February 14 1985
Thursday, February 14th, 1985
Poems
Desolation Sound
Friday, December 20th, 1985Elegy for Eric (1962-1985)
Now closer creep the shadows of the trees
The pasture’s morning mist makes squash leaves freeze.
The house without a fire’s a chilling place
Forsaken of the summer’s hot embrace.
A dullness weights the limbs, fatigues the mind
Acts fail, words trail, thoughts snap, ears seal, eyes blind
Alone sleep offers rest from fear and pain
But nightmares waken torments once again.
Bottomless and void, bereft of light
The sea has robbed us of a spirit bright
A man-child at the verge of fatherhood
Innocently searching for the good.
He dove below his depth alone for love
And left alone his loved ones here above
His friends, parents, lady and child-to-be
His boats, barn, his plans to farm the sea.
Without him we grow old before our time
But in our hearts he stays in youthful prime.
So let us gather now in deepening night
And sharing sorrow, kindle warmth and light.
Anniversary
Tuesday, April 2nd, 1991Paddling bow in Penobscot Bay,
I heard the Tripping Captain
say across the water
to my counselor paddling stern,
“Six months after the wedding
your wife’s ass
feels just like your own.”
His words broke the shell
of my vast virgin ignorance
and echoed in starlight.
This Wednesday morning in April
I bring coffee to the bed
we’ve slept in for twenty five years
and reach under the covers.
Smiling, you slap my hand.
April in Paris
Thursday, April 2nd, 1992Full five and twenty years ago
At age of twenty five
I stood with you under a tree
Making a vow to strive
Through poverty, wealth, illness and health
To keep our young love alive
In the midst of utter uncertainty
Declaring it would survive.
The howling storms of time passing
That through its limbs did drive
Compressed and twisted and darkened it
And forced it to strengthen and thrive
Till today in this city of lovers
We’ve exchanged the whole half of our lives
Like wood become coal and then diamond
Our pledge’s fulfillment arrives.
1992
To Dad
Monday, April 19th, 1993
Mark Antony’s Valentine
Monday, February 14th, 1994“You cannot call it love, for at your age,
The heyday of the blood is tame,” said he–
An ignorant child who never could presage
What nature’s secret of love’s growth would be.
No less than air or food or sun’s warm ray
Your sound, your smell, your taste, your touch, your sight
Still animate, sustain and calm the clay
That sinks into my mattress every night.
No less the rose of dawn, the bloom of spring
For being welcomed yet another time.
Appreciation of a precious thing
Accumulates before it turns sublime;
Even in depletion, more entire
And poignant, knowing soon it must expire.
Published in A Fine Frenzy:Poets Respond to Shakespeare p.98
Getting Well
Thursday, October 31st, 1996I cant remember quite when
I decided to dress and go out
Not feeling ready or strong
Just bored enough for the risk.
It must have been the moment
Some furious battle tilted
Between invaders and guards
Endurance turning to hope.
I made it around the block
Slow as old folks in the park
Who step to keep from falling
And stop to catch their breath
To sense movement and rest
A breeze stroking the lips
To squint at fluttering leaves
And the radiant blue of air
Like a kid on shaky legs
Licked, sponging up life.
Recovery is a miracle,
But father will you arise?
October 31 1996
Rings
Saturday, July 11th, 1998Rings
Saturday, July 11th, 1998The golden rings you’ve just exchanged and wear
As binding links of interlocking vow
Made with free choice impalpable as air
Enclose the undetermined future now.
The two of you together cleave as one
To fill the gap between the worlds in space
Between the pleasure and what should be done
Between the gruesome times and times of grace.
You leave behind the families of your birth
To recreate the world as best you can
With children, home and projects of true worth
The newly chartered firm of Chris and Ann.
May it prosper through what fortune brings
As have these redwood sempervirens rings.
Knoll House
Friday, August 21st, 1998
Gently wafting Knoll House breeze
Stirs the firs and arbutus trees
That frame the watery passage I see
Between the mainland and Savary
From the deck six hundred feet up
Where a fritillary flits by my coffee cup.
Speedboats enter from each side
Gash parallel lines before they hide
Behind green curtains lost from view
Their white paths fading back to blue.
Horizon clouds disperse to show
The glacial glare off Forbidden Plateau.
A loud leaf scrapes the greying shakes
Above soft sounds that birdsong makes.
The sun radiates my soles with heat
And puffs of wind aircool my feet.
Whiffs of fragrance richly vary
Shalal, peat, and huckleberry.
Writing makes my observation
Slow motion, line’s permutation.
Dancing fingers lead the pen
Across the empty pages, then
Leave a snail-paced slimey trail
Wormy castings endless tale.
Broken off by–of all things–
Yellow belly-throat, black wings
Crimson crown–an Oriole
Visiting this blessed Knoll.
August 1998