Poem: The Wedding Guest

The Wedding Guest

I was that wedding guest, you see,

The one to whom the mariner spoke

And told the tale of worry

In which the life of albatross he took.

A friend of the groom’s family

I was, just waiting church to enter

When this old man bid me tarry

To hear a tale of his center

Of which he needed to be absolved

And so he was, I’m sure of it

For his face no sign of grief showed

But this tale, he told me it

And such destruction I perceived

So that its tale did me amaze

How one man could cause such grief

That I did enter church all dazed.

Indeed, the mercy of the lamb

Is great enough to heal even me,

One who feels that he is damned 

For thoughts and deeds evil to see

But those I hide so deep away

That none might know or see the black

Deep with me stowed far away

Yet those he has also cleansed from my back.

March 2023

About This Poem

This is a response to Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. In the poem you hear the entire story of the mariner shooting an albatross and the famous lines like "water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink," but that poor trapped wedding guest never gets the chance to respond. This is his response. The poem hints at the story of joy and sorrows going through our lives all at the same time: the mariner telling a wedding guest of his sorrows at sea while at a wedding. The picture is me being carried in my wife's grandfather's wheelchair by my groomsmen and dad at my wedding, which also hints at that dual nature of life. And, of course, it's a wedding.

 

Poem: Keep Dripping From the Eaves

Keep Dripping from the Eaves

The air is moist, the breeze is cold

And I’m stuck here nursing at home,

Antsy so, the wide world to roam.

I read adventures, The Odyssey,

And think Odysseus so

Lonely missing Penelope

And infant son Telemachus

While here I mourn the wine dark sea

Lapping shores I cannot now see

Because I’m caring for my own

Penelope. How silly to think

That I would enjoy myself much

To be adrift on Atlantic

Or Pacific when I am home

Here in the hills of the Rockies

Feeling the snow melt from my roof

As the sap climbs into the trees

Roaming just as I would on seas.

Silly Odysseus, silly

Me, to think somewhere else we would

Rather be when all we really

Need must be within ourselves found.

So snow, keep dripping from the eaves.

February 2024

About This Poem:

I wrote this sometime after one of my wife's surgeries (she's had a few in our retirement) when I was feeling a little bit of cabin fever. Everyone has that feeling of needing to get out once in awhile and it's worse when you can't. That's what this poem is getting at and why I reference Odysseus.
 

Poem: The Design of Purpose

The Design of Purpose

Who thinks about the purpose of frost?

Who even thinks whether or not it has

A purpose? I always thought it was just

There. But, since someone, a poet perhaps,

Made me think about frost, not just its what

But also its why, I guess it does things,

Whether with purpose or not, perhaps it

Is given purpose by something or someone

Just like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle

That has no sentience of its own.

Is frost a tool, leverage breaking up hills?

There is no doubt it causes mountains to 

Crumble and move toward the sea. If you

Doubt it, take a drink from the sea and taste

The salinity of the far-off hills

Brought here by mountain frosts and cleansing rains.

Yes, indeed, frost has purpose and we need

Not wait for its salinity in sea

To preserve as it preserves of its own.

Purpose is in the coldest freezer and

The smallest salt shaker on a clear, star

Filled night placed just right in that Van Gogh print

Made into a thousand-piece jigsaw.

Perhaps the sentiency is not in the frost

Or absence of the sun that makes it so,

Yet even here within I can see

Something perfect in cracked rocks and salty

Seas that have absolutely nothing or

Absolutely everything to do

With me. That is the design of purpose.

April 2023

About This Poem

I don't know what precipitated this particular poem besides a frosty spring morning, but I often play with things that seem so disconnected like frost and salt and jigsaw puzzles. They so often connect when we think they don't, forming a beautiful picture that we might not ever see. You can see me playing with those connections here. The photo is just a frosty apple orchard outside of Yakima, Washington.
 

Poem: The One Who You Really Just Are

The One 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

I don't know what precipitated the writing of this poem, but I like how it presents someone's (mine?) quest for identity. As we age we grow more comfortable in our own skin, accepting that there isn't time to be someone new. Yet we still might not completely know who we are. Self-discovery isn't just a thing of teenagere and young people. While that may be frightening in some ways, for the most part it is, I think, just comforting. My poetry is where I often make self discoveries and this one fully admits that. The photo is a selfie at Niagara Falls, New York. Me out of my element, yet still me. We are who we are, no matter where we are.

 

Poem: Dare to Provide

Dare to Provide

When one assumes the position of artist

One must expect the critics to arrive

And notice every stroke and color

Suggesting a hue is improper or

A stroke too broad. They have their preconceived

Notions of what this should be or what that 

Should say to society but you have,

Dear artist, a mind of your own that wants

To say what you’ve said and they should leave it

Alone. Yet, just that they’ve noticed and said

Anything means that your work has been seen.

This, alone, should give you pride that your work

Has fully arrived. Not many will feel

Just what you feel and they might just feel it

And not like it at all so they warn those

Who would feel, not as you but, as they do.

Nor, perhaps, would you want them to, but to

See what you feel, what you project, feelings

Through art weren’t made to protect. Just take pride

That critics will see and present your work

To society who will, in their turn,

Take time to decide the value of what

You feel inside and dare to provide.

February 2024

About This Poem

I don't remember what inspired this poem, but it expresses what I feel about one's own art be it writing, painting, or gardening. That does not mean I don't believe in a good edit, or respected opinion. I just know I've watched many a great movie that was highly criticized in a negative fashion and I couldn't agree less. So, sometimes the artist has to make the final decision on the artwork's release. I chose this picture because I thought something more abstract would best serve the purpose of this poem.