Unholy Imaginings

My thoughts wander when I go hiking.

(My thoughts wander a lot, actually.)

I love how the same hike looks drastically different as the seasons progress.   This time of year, the green and hopeful underbrush has not yet started to grow. You can see far into the woods, endless lines of exposed tree trunks.   The trees closest to the trail are almost always marked with carvings: initials, expressions of love, inscrutable sayings, arrows, cardinal directions, swear words.

What is it about humanity that we can’t let unbroken expanses of beauty exist? Smooth tree bark, ancient rock faces, newly fallen snow, a fresh sheet of paper.  We like to dig in to prove we’ve been here.

I like to walk with faraway eyes, and let the symbols swarm past me.

---

the cop-out

time heals all wounds, they say
but some scars grow with us
like etched initials
in the smooth bark
of an old beech tree

inscrutable, thick,
distorted remnants
of past wrongs
carved in our hearts
hardened into false submission.

the pain is eternal
and simply a part of us.

time heals all wounds, someday
but only because
those who are marred
and all who bore witness
will be lost

time heals all wounds, they say
but that’s a total fucking cop-out

february 

drive past the estates
bear right at the white church
over the river
steady on past the peaceful snow
with dirty hems

tall pines
are veiled giants in
the cold teal mist
as the sleet on the road
overtakes every inch
of February

Every year, around Valentine’s Day, I long for the joy of Spring.  I know that real warmth is a few months away, but my whole heart desires it.

In February there are small victories.  It stays light later in the day.  I go on more walks after work. The birds get rowdy.  Chocolate is everywhere, on sale, and ripe for the taking. The whole earth seems to know a secret: the thrill of anticipation is often sweeter than the event.

Audio Note: I’m trying something different!  A few friends have told me they don’t ‘get’ poetry, or like reading it.  Do you like hearing it any better? Would you like listening to me talk with other weird nerds about weird words?

Image Note: I took this photo with a Canon SLR from the bathroom of our rental bungalow in Akron.  I balanced with my feet on the rim of the old cast iron tub, steadying the camera on top of the open window.  The dog looked on, judgmentally.  Most of the photos I took were blurry, since I was laughing at how stupid I looked.  I’m glad I took my shot: the thaw, the moon between two icicles, that elusive Mid-February Feeling.

---

one more cleveland winter

do not fear the cold of march
for nothing is eternal

wildflowers will bloom
in the frozen soil
after many false starts,
flurries,
and blighting frosts

relentless setbacks
to an inchoate spring
will give way to
warmth, hope,
and beauty.

our spirits endure
the same transformations

if our souls survive death
surely, they will make it
through one more
cleveland
winter.

(13-FEB 2014 – Copley, Ohio)

I was late for work but I have poetic excuses.

---

winter cemetery blues

me and the crows
and the trusty old oak
share the tumult
of a winter sunrise

i abandon my morning routine
to lean against the cemetery oak
to rest my hands on the trunk
to feel something solid

sheltered from icy gusts
i scan headstones with unfocused eyes
waiting for the transient joy
of sun clearing the hilltop

the wind blows harder
three crows cry
racing clouds radiate
the promise of daylight

me and the crows
and the shadowed gravestones
cold among the branches
the clouds fade first

During a recent visit, my grandparents told me about Black Sunday, a day in 1950 where the sky turned black at noon in Northwestern Pennsylvania.  It was caused by a Canadian forest fire, allegedly.  But nobody really believes that.

Please enjoy the synopsis of that day, from the viewpoints of my Grandma and Grandpa.  This poem is much better if you can imagine it in the soft and slightly sad accent of the hills near Sheffield, PA.

---

a dark cloud

it was midnight black
when louise and gene
left the matinee
they ran two blocks home
where granny had knelt
in front of candlelit icons
to pray for their soul salvation

holy mary,  mother of god 
the rapture is upon us!

ominous clouds crept on
larry and freddie paused
their manual labors
on the hill outside of town
they set down their tools
and the deep, cool forest
darkened even further

if the world is really ending,
we may as well go home and eat!

(13-APR-2018 – Allegheny National Forest)

This is the mostly-true story of my futile attempt to be a good Samaritan.  Like many mostly-true stories, it ends with a decapitation.

---

the finch’s prayer

on the searing asphalt,
a paralyzed finch is dying
golden on the center line.

the broken wing extends
a supplication, a benediction
while drafts from passing traffic
pull him closer to the track of tires

i run to him, raise him
crying out, unable to fight
his panicked eyes meet mine
keenly conscious of finite time

wrapping the bird in a towel,
i beg help from three men in a field
who are embarrassed enough by my tears
to pause their summer labors

we watch the slow throes
the lungs fill with blood
the men calmly repeat
“put it out of its misery”
until one takes a spade
and all the suffering
brave into his hands
and bids me “turn away”

lord, don’t be hard on your songbirds
if we are ever slowly fading!

may a kind soul uplift us
a swift edge sever all knowing
let a soft heart grieve the passing
with a garden to rest our bones

I’m often stuck inside my head.  Traveling should theoretically provide clarity, but in practice, the hurt often compounds.

A poem for you, written from the loft of the coziest Airbnb cabin in Maine.

---

baby grand blues

there’s a little cabin
on the morgan bay
with a time-worn baby grand.
i once touched the keys,
unworthy of the honor.

the piano
was beyond
my understanding.
as were the tides
and their sliding schedule.
i felt them slip beneath my fingers
towards the sweet release of knowing.

i cried but the tides
could not return a time
when you belonged to me.

i cried but the tides
could not inure me
to the present.

the tides replied:
learn to love yourself
or at least to play the piano.

(01-OCT-2018 – Surry, Maine)

Dostoevsky says it’s hard to find a sister if God hasn’t given you one.  I guess I got lucky, so this poem is for her.

(Please see: Hiraeth pronunciation)

---

hiraeth

jane says
there are five seasons
in everyone’s heart
all interspersed with hiraeth.

a welsh word
with no direct translation.
a homesickness,
yearning,
longing for something
that is not attainable.

kind of like the blues.
blue like daydreams,
blue in kentucky,
blue for losing
an ideal that
never existed.

i told jane
i know this
silver thread
that connects
the sorrows of
our pining hearts.
everything she’s said
i’ve lost before.

(Crater Lake, Oregon – October 2010)

Gram Parsons was a talented and beautiful musician.

Due to his artistic vision, I have met many people, traveled to new places, and experienced sensations that somehow already felt like part of my soul.

This is an ode to Gram and the restive, creative spirit in all of us.

---

fallen angel

i am captivated by your cosmic reveries.
soft-spoken and gentle,
like the warm touch of desert air
on bare shoulders.

johnny-on-the-spot, singing morphine hymns
with an easy voice, like powdered sugar.
don’t say i could love anyone like you.
don’t say my faith is just a hitch in time.

crowned crisp white,
blue stars burnt the brim,
you knew the rhinestones
foretold your falling.

A little backyard melodrama of recent development.

---

 

between cats and kestrels

the kestrel perches on the poplar
to survey the stream
and regally scans the embankment.

the fat black and white barn cat is poised
noiseless on the stony hill
patiently biding her sovereign time.

the field mice, with their tawny winter fur,
are hiding… if they are smart.
death simply waits for an opening.

the cat knows she could kill the whole damn world,
if she only had the chance!
the bird knows his limits of skill and strength.

each hunter feigns to ignore the other –
professionals often do –
barely masking the disdain between them.