The Ripton Sunset

Woke up this damp morning, read Frost on the morning porch, including Mowing Lawn. And remembered I've been re-writing this sonnet for over two years. As the seasons roll, I thought it with the drying autumn leaves were best put out.
And yes Mike Goodwin, it has something to do with Rob't Frost. 



The Ripton Sunset

There never was a sound from this cottage but one,
Can you hear it? The wind is a scratching pencil,
Etching, revising, a Yankee’s Natural verse,
Share with me the sunset cowl processing behind
Moosalamoo, enshrouding Bread Loaf with the dusk,
Here, this oak tree he leaned against and sat before
While poking fire embers with the sapling stick
Cut for him by Tatoskok, used so every night,
Until well burnt and blackened to a pencil lance,
With which he wrote Vermont’s bold landscapes, sparing scrap,
Sit here on this scone of stones, where he scratched his crown,
(perhaps) while college undergrads attended ‘round,
And count his scores, in this mown field we well know,
Of grass he scythed, made hey, in neat parsed six foot rows

5 Poems - Sometimes, Rainbow, Clam Strip, Moshup in the Clay, Conceit

I have 5 short poems, while I've been posting them one a day, I just want these posted so I can move on. The 2nd, 'Rainbow', I'm dedicating to Mike Goodwin, 'cause he gave me some nice feedback.  You want a poem dedicated to you? Go back to FaceBook, or sign up on here, and tell me what you think. Like your Mama used to say, write a letter to get a letter, er something.


Sometimes

Sometimes, I'm a Christian,
Sometimes, I’m a Buddhist,
Sometimes, I am well dapper dressed,
Sometimes, I’m a nudist,
  Sometimes, I like to Bee

Some people say it’s good to be
One thing, and all the time,
Tho’ if were I compelled to love
The one true only garden flower,
I surely would dance the greatest dance of our kind,
In the exhortation of beatified polygamous flower love,
   to the strictest of all Holy Powers


Rainbow

His perch is high in Nature’s woods,
His color he can’t decide, depends,
  on how he’s set on mood,
He’s blue when skies are clear and new,
And green when naught but leaves are seen,
But heeding caution will turn yellow,
  the closer working Man has been,
He shifts from sallow to orange deranged,
  when Man’s machine’s invade his world,
Glares red, as new outrages fill his head,
  though increasingly by then he’s dead


Clam Strip

A curious thing is the Salt Water Clam,
  usually in bed, under sea,
How the legless ones come on to land
  is a never ending mystery,

Yet, there on the asphalt strip of sidewalk, from
New York Ave through Sunset Park, 
  they lie, (at least their shells do anyway)
Mendacious as having been shed
That these clams are off on a clammy skinny dip,
  out in pea green Sunset Pond,
Thus, when I tell you Fern ‘n Feather campers,
That these clams, like their larger brethren, fly!
In unison you kids all cry;
  "Ahh-Baloney!"

Never minding as overhead there flies
  a kite, in flight, at height,
Is he the Regal Osprey? No, 
  moves more like a Herring Gull, and 
Curious he is about, as
  ‘Crack!’
Another in-flight mollusk makes
  an impact from on high


Moshup in the Clay

Do not touch the cliffs,
  no mud baths, don’t climb their heights,
The cliffs are sacred to the Aquinnah,
Which is why what I saw was odd,
 
It seemed a fan, a clam shell?
A turkey tail? A War Bonnet!
Before which the square jaw,
The jagged nose and chiseled features
Of an ethnic American Native,
  stereotype if drawn by you or me,
But the hand that drafted him was proud,

Etched he was in the cliff clay at Moshup Beach,
  from where he watched the topless bathers,
The naked men who looked,
The nude women who didn’t look back,

Great Moshup, with the whales,
Standing knee high in the ocean,
  holding one up by it’s tail, ‘fore the sunset,
As we trekked back up the trail to the sandy lot
  where the Indian Girl no longer took
    twenty dollar bills for parking,

Great Moshup,
  we are all naked before you,
    you know what we have done,

That night it rained,
  and when we came back
    he had washed away


Conceit

With conceit I track the Butterfly,
His gold-gilt wings downwind,
With magic praise he disappears,
  in meadow grass again

I look upon his landing spot,
Fantastic! He’s not here!
I ask the Grasshopper close by,
  "I’ve not seen him," his curt reply

What fairies are these butterflies,
Who born, so quick, take flight, then die,
So short their brief span over Earth,
  I know,
    Don’t tell,
Let’s leave the ‘hopper have his mirth

 

Kendall Square Box

On my way to MIT yesterday I passed through Kendall Square.
Facebook friends know why.


Kendall Square Box

A man with a box and sign "$ change ?"
Sat on the sidewalk before a chain store

Knowing modern shelters with showers
  his clean cut didn’t faze me,
Only the real drunks look like bums these days

Carrying naught but a debit card I asked
"I have no cash, I could I buy you a sandwich in there?

"No, I wouldn’t want you to waste your money,"
"I have a debit card, I could get you something, a tuna sandwich?"

"I can’t eat out here, anyway someone gave me a ten dollar gift card, I’m all set,"
"You could put the sandwich in your bag, have it later, save your card,"

"No, I wouldn’t want you to waste your money on me,"

Thrice I asked the homeless man,
Thrice I did what ever I can.

"Your mind is set?"

With gasho hands I bid him done,
Told him of charity, I still had some, by saying
"I’ll be coming back through here at five, if you change your mind,"
   at five, he wasn’t there

The Lookback

Once I climbed Mt Moosalamoo. Past Rattlesnake Point, past the ridge top there is a rocky overlook East, looking out over Bread Loaf. Half way up from Lana Falls I did meet a toad. He was cute but it was not a religious experience.   


The Lookback

I met him on the Mountain,
  halfway up the Lookback road,
My colossal boot nearly waffle-stomped him,
  he was camouflaged, he was a toad 

"My Lord, I nearly stepped on you!"
"Good of you to recognize me, for I am he"

Alarming enough a talking toad,
  let alone one who says, he said…
I thought back to breakfast,
  when, yes, I’d taken my meds

"You could give me a hand,
After all these millennia, I being hallowed,
  in my shallow toad pond,
Have decided to climb the Lookback,
  to see how my Creation’s come to be…"
Then I bid him hop in my palm,
  and up the hill we carried on

He asked, "Take me to the end of the World,
  I could only lead him up Mans’ current path,
Up to washout bridges mended,
  up to open spots where angel feather clouds whirled like kettle Hawks,
Through the thick ridgeline wood, where
  blackened oak and moss smelled of lightening fire,
To that final place where our journey ended,
   the Lookback,

Where he said "Heavenly,"

Then;
"I see plastic bottles in the Seas,
  I see grocery bags caught up in trees,
The scent of smoke is in the air,
  must be my forest’s on fire, somewhere,"

The view from there was everywhere,
  Green Mountains gray-scaled in the haze,
The ways of Men were as maps seen edgewise,
  seemed we stood up there for days without a sunset,
On the Overlook, when at last he said;

"Listen to me,
Know that you are of the Earth,
  and never more than it are you worth,
Know that it’s the World gives life,
  and to own her breeds more War and Strife,
Power is given not that you deserve,
  but invested for those you care, that you may serve,
Health is not granted that you may hoard your wealth,
  but to give, that you may ease illness, health is the only wealth,
Do not sow ire, loves’ paths have weeds enough,
Cultivate compassionate fruits, feed as you would be fed,
  for there is too much of wreck and dredge and slough,
You are not permanent, work well
  to leave good memories,
    when you are gone,"

Instead of Amen he said, "I’m done"

We camped the night in silence,
  next morning he still sat on the ledge,
Watching over Mans’ sand castles and anthills,
  which is where I left him, 
Our Lord, Our Toad,
  with his poem wrote, and
    His creation, Man, to goad

A Grin and Gray Bouquet

Yesterday was the anniversary of a church friends' memorial service.
My only regret, this poem seems too much about me and not enough of sharing with her husband and family. Someday I need to get out of myself. Next time I write of a friends death, I'll try to focus on the absence felt by the beloveds' mourners.

 

A Grin and Gray Bouquet

She loved weeds,

  weeds and briar and sage,

Posted blog pages of macro lens

  bracken, cornflower, milkweed with spider webs,

Never a sunflower ‘fore a blue sky gay

  never bright dahlias, lilies by the walk,

All and always a tone meant of late fall gray,
In whatever season she roamed,

  with her camera out that day,
Miss Misunderstood,

  hers was a tale of two glooms,

One to fisheye fingers of death,  

  and one to crack the smile of doom

And when she died (can’t speak of that,

  it’s not for me to lay terms on her Family’s pain)

Her ‘in memoriam’ being proposed,

I thought for her only one kind thing,

  I shall make for her a bouquet!

A sunflower past tall summers grace,
  all seeds by crows pulled from it’s face,
Snips of dried thorned thistle pods

  that drab goldfinches pecked and mobbed,

Brown zinnias, cobwebbed, that matched
   how spry her witch gray hair was thatched,
Stood them in dirt, in an old Ball jar,
   then braced them up in the back of my car

Arriving with them at the church,
   the Family thought they were a mess,

The florist, even more distressed,
As I placed them between a spray of Wild Oscar lilies

  and a Rose-a-sharn display

 

      "Dead flowers, where did you find these?"
      "I brought them,"
      "Give them to me, I’ll throw them out,"
      "I made this bouquet, for Her,"
      "You can’t put that in the floral row,
         we’ll just ‘put it’ over here," as she 

Hid all behind the buffet iced tea cooler

After the service I took them home,

  knowing well they’d not be kept left there alone,

Where I placed them on the porch table,

  there, for a year, that’s where they’ve been,

‘Til last night blew them over with

  a dying Hurricane Hermine,
 

After a moment (with a dust pan

  and broom),

I took them to a flower garden,

  where the derelict Earth reclaims her own,
There I lay them, lend me pardon,

  and smiling let, my friend go home

Garden in the Sky

For the past several years, every time Christine and I see fireworks she laments about the summer garden she used to keep.


Garden in the Sky

Arriving to meet my date,
I found her in her garden, where
The summers’ drought brought on severe blight,
   And she moaned, for her garden was dying
"It hasn’t rained,"
"Oh, Hon,"
"All my work,"
Her Dahlias drooped from their dust bowl danger,
The Sun had deranged her heirloom Hydrangeas,
Even the Yucca, while used to dry sand,
  Was begging for Nature to lend a kind hand,
I stood there as she made a sigh,
   Said of her flowers, "Think I’ll just die!"

           "It’ll be alright,"
           "I’m losing my garden,"
          "That could be good news, you know for my bee allergy"

As planned we drove to the fireworks,
Scheduled Friday night out in Ocean Park,
I parked the car in someone’s yard,
  We didn’t have to walk too far,

          "You didn’t wear your bow tie?"
          "Too hot for bow ties,"
          "Bow ties always look good on guys,"

While we spread our blanket in the dark
she I wouldn’t be consoled by any kind remark,
But when the Booming! Boom! began,
Her face lit up, her pout ran out, 
   She was amazed to see, her garden in the sky!

Chrysanthemums, Nasturtiums,
Daisy Chain Pops with Sparkle Lemon Drops,
The Weeping Willows made her cry,
Yet to wipe her tear she wouldn’t try,
  So full of joy to see, her garden in the sky!

Soft Peonies pink as you please,
Bold Sunflowers crackled with bees,
Geraniums burst very high,
Then bright Bow Ties to dress up guys,
   She fell in love to see, her garden in the sky!

She kissed my hand, called me her man,
She said she loved me, I’m the guy,
Who made her flowers Bloom-Boom-Boom!
   High in her garden, in the sky!

Heart Zinnias Zip-Zapped about,
Forget Me Nots burst with out doubt,
Finally, an Hibiscus Bush with Hummingbirds
  Flew South, migrating, from her garden in the sky,
   
    And she said,
      "Let’s go home now"

To Whom the Praying Mantis

Today's testament deserves a shout out to Roger and all the Jermyn / Hache family, whose pet Mantis is worthy of commemoration. And where it says "I", you needn't think me, think of yourself.
You, you are the gardener.


To Whom the Praying Mantis

To whom the Praying mantis prays?
  I look about, I cannot say,
There’s no one here but he and I,
  Beneath both blue and two-tone skies

I set this garden here about,
  Seed Zinnias and Corm Lilies,
Raked the herbal patch of Winter thatch,
  He showed up later in the Spring

I first thought him a katydid, 
  Growing nymph, glowing green, in season
He was the second stalk on my sunflower,
  Would they could climb by their own power

When I water or I fertilize,
  He’d come out with adoring eyes, 
Much as a dog or cat might beg,
  Between his hunts for bugs and flies

To whom the Praying Mantis prays?
  I’ve kept his Eden to this day,
Now Autumn and he’s turning gray,
  Fading with the light away,

I know they live not but one year,
 His span of seasons have been scored, 
With fear his time is coming soon,
  I pray he does not think I’m Lord




Junryo

Gray, cool, still watching Hermine blow though I thought today was good for a poetry two-fer.
It's semi-true, at Zen Mountain Center we had such a library, and keeping the wood stoves going Fall/Winter/Spring (especially 'Up the Hill') was a Sisyphean chore.
Also, this poem requires a shout out to Josh Bartok, who came to ZMC after I'd left, who sat with us at Hank (a sitting group on Newton), who basically 'IS' BOWZ in Somerville, and who kindly reminded me what the name of that ceremony (Junryo) was.

 
Junryo

Samu, and I’ve been asked neaten these books,
  So I, mindful of neither subject nor author,
Just with full attention to how they look
  Line them up by height,
The better they may fit upon donated shelves, forgotten, 
To sit still the periods of their storied monastic lives

It’s the seasonal residents bring them,
  They’re the baggage of one’s bound ideals,
In season they come, they sit,
  Tea times of an afternoon supply the pitch
For the local leisure sport, discussing what ‘It’ is,  
  "I was here," and "I did this,"
  "I think this," and "You think that?"
Punctuated ‘me me me’s, constant as an opera diva,
  To the applause of one hand clapping,

Yet seasons wane, retreats come to their end,
  The seasonal residents leave, often ‘donating’ books,
Those peeled husks, these snakeskins of the once believed in,
  The dander of their lately sloughed off ‘…ism’s,’
Which we staff, silent as mites, gather while house cleaning,
  And unceremoniously stack here in this corner,
In this ad-hoc library basement under the zendo,
  Don’t ask me about ‘ism’s,’ I have samu to do

Of a time a Monk came by, never mind his name,
 "Looking for a read?" I guessed,
  Though I’d no idea which worst nor best,
 "I need," he said, "Something enlightening,"
  As none I’d read, none I could proffer,
Yet having shelved them for the last hour
  I felt I knew all well enough to offer…
"No, thank you," spoke the monk,
  He fingered a paperback from the short end,
Said, "This … this will do,"
Me: "A tale of Princesses, Knights, Wizards, a Dragon,"
Him: "A light read, it’s pot boiler pulp suit my needs,"
(Cue: awkward pause)
Me: "Tomorrow, Roshi is doing Junryo, the room altars, you’ll
  Be joining us as we make the rounds?"
Him: "I’ll be at work then," adding, "Wash your bowls!"

Morning, zazen, dawn, breakfast,
  Timely at Eight: Ten, Roshi commenced Junryo,
Lighting incense and speaking gathas "Gyo gyo gyo…"
  At each room altar in the Main House, after which
We processed up the hill to the cabins,
  First of which was that monk lived in,
Which was chilly, the fire in his wood stove
  Having long ago, like him, gone out,
Roshi continued his offerings, some phonetic Japanese, as
  I looked to the floor, by the iron and cold wood stove,
Near the kindling, in the scuttles’ alcove
  Was that same book, left lone about,
    The first two chapters having been torn out

The Knock

In Vermont I'd hear this strange knocking sound high in the trees. I used to think they were Pileated Woodpeckers, but last fall I heard the same sound here in Waltham where we have no Pileateds. (Too much Oak in Metro-West Ma, Vt is full of softer pine and birch.)

I know no one publishes poems like this. Still I started it last fall and on this mean Fall Hermine day thought it maybe seasonal again.


The Knock

We think he's some breed of woodpecker
  without a hollow sounding block,
In branches high, no good for drumming,
  instead he speaks just  the word 'Knock!'
Our Sapsuckers when in the mood,
  will drum upon aluminum roofs,
Our Downys squeak a common call,
  their beak’s to meek to drum at all,
Rude Flickers ‘Yip’ from mid tree wood
  where rotting, bugs and ants are good,
Pileateds carve sap wells in trunks,
  silent, and almost as low skunks, 

Yet our Knockers roost so way high,
  where branches wave, too thin and spry,
How can he call his mate to come,
  high up where wood’s too thin to drum?
Then, kind Nature taught him "Say this word,
  since you can’t drum like other birds,"  
That’s why on high you'll hear him call,
  Hello-ing ‘Knock!’
    from Spring to Fall