Down by the River
Down by the river the boats quickly flee
The old man by the tree is staring at me
Self conscious eyes burn into mine
Two distant souls in need of a sign
To the panorama of the river I turn
As the wind whistles its lamenting concern
Faint music from across the river drifts by
The pulsing sun is warm in the sky
People fishing by the dock talking loud
My thoughts lost in some ephemeral cloud
A young mother sits on a bench in the shade
The currents of my sad regret soon fade
Down by the river in this small river town
The old man by the tree, I realize is me!
Through the Open Window
I had to go; to see it for myself, as difficult as that experience was going to be. At one point, as we moved among the barracks at Auschwitz, I came to this open window. I was struck immediately by the symbolism of that open window, suggesting to me the hope of escape and freedom. I wondered how many lost souls once stood in that spot gazing out of that same window dreaming of an alternative reality; one that placed them beyond the wire and the tower that were clearly visible within its frames. This poem attempts to tell that story. You will immediately recognize my debt to Ambrose Bierce’s Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge. It seemed to me the perfect vehicle for telling this story as well.
Through the open window
and down the spotlight path,
far beyond the darkened tower
and the shrouded sentry’s wrath.
I float above the humming wires
to the copse of trees beyond,
where the air is damp and fresh
with my soul I will abscond.
For so long I’ve contemplated
this final moment of release,
to taste the dew of freedom
from the horrors that never cease.
To rejoin the living world
and leave all fear behind,
with the promise of tomorrow
we will repair our lives in time.
So come at last sweet sanctuary
I reach out and touch your face,
just as the iron doors clang
and they rip me from your grace.
Jesus on the Bridge
This photograph was taken on a recent tour of Central Europe. This is the Charles Bridge in Prague which is lined with religious iconography including this crucifixion scene. I lost track of the number of cathedrals and shrines we visited, but they all had one common denominator; great displays of wealth and splendor. I have always been struck by the dichotomy of extreme poverty in the shadows of great wealth. Particularly when that wealth is embodied by the Christian faith; a faith based on humility and the grace of the dispossessed. Go inside any of these cathedrals or walk across the Charles Bridge and you will find the faithful, but also the curious, the lost, the poor. Walk a few blocks in any direction and you will see more of the same. I cannot help but think that some of this wealth could better serve the poor I saw on Charles Bridge.
In the far away places of my memory
we saw misty mountains from the ridge.
The cathedral looms above the square
like Jesus on the Bridge.
Dark stone towers mark the crossing
as we work our way through the crowds.
The faceless vendors hype their wares
in the shadows of the clouds.
The homeless man kneels before me
outstretched arms extended wide.
With palms turned up in supplication
a sleeping dog by his side.
A few coins for absolution
and we hurry along our way,
to the next tour attraction
fighting back feelings of dismay.
All this splendor amidst the poor,
the palace shines upon the ridge.
As we look down upon the lost
like Jesus on the Bridge.
Late Summer by the River
Late summer by the river,
I watch the shadows fall.
The kids have left the nest!
Wondering,
Where will they turn up next?
Alone or together,
We are heading for the Fall.
Dispersed,
The seeds to the wind,
The birds in the air,
Continents away but
We are still here.
Where will life take them?
Can the journey be safe?
We are born to fly and born to die,
Forever contemplating why.
We just do and rarely see.
Let the sun rise over the trees
As the clouds drift on by.
Sitting alone in this chair
My hand moves across the page,
Liberating my thoughts from
The haze of a silent dream.
Empty nest, so they say,
Is the start of a brand new day.
The dog and me and Mary too!
Together we will watch the shadows fall
And the breeze ripple across the water.
As the squirrels gather their nuts
And the brown leaves slowly curl,
As the nights grow softly cool,
The endless summer comes to an end.
The birds have flown,
The flowers wilted,
The fruit is ripe on the vine.
Sad to know
They were all once mine!
As my summer comes to a close,
I think of summers gone by.
Summer is for kids
Who are kids no more.
Autumn is for us.
The twilight of the year.
The days grow short
As the years disappear.
But the young birds return
For many summers to come,
And see new flowers grow,
And know where they are from.
Reaching for the Light - A Meditation on New Life
I became a grandfather in the summer of 15. It was like a second fatherhood; a second chance to get it right (although I do believe I was a pretty good Dad). But being a grandparent is special for the simple reason that you get all of the delights and very few of the fights! We are here to spoil him, as my son and daughter in law often remind us. Still, the joy is overwhelming. Just to watch him play and then grab me by the hand to come join him. "Pop", he says, with his still limited vocabulary, and I am there! With each visit there is something new to discover; a kind of time-lapse evolution unfolds before us. He is taller, his hair is shorter (we wish his parents would let it grow), his memory better than my own, his curiosity; limitless. I carefully observe the earnest innocence of the very young and I wish I could freeze just that in time. You smile and wonder what life has in store for him, and pray that his problems then are as small as he is now.
In the spring of 18, my second grandson joined our family. It is his picture you see above.
I. On the birth of my grandson!
Oh, what joy you inspire with
your timorous baby's cry.
Yours is a world of form and shadow;
of sounds distant but yet familiar.
Breathe in the soothing sharp air so light.
An innocence as pure and white, like
blossoms of Queen Anne's Lace swayed
in the warm summer breeze tonight.
Reaching and turning to our delight;
eyes still closed but always looking up.
You never stop reaching for the light!
ll. Though you could not see the smiles as
you kicked and jabbed with all your might,
you instinctively knew you were loved.
All swathed in cotton and lace,
you were passed from one to another.
A gift so precious and unique
in all the world, there can be found no other.
Helpless though you may be, you are perfection;
the latest edition of a glorious form.
Always reaching for the light!
lll. Circumstances of birth as provided by providence
and secured without question by all who love you.
My world is not your own; endeavor to make it better.
The time and tide of fate will light your path.
Reach out to your destiny with each passing year.
Always reaching for the light!
lV. Rocking in the sun, delicate as Queen Anne's Lace,
I wonder, as I gaze upon your gentle features,
where we both shall be sixty years hence, and I
pray with all my might, we are both in a better place.
You, in a world far more forgiving, among those you love,
and me among the memories.
Our time together will be brief, but you will know
my story as surely as you write your own.
Soon you will smile and walk and speak,
and see clearly what truths form in the light.
Never stop reaching for the light!
The Wall
Who can deny the metaphorical power of a wall; from separating borders to symbolizing adversity. They are pervasive in our history and our culture. From the Great Wall of China, to the Berlin Wall, to the very structures in which we live out our compartmentalized lives, to the barriers in our own minds; they permeate our existence. These walls only serve to isolate, imprison and diminish us, but yet we are somehow always willing to build more. The wall in this poem represents that moment in life when a person hits that height of despair and contemplates the most final of all decisions. The images in the poem were inspired by this photograph of a graffiti filled wall in an abandoned factory complex. Writ large in a bold white background, one word stood out!
Wall of graffiti, writ large with despair.
Troubled soul in need of repair.
A moment in life, the moment is now.
Now and then.
Now and then.
To contemplate dreams and see it all fail.
To throw away life in an emotional gale.
And who will judge in the end?
Right or Wrong?
Right or Wrong?
It should admit of first choice,
If you want to choose.
Take the next step, just one life to lose.
Life or Death?
Life or Death?
But contemplate this before you decide:
The wall is not thick, it crumbles inside.
Look beyond now, another day waits.
A life worth living,
I can see!
I can see!
Dancing with Balloons
When I took this photograph, I knew I had something special. When I processed it, I thought I had something spiritual. Start with the subject's white dress as she dances between giant hot air balloons as if she is participating in some kind of ritual or ceremony. White, of course, symbolizes purity and innocence. As for the balloons; at some point they will rise into the heavens taking their faithful passengers on a fateful journey. This balloon festival was like a religious experience for the participants. With this in mind, I incorporated a variety of religious allusions into the poem. Consider the purity of the faithful as they ascend into the cloudless blue sky, the redemption of the spirit as it floats in the soft morning light, and the joy that presages the long anticipated journey to another place. I hope you enjoy both the photograph and the poem.
White summer dress in
the soft morning light.
Bold vibrant colors
anxious cries of delight.
She spins through shadows
dancing with balloons.
A transcendent spirit
her faith subsumed.
A cloudless blue sky
and the rush of hot air.
Earthly tethers release
at the county fair.
They slowly ascend in
the waterless sea.
These shiny bright orbs
are finally free.
The cameras click as
the ritual unfolds.
Crowding the sky
with translucent souls.
And the woman in white
feels redemption at hand.
As the risen fade from view
dancing to a new land.
Come Sit for Awhile
Come Sit for Awhile - We have lived by a lake for over fourteen years now. In our current home the water is just fifty feet from our back door. There is a certain comfort that comes from lakefront living. There are the obvious recreational activities that it can afford; a swim in the early evening after a hot day, the surprising pleasure of landing a fish in the early morning light, or just floating in a tube with a beer in hand. But those are not the things I find most pleasurable. It's the sights and sounds of the lake I most enjoy; the ever changing patterns of the surface as the wind ripples its way across the cove, the long muted reflections of a glorious sunset, the sound of the geese honking their instructions to all who would listen. Yes, this is why we choose to live by the water. The solace to the senses is a form of meditation that allows us to escape, however briefly, those troubles of the soul. So I say, come join us and sit for awhile and lose yourself in the moment.
The mournful train whistle so near,
like contrails in the sky mark time,
remind me of why I am here.
The clock and the calendar chime,
as they count each breath I will take,
I drift through the years of my prime.
So I come to sit by the lake,
in the cool late afternoon shade,
and bathe my senses in its wake.
Golden silence as the sun fades,
soft hollow whisper of the trees,
sinful glow on dancing leaf blades.
Feel the pulse of the wind tease
dark water into dappled light,
hurried along by an unseen breeze.
See the setting sun through eyes shut tight,
whisper to your soul with style,
hear the song birds sing with delight.
So I say, come sit for awhile!
No thoughts to intrude,
No task left unfinished,
No guilt to assume,
No regrets to conceal,
No words to cause pain.
When the geese call,
leave with a smile.
So I say, come sit for awhile.
Moon Glow
Stars that dip beneath the trees,
cast a light so I can see,
beyond the shadows near,
but far from my reality.
Moon glow round the trace,
summer breeze upon my face.
Only loneliness do I fear,
I stand alone for the human race.
Then a sliver of pulsing white,
hung in the dark trees so bright,
no glorious fanfare did I hear,
just beauty in a form so slight.
As if God himself heard my call,
with only hope against the fall,
a truth to which I can adhere.
I need to know, once and for all.
Inspired by Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"
Running the Payette
Running the Payette
on an afternoon in June.
Confined within our raft,
helmets and vests secure.
Water foaming white
above the shoals.
Working together
and sometimes not!
We struggle through the rapids
and glide along the pools.
A guide to help us steer
between the breaks.
Always on the lookout
for the strainers and the rocks.
We paddle hard
to maintain our course.
We hardly notice
the shores on either side.
Or the beauty all around us!
Moving much too fast,
trading risks for thrills.
For it is not the destination
that counts.
We all get there
by and by:
To the flatwater!
It is the ride we make,
the obstacles we avoid,
The danger we dared,
and the teamwork.
The shared sense
of experience,
And the relief when
it is all over.
Come to think of it,
Life is like running the Payette
on an afternoon in June.
The Homeless Man and the Passerby
I admire good street photography but I am very cautious when it comes to executing it. Taking candid portraits of people in the street is a delicate matter. Lets face facts; very few people like having their picture taken! Even fewer without their permission. The dilemma, of course, is that the best street photography occurs when the photographer captures his subject unaware. What is the obligation of the photographer: To always ask permission and get a release? To shoot first and ask questions later? Or to operate with a measure of stealth that is, at the very least, a violation of privacy. I have asked permission in the past, but to be honest, most of my street photographs are taken without the subject's knowledge. I try to tell myself that they are in a public place which I have a right to record. However, there is always a level of guilt attached to these stealth photos. I can understand why celebrities hate photographers. Another element is that very often the most compelling photographs capture individuals at a difficult moment in their lives. I do not want to be a voyeur, but I do want the compelling photograph. So I take the risk and take the shot and feel extremely uncomfortable doing it. And yes, from time to time I am confronted. I will try to explain what I am doing and why. Sometimes I walk away with the shot and sometimes I don't. The poem that follows was inspired by a photograph I took in St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City. It was the holiday season. This man seemed...tired. Once again, I try to remind myself that photographs like this raise our level of social awareness and just may lead to some collective attempt at mitigating the circumstances of those in need or at the very least, promote a sense of empathy.
I stop and stare and wonder why!
What brought you to this time and place?
Music from his soul whispers a sigh,
Shelter of stone in this homeless space.
I snap the shutter with silent regret,
An image framed in sad neglect.
His inner light a distant star,
A silent prayer echoes from afar.
The homeless man and the passerby,
There but for the grace of God go I.
And who am I to judge this poor man?
His soul knows more sorrow than others can.
Time's Arrow - A Meditation
Time is a beach,
only water and sand,
nothing else in between
the wet fingers of my hand.
One ends and the other begins.
The future forever becoming the past,
and the present just an illusion,
to make me think time can last.
I wade into the wake
if just for a short while,
so I can catch a glimpse
of your sweet fading smile.
But the light from your eye
like the light from a star
is light from the past
no matter how far.
Time indeed marches on.
We slip in and out of its wave,
building our sandcastles,
looking for something to save.
The passage of time is no ally.
From minutes to hours the years go by.
From long decades to years,
only hours and minutes lie.
I watch the sun arc across the sky.
I count the lines on my face.
I listen to the clock mark the seconds fly.
And my arrow, its arc almost complete
moves ever closer to the sea,
upon which someday
its tarnished tip will be.
Alida
When I decided to go down the poet's walk, I purchased a thick used anthology of poetry. I started with the familiar names. I read Yeats, Wordsworth, Frost and Thomas, and Edgar Allen Poe. I was also inspired by a photograph that I shot on a wet, foggy morning. It's a black and white photo of a neat row of tombstones in a churchyard. One name was clearly visible on the center stone: Alida
She came on a ship
from across the sea.
A chance meeting in church,
Alida and me.
A gaelic ginger
as fair as can be.
A soft freckled face,
I can still see.
So soon after marriage
we moved by the sea.
A cottage on a hill,
where we could be free.
Young love in a hurry
our souls became three.
We had a child,
Alida and me.
A mother's death after birth
Oh, how cruel fate can be.
We now meet in the churchyard,
Alida and me.
And as Poe might have written
in his kingdom by the sea;
I live for our daughter,
My Annabell Lee.
A March Wind Blows
A March wind blows
and the shadows fall.
In the hard sunlight
singing branches call.
Last of the winter snow,
dirt brown upon the ground,
looks somehow out of place,
exposed to long days now found.
Birds in the trees seek shelter,
not beating to an unseen tide,
or soar high above the gusts
with feathered sails spread wide.
And I behind my window,
reflected in a pane of glass,
bask in the warm bright rays
and listen to the wind's echo pass.
The Steeple and the Tree
This next poem is based on the theme of religion vs. nature; the man made world vs. the natural world. This debate is as old as recorded history. Still, it is a theme that appears often in my poetry. I have a love/hate relationship with religion. I acknowledge the beauty inherent in the stories, the code of ethics that form its foundation, and the power of faith. I abhor its divisiveness and its cult like suppression of free thought and scientific inquiry. On the one hand there is the natural world with its laws which are knowable through the application of reason and empirical study. On the other, there is religious dogma with its blind acceptance of the unknowable and its suppression of reason. Are the two ever compatible? I took a photograph of a church steeple in front of which was a large tree. The contrast struck me immediately. Religion symbolized by the steeple sharing time and place with a tree; a symbol of the natural world. Thus, the inspiration for this villanelle!
The steeple and the tree compete for the light.
Both lifting and turning by an unseen hand.
A communion of souls in the wilderness night.
We pray for redemption to make our lives right,
Kneeling before the altar by HIS command.
The steeple and the tree compete for the light.
Wise men in the pulpit preach second sight.
Right angles of the cross so hard to withstand.
A communion of souls in the wilderness night.
Leaves of the faithful turn, no longer bright.
Crimson and gold in the shadows once grand.
The steeple and the tree compete for the light.
As for me, random curves of a tree excite.
Nature without crosses, redemption at hand.
A communion of souls in the wilderness night.
Tiny angels in the branches sing songs of delight,
Under an altar of stars so carefully planned.
The steeple and the tree compete for the light.
A communion of souls in the wilderness night.
Antietam Creek
Dunker Church - Antietam National Battlefield - I have had a fascination with the American Civil War since I was a young boy. I have been to Gettysburg more times than I can remember. My bookshelves at home are stacked with Civil War history. I have been on bus tours, attended seminars and created and taught a high school course on the war. The poem you are about to read pertains to my second favorite battlefield site; Antietam. I am proud to say that I have donated money to the Civil War Preservation Trust (of which I am a member) to help save a portion of this sacred ground from development. My oldest son began his professional career here as a member of the National Park Service. So, like Gettysburg, I have walked this battlefield on many occasions. I believe that Antietam, not Gettysburg, was the turning point of the Civil War. Above all tactical and strategic considerations, the battle changed the meaning of the war. After all, Antietam gave us the Emancipation Proclamation. The battle unfolded in three distinct phases; morning, mid-day and afternoon. Each phase centered around a landmark you can still visit today. The Dunker Church (above) for the morning phase, a sunken lane for the mid-day phase, and finally closing around a bridge that became known to history as Burnside’s Bridge. Lincoln did visit the battlefield shortly after its conclusion. So did Mathew Brady, whose photographs of the unburied dead shocked the nation. The poem Antietam Creek follows the course of the battle including Lincoln’s and Brady’s visit.
Oh listen all foes who glory in war,
September day ripe with patriot gore.
Through South Mountain Pass from dawn to dusk,
Late summer sun the color of rust.
Rows of men rising up from the fields,
Banners of glory refusing to yield.
Sun ripened corn, white church in the morning,
This harvest of men serves as a warning.
Bearded generals in boots order ENGAGE!
Black powdered faces filled with rage.
The rebel yell now a dying refrain,
But the boys in blue cannot sustain.
A farmer's lane sunken with use,
Roar of a thousand muskets let loose.
Over rolling hills they slowly advance,
Eternity in an instant in this tragic war dance.
Cauldron of death compressed by stone,
A bridge to oblivion and thoughts of home.
Pushed to the limit like a long speeding train,
The water moves swiftly with the blood of the slain.
Tall man in black hallowed by war,
Asks in the stillness, what is it for?
His "terrible swift sword" will set men free,
The shadows now cast under the dying tree.
Black and white images convey the color of death,
For those who here breathed their last final breath.
The valley now rests with somber mystique,
For those who come visit Antietam Creek.
The Battle of Antietam, September 19, 1862, remains the single bloodiest day in United States history.
After the Storm
Broken limbs scattered
White marrow of a tree
Wood and stone shattered
Bird nests in the debris.
Clumps of homes distended
Our fragile interiors exposed
Sudden silence descended
Moist windless calm imposed.
Ethereal green glow lingers
No songbirds sing with delight
Branches hang like dead men
Alone in the somber light.
In the sorrow of the moment
Our broken spirits mourn
My reflection in a puddle
Future burdens to be borne.
With quiet determination
Lifting one brick at a time
Buried beneath the rubble
The living and dead still lie.
Alone in Five Parts
Solitary
He stands in the field like a solitary oak;
his identity revealed for all to see
the confusion and fear as if he just woke.
He reaches for the sky invisible to me.
Shadows
He looks in my eyes and sees all of his fears;
a life in the shadows so hard to define.
He turns away sadly to hide the tears;
compassion and understanding for one of mine.
Silence
Their pre-conceived notions mingle with fear;
challenged by parents who don't understand.
His solitary road so hard to make clear;
Their wall of silence so hard to withstand.
Listen
Like the tall tree in the field,
all alone in the mist,
he stands out in the crowd,
waiting for someone to listen.
Compassion
Identity lost in the soft morning haze;
is this my true self or just another phase?
Climb the fence and reach out to me;
compassion the new fashion for all to see!
To all the fathers of sons:
Remember always that he is not you, and to try and make him so will only serve to lessen those very bonds you wish to instill. Let him be who he is - and he will never disappoint you.
The Willow
The Willow weeps beside the lake.
I stand beside her boughs,
Wondering where my future goes.
So long in sleep,
the green tendrils seep,
down to the waterline.
With each passing year
we lean just a little more.
The roots grow weak.
The sun runs its course.
Bridge in Fog
I have always been fascinated by dreams. Where do they come from? How do they develop? What meaning, if any, do they contain? Not long ago, I took a photograph of the Rip van Winkle bridge disappearing into a fog bank. It occurred to me that a dream is like that; the mind disappears in the mist and shapes and forms get distorted. A dream is a mirror image of reality on some level. My dreams are populated with people I know and on rare occasions, by creatures from the darkest depths of my id. Sometimes I remember them in great detail. More often only an uneasy feeling remains. I don't know how to interpret my dreams and I'm not sure I really want to learn. There are instances when I can connect a dream to some final thought as I drifted off to sleep. But it is the element of surprise that is more intriguing to me! Where did that come from? As disconcerting as they can sometimes be, I know one thing for sure; if I'm still dreaming I'm still alive, and that's a good thing! Here is my Bridge in Fog in 4 parts:
I. Each night we step out on the bridge of our mind.
Our steps are heavy from the weight of the day.
Vignettes of images and sounds;
of things we said or did,
or wished we had or had not.
We drop them like markers as we journey to the other side.
Waking moments as hard as steel.
They propel us to the other side,
and will guide us upon our return.
The bridge is shrouded in fog
and I wonder what awaits me.
II. The bridge spans the waters of my mind.
As I slip away with each step,
one reality ends and another begins.
The fog swirls and lifts and forms are revealed,
both strange and familiar.
What do I see?
What is? What will be?
What is me?
Where the hard truths come to light!
III. On the bridge I'm an observer of me
in a new dimension of self.
I can see and I can feel!
I can fly and sometimes fall!
I search but never find!
I am chased but never caught!
I experience joy and I know terror!
And it all seems so real except...
I never get to the end.
The forms shake me and wake me.
And that makes me sad and sometimes glad.
The bridge, so long in crossing,
where my demons hide,
where my desires thirst,
is recrossed in an instant.
And I am awake in the night.
IV. I live on both sides of the bridge in fog.
And which is more real?
Each time I cross I leave something behind,
where my soul is revealed,
where my mind wanders free.
I am somehow different if ever so slightly.
As I spend my day preparing to cross again.
