Sunrise and stars in New England seem far different from what I know here at home. There’s not much left of my Grandmother’s house now, just the barn. The place never fails to bring echoes and ghosts to my mind. You are very kind to read these, and to respond.
July the Fourth
Quite a stir
on Independence Day
that colorful African shirt caused
in the middle of all those tasteful Freeport plaids
and tees urging a renewed greatness;
certain to cause chatter
next winter.
In the Meadow
Do you hear
the north wind calling out,
as it whispers through a thousand trees
giving voice to brooding hemlock and pliant birch;
one reasoning, another plaintive,
yet each green branch calling:
stay with
Each of these spoke to me. The first made me feel as if I were part of a fantasy novel, or maybe a book like Wrinkle in Time. You let me feel both vastness and a kind of sureness in that universe when there’s a we, not just a me. The second of these stirs my mind, wills me to act. Your clear sight could move all but the stoniest of hearts, the ones who can’t see beyond this quarter’s profit-and-loss.
Losing Tad is a grief. You write it in love, yet without varnish. What Tad did for Markus, and for so many more, is a lift to the heart. Again, your simple, elegant telling makes a huge impact.
Thanks very much for reading this one. It was a wonderful, convivial evening, the kind when there were so many stories and discussions that one can’t remember them all.
I'm very grateful for your encouraging words. I think free verse scares me a little - like a mathematics problem that has no right answer. Structured forms can let me hang on to something, like a syllable count or a rhyme scheme, but free verse requires me to be a better observer and a more effective writer. That's why I admire your own poetry. You could say this means I need to practice free verse more, and you'd be right. My sketchbook has lots of blank pages left... Thank you again for taking time with this.
Grill smoke eddies and curls,
its column contorting in the faint breeze
while the evening commute hums nearby;
late afternoon sun glints
on golden Chardonnay as sparkling as our conversation,
a give-and-take as meaty
as anything roasting over the glowing coals,
and well-aged like the stories we remember best about ourselves.
Twilight and moonrise flavor our discussion;
books and politics make potent digestives
to be enjoyed li
@AC Benus I think you have a good point about this. This possible change might improve things. What do you think?
The final sorry thread must now unspool,
for he who hoped in peace to bide
neglected in his cell soon died,
by rank injustice played the fool.
You have an excellent point. I will have to reconsider that as I knead bread... thanks very much for your comments and thoughts. I’m enormously grateful you took time with this one.
This a very dark time in our history, I think. I was encouraged to see that a jury refused to convict a Samaritan last month. Others haven’t been as lucky.
Thank you very much for reading this. The recent story of a jury refusing to convict a Good Samaritan recently was heartening in an otherwise bleak tide of news.
This comes as an amalgam of stories from the border. And yes, Good Samaritans are being threatened and being made into examples to keep everyone else in line. Thank you for taking to time to read this very difficult poem.
Thanks for reading this, Gary. This is a distillation of current stories from the border, as you can guess. Good Samaritans are getting prosecuted and threatened with jail. They're made examples of to keep the rest of us quiet. In the meantime, the poor people fleeing violence and crime perish. My heart hurts over it.