When I sing, music puts its hands around my heart
My words think tears are a puddle to splash through shoeless
Color often stops my breath, and I am held its prisoner
A sudden memory might need release
Any of these call up tears, and I don’t mind.
When the signal comes they might glide to me in a waltz,
or whirl up on the skirts of a wild mazurka.
Better yet, ride in on the smoothness of an alto sax.
There may still be
wind, that has not kissed
my face
Or light on vernal
water, not seen through
my lens
Or singing, that has
yet to hum along
my bones
Or time with friends, dancing
in green waves, sand on
my feet
Or words to share, flowing
from the mouth of
my heart
But, there was always love, with
you, so if I skip the rest
to waltz out in your arms,
It will be enough to
know these gifts waited
with me, just in case.
_____________________________________________
a birthday poem for Mike
up the dipping road
mountain arm is bear’s shoulder
my home lies below
______________________________________
multiple joys of September, cloud fingers dip into mountain creases, swamp maples step forward, my pine flags flying, one more trip around the sun complete
this day of gratitude
is warm
wrapped with a hush
across the wild place
outside my door
hours lived at stop action pace
intermixed with grace note quiet moments
two horses graze across the road
jay scrabbles punctuating feeder flights
cars mostly absent never missed
trees almost bared
their shapes old friends
I look out to woods and placid beaver ponds
where birds flicker as small animals move
darting in counterpoint to anchored brown
such richness.
such richness in this temporary state
layerings of memory and love
not quite speaking underneath the flow
from earth to foot to heart
gravity confounded by life
flowing to the sky
and thanks are offered up
In and out of light, driving
on a road into the hills.
To the left, a wall of rock
with innards blown away
to upright face. Brief travel
with a hawk. Its shadow leaps
onto the road, then
passes over me, and for a flash
I follow him, to fly out
over still-leafed rising shapes,
light-footed mist escaping
from their folds, bits of thought
deposited by rain, caught on
the arms of trees. Memory tucked into
shadow, waiting for the sun
to lift it clear and dance again.
slanting through green woods
sly streaks of sun appearing
in the textured dark
_______________________________________
seeing early sun glance through woods from a window I leave the house to search. finding beam’s end is morning’s reward.
countless shed
in rage and grief
for loss of life
and love’s escape
but know my friends
that tears
rejoin the earth
to fall again
as rain
and with these
moonstone drops
comes life renewed
a moment’s chance
to heal and wash
the stench of hate
into the sea
and pray
the only swords
we need are
gentle arcs
of green
sun turtle lines
of remnant tears
safe havens
for our memories
___________________________________
a poem for a day that always brings the echoes of a loving grief. I send these words to join those voices raised to shout aloud their sadness in the face of tragedy.
red squirrel leaping
apple held fast in its mouth
single thought is food
_________________________________________
Day 27. An encounter with a determined little red squirrel. I was outside eating a green apple. The squirrel saw me; I waved at him, apple in hand, then tossed it, almost eaten, on the grass near a rhododendron. Running around the back of the bush the squirrel emerged at the front, snatching the apple and ran up a spruce tree with it. Came back down a minute or two later. Looking for the nest I imagined to be in the tree, I came upon the squirrel’s pantry. The apple sat on one of the branches.
outside my door the guard has changed
a day of wet and gloomy gray
whisked off by racing clouds
abdicated winter steps in minuet retreat
the sullen blue gray glow of rained on slate
is caught by short lived slants of morning sun
and wind, a small all-hands treetop voice
is loath to roar (for now)
the dripping cloak that wraps this house
begins to dry and shed small gleams
the morning raven fly by
lacking winter urgency
green daffy blades push up
brash in return, migrating from the soil
no longer threatened accidents
almost time to prune and clear a way
for the celadon and smell of spring
_________________________________________
I’m mindful that March in New Hampshire is fickle, and for a good long while snow will be a possibility. the path to spring is never straight up here.
chords reach in with certainty
fingering my waiting bones
sometimes as undulating touch,
wispy fog that knows no barriers
gently casual hands on shoulders
arms outstretched announcing their intentions
patient for response.
then there are other passages of notes
roaring by on chariots of glory,
powerful as basso lama horns
thrumming from dharamsala
straight to the chambers of my soul,
until waves of tears
escape to fold me into beauty,
ebbing only slowly,
limpet companions to the day
I stand alone, counting time
wrapped in the kiss of fog,
sensing but not seeing
others of my kind
waiting, shouldered, upright
at the edges of this pasture.
I dream in solitude, aching
for the touch of other roots
however faint, to feel
earth’s water flow to
reaching deep dug tendrils
of my kindred in the woods.
I dance in secret, moving
with prevailing winds,
my branching shape their echo,
but in summer dark or autumn mist,
the sounds of crickets, calls of flying geese,
lend their beat to summon ecstasy
as I sway until the dawn.
_____________________________________
the tree in this photo seemed to move in place.
photograph by Jon Katz, copyright © 2014,
used with permission.
Rye Beach at the end of August. A very windy day. A flock of gulls hunkered on the beach, a mix of immatures and adults. Anchored on the sand until we threw pieces of bread high into the wind for them.
I was trying for some action shots with my Sony RX100, with its sharp Zeiss 1.5 lens. Set it to Shutter Priority and then tracked and clicked away. The images are cropped and resized, but otherwise unedited.
Once things started, there was a rhythm and routine to their actions. They knew to fly left to right, into the wind, waiting, then zooming in. Almost like sets of waves.
Shooting, I couldn’t see them watching for the start of a throw or their captures, with the marvelously angular leg positions and their wings holding their bodies steady into the face of the wind. What a great bonus!
Clicking on an image will show it full size, with more detail.
Aiming for the prize. Look at the angle of the neck and head!
Almost there!
See the legs aiding the effort of slowing down and the mid-air catch?
An immature gull cruising by, on the alert.
Starting the swoop. You can almost feel the drop that starts the next instant.
I was surprised by the intensity on this face, but shouldn’t have been.
See what I mean?
Poetry & Prose by Carol J Forrester
where we live on hope, hugs, and pie
Go real or go home. Authentic, sarcastic and sometimes sappy life commentary from a working mom of 2.
A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Musings of a part time pastor of two tiny churches in Vermont
Thoughts on and off the trail of Life.
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Poetry, Photography and Thoughts by Tom Atkins.
life's wHeirdness and wonder
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One Southern Girl's Life in Vermont
Finding My Voice
poetry & essays
Exploring Nature in New Hampshire
Life on the farm...life in general.
Life and death and sleeping on the ground
