White Rocks Cliff

leftover raindrops
falling from boughs
of hemlock and beech
          the roar of the stream
the water cycle
          - a few of its faces

a massive white pine
older than old
rises straight as an arrow
          how many travelers
have marveled at the sight
          of this ancient one?


after climbing over wet rocks
i came to a flat spot
where i drank from
          the bottle in my pack
and watched mist drift by
          - a few faces forgotten before


at the junction
of the long trail
that stretches border-to-border
          i met a group of four
weary-looking travelers
          they seemed surprised to see me


walking through
a gate of birches
i saw too many scratches
          on their smooth paper skin
why feel the need
          to leave oneself behind?


i stopped to eat
my apple along the way
when i am hungry
          i eat
when i am tired
          i sleep


climbing steadily for a while
looking at shelf fungus
the woods opening up
          i thought i heard voices
on two occasions
          perhaps it was the trees


nearing the top
pushing through red spruce
i stopped to write
          leaning my staff against a tree
i crushed a moth
          which fell to the ground


picking it gently up
to say i was sorry
i was happy to see
          its wings flutter
as it flew a short distance
          - now the cold will get it


a shrine of smooth stones
stacked atop each other
and in the branches of trees
          as though spirits were here
i chose not to add
          mine to a pile


at the summit 
of white rocks cliff
ragged clouds above
          valley below touched with fire
of changing leaves
          nothing  but cold wind between


and on the way back down
hiking quickly along
cold, hungry, and tired
          i kept forgetting
to embrace the forest
          that was embracing me

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

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.