still
implausibly, exquisitely
still
en pointe
a vivified Michelangelo
poised, erect
ineffably elegant and
still
en pointe
a golden vision
descending the stair
gliding, floating
utterly entrancing
ever advancing but
still
en pointe
alongside her prince
commanding the stage
as time and space stand
still
still
wondrously, breathtakingly
still
Month most maligned
Caught between seasons
Neither winter nor spring
Lacking the best of either
Displaying the worst of both
Or perhaps that is its glory
Being not one thing or the other
But itself, juncture of memory and promise
Consecrating cherished experience
Anticipating unfolding beauties
Being seventy is like March
Caught between seasons
Neither young nor old
Expecting to do what body refuses
Resisting the repose from which mind recoils
Or perhaps that is its glory
Being not one thing or the other
But itself, juncture of memory and promise
Consecrating cherished experience
Anticipating unfolding beauties
Tobias Bartlett was his name
A name he proudly bore
Our household never was the same
After he came through the door.
A leaper he and so much more
He flew with astounding grace
So nimbly springing from bedroom floor
To eagerly lick my face.
He was my partner on many a hike
From Acadia to Downeast
There wasn’t a trail he didn’t like
His energy never ceased.
A Wildcat traverse was not the least
Of all the mountains climbed
Its rugged steeps his joy released
His ardor so sublime.
One time I lost him on Blue Hill
The ledges were too near
Toby “Come” I called and again but still
No Toby did appear.
I descended without him filled with fear
My heart within me pounded
My hope for finding my dog so drear
When down the trail he bounded.
We went away for about a week
Left Toby with a friend
And when we returned one leg was weak
His paw it wouldn’t mend
His plight I could not apprehend
Why suddenly so lame
But brave and sweet until the end
My Toby just the same.
Tobias Bartlett was his name
A name he proudly bore
Our household never was the same
After he came through the door.
I have just published a chapbook of a selection of recent poems entitled, “Tuesday Mornings: poems of wonder, lament, and whimsy.” You may purchase a copy at the Lulu Bookstore.
Here is an excerpt from the preface …
I have chosen to group the poems under three headings: wonder, lament and whimsy. All my writing begins in wonder: wonder at this extraordinarily beautiful and inscrutable world of God’s making and the privilege of living within it, observing and appreciating and engaging; wonder at the human capacity for making beauty with color and shape and texture, with melody and harmony and counterpoint, with movement, and with words; wonder at the beauty of the human spirit at its best when we are able to reflect something of the wisdom and grace and compassion of the creator whose image we bear.
This world is beautiful, indeed, but troubled and besieged by brutality, compelling the poems of lament. Lament is an ancient and powerful form of prayer, a way of giving voice to distress, of refusing to ignore or excuse injustice. Lament is not despair, but its opposite, a declaration that evil should and can be overcome, and a hope-filled expectation that its own cries will be heard, by people and by God.
Whimsy is the corollary to wonder, finding exuberant delight in the beauty and power of language itself, playing with words to induce a knowing smile or a joyful laugh, uncovering serious meaning by not taking itself too seriously.
I do hope that you will enjoy reading these poems or speaking them aloud, which is how all poetry should be heard, and that the poems may inspire your own expressions of wonder and lament and whimsy.
change direction
it may be an amiable suggestion
try something new
expand your horizons
see the other side
it may be an urgent warning
run from danger
flee the peril
turn round before it is too late
it may be an insidious enticement
ditch your commitments
ignore your duties
put yourself first
it may be a gracious command
repent
turn away from foolishness and sin
find the path that leads to life
it may utter randomness
be here be there be anywhere
yield to the chaos
abide no rules no design no intent
it may be an invitation to dance
imbibe the rhythm
flow with your partner
exult in the delight of the movement
change direction
it is yours to choose
a path, a way, a way of being
not remaining stuck, not acceding to powerlessness
but dancing, dancing, dancing to the music of God
When every spruce and fir are painted white,
the wintry scene dispenses pure delight
and all the world seems surely put to right,
but it is not so.
Where glistening shards of ice append the spout,
my curious dog approaches with her snout
and wonder wants to displace the dread and doubt,
but it cannot be so.
While pensive writers conjure enchanting tales,
their words and thoughts are shaped to allay travails,
the looming specter of terror inexorably pales,
but it must not be so.
Of angels among us we’re prompted to recall,
At least for a moment the enveloping shadows forestall,
Lest hopelessness leave us bereft of faith at all,
but it will not be so.
I don’t remember the name of the first
Hail Mary, perhaps, or Scottish Fantasy
Lavender Illusion or Gregorian Chant
I know that Blueberry Muffin and Giggle Creek
didn’t come until later
until after
After those first few bedraggled scapes
were tenderly pushed into holes
freshly dug in the red clay
pioneers lovingly chosen
from among Don Church’s many children
hidden behind tall juniper hedges
After the once alder-choked bank
sloping gently above the Bar Harbor stones
had been painstakingly cleared
trunks and branches and roots and rocks
all pulled out to make of wild scrub a garden
and of this acreage a home
They are the ones who made it ours
Big Dolly and Lady Liz
Grape Ice and Velvet Thunder
flaunting vibrant July colors
on improbably thick petals
filling the landscape, and us, with joy
Now there are thirty
bearing seventeen different names
some of them divided several times over
delightfully delicate daylilies
their dazzling presence declaring
they belong here and so do we
I am not one but two
a soul filled with wonder and
a soul filled with horror
delight and dread
gratitude and grief
unfathomable gratitude and inconsolable grief
diamonds of sunlight dance on wavelets
as cool autumn breezes waft over the Reach
while air choked and cloying weighs over
ruptured bodies in Tel Aviv and Gaza City
black-clad dancers lilt and whirl
bringing a cello suite to rapturous life
while khaki-clad militants fire round after round
composing their own discordant symphony of death
squash pear soup and Tinder Hearth bread
attend tender conversation with kind-hearted neighbors
while tortured screams and violent sobbing
wash over the rubbled remnants of a family home
delight and dread
wonder and horror
gratitude and grief
wholehearted gratitude and heart-wrenching grief
I am not one but two
Kyrie eleison …