Poems
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
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
To Dad
Monday, April 19th, 1993
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
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.
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.
February 14 1985
Thursday, February 14th, 1985
Looking for Work
Sunday, April 1st, 1984On American Airlines flight 510 to Kent Ohio
For two days I’ve been shopping and packing, provisioning for this expedition: 10 copies of a résumé, my article in progress, financial statement on Laurel tree care, family picture, three piece suit, hiking boots, dissertation, Index cards. My excitement has intensified since the Monday night phone message from the Davey Tree Company which said “we want you to come spend a week at corporate headquarters in Ohio as soon as possible.” Rescue and opportunity!
I sought out this company and this field of work both out of desperation and hope. The academic career I qualified for had dead ended again while working with trees is “a path with heart.” Since the termination of Jan’s job as Dean at Scripps College, the support of the family shifts to me. She needs the kind of space she has provided me, and someone must supply the family with peanut butter and running shoes. (more…)
The Runner and the Trees
Monday, November 14th, 1983*
The trees are there
when talking stops.
They wait
for the runner.
*
At the track
before dawn
no sound
beyond breathing
but the freeway.
Exhaust
tires
and scares the runner; he stops
and notices the green-wattle tree
survives.
It softens the noise,
it freshens his blood.
*
Pursuing a youth
made lovelier yet by flight
through woods he runs
unloved,
imploring recognition.
Outdistanced and breathless
she prays for escape
then stands.
Her heart still beats against his touch
as bark encloses the soft breast,
arms twist into branches
hair flattens to leaves,
and swift feet root underground.
They are crowned
with laurel.
*
Last night’s storm
cleaned the branches
but left a mess
of yellow liquidambar leaves
on the wet, black pavement.
The runner’s eye arranges them
in passing.
*
The trees help the runner
reach his goal.
For his motion
they exchange stillness.
*