Spillway at the End of January

 

 

Stones in the bed of the spillway,

each one crowned with a snow-cap,

suggest how tidy winter can be

when mood permits. I lean

over the rail to count the stones.

 

A hundred and thirty-seven,

plus those hidden under the bridge.

Frozen for a month now, the lake

is a lens through which a grave

intelligence ponders the world.

 

Sadly, it’s a cataract of ice,

rendering the vision so grainy

it can’t possibly tell the truth.

I should step back and take a photo,

but the subject’s so amorphous

 

in its endless shades of white

that I can hardly distinguish it

from myself. An historic spot,

claims a sign posted nearby.

Another sign warns boaters

 

to clean their hulls and avoid

spreading a pernicious alga.

I think I’ve been spreading

a mental alga all my life.

I wield my camera to frame

 

the spillway without revealing

the lake lying sullen behind it.

That half-blind lens follows me

step by step, compelling me to think

in larger terms than I like.

 

 

The Last Word on the Election

 

A Halloween Poem

 

 

 

What Skeletons Think

 

Who knows what skeletons think

when disburdened of the dull meat

we pack on them all our lives?

The painted Halloween figure

we’ve hung on a tree to honor

the pagan point of view says

nothing of the real thing clacking

and clattering in our cruelest dreams.

 

I often feel my bones suffer

the bulk that strains the ligaments

that knit the construction together.

The bones themselves remain aloof

from the usual daily sufferings.

Although they’re not immortal

they must know that they’ll linger

well after the beef and fat decay.

 

They‘ll weather like pure ivory,

attaining a dainty shade of gray

that illuminates the darkest nights

for those who know how to look.

When I learn what they think I’ll sigh

with self-recognition based

in the most primal of matter,

all spiritual rumors effaced.

 

 

Still Tragic After All These Years

 

The river behind the library

looks bottomless. Black current

smooths along, The bodies

of naked drowned teenagers

 

rarely surface to look around

and regret the world they left.

More often, a big limb torn

from a dying oak upstream

 

tumbles over the weir and prods

the brush as it slips toward Antrim.

a dozen miles north. No one

can name those washed away

 

in the hurricane before the war.

No one remembers the railroad

that trestled across at an angle,

but the footers remain in place.

 

I lean on a stone wall and watch

for the limber and lanky children

who exposed their gleaming puberty

only for the river to mock them.

 

All this happened so long ago

that the river has cleansed itself

by abrading on its stony bed,

leaving only me to blame.

 

Moose Brook Brimming

 

 

Moose Brook stumbles over rocks

exposed by its gusts of erosion.

We gaze at the reckless flow

caused by the warping of spacetime.

Einstein knew a thing or two

the way we know angels don’t exist

yet exert massive influence.

 

The brook is headstrong with melt.

No angels, but wanton forces

prod and mock the sudsing current,

accounting for its outraged look.

If we could flow with such power

we’d smooth ourselves into success,

both worldly and the other kind.

 

The brook tolerates and even

thrives on a rough geometry

that could easily break our bones.

Maybe we also would thrive

if thaw bulked our modest egos

the way it has bulked Moose Brook,

roaring with unfiltered lust.