The Long Eared Solstice

Here's another, posted out of season. I started writing it on the solstice, but it took me until now to finish as a decent first draft. Yet I think it's deserving.
And, come next Spring, I know some amateur poetry mags I can send it to, in plenty of time for their upcoming summer issue(s).

The Long Eared Solstice

On his hind legs he trims my lawn,
And as I watch him chew, I am bucolically amused,
  for this rabbit seems a bit confused
  as to who’s the rabbit and who’s the man,
Drowsy in the summer light, I think it better this
  than that I should wage this war, I Man,
  on the lawn with these arms;
  my electric weeding whip, and my tractor drove gas mower
Now, here at the dusk of Spring,
  he’s brought an appetite for the ready seeds borne by the green grass,
  sun toasted and gold atop the fine green stalks, tall as asparagus,
No happenstance our grass’ so lengthy,
  on this our longest day

Perhaps, should the rabbit like,
  I could craft him a little scythe,
That while he hays, he may make play
  at being our long eared solstice Father Time, 
  here for his yearly reap and sow,
Soon to leave his harvest standing tied in sheaves,
  left to dry here to a gold malt brown, before comes Autumn leaves, 
  which he’ll then carry to his burrow for his Winter lay away
And I laugh, no rabbit’s ever worked that hard,
  no, he’ll eat here ‘til he’s full enough,
  or he can no longer stand the stuff,
Then he’ll lope off to another’s yard
  where the clover blooms today,
Yes, that’s more the rabbit’s way

Tonight, when this our half past years highest sun
  has taken to bed under the waxing black cloak of night,
  our backyard rabbit will no more be seen,
  excepting his by his lamplight eyes
  should I catch him in my flashlights’ gleam,
So we’ll leave him, as it looks to be a cloudless night,
   and soon we’ll spy a rabbit I know revels in his toil,
For tonight the full moon burns, and there, when high,
  in that searchlight, in that gilt silver mirror ball,
  we’ll catch instead the old illusive rabbit of the moon!
As he’s compounds pure mirth’s elixir,
  the spice of life and love on Earth,
  from the curdles of the milky whey
  in his old wood butter churn

Ol’ Cats’ Friend

Ol’ Cats’ Friend

There, that chipmunk just ran along the porch ledge again,
  thin an edge as it is, it’s wide enough for him,
He runs there often, mostly ‘cause he wants to know,
  Ol’Cats’ not here
  and he knows the porch’s screen is strong, if Ol’ Cat were,
  he has no fear,
Yet still he hides behind the cedar beam,
  with his tail held in view, twitching, tempting,
  
I know what to say, watch,
   "Hey Mr. Chipmunk, how you today, looking for someone to play?"
Ol’ Cat, hearing me, strolls out on the porch through the open slide door,
   "Hey Ol’ Cat, shhh! Look, shhh1"
I tease and point toward the twitching brown worm,
  the bait on the end of a line,
Ol’ Cat just stares at my finger,
  "No, behind the post, see?"
And he takes the bait, Ol’ Cat lunges ahead,
  as chipmunk runs back along the ledge,
  pretending fast flight to the hedge,
While Ol’ Cat collides again head first into the screen,
  …if Chipmunks could laugh,

And would I’d kept a mark for every time
   I’ve seen them do this and thought ‘Ouch!"
Then chipmunks’ score would look like all
  of Ol’ Cats’ scratches on our couch

Is this a Rectory?

Ever notice how who you think you often isn't what you turn out to be?

Is this a Rectory?

Are you ready?
Who believes believes in
  the service of the extended hand,
  the retrieval of a sentient soul,
Sure you know what it means,
  yet are you ready?

Glorious morning,
  I delight in greeting on the front steps, I jest
"Good morning, program? Can’t tell the sinners from the saints without a program…"
  and, "Good morning, program…?" see?
Sunday morning smug is fun!

And we get them too,
  several appear just before the service ends,
  there’s cookies and coffee,
So when she walked up,
  her weathered sunburned face,
  her unwashed hair in need of Prell,
  the plastic bag under her arm,
She seemed no exception to me

"Good morning…"
  she interceded, verging on tears,
"I’m homeless, I’m hungry, Is this a Rectory?"
"There’s a mass about to start, a coffee thereafter, come back in a hour,"
   I watched her back as she turned and trod back the sidewalk, chiming
"God bless you, bless you," her voice a Victorian urchin,

Not until she was past the Post Office did I have the thought,
   I could have given her $5 dollars,
   pointed up the street where’s Dunks and Mickey-Dee’s,
I could have told her - there’s a food pantry, here, open Fridays, for Seniors,
   she likely was one,
   I could have… I'm standing here alone,

Over crackers and cheese I described her to the Warden,
   watching, attendant, though she didn’t come back…
I still believe I could have…
I know next time, be ready…

Now, forlorn, my Sunday smug bygone,
   may I see my self anew? 
For no poem is a moral,
   but the pain of self assessment, and
     the shrive of all conceit

The Thistle King

Who likes to see August Goldfinches tearing at the thistle plants? I do!
Of course as colder weather moved in, in revision this one became more about preparing for Winter than a celebration of late summer. Oops, oh well...


The Thistle King

The warm August afternoons
  heat the spiky thistle globes, unbound,
  spritely, their spiders of down take flight,
As you, the Goldfinch called The Thistle King,
  sing out upon your rounds

Successively, you mill the ready seeds,
  granting that the wind may take those
  which you have no need now of,
They fly away, those gentle gleanings you deign spare the future
  which next Spring will you sprout, and brood, and nurture
  
Yet now, as in the way of all our summer guests,
  you too shall soon retire to the naked trees of Fall,
  whose sun warmed high gold crowns are your Balmoral,
From whence by acclamation you shall process the anthem
  that conducts us in our hallowed Autumn prayers,
That, for your having prior ginned all that snow white thistle down,
  we too may bless it to become the coat, blanket and bedding
    for our Winter dormant Garden Lares

Acceptance

I’d like to dedicate this poem to the Rev Sara Irwin, Rector of Christ Church Waltham, good friend, spiritual leader, and also the one who first suggested I help with the local homeless day care center periodically, and who also is a character in this poem.
But I think I know what she’ll say, likely something of a "No, it’s not like that," or
"That’s not what we’re doing here."
So, may I apologize in advance?

Acceptance

What dwells within an honest man
  who contrives false witness on himself?
For me? I left suit business years ago,
   not a quitter, not a slacker, nor was I fired,
Yet I’ll not confess that I’m retired,

On a snow blanketed morning, Jorge approached as I dug out my car,
   he held his own shovel in his pink and chapped hands,
  and his face wordlessly spoke this wasn’t his first driveway today,
‘I help, I do, I do that?’
‘I only have a ten. Sure, you just stop when you think it’s ten dollars worth.’

On a Sunday morning the Orange Jacket,
   arms devout in a resting cross,
   warmed himself in the back most pew,
See, shelters close at seven, with no day center until two,
   thus cold Winter mornings boost Church attendance,

At coffee hour, Gray Coat was comfortable enough to help himself,
   "No cheese today?"
   I replied "We’re not mice"

That Thursday I brought a pasta lunch to the homeless center,
  where there, I saw a face I knew, I’m sure, a face I’d seen before;
It was Jorge at the shelter’s table,
   ‘I remember, you once helped me dig out my driveway.’
   ‘I no recall,’
   ‘I know you,’
   ‘I no shovel’

Also there, Sara, our Rector, recognized the Orange Jacket,
   "I think I know you, I’ve seen you in the pews at our Church,"
   "No, I don’t think, no,"
   "Are you sure? I know it’s you,’
   "No, that can’t be me,’

Gray Coat was content to eat the pasta,
   I said "No cheese today,"
He looked to me with neither eyes of fear,
   nor threat, nor denial,
   nor one who acted as on trial,
"At the Church last Sunday. you told me ‘No cheese today,"’
   he simply took his plate and walked away,

So I stand, a blank with just acceptance,
   for there once again was drawn those curtains of obscuration,
   they that cover the windows into a man,
Which all we draw before our neighbor’s grin,
   to hide what timorous souls we are, again,
   so by denying that whom we are without, is whom we are within,

And I …. I ?
   in forbearance of this human vice,
   I never heard the cock crow thrice

Spring Robin

Began writing this last Spring. One of those one’s what ended up in the ‘finish later’ file, which I’m now trying to clean on through.
Still deserving, though I need to grow beyond this plodding rhyme scheme.
When I arrange my first poetry collection (working title, "Cats & Birds and Other Words) in order by Season, this will place about Mid-April..

Spring Robin

Looking odd, eyes there, the Robin cocks his head,
Does he note the marching ant,
  the pulsing earthworm under plants?
Or may he gladly hear, attendant with the other ear
  those blessings which puff clouds high might grant?

A scuttle on, he turns his head,
  to take in what Nature has spread,
Stays long enough upon this stop
  to peck at fresh grit for his crop,
Or what he takes of insectivorous fare,

He hops again, eye to blue sky,
   one wonders does he wonder why?
Might he ponder Hawking’s physic laws,
   or good old Nature’s ethics flaws?
Does he conceive blue Heavens dome
   as a partner to our Earthly home?

My guess is he, but just my hunch,
   is devout to
     his fledglings lunch

Our Sexton

Even these 2 days later, I still reminisce on Paula’s service (Saturday). These thoughts are like the trailers after a college LSD trip. Call them post funeral trailers.
Might you wonder what the those PFT's may look like?
They look like this:

Our Sexton

I walked past the choir room closets
  where the pressed altar garments all lie still,
And the wobbly standing ironing board
  where she straightened the white collars
  with soft sprinkles of water distilled,
The room was too quiet,
  no angelic choir practice sung today,
And it struck on my just how quickly
  these soundproof church room do grow old

Away I saw the Sexton,
"She should be here"
"She’s gone now"
"She was just here…"
"She’s in the garden, I can take you"

We walked past the beds where fall flowers were planted,
   which she cut for bouquets that, presuming the altar guild granted,
   she placed in the chancel on Sundays,
I saw each scissor cut had healed
   spurring on shoots with new blossoms blooming,
Growing wild in their glory abandoned,
  The benefit of her compassionate pruning

"I can see she was here"
"She’s in the garden"
"This isn’t the garden?"
"I’ll take you"

We walked on past a tree under which bark mulch had been spread,
  where once she told me she buried a pigeon she’d found dead,
There she dug a little hole,
  put the soil back in place
Bent her leg and took a knee
   And coo’ingly spoke pigeon grace

"That burial was very like her, really quite understated"
"I know she’s here…"
"She’s in the garden"

Next we walked through a gap in a split rail fence
   to a yard hedged with thorns, burning bush, trimmed and dense
As he pointed to the ground he said
   "There, she’s down there"
Where upon I looked seeing only
   a smooth polished granite square,
By which I could only squat and feel the carved letters,
   cold as the iron in the choir room,
   cut off as the flowers she placed on the altar,
   out of the way, as the pigeon beneath the tree,
Here are all the attributes, that never were as she,

"This is our memorial garden," next,
"I planted her. Sextons’ garden too"

I returned to my welcoming Church knowing she had died,
Yet who sojourns to a beloved one’s grave
  without believing
    that there
     we would meet again…?