Poem: October

October

And leaves fly through the air

like geese

or chatter down the street 

like school children in a lunch line

And I long to run

to breathe the mountain air

And let it rustle my hair

like Grandpa used to

“And you know,” he’d say, 

“I used to have hair like yours.”

And Dad and the uncles

would be cutting wood

while Grandpa

And I drank Scotch.

“Brian, where the hell

are you?” I’d hear Dad say.

“Just here,” I answer.

“That’s a hell of a place to be,”

he’d say.

“I know,” I answer.

And I want the first

snowfall

to touch me

And I forget my coat

And at night the stars

are ice on fire

And I walk out into them.

“And where did you go?”

my wife asks.

I touch my cold feet 

to her warm legs in reply.

“Dressed like that?” she says.

And like this

it’s a hell of a place to be,

But it’s here.

About This Poem

This is quite an old poem from sometime in the late eighties. I always love the fall and October when it's sunny and crisp. This poem holds so many of those memories, and even new ones seem encapsulated here. The picture is from last October in Brattleboro, Vermont of a quintessentially New England scene: a covered bridge. That it's in October in Vermont where the trees turn to their beautiful resplendent colors is fully appropriate for this poem.

 

Poem: A Pantoum of Leaves

A Pantoum of Leaves

You look at the trees and the leaves don’t seem

To want to fall, yet you look at the lawn

And the raking is endless like a dream

Or maybe more a nightmare with no dawn

Ever at all, yet you look at the lawn

And the leaves seem to never blow away

But maybe it’s a nightmare with no dawn

Or did the wind just blow them all away?

But the leaves seem never to blow away

And I have to rake them or there’ll be bugs—

So, did the wind just blow them all away?

I swear, I haven’t taken any drugs.

But I have to rake them or there’ll be bugs

Or maybe it’s a nightmare with no dawn

‘Cause the raking is endless like a dream.

You look at the trees and the leaves don’t seem…

November 2022

About This Poem:

It's that time of year when the leaves start falling, so I chose this poem that is about the endless chore of raking leaves before the storms of winter come. I chose the repetitiveness of a pantoum because that's how leaf raking seems: repetitive and somewhat monotonous after a time. That being said, I love the fall and raking leaves. The photo is one of fallen leaves in the University of Idaho Arboretum.

 

Poem: Where Does One Draw the Line?

Where Does One Draw the Line?

Where does one draw the line

Between obscenity and the right to read?

Let us convene a committee

To decide.

Should public tax dollars fund

Obscene books in a school library?

Absolutely not.

What is obscene?

This passage in a book

Where a man fucks a cow.

Is that what the entire book is about?

I don’t know, I didn’t read it all.

Let’s have the committee decide.

The committee is corrupt

If they think anything about 

A man fucking a cow is

Anything but obscene.

But you said you didn’t know

If that book was about 

Fucking cows.

Anything that talks about

Fucking cows is obscene.

Then you have corrupted this meeting

Because you brought up the obscenity

Of fucking cows.

Let the fucking committee decide.

The fucking committee has no right

To determine whether or not fucking cows

Is obscene.

So are you suggesting eating hamburgers

Is obscene?

Fucking McDonalds is obscene.

I really like hamburgers.

You are fucking obscene.

Well, fuck you.

Go read a book.

Let the committee decide.

Fucking obscene.

May 2023

About This Poem:

I wrote this poem shortly after attending a school board meeting about a list of books that some community members (none parents of students in our district) objected to and wanted removed from the shelves. I found the entire request absurd, but I listened patiently and then suggested that no book be excluded from the library without being reviewed by a committee after having read the entire book. One guy said that was absurd because he could tell that the entire book was obscene based on this one passage he had read. I hadn't read the book (I found his claims of the cow scene the way he described it as hard to believe, but perhaps...No other context was given), but the conversation inspired this poem. The photo is the high school library where the meeting occurred. That room has inspired several poems in me...
 

Poem: Who You Really Just Are

Who You Really Just Are

These little ditties here we see

Of radiant times and those dull

To me. I write them here to be

A boon to get me through glooms full.

I know their context or did when

I wrote them so all do make sense,

And some I love, and some I planned

While others are complete nonsense.

That’s how our days go—yes, they do—

Some seemingly so sensible

While others just seem like they go

To realms of nothing memorable.

Hold to those days you can’t quite feel 

Because, perhaps, your mind was numb

Or you couldn’t get beneath peals

Of nothingness, your mouth was dumb.

They make the person wholly you

With laughter, joy, tears, and some fears

All rolled into a fount that’s new,

Nothing one needs but to be near

The thing that you may not e’en know

But that which makes you who you are

Not who you wish to be, but oh!

The one who you really just are.

February 2024

About This Poem:

Poems about being yourself have been resonating with me lately. This is another one of those in rhyme and iambic tetrameter (roughly). The picture is me and my family at a Mariner's game over 20 years ago. My boys are both adults now...

 

Poem: Respect for the River

Respect for the River

While the river looks rough

From the hills up above

When you are in it stuff 

Seems to give way to love

Of the rush and roaring,

The rapids engulf you

In the whiteness rushing

Throwing the boat into

Disarray, perhaps turning

It over and your life

Jacket keeps you floating

Amidst the turmoil’s strife.

Yes, it’s that rush, the fear

You might drown in the waves

But your hope in life here

In your body makes you brave.

And I love the water,

I love it so, but know

When seeing daughters 

And sons drown, it deserves

Respect for its steady flow 

That rushes until I can

Only feel this majestic

Beautiful wave caress me.

May 2023

 About This Poem:

The Salmon River is just a part of me and I love it. This poem is about that and my knowledge that people constantly die in it because they don't fully respect it, often out of a lack of understanding. It's a dangerous river because of its depth, its current, and its deceivingly calm spots. People who aren't familiar with that don't get it and people who are familiar with it sometimes, at their peril, test it.

249. American Activism

American Activism

I have had over a year to think about another thing that I love about America and it hit me that I really like how American people don’t just put up with things they disagree with. Henry David Thoreau refused to pay his taxes (no withholding from paychecks in the 19th century) and spent a night in jail because he objected to being complicit in paying for the Mexican American was with which he disagreed. Rosa Parks just got sick and tired of sitting in the back of the bus while paying the same fare. Martin Luther King, Jr. led protests and was often thrown into prison for civil rights for Black Americans.

While Americans often avoid politics and stay pretty mute about it, seeming to be disengaged, they organize and join protests and rallies frequently when their elected officials don’t listen to them at all, claiming mandates merely by being elected. The Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s is a great example, but I think we’re living in another turbulent era when Americans are again speaking out in ways other than voting.

Some of my friends and I gather regularly to organize and write letters encouraging our elected representatives to listen to us. While that has some success, many of us have gone to protests, stood outside in the cold encouraging people to vote, or sign petitions to raise our concerns on the ballot for people to have their say with the vote. Like I said, our success varies but it feels good to be with others who demand that their voices are not ignored. This is something that I love about Americans: we are activists.

 

Poem: Who Doesn't Know the Shame?

Who Doesn’t Know the Shame?

Who doesn’t know the shame

That others place upon your name

For being something they assume,

Heaping upon you all their gloom?

It may be ‘cause of your skin’s hue

Or because of your accents clue

Of where you come, lands they’d undone

In spite from a king’s sense of fun.

It’s un American to think

One’s better because of some rank

Made up by finances from poor

Who found thieves ransacking their door.

But we Americans seldom

Care that here we’re not a kingdom

For we have fallen for masters

Tearing us from our own lords.

Who doesn’t know that shame

Others have placed on your name

For being something they assume,

Heaping upon you their own gloom.

May 2023

About This Poem:

This is a poem about feeling misunderstood, something that has happened to all of us. I think two things can come of being misunderstood: 1) you resent others for not understanding you; 2) you begin to understand others feeling out of place because you have been there. This poem aims at that second feeling: empathy. The photo is just a selfie gone bad, but I kept it and now I know why. :)