
Covered in a bright burst of
December snowfall, the sun
struck diamonds smile back.

Saturday, November 10, 2018

Poetry: A Spring Fed Brook

A Spring Fed Brook

Like a spring fed brook,
we all start without answering.

Held together by opposite sides.

Deeply cleft, grey-green with
lichens bent by the wind.


Saturday, November 3, 2018

Poetry: The Thunder

The Thunder

Like the hunger of
Adirondack blackflies
in summer, the thunder
roars. The savage rapids
of our lives. The seduction
of a morning’s panorama.


Saturday, October 27, 2018

Poetry: Close to Timberline

Close to Timberline

I want the spacious
sweep of a
green mosaic,
those Tupper Lake
marshes and
fountainheads of
majestic streams.
I want countless
warm ponds
wrapped in cold
weather. The
teardrop of the lake
itself. I want the
secret sources of the
Hudson, log bridges,
and vanished paths.
I want a thin mist.
Ferns, sedges,
grasses, and white-
cedar thicket.
The deep woods.
The spring thaw.
Just early snow on
the tumbled rocks.


Saturday, October 20, 2018

Poetry: Pledge

 

Pledge

I pledge allegiance
to the Creator,
who gives life to all
beings, and to the
animals, plants, insects,
water, and rocks,
which the Creator
allowed to exist. One
Universe neither above
nor below, indivisible,
with love and
compassion for all.


Saturday, October 13, 2018

Poetry: In the Tent

In the Tent

Before the sizzle of cast
iron on grease and chattering
crows sounding the alarm,
such a supple space to
lay awake in a sleeping
bag, rolled up like a napkin
in a French bistro, zoned out
to the blithe, unconditioned air
bending the fly with dribbling rain.

In the tent, the world loses
its power. Wandering without
rising through a Black Widow’s
web, the last frontier of the dream.


Saturday, October 6, 2018

Poetry: Mountain Sun

Lewey Lake in Indian Lake

Mountain Sun

Poisons from air and
Hormones from cows
Carbon from oceans
And algae from lakes
Sin from the priesthood
And racism from schools
Glitches from computers
And infections from cells

Still the mountain sun rises

No need to be detoxified
A fragrance rinsing the vapor
Of our moral stains once more

Photo of Lewey Lake in Indian Lake.


Saturday, September 29, 2018

Poetry: A Prayer for the Adirondacks

A Prayer for the Adirondacks

Divine partner, grant
That I may respect
These mountains.
Where there is pollution,
Let me plant wildflowers.
Where there is extinction,
Let me spread conservation.
Where there is toxic rain,
Let me share purified water.
Where there are forest fires,
Let me bring regeneration.
Where there is fear, let
Me be a calming voice in the storm.
O divine partner, grant that I may
Raise from the dead all that is wasted.


Saturday, September 22, 2018

Poetry: Find Your Tree

Find Your Tree

Find your tree.
Accept its broken embraces,
like the air of late spring,
a sonata and carnival of animals.

Find your tree.
Once through again,
a songbook for the latter days,
like old Deuteronomy or
the ad-dreaming cat.

Find your tree
and everything Zen
made of sky. For the world
has gone wrong; the gamma rays
are all off. The heart breaks and
the brain is losing power.

Find your tree.
Old and in the way,
waifing near the morning after,
such a strange condition is a tree.

Another life on a chain.
Another in between dream.
Another helpless dirt farmer.

Find your tree
and Nirvana, too.
Everyday when the world ends-
mother, father, angel, and the space
between. Find your tree.

Unplugged,
running on faith,
the ghost inside.


Sunday, September 16, 2018

Poetry: The Hiker

The Hiker

As the hiker capers through
an unpainted gallery of birch
logs, the crackling of chipmunks
on sticks carries no weight.
Captured by the sculpted breath
of a grey-lyre like wind-his love
of the trail corresponds to inter
rupted questions: the cadence
of candy apple brown pine cones,
and the moon hiding its migration
within the amber colored glass of
monarch eyes. Yes, the hiker walks
towards unborn steps, since before
his seed heart began pumping in
the silent chamber of the placenta.


Saturday, September 8, 2018

Poetry: Carries No Weight

Carries No Weight

Cradled within the
cleavage of a copper
moon ceiling hiding
its color, the hiker
capers through an
unpainted gallery of
birch logs. Over the
crackling of chipmunks
chewing candy apple
brown pine cones.,
the cadence of his
cares carries no weight.


Saturday, September 1, 2018

Poetry: Mourning Warbler

Mourning Warbler

Like medieval
madrigals, the dying
melody of the Mourning
Warbler is more
alive in former realms.
Glittering in the azure
shade of Striped Maple,
somehow they know that
heaven is only a
way to pass through.


Saturday, August 25, 2018

Poetry: At Sodom Community Church

At Sodom (NY) Community Church

“Restoration can follow”
says the preacher of our litanies of loss.
His name is Oliver, no ordinary guy.
Of the gift of tongues he will allow
an incident in Desert Storm, glossed
by Holy Spirit wind. A Bedouin came by
by camel with a child needing–needing
what!? “One of our Assemblies of God boys
prayed that someone understand.
And God said ‘Why don’t you?'” Heeding
which he did, reducing Babel’s noise
to apprehend the need at hand.
At hand today: Oliver’s stated theme:
“Except the Lord build, we build in vain”
–from Ezra’s ancient Hebrew book.
Grief and loss can blossom as a fruited plain
and compost be more and sweeter than it seem.
Lift another rock; take another look.


Sunday, August 19, 2018

Poetry: Tewawe’éstha

Tewawe’éstha

5,343 feet inside
the glittering,
Saturnal gales,
my lady is
serendipitous shrubs
submerged in
a sea of balsam fir.
Even her prismatic,
alluvial sands hold
my steps, ingrained
with the scent of
moonshine and
charred muscle,
clothed in hawking,
milky ash at the
opalescent summit.