"Right from Winter into Summer.  We don't have much of a Spring anymore."  Know who says that?  Just about everyone living in central and northeastern Pennsylvania.  More often than not, it's hard to disagree.  Especially when June 1st feels like any day in July, as it does today.
     This verse is part of a collection of Summer poems from 2006.  Their simple titles came from the day each was written.

Tuesday, 7/11/06

 

Hanging low in the branches of a pine,

a sun the color of tiger lilies -

more a ball of fire than ornament -

foretelling heat, humidity and haze.

The man who walks his beagle each morning

feels he must let me know: "Hot one today,"

while the dog's only concern is something

found in the grass just off the roadway's edge.

 

 

 



 



      Scientific evidence tells us that in the history of life on Earth there have been five major extinction events, at least two of which were aided/caused by the impact of rather large space debris.  Our universe is, apparently, not unlike an unimaginably immense pinball machine with projectiles beyond number darting to and fro.  Science also tells us that it is only a matter of time until one of those giant pinballs finds us again, quite probably ending the game.

     In early March of this year, two such objects passed our planet within viewing range - both extremely close, astronomically speaking.  The following poem was written after these close calls.  You'll notice the title of the piece is somewhat lengthy.  Call me crazy but I've always wanted to assign one of my poems a heading almost as long as the verse itself.

On The Approach and Subsequent Departure

(in a Short Period of Time)

of a Comet and an Asteroid

 

Your visit, understood

to be a calling card,

reminds us that someday

must come.

 

But not today.  You leave

behind a world alive

with fear, wondering when,

not if.

 



 

 

     Today is Friday, May 17 - the eve of my daughter's college graduation.  Remember what I said about time?  I forgot one important fact: there is never enough.
     I'd like to share two poems today.  The first is from my book, A Simple Gift (PublishAmerica.com). It is the first poem I ever wrote for my daughter.   I was a stay at home dad for the first five years of her life.  I will always treasure those years and the time we spent together.  It's only natural, then, that when her first day of school came around I was the one who cried.  I still do. 
     The second verse is a piece I wrote two years ago for her 21st birthday.

     Always, Sara.  No matter what.

Sara's Gone To School Today

 

Sara's gone to school today,

the first in her five years.

The day that once was far away

now, suddenly, is here.

 

And she was in her finest dress,

and brushed her long brown hair,

and it was anybody's guess

who she saw standing there.

 

And just before she left my hand

I gave her one last kiss,

for she will never understand

how I'll remember this.

 

Sara's gone to school today.

Where have gone the years?

While her wide eyes were bright and gay,

my own were filled with tears.

 

 

 

For Sara on Her 21st Birthday

 

In the almost evening twilight

two deer spread a hillside.

The elder, motionless but for

a steady rise and fall

of breath or beating (breaking?) heart,

looks after the younger

who, walking, moves on, lengthening

the distance between their

long Autumn shadows.   Nature's way,

and anyone watching

closely could be forgiven for

mistaking them for us.

 

 

Always, Sara.  No matter what.

 

 

     The arrival (finally) of Spring has reminded of several poems I wrote a number of years back.  The verse I'll share today is one that was first published in a little book of 100 of my original poems.  The book is titled A Simple Gift.  It was published in 2003 by Publish America, LLLP, and because they continue to own the rights to the book they have graciously granted me permission to print three of my poems here in the hopes that it will promote sales.  So let's get that business out of the way: you can find A Simple Gift at www.publishamerica.com.  There are a number of good poems in the book which I believe justify its publication.  There are also a number which probably could have used some more fine tuning.  The rest lie somewhere in between.  As for the book's title, it comes from a piece of music which my daughter first heard as a child and which we have both come to love.

     Here is the first of those three poems.

Squatter's Rights

 

 

Again, that blue jay roosts atop the pine

which I may lawfully consider mine

because it chanced to grow within the yard

that I have fenced.  Perhaps he's standing guard

 

over the feeders on the Shepherd's Cross;

security against excessive loss

ascribed to squirrels watching from the trees.

They regularly take all that they please.

 

The wrens alight en masse, speaking their minds.

A woodpecker has left his branch behind,

instead to pull the suet from its cage

where these same squirrels once provoked his rage

 

by fleeing with his meal, having pried

the sliding door to reach the feast inside.

Small wonder, then, that now a sentry stands

above the yard to keep it in good hands.

 

The sun slips, sadly bidding us goodnight.

The woodpecker and wrens take to their flight.

And still the blue jay governs from on high,

and still the squirrels wait for him to fly.

 

The deed says this is mine, but on my word

I'd say the proprietor is that bird.

 



     My old friend Father Time made his annual visit this past week, cleverly disguised as my 52nd birthday.  I knew who he was immediately; have for some years now.  We stood toe to toe for most of the day.  In the end, the best we could do was acknowledge that we'd meet again.  I know he'll be the victor at some point, but for now, to quote the Black Knight: "Alright.  We'll call it a draw."
     In keeping with the situation, today's verse is a piece I wrote two years ago on the occasion of my 50th birthday.  Keep in mind as you are reading that I enjoy watching birds at the feeders in my yard.

The Poet on his 50th Birthday

 

Ever the heralds of first light;

of falsely immortal mid-day;

of looming, long-shadowed twilight;

and the feeder empties quickly.

I'm slower to the refill now.

 

 

     The title of this poem is the only time you will ever see or hear me refer to myself as a poet.  Robert Frost said that poet is not a name you give yourself, but that someone else gives you.  I have a little story concerning just that, but it will wait for another time.

     It's a beautiful spring morning and I'm heading out to do some yardwork and, hopefully, spend the better part of the day and evening sitting near a campfire.  To borrow another line from my favorite poet, "You come, too."

 

 

 

 



     Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day!  Get a copy of your favorite poem, carry it in your pocket, and share it with everyone.  I'll be carrying a copy of "Out Here" by Richard Wilbur, former Poet Laureate of the United States.  This poem wonderfully describes one aspect of living in Northeastern and Central Pennsylvania.  It can be found in Wilbur's book Anterooms.
     If you will permit me, my poem today is one last dog poem.  This piece was written two years ago for my daughter and her dog, Casey.  Casey is but a few months shy of his 14th birthday and has, for these last two years, been showing his age. It is something all pet owners must endure, and probably the worst part of becoming attached to any animal.   However, an even more sad and tragic poem about a dog is "Dog's Death" by John Updike.  I also recommend Sharon Creech's Love That Dog, a story written in verse by Sharon Creech.  It is one of my favorites.
     Don't forget to carry and share a poem today.

Casey

 

Her once Black Lab now wears a mask of gray

twelve years in the making, and by the time

his aching legs coax him enough to stand

and growl or bark at whatever passes,

it's gone.  He sleeps now more than anything,

and many are the days his food remains

untouched well after noon.  She notices,

home for the summer, that her friend is old.

"It's so sad," she bleeds from her breaking heart,

"He doesn't know."  Perhaps.

                                                I like to think

he simply accepts now...and now...and now,

which leaves him better off than thinking men;

free from the knowledge that each passing day

brings the end so much closer, and yet not

unlike that one guest at every party

who drinks all night but is the only one

who doesn't know he's had more than enough.

 



     Welcome to April and, more importantly, National Poetry Month.  Celebrate the poetic muse all month by reading new or favorite poetry and supporting the poet(s) in your life.  Don't forget - April 18th is Poem in Your Pocket Day.  Choose a poem you love, carry it in your pocket, and share it with others all day.
     I have been fortunate for a number of years to have been invited and accepted as a regular guest to the Lick Run Rod and Gun Club, a rustic cabin found in the woods of central Pennsylvania where I go to recharge the battery.  Approximately 5 years ago, one of the members brought along his recently obtained dog (Emily) for the weekend.  Emily had been abused by her previous owner and, as such, was quite nervous around new people.  Her trust was hard-earned, and rightfully so.  As I recall, we all (Emily included) enjoyed a pleasant and relaxing weekend, and Emily made new friends.
     Interestingly enough, the previous week I had read an article concerning the concept of time as understood by dogs.  It seems that dogs look at the absence of their owners/masters/friends as one thing and one thing only - forever.  Whether a dog is left at home for the lenght of the work day, twenty minutes, a weekend, whatever, the dog knows only that the time passing is forever.  I happened to watch Emily with renewed interest that weekend, especially when her owner left the cabin for any period of time.  At first, she would sit staring at the door from which he had exited.  After some time, she would wander slowly from room to room looking for him, not finding him, and returning to the original exit to wait for as long as it took - never long as we understand time, but apparently forever, time and again, for her.
     This poem is for Emily.

   For Emily

 

Emily sits and waits,

patiently as she can,

then wanders room to room

for glimpse of but one man

 

who left some time ago,

promising to return,

as happens all the time.

Now, Emily's concern

 

is the eternity

passing while she must stay.

Emily sits and waits

forever...or all day.