Finding Yourself Lost

the bones
of the everyday
          roll away
with the unordinary
indecision
you can find yourself
doing the strangest
          things
like imparting
fortune cookie
          good-byes

Basho

the hiss of tires
          on wet pavement
and the echo of engines
          in the hills
seems to me to be
poor accompaniment
when thinking
          of the traveling poet
          now dust for 300 years


i prefer instead
the patter of rain
          on the slate roof overhead
and the sound
          of the trees breathing
to mark the memory
of that great man

Propaganda

imagination runs its course
played out on the screen
          of empty waiting
bearing the fruit of fear


and much like the newsreels
          (propaganda)
of old
it is sometimes easier
to set aside truth
          (reality)
when you are told
what to believe

poem

words come easier
this way
          when you skip them
                    like stones
          off the long-lost
          lakes of childhood
it's best
          if they don't go in
                    too deep
          until the end
but when they sink
          it should be with grace

wu wei

cultivate the clear mind
          the lesser things                    more
the space between thoughts
the heart of the matter

seek not to seek
          these passing things
          only an eddy in the stream
yet the water unbroken


and when you reach the mountain's summit
do not keep climbing
          relax
          draw deep breath
          admire the view
before starting back down

Bald Mountain Loop

red maple and striped
green, yet yellowing
from late-summer
          lack of sunlight
acorns also
          dot the ground


chuckling chickadees
and woodpeckers
rustle in the underbrush
          causing me to pause
and pay attention
          to the sounds


the trail climbs steadily
over rocks and roots
winding through
          the thick forest
i must relearn
          how to walk this ground


the smell of mushrooms
and wet earth
give way to ferns
          near the first view
other peaks' summits
          lost in cloud


now they are clearing
at cold river vista
and the sun shines
          shade-dappled leaves
dance in a breeze
          the rocks are silent


delicate spider webs
tickle my face
how long since someone
          passed this way?
the cry of a jay
          announces my presence


a vulture glides
on silent wings
over the valley
          in the near distance
sits a squat steep hill
          like a buddha


now, pine and spruce
are starting to show
their scent fresh
          in the cool air
barren, branched trunks
          marching into the distance


at north vista
looking down the valley
of otter creek
          mountains on either side
houses and fields
          dot the landscape


a steep descent
leveling out into
beeches and ferns
          an airier feel
lost in my thoughts
          i nearly missed it


faded flowers
on the old forest road
washed of summer hues
          their petals ragged
an uprooted maple
          stretches nearby


a large bumblebee
looking for last pollen
flew lazily away
          as i passed
ignoring his wisdom
          i hurry along


at the loop's closing
back where i started
the sun has dimmed
          behind fresh clouds
the woodpeckers
          are now in the trees

Happy Birthday

it is hard to believe
i was ever born
and began to grow
when that first breath
was slapped into me

it used to be
          noticeable
pencil marks
on a door frame
marking progress
of some kind

There Is a Wind Coming

a heavy sort of peace
has settled round this
slow-beating heart
my pen has been silent
          so long


it's hard
to see these days
when they pass like this
in such a way 
that the sun -
          - that moon
                    - this rock
was here
in this same spot
          before
and so many things 
have changed
          on the surface


there is a wind coming
the dead & dry
          leaves
blow outside
i no longer try
to know what it brings

morning mist

 first glance out the window

     - sunrise 7 a.m. -

the two sheer, sharp, soft

hills were hidden

     - swallowed -

by milky pearl billows of cloud

gone -

as though never there

and later

     - sparkling -

in morning dew

& last night's rain remnants

- on sun kissed shoulders -

a single bright red

tree stood out

     - somewhere

the first frost waits

Apology

I do not consider myself a poet. I have never studied poetry, nor do I know the first thing about verse structure (other than Anglicized haiku) or composition (other than the simple--yet often brilliant--rhymes of Dr. Seuss). However, I became inspired several years ago by the spontaneous, jazz-influenced poetry of Jack Kerouac, and I realized that I didn't really have to know how to write poetry to write poetry. If that makes any sense.

I wrote free-form verse from time-to-time, often compiling what I had written over the course of a year into chapbooks given as Christmas gifts to my friends and family. After a while, it seemed my creativity dried up, and my poetry became one of those things in life that are left behind and forgotten. Recently, however, I found myself with the urge to write again, and it has been -- for the most part -- a pleasure.

I decided to start this blog as a way to share some of my work -- past, present, and future. I received some positive feedback in the past, and more recently from my sister, Lisa, who asked if she could post one of my latest poems on her blog (www.2500milesbarbwire.blogspot.com/). At first, I was hesitant to begin my own blog because of the aforementioned lack of knowledge about writing 'real' poetry. However, as I thought more about it, I realized that true growth often results from taking a chance and putting oneself on the line. It is well enough for me to write a poem and tuck it away someplace where it will never be read, but I believe art of any kind -- 'good' or 'bad' -- is not really art unless it is shared. With this in mind, I am taking the plunge to do so, and am excited to see what might happen.

I am not always pleased with what I write. I often wish I had said something a little differently.  However, in trying to keep with the spirit of my original intentions for writing, I do my best to keep things spontaneous and stick with what comes out with only the occasional small bit of editing. I am also cognizant of the fact that any old thing that comes out of someone's head does not necessarily constitute worthy reading, despite any claims of spontaneity, and I try to be somewhat thoughtful of what I do write. My work consists mainly of trying to capture the moment in which it was written -- my focus on the world around me, often combined with tones evoked by my emotional content at the time. Attempts at trying to compose verse about emotionally or physically distant topics has generally led to disappointment on my own part. For this blog, I will attempt to post poems that I think an audience might enjoy, although I may occasionally include ones of which I am a little unsure, in hopes that any feedback might lead to growth on my own part.

In this vein, I invite commentary on what is posted in this blog. Please feel free to let me know what you think about what you find here. I ask only that you do so with respect, and while keeping in mind the above disclaimer that my work is of an amateur nature. I hope you enjoy what you read, and if you do, please post a comment and let me know why; I have a tendency toward laziness, and I will be more likely to continue posting if I know I have an audience. Also, pass the word along if you know someone else who might enjoy my blog.  If this isn't your kind of thing, I encourage you to move on to something that is, while also inviting you to let me know what you think. After all, as a form of art, poetry should invite and encourage discussion second only to invoking a subjective reaction in the reader.

In any case, thank you for visiting.