WARM ~

Warm

Apple, poplar, ash,

Cherry, red maple,

Pine, basswood, oak,

These are the woods

That we sawed today,

In two hours of thinning,

Selecting, we made a cord —

Trampled branches on snow

Worked without words.

Simple thoughts, like picking

Up these sticks — back and

Forth in the mind — until we

Stop to rest together against

The pile, brushing off woodchips,

Shedding hats and gloves,

And because we kiss, I warm

My hands beneath your blouse.

First Snow As I Split Wood

Thin snow falling into

Valley fog, quiets everything,

No bird call, nothing flying.

The splitting wedge and hammer

Echo over the pasture

While the flakes open bigger

For no reason other than snow.

And I straighten my sweaty back

To watch this world, lend a tongue

And taste it melt.

Scout

Here you are again

Late at night

Snow falling in the valley

Life on snowshoes

Hardly faraway from home

In fact, isn’t that the glow

Of the kitchen lamp

Lighting through the trees

I’ve spend the better part

Of darkness stamping in

A mile wide circle enjoying

The measure of going nowhere

Stand with me

Waste some time

Everything you’ve always wanted

Is all around you.



_________________

Bob Arnold
Where Rivers Meet
Mad River Press






Susan photograph by Bob Arnold , 2016

THE SYMPHONY OF SORROWFUL SONGS ~

ROSMARIE WALDROP ~

If a bird if

up into the air

if cold if




we must if adhere if

a road if renamed by

if each if traveling




more than one set

if of darkness no angel

no annunciation




deeper yet if

the singer's

voice if




borne if by grief

as if a bird

if on wings




_________________________

from SPLIT INFINITIES
ROSMARIE WALDROP
GAP GARDENING
selected poems
New Directions 2016

FAREWELL BILL BERKSON ~

B I L L     B E R K S O N

1939-2016

Variation

Related Poem Content Details

Half-ended melodies are purer.

To no longer perform in broad daylight,

the apple’s a radish for it,

the winter chill a living thing.

But take your brother into later learning:

Let the girls who will smell the buried cloves there.

So I am only beginning to learn what I from time to time forget.

But throw away these childish things!

Barney’s coffin disappeared,

and luckily you said the right thing

for the sky mentioned for the last time.

The little master of small talk

is really the seducer of your every move,

taking you into his confidence the way a cat his mouse.

And still young Lycidas cannot express himself fully.

And: “Everyone is the same,”

even down to his jockey shorts, dolce far niente, as they say.

_________________

Bill Berkson

from Portrait and Dream: New and Selected Poems. Copyright © 2009 by Bill Berkson

BIRD IN HAND ~

A plumb-bob book of early blues, make no mistake about it.

Sylvester Weaver

Papa Charlie Jackson

Blind Lemon Jefferson

Blind Blake

Blind Willie McTell

Blind Willie Johnson

Lonnie Johnson

Mississippi John Hurt

Tampa Red

University of Minnesota Press, 2015

DRUM HADLEY ~

GO   LISTEN   TO   DRUM   HADLEY  &  FRIENDS

WHITE SANDS ~

Pantheon, 2016

Fine personal essays on Gauguin, D.H. Lawrence's New Mexico,

picking up dicey hitchhikers,

during a stroke and much more. . .

ULTIMATE GEORGE HARRISON ~

BACK ROAD CALLER ~

Now

Without any warning,

No wind or dampness,

Just as I was about to

Step out from under

The empty stall,

Shake woodchips

After chain saw work

From my rubber boots

Then split the wood —

Sleet rained down all at once

As if someone whispered now

Caught even the chickadees

Feeding in the overgrown

Raspberry canes, but I

Watched as they regained

Themselves over the

Pasture, flying away.

The Long Way Home

January and no thaw

Freezing days and nights

Far back in the woods

I stamped caked ice

Off my snowshoes after

Breaking into the open

Onto an old logging road

Returning down into the valley

Sunlight rinsing the hills

Passing my neighbor’s pasture

I feel staring between the trees

Huddled in deep snow

The whole world stop

As horses watch

One Shot

      for Russell Denison

The one shot

I don’t think

He wanted to shoot

Put this deer down,

Found on the river ice

After the dogs

Had been chased off.

He left the body alive

Longer than I would

For someone to call

The game warden, or

Hoping 3 or 4 in the pack

Would circle back,

Put a slug in each one’s head.

But nothing returned —

This deer waits

Head flat

Muscles clawed from her legs,

She won’t ever rise again.

Bloody dog tracks

Pinwheeled from the body.

It is late winter

An open sunny day for a change,

The air is starting to melt

With new bird songs —

Her eyes are wide

She can’t move

Watches us as we move.

Sugaring Time

All at once

Off in the distance

Where an old hut

Sinks into the ground

Two small windows lit

And steam bellows

Up into the farmland sky —

You thought it was a fire

Until you tasted the air



________________________

Bob Arnold
Where Rivers Meet

ARVO PART ~