I Find The River Restful Again

The Hudson river is calm now,
before me.
by Green Island bridge
at the feet of Troy.
I imagine its green soup seeping from sundrenched algaes
that grow over pebbles in the Adirondack brooks.
The sandpipers stepping, plucking grubs.
A primeval place i could have made my home
to wake to the sounds of the speachless birds.

The river is resting.
after its busy weekend, when
on my way to the bus this past friday
the river surprised me.
Not aimless and ambling,
bland muddy,
but an swirling burls of green waters intent on passing me
faster than i had ever seen it,
toting jostling tree trunks and foam and random stuff
startlingly high.
I could almost reach below its cement berm
and touch it
where it's usually five feet below,
unreachable.

The tide was up .
And i remembered seeing the sliver moon
inching towards dawn a few mornings ago.
The rebirthing jesus moon
who called people to churches
emptying the streets of troy
last easter weekend.
Then to slipp behind the sun for rebirth.
Sun, the far seething furnace giant
birthing the elements
and the moon our brother, closer
ball of silent rock finished with its violent geology,
together shoulder to shoulder pulling
the seawaters with their tide ropes of tugging gravities
towards the hot summer noon
calling the river to flood banks, and hide tree roots.

Now the river washes me
from a weekend of rushing and conflicted interests
of indecisions
of filling my life with pencilled in commitments
pulled by the tides that distract,
from the rest,
the nourishment
of the silence of earth of foundling brooks
at Lake Tear of the Clouds
silent origin of the hudson
nested in trees far from the industry of men.

Now I dream in the green deeps of the ocean dreaming river
before the human tides of this city pull me apart
again.

doan wan no chickens here

just what were the arguments against chickens anyway? that they spread diseases like inner city blight? that they create a racket like gas exploding boombox pumping childflesh crushing automobiles ? that they'll get loose and get in people's ways like cop cars screaming around corners and tripping over curbs? or is it that their eggs will put stewart's pimps of saddam hussain juice and oversalted potato chips and sad lottery tickets stealing from the poor and give to the rich out of business?

Ancestors of the Summer Meadow

(Writing exercise after Richard Eberhart's 'The Groundhog'. First attempt. Original text after mine)

One morning in July when i was a lad,
I visited that sweltering sundrenched meadow
strewn with flowers and freckled with butterflies,
I found a dead possum.
resting on a bare patch of earth
baking in the sun
his possum shape began its terrible transformations.
The full moist meadow breathed
earth's maw ready to consume him.
His stench struck my equilibrium.
My skin trembled and
my thoughts tumbled off reality.

Nevertheless i had to explore
those maggots' seething maelstrom's orgy
diving into his death's dark dreaming.

With revulsion, awe, then sadness
i touched him with a tentative stick.
My stomach curdled with sour thoughts.
The clouds like clotted cream
made sick the welcoming sun.
Life's flame in me drowned.
I stood there dumb
transfixed by this thing,
then sat by his side
nausea settling
and strained to hear the story.

I visited there again
in that autumn's clarifying call.
The possum's fat had melted into earth.
Only withered skin stretched taught on bones remained
I left my summer memories there
wanderings of childhood
packed my bags
and set off for college

One more year the blanketing snows fell
And sweet spring's nectars rained to cleanse the earth.
Returning, I found only his frightful teeth
grinning to the summer sun.
His last laugh to life.
I knelt to breath the moist tang of earth
and tried to listen to the meadow's tremulous singing


Returning home after many autumns passed
that possum's drama left no trace.
The meadow danced its timeless tunes.
I sighed my memories of forgotten friends
and called to the ancestors of that place:
Eohippus, saber tooth,
red skinned cheiftains with their feathered dress,
welcomed me to rest in that earthen bed.

1May2011 busride to nyc



The Groundhog
Richard Eberhart

In June, amid the golden fields,
I saw a groundhog lying dead.
Dead lay he; my senses shook,
And mind outshot our naked frailty.
There lowly in the vigorous summer
His form began its senseless change,
And made my senses waver dim
Seeing nature ferocious in him.
Inspecting close maggots' might
And seething cauldron of his being,
Half with loathing, half with a strange love,
I poked him with an angry stick.
The fever arose, became a flame
And Vigour circumscribed the skies,
Immense energy in the sun,
And through my frame a sunless trembling.
My stick had done nor good nor harm.
Then stood I silent in the day
Watching the object, as before;
And kept my reverence for knowledge
Trying for control, to be still,
To quell the passion of the blood;
Until I had bent down on my knees
Praying for joy in the sight of decay.
And so I left; and I returned
In Autumn strict of eye, to see
The sap gone out of the groundhog,
But the bony sodden hulk remained
But the year had lost its meaning,
And in intellectual chains
I lost both love and loathing,
Mured up in the wall of wisdom.
Another summer took the fields again
Massive and burning, full of life,
But when I chanced upon the spot
There was only a little hair left,
And bones bleaching in the sunlight
Beautiful as architecture;
I watched them like a geometer,
And cut a walking stick from a birch.
It has been three years, now.
There is no sign of the groundhog.
I stood there in the whirling summer,
My hand capped a withered heart,
And thought of China and of Greece,
Of Alexander in his tent;
Of Montaigne in his tower,
Of Saint Theresa in her wild lament.