Rot

It is a slow rot
that brought you to this place,
each flake of pain silently falling
unnoticed

until your walls were raw and exposed,
your windows,
broken in the wind,
the weather no longer held at bay
but let in

to the floors, the beams,
all hidden,
all rotting,

all happening so slowly
no one notices
until finally the roof bows and falls,
or
someone arrives, dedicated
to restoration.

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The picture was taken down the road from in in West Pawlet. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Preparation

Preparation

The plaster buckles, separated

from the lathe underneath, anything

but perfect. Holes pock the wall

like acne scars.

It is time to paint, but

the real work is not the painting,

but the tearing out,

the filling in, building

a foundation strong

and smooth, more work

than mere brushing, but

without it the paint

is worthless. 

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The picture looks like a piece of modern art, but it is of a basement wall, damaged by water. 

Tom 

Poem: The House on the Corner

The House on the Corner

Windows are broken.
Paint flakes.
Outside, weeds reach,
conquering the porch,

which sags sadly,
the screen door flapping in the wind.
The slate roof, once so proud,
leaks.

Someone lives there,
quietly afraid behind well worn
curtains, peering out

at night, in the dark hours
when they cannot be seen.

It would take imagination
to want to live there, belief
that until the beams collapse,
and the walls fall in,
and perhaps even after,

there is hope.

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Like all my restoration poems, it has to do as much with life as the object. In this case, the object is a wonderful old house in Granville, NY, one of the next towns over from West Pawlet. You can click on the picture to get a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Returning

Returning

When you returned,
you were rusty as the chains
outside your house,
holding the half rotted sign
along the streetside.

You threw away more
than you kept, your
words and images frail
and incomplete, your

heart uncertain, your
spirit shattered, and yet
it was in that shattering,
and the slow, erratic climb

that new depth emerged,
something more than age
and experience, something
that cut deep, revealing

not so much talent, as soul.

===============

The picture was taken in nearby Wells, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: The Cold Fields

The Cold Fields

Lined like soldiers,
like graves,
the tiny stalks of summer corn
line up in the snow,
straw men in perfect rows, yet
in their perfection, a certain kind of death,
black and still, void
of the wild green fronds,
the dancing tassles of summer, void
of the sweet white corn, void
forever,

except for those who know God's secret,
that there is no death,
that life and love can be planted anew,
harvested anew,
and the cold fields of death
can dance again,
wild in the summer sun.

=================

The picture was taken along the road to Pawlet, a few miles from my house. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Restoration

Restoration

The walls are rugged and bare,
worn brick and fragile mortar,
with raw cypress beams overhead.

Outside, paint is peeling
and the slate shingles are worn
with two centuries of battle

against rain and snow,
gray with age, chipped,
yet defiant.

Inside, you stand,
seeing not what is,
but what was, and what could be

with time, and work,
love and prayer,
how from this wreck

of a life, something
marvelous emerges,
a home for the heart

more glorious than the original
because of, not despite,
it's resurrection.

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The picture is from Poplar Forest, the unrestored half of the house. As my friends know, I like restoring old houses (I'm on my second one now.), so it could have just as easily put up a picture of my place, except my house is not too photogenic yet! You can click on the picture for a larger version.

Tom