Long ago, when I lived on the island,
weeks at a time with no one,
only the wind and tide moving.
Long enough on my own,
so the empty spaces in solitude were filled with wild
and quiet was not alone.
Then, the stars drew closer,
and in the pause between breaths I heard the whispers in the wind.
I knew when someone was coming.
As though the movement toward the island far away
sent ripples through the woven structure of atmosphere,
like the echos sent ahead on the rails by an approaching train,
vibrations cast forward through time and…
Look out upon the garden,
a wither of tangled vines
unharvested fruits hang cracked and past their time
mist, softer than a lover’s goodbye kiss,
whispers promises and memories.
The windblown leaf
a tiny prayer of thanks
an ode to letting go.
In the dawn, still fog shrouded,
a peaceful moment lulls,
calling to mind
memories of gatherings and grace.
Time and tide,
channeled where once they meandered,
sing the algorithm for this age,
our age of bitter ironies
and dreams come true.
Singing into being a time of reaping,
no joyful thanksgiving this season.
Looking out on all we’ve wrought,
only the sinking, leaden knowledge;
that the savaged garden beyond was ours.
Oh, the terrible unfolding as the flowers of our folly bloom
I dreamed the old man last night
Driving cross country
road turned north,
and as in dreams, no one noticed,
the shoulder crumbled
like a leaf we fell
where the road went on without us.
In the logic of dreams,
I remembered the old cellar holes on the island.
Jumble of mossy bricks where the chimney stood,
piles of laths and plaster all that was left of the walls
a few old bottles where the pantry shelf collapsed
shards of wavy, bubbled window glass.
As children, we used barrel tops for shields and laths for swords.
Later, when all…
Coats and faces tight against the wind,
only line in the winter empty plaza,
on the kiosk windows, yellowed and edges curled
all the winning numbers sold
el Gordo, Navidad, el Nino, La Loteria
I ‘magin you know it well as me, the rush,
calling shotgun long-sida luck,
always a clamor, claiming credit when things go
the way we hoped they might,
but the crowd thins like smoke in the wind
when fate shifts, and tables turn.
Luck’s a tide.
No dam’ll hold it when it flows. …
Summer heat is all we talk about for a while but it is gone so quickly. School starts, the first rains fall, leaves turn. Suddenly the warm is something we lean into instead of pulling away from. The heat of summer lives on the bright colors of jams and sauces. I have bags of roasted tomatoes, pesto, and raspberries in the freezer. Next weekend I’ll harvest the winter squash and have containers of bright orange and gold mash for cream soups and stacks of butternut squash for roasting. But this weekend I packed summer heat in jars. Literally. …
measured by sunset drinks,
laundry on the line and picnics on the shore.
“Isn’t Russel such dear, laughed Aunt Harriet,
“Always worried about the weather.
My glass is empty, won’t you have another.”
“My bones ache,” Old Rut grumbled,
squinting to the sou’east,
summer had darkened and fall crept close,
The few boats left in the Pool rolled in the swell making with the tide.
“I knew soon as I got up, I’d have to shift her to the mooring inside.
Goddam wind, blow one way and turn around and blow the other.”
Still morning, not…
Writer, walker, poet, educator. Commercial fisherman, builder, donut maker, organic grower. Boston, U. City, Maine, South Africa, Madrid.