Poem: Two Views of Abandonment

Abandonment #1

Abandonment doesn’t happen

all at once, but

in slow steps,

a backing away, where

at any moment

a return is possible, until

you turn away

and stop seeing

what was left behind.

Abandonment #2

Abandonment doesn’t happen

all at once, but

you see it, the slow steps

backing away, always

more distant, waiting

for you to reach out

and draw them near

again.

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The picture was taken  down the road at the edge of West Pawlet. You can click on it for a large version. 

Tom 

Poem: Flood

Flood

It rains,
day after day of grey autumn
that floods the creeks
with painful water,
erodes the bridges,
tears at foundations and bridges
both physical and of the soul.

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The photography was taken in Rupert, Vermont, the next town over from me. You can click on it for a larger version. If you do, you can get some idea of the power of the flooding. This corn is in a field where the water had to come up over 7-8 feet from the creek (that's right, creek, not river) to even get to this field, much less come over in such force it could mow the corn down.

I like the sole stalk, still standing, in defiance of the storm. That stalk represents Vermonters to me in this time of recovery.

Tom

Poetry: Progress

Progress

A few days ago this room
looked complete,
filled with furniture, light, carpet...
pictures on the wall from your travels.

There were bookshelves filled
with a lifetime of reading,
and tiny reminders of your life,
knick knacks, completed the picture.

It was a place where you dined,
where you read late into the night,
where friends gathered for conversation
by candlelight.

But the pictures and furniture hid the flaws,
the cracks in the plaster, the holes in the walls,
the paint, faded and dull with age,
and so, you decided it was time,

worth the work to repaint, to fill the cracks,
repair the walls, hang new lights, restored
from your journey into shops over decades
of wandering,

and began, just as you began to repair
your heart and soul a few years earlier,
to reclaim the foundation and dreams
lost with time and age.

Slowly you move each vestage of your life,
tear it down, pile it up,
until the room is near empty, a shell,
raw, each flaw vibrant,

reminding you that too often,
progress is far messier, far harsher
right at the point
of redemption.

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Who knew painting a couple of rooms could be such creative fodder? You can click on the picture for a larger version.

Tom

Poetry: After a Week of Rain

After a Week of Rain

You are tired
of the darkness with it's blind cold
that seems to have no end;

Of looking in windows
with their fires and remembered warmth
that is no longer yours;

of unmarked paths
with deep unexpected ruts
crossed with the flotsam of constant storms.

You are tired
of autumn afternoons without the light of flowers
or the fragrant promise of honeysuckle mornings;

of the secret sniping of dark dwellers
who come out in the blackness of night
to nip unseen at your heels;

of hour after long hour
of trudging after a hope you cannot see,
but that is the only light you can imagine.

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The picture is not one of mine, but actually came from the Time Magazine web site, a picture from Hurricane Ike this past season, but it caught the mood of the poem perfectly.

Tom