White River

This time of year, I pine. Many summers I've spent in VT. Haven't been up in too long. This time of year I miss it. Ever drive West on Rt 107, with the White River on your right?
How freaky is it?
It's this freaky;


White River

Much as the brookies run in season
Up the climbing White River swells,
I’ve seen a thing, defies reason,
A sight too marvelous to tell
  But I will…

So, I turned off I-89 and ran West on 107,
In my pickup I crossed the chicken wire bridge
To where the Vermont hills start to leaven,
Where a mighty beast lays off the road edge,
  In the valley of the White River

Rt. 107, she weaves and she rolls
As I coast through the valley low vales
And crest over small knotted knolls,
The river at times seems uphill it can sail!
  And No! I have not been drinking!

As I drive up each mild incline
She runs past me there, flowing just fine,
Yet when I roll down, on the other side, lee
The river is running uphill, as I see!
  Head on, from grill to my gate!

Whither we go together
Up these hills or on down,
By cow pastures, or woods,
Or through slowly the town,
As I drive down a hill
The river runs up to pass me,
Which compared to on uphills
  Appears even more fastly!

Possessed White River, what animates you?
Up and down, all around
  White River –
You make me seasick
  While I drive on firm ground!

We know how a pickup can drive up a hill,
For inside it’s a man,
  Just like me, with free will ,
But of you, beguiled White River,
What spirit life runs in your currents and foam?!

  It must be a magick, that 
    No mortal man
      Has ever known

Epitaph of a Rainbow Prism

When I started writing this, I thought it might be the one thing I'd like someone to read for me at my wake. Although I do still like the idea of having my uncremated and unembalmed body left atop Mt. Feake for the Vultures.  (And I am planning to live on a good while yet)
Lots of good bird watching at Mt Feake, especially near dusk.
Red Tail Hawks, Great Horned Owls, Rabbits, I digress.


Epitaph of a Rainbow Prism

Perhaps some child
  Born today
Shall find my witty words,
  And say
"These teachings spare, how,
  In their way,
Impart us lessons, of the
  Snares and traps
That may impress us
  On our path"

Though on those trails
  I had times been,
And chronicled what
  I have seen,
The views, from which, have
  Made me cry,
Or taught me fatuously
  I can laugh!
Stumbling down the
  Rough enlightened paths,

And I have worn suits!
  Both gay and gray,
While hoarding sweet
  Love’s paraffin,
But so much more wasted
  The sacred candlelight
That measures out the trifling
   Strife of day

So heed my words, my
  Parvenu,
I lusted, that
  May I beget,
But kept no rooms
  For loves regrets,
I was a moment, the
  Rainbow sunlight, bright,
I was radiance,
  A dewdrop prism,
Of the burning, as
  My candle days
Ebbed
  To the waxing night

Venus in Retrograde

Usually I don't care to re-write the same poem.
But after posting 'Retrograde' 2 days ago, I felt as though I'm not the right spokesman to speak for others ways of love. And soon thought better I revert to an gender identity I'm more familiar with. And then found too, while converting Mars to Venus, more than just the gender changed. so too did the nature of the  relationship, from one of being possessed to one of being inhabited.
But I can only speak for myself.


Venus in Retrograde

Out on a cool summers’ eve,
The Sun is gone, he’s taken leave, 
So tonight I stroll with Venus, indeed,
Processing by in her ecliptic speed
From arousal ‘til dim morning light,
  We’ll tread as friends, ‘til the nighttime ends

To walk with her, my celestial friend,
You wonder, am I ‘round the bend?
Yet ‘til my Master comes at day,
It’s she is here, and so am I,
  Together ‘neath night’s purple sky,

Communion in the silk of night,
She bathes me in her cool blue light,
Anointing me in a Pythian rite,
  And speaks through me as an oracle might,

But so how possessing is my refined friend,
To wander with, turn, twist, and wend,
With whom I pass this night away?
  I really have no more to say

 

Retrograde

I started writing this on the porch one recent summer night. As there was no moon, I noticed Mars and wrote about it as if it were my muse. I had not intended writing something so homo-erotic, but next day as I read what I'd wrote last night in the dark, it was either I had to either go with it or tear it up. I think someone somewhere someday will like it.
If that's you, then this is for you.


Retrograde

Out on a cool summers’ eve,
The moon is new, she’s taken leave, 
So tonight stroll I with Mars, instead,
Processing in his ecliptic bend,
From arousal ‘til dim morning light,
  We’ll tend as friends, ‘til the nighttime ends

To walk out with my yonder friend,
You’ll think I’ve wandered ‘round the bend,
Yet ‘til my Muse returns in her own way,
It’s he is here, and so am I
  Together ‘neath night’s purple sky,

Communion in the late of night,
He bathes me in a cool pink light,
Anoints me as a Delphic rite,
  And loves me as a goddess might,

And how special is so loving a friend,
To wander by, turn twist and wend,
With whom to pass the night away?
   I really have no more to say

Summer Rental

Another backyard pastoral. Last year we had chickadees nest successfully in a bluebird box.
This year I hung a wren house for them, which they tried for a time but abandoned. Actually sounded for one week like they were trying to remodel.

Summer Rental

I, the Carpenter, built it on spec,
  Of these pieces left by, from an old treehouse deck,
I next cut these boards for a diamond box
  With a coping saw that, once jigged old cuckoo clocks,
I drilled this hole center, so that they could get in,
  Sized 1 & 1/8^th" for a Carolina Wren,
I sized it that small to fit in just the good,
  We don’t want ‘those’ birds here, in our neighborhood,
The peaked roof I added, ‘gainst the sun and the rain,
  And hung it, by this, chain link hardware store chain,
In hopes of attracting upstanding chickadees
  Onto the property, and ‘round our oak tree,
Then thinking I surely could never go wrong,
   I let it to rent, for a cheap and sweet song,

And next morning, they called, and sans appoint-a-mont!,
  A chickadee pair, out upon a Spring jaunt,
Straight around it and in, they both peeped and they soared,
  Never once asking me if I’d give them a tour
But right off the bat she wasn’t happy;

• "Where in the refrigerator is the holder for our eggs?"
• "Isn’t there a separate nursery for our chicks?"
• "You mean, there’s only one bird bath?"
• "Cold water only?"
• "Which we have to share?"
• "…Really?"

(And although not allergic, she said next, quite acerbic)

• "No! I do NOT like your cat!"

Then next could be heard lots of scratching and pecking,
  Loud ominous sounds of deliberate home wrecking, 
   (And without yet even giving me a security deposit!)
Also he helped her, bringing dried grass and sticks,
   I suppose for some bird ad hoc furnishing tricks,
And he tried to make it work, hard to make it work,
   It just seems, in the end, that she had other plans…
So… Yes,
  The Summer Birdhouse, it is still free to let,
    The Chickadees haven’t come back, as of yet…

Knotted Wood

The poem below is the result of reading Robert Frost after haggling with college friends about vocabulary building. As the author, I claim no responsibility for it's haphazard alchemy.

Knotted Wood

Set upon the wood pile
  With the axe and maul a while,
Driving home ill thoughts
  With each swing to a knotted log
Which wouldn’t split so easily, much as
  Her arguments

Funny thing, ever put an
  Axe head on a handle?
Don’t stand it on the chopping log,
  So to push the handle in with maul or mallet,
After paring,
  Wedge it by hand as tight as you are daring,
Then hold all upside down,
  Hammer the handle butt, and the
Axe head will crawl up the neck far as it goes,
  Takes a while,
Like spanking your baby, taps
  To let her know, not harm,
Axes got their own ways, and you wouldn’t know
  Until you saw, or ‘axed’ it, ask heads will talk, and
When the handle’s level inside the head
  Drive in the shim

So I lift again,
  With a high single swing
I can split a two foot log,
  Of pine, fourteen inches if oak
But that’s if she’s knot free
  (I don’t pay for knots, ha ha joke, laugh now)
Yet when she’s as worked up in knots as this bitch,
  She’s a chore,
So I set too like a convict on a chain gang;

So she thinks she knows more words than me
  (Wha-hack!)
But she don’t say much so I guess I’ll see
  (Wha-hack!)
What she has to say about all that today
  (Wha-hack!)
Ain’t one good word good enough anyway?
  (Wha-hack!)
I got my axe and one points sure enough
  (Wha-hack!)
To work on in and cut away through the rough,
  (Wha-hack!)
You can call it a wedge or a blade or a maul,
  (Wha-hack!)
But it won’t change it none of the diff’rence at all
  (Wha-hack!)
One good man with an axe’ll chop through
  (Splits!)
Like no synonym of a spade can do

The Jesus Cat

Likely this would have been good to post around some religious Holiday, which we are now about as far from as we can get. But, it's an admission of my faltering faith, as I am.
And anyway you Godless Agnostics can like it too, it 's also about a cat!
  The Jesus Cat

He calls Me
  I, who hide where he cannot find me,
Awaken to his voice,
  yawning with a silent roar,
I rise with an arch and a backbend stretch
   as he calls again,
For a touch up, I lick my wrists and
   run them through my hair,
As he calls a third time and
   I am by his side

Speaking, he tells me
   – what I don’t know,
Pointing to what he shows me
   – I stare at his hand,
He sets the water in my bowl,
He lays the portion on my plate,
With dew round eyes I watch him so,
   While he offers what I can’t relate

I too once had a cat
   who thought as much of me,
I tossed him treats, fed him sweet meats,
   he pranced around, valiant and free,
Yet all I did behind the scenes,
   he had not sense to see

Now I face him, he,
   who sought for me,
With all my wonder, unending,

May I be witness to your every stride,
   may I be always on by your side,
May I proclaim;
  I am just that,
   please know me, I’m
    the Jesus Cat
 

Hair of the Doggerel

Apparently I wrote this in Feb/March (2016) and forgot about it.
Short, but a cute experiment with breaking the metric.


Hair of the Doggerel

 He stood tall next to his
  Barber chair
Preparing, I guess, next to
  Cut my hair
When he regarded me with a
  Wanton stare,
And said;
  "Ok, guy, you’re next.
  No need to take a fuckin’ numbah!" 

On the Night Porch with Meow

Ever hang out on a dark porch and mistake your cat for the Budhha?
Happens more often than you'd think...


On the Night Porch with Meow

On our porch, clear, starlit, dark,
I sat out to cool in the June night air,
As Cat lay on the table, watching me,
  He can see

So can I, but only dimly, see him,
Deposing in the Lion pose, watching me,
This Lion pose is no mere thing,
While dying the Buddha lay in the Lion pose,
From reading sutras, it seems he said more so poised
  Between food poisoning and dying
Than most men ever, in many lives

And this Lion pose is no easy thing,
One lays, hips vertical,
The legs pointing towards,
While arms uphold the body
And the head upright,
No easy pose for Man, or Woman,
  Lions do it,
    Cats too, easy as a tail twitch

"Are you my Buddha?" I ask
No meowl, no grunt,
He just stares into the dark at me,
  I know what that means,
So pouring some from a cat treat bag
  I tossed them, one a time,
Which he chases about, as he can see,
  I can not,
Perhaps he can see the sounds as they skip along the floor,
Perhaps, like spots after blinking at the sun, he can see the motion,
  While of neither of each can I, 
Funny how one sees possession of religious powers,
  In a cat,
Whose hunter mind knows only hand tossed treats

Later,
   After a woken dream
I find him again, crouching on the welcome mat
Before the porch screen door
I ask, "Meow meow, what’s out there?"
He answers with his mouth moving jaggedly,
  "Ahnt-at, ahnt-at, ahnt-at,"
Again I ask, "What’s that mean?"
  As another answered, thrice,
A howl of three meows,
Friend, foe, and unknown,
Coming from afar, from the crease of the yard and brush,
  Out in the starlit dark unseen  

Cat is my Buddha,
  He has his,
    Grace is always – Over there…

Moose Rabbit Majesty

There really was a Moose Rabbit, much as described. Hung out in our yard most of last Spring, Summer, into the Fall.  Friendly guy. Hasn't been around this year.
(And the pic below doesn't do him justice)


Moose Rabbit Majesty

In his white ticked coat, of dappled rabbit fawn,
I’ll shall let Moose Rabbit work at mowin’ round ma’ overgrowed lawn,
Now he don’t make no one bothered, chewin’ one stalk at a time,
An ‘e don’t make no noise neither, he’s not costin’ me a dime
So if it’s a chore for him, to keep a’ nibblin’-on,
He hasn’t said a word to me,
  He sure don’t seem to mind,

As he pulls a stalk a’ hey, he sets it straight without a bend,
While a phantom penny whistle slides from root white to seed end
With his buck tooth mouth a chewin’, as the latest straw slides in,
Kinda …‘Hoooooo-Weep!’…
  And then it all begins again

Seems a sumthin’ done done sumthin’, bin a nibblin’ too his ears,
Or much more likely, bit, but leavin’ his ears all tore up now in tears,
Maybe they are scars he earned in battle with a predatory foe,
Or in a chivalrous combat for the heart, of his pure betrothed doe,
Which have healed since into these ‘antlers,’
  Of hardened velvet as you see,

Now he’s a fine buck rabbit with antler’d ears tall high and proud,
As he roams and Lords his green domain, to all God’s creatures he’s unbowed,
With a royal air he takes choice pickings of the clover, violet and thistle,
Or which ever sweet dandelion he’ll choose next to bite and chisel,
But dare you never call him a jackalope,
  For he is not that, nope, nope,

Just watch him stride majestic as a bull moose in his marsh,
Through the long green grasses of our lawn, so long unmowed,
Which he enjoys as dewlap high, and by Mother Nature sowed,
As the swamps of blessed New England,
  Lush and verdant ever grow