Happy Thanksgiving!

Here's three Thanksgiving poems. I don't think they're normal Thanksgiving poems, just poems with that as the setting and as part of the theme. They're poems that I wrote a while ago, but all poems that I really like and I hope you like them too! Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

On Thanksgiving
November in Vermont is dead.
The grass is as brown as the bare tree branches
and the garden is filled with empty dirt patches.
I can see miles of this, driving to the nearest town.
Woodstock looks alive only because there are families gathering,
preparing to give of their time,
and because the sun sometimes shines.
When the sky is overcast and menacing
even Woodstock looks caught in a fatal colorless trap

Is this true winter,
the time when our mother has just died and we are dumbstruck,
waiting for someone to cover her with a white sheet?

Looking around, it’s like I’ve given her nothing after all.
I’ve heard that caterpillars are killing the trees
and that the autumn leaves look sick
when compared to their younger years,
yet there remains some veins
through which the earth’s blood runs,
like water through a leaking pipe:
the high-bush cranberries and the wine-colored crab apples.
Both are bitter and I wish it would snow.

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Harvesting
One day before thanksgiving,
a friend and I had a petty argument over homonyms.
“The fields are ALL READY to harvest,” she corrected my poetry,
“Two words, not one.”
Yet that was incorrect as well.
What field takes up the sickle to reap itself?
And the next day was the last meeting before break.
I told myself, “Don’t argue.”
Even then my words wanted to burst out
like black birds lifting off an open plain.
But as I opened my mouth,
she stopped me,
thanked me for all that we had learned together
and wished me luck and safety in my travels.

How wise to part as friends.
How right to be grateful and forget the mistakes.
I will accept both sides as true.
We are the tree, the fruit, and the picker;
the scattered seeds and the sower;
the white rising field.
To give, we must gather ourselves.

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High-Bush Cranberries
On the mountains of dark green fading into brown
a northern wind blows beneath the twilight of fall and winter.
The birds under the light of a silver sky and pearl white sun
call and chirp as they rest their cool small wings,
perching on a plant, the High-Bush Cranberry,
whose crimson fruit mimics a rose in bloom,
whose branches look dead, ready to be burned on the evening pyre.
These birds, I surmise, must enjoy the bitter and tart taste
that I spit out after moving one morsel to my mouth.
Or perhaps they accept the bitters as the only life left to cherish,
as all that remains of the roses are thorns
and the occasional bundle of deep pink petals,
ready to fall with the final semblance of life,
to drift like a rowboat lost at sea, rocking side to side
like a cradled child, to lie on the cold, jade grass.

Before now, I had not realized all the things clinging to life
and giving thanks to the crisp clean air of morning:
the ancient apple tree down the hill, whose yellow and orange remnants
Hang like ornaments on an abandoned Christmas tree.
But it was not granted eternity, that strange blessing or curse cast on pines.
Instead it is like the tiny crab apples who, too, resist the change;
their colors reminisce of fall, while bare limbs reach into a harsh winter.
In a fortnight, I am sure, these things will be not be gone,
but be given the gift of life in a time of snowstorms waiting to happen.

Fall Poems

Well, I've written some more seasonal poems. The first two are new. Without purposely setting out for it, I've been playing with enjambment recently, where the line breaks happen in unexpected places that create new meanings when read on the page.


The Angel Statue
A crowd is a lonely place to linger
in the corner, expecting conversation.
That’s why I slip out the front door
unnoticed, to walk down the street,
to meet a friend between the moon
and the fleeting car lights.

Here in the open I am heard
and I hear: the twilight raking of leaves,
the child whistling out the window
and the truck backing out of the driveway.
If I too could escape, perhaps someone
would notice the silence I left.

Piles of rustling leaves line the road,
that and I kick, and my shadow
kicks with me at the angel statue
with stone wings and cold hands,
away from where the lamps give color
to dying trees and mailboxes.

But there are no letters waiting; no angels
wait by this egocentric door, only empty
cars, like discarded shells. My shadow
catches my breath, and we withdraw
before I take in the lights left on,
before my feathered outline falls silent.

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Not sure of my own feelings on this one. I both like and it and I wonder if it's confusing, which I don't like. And it might be slightly confusing because I'm unsure also of my own feelings towards the narrator: I sympathize with him/her, and yet I wonder if it might be partially his/her fault. I think the poem is leaning towards the latter.

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The Long Fall
When wind shakes the sunset
trees, leaves cast off into the ash
sky, like south-flying birds.

The leaves are as crows
against the clouds, but soon spiral
down into gold, silver, and bronze,

an unstill rain of red and brown,
like a soldier, falling for the last
time. I paw at each chance flake

to catch what’s left
of this long season.

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I enjoyed writing this one. I did the first stanza in my head, thinking I might make it into a haiku, but decided against it. This poem, I believe, sets a mood, more than it does anything else.

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Zen Garden
I do not know much about rock gardens
or the care spent raking tiny cream-colored stones.
I have stood before the untouchable edge and felt peace.
I have imagined it a container of wisdom
from which I could drink, but never enter in.

Being born with good ears, I wouldn’t call it silent.
The breeze is singing through the stooping bonsais,
and as I listen, two scarlet leaves wander into the garden,
led by the wind to meet their mother’s embrace,
while elsewhere wooden boards creak beneath footsteps.

Has the Zen lifted because of this Autumn drift?
I believe that perception is required to answer,
for after all this, when a Spangled Butterfly rests on a tall rock
and spreads his orange wings, like a book being opened,
would I say that “less is more?”

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I wrote this poem several years back. I can't remember now if I started it at my Japanese Summer Camp, or after visited the most famous Zen Garden in Japan (My MacBook came with this Zen Garden as a default wallpaper). Either way, the imagined scene and the final question still intrigue me.

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The Weeping Kind
Sitting on a park bench and throwing bread to mallards,
I overhear a child ask his mother
what would happen if he jumped from the top of the tree.
The response is immediate.
She says he’ll die.
This tree is the weeping kind;
its branches form such an innocent slide of leaves to the ground
that a child might believe he would never fall through.
But those who cry have already fallen.
Something is lost in the transition.
Innocence withers like leaves at the end of autumn
and the feelings of safety from an inner home die with it.

So many of us are crying in hidden ways.
The trees are shedding leaves in the aching wind.
The strains of the violinist come from beside the pond
over which these trees weep.
The walkers stop to listen, connect,
and close their eyes for a moment.
We are escapists, always moving away from pain.
I lose myself in the wind skimming water
and temporarily forget my responsibilities
and the things I can’t control.
We don’t want the memories, dreams, or happiness to leave us
or the questions and answers to fade.
So the child asks his mother again
what would happen if he jumped from the tree to the pond.
She said he’d still die.
It seems we can’t escape it.

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This poem is old, but I still think it needs some revision. That being said, I like the images and the overall shock feel of the poem.

Well, hope you enjoyed these poems. I'll post some Thanksgiving-specific poems on Thursday.

Tuesday Morning at Tate Street Coffee

So this morning I was talking to a friend, telling her that I was just going to sit down and relax for a while and she recommended I sit down at Tate Street Coffee, a coffee shop basically on campus. So I did. And I wrote a poem because that's what poets do at coffee shops, right?


Tuesday Morning at Tate Street Coffee
She said it’s something a poet should do,
sit by the window and view the couple
smoking on the bench grin against
the clouded sky, a canvas for the fall
colors. So I let the hot chocolate go
cold, and I neglect the muffin wrapped in
plastic. The man behind the register smiles
at long-haired blond who steps up to order
a warm latte and a “Have a nice day,”
that comes with the deal, but feels
more satisfying than warm hands around
a clay cup. I notice the tentative jazz
music. I watch the man in the corner,
pick crumbs off his red shirt and smear
ink on paper, no different from me
at the window, where outside the bench
shifted first to a red-mittened girl
pondering books, then to nothing,
an escaped emptiness, leaking through
the ever opening door.

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In truth, I think I was the one who told her that poets should write poetry at a coffee shop, but that isn't nearly as interesting. Remember, poetry is a form of fiction, nothing more, nothing less. But I did drink hot chocolate (though it didn't go cold) and have a (blueberry) muffin. And there was a couple and a red-mittened girl. But they weren't necessarily doing everything I described, 'cause it's a poem and I can write what I feel like writing. This is definitely a rough draft of this poem, but I like it, so I hope you do too. I feel like it creates an interesting atmosphere, which is something I like to do with my poetry. Let me know what I can do to make it better!

2-Minute Poem

So the other day, reading the one forum that I look at once in a blue moon, one topic basically said - write a poem in two minutes and post it. Not that we'll ever know, but it's nice to be honest. Go!

So I was bored and decided to do it and came up with this untitled poem:

The day fades orange:
red leaves in the sky
descending to the horizon.

The air's embrace is cold:
an absent friend
wrapping arms around me.

She told me winter was white:
the morning sky
bare of clouds and branches.

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Then, later, I wrote up the poem and started working on it and came up with the following:

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When people leave for the holidays
The chiming clock tower
finds me in a bench for one.

Day fades orange:
autumn leaves in the sky
drift down the horizon.

The air's embrace is cold:
an absent friend
wrapping around me.

She once said winter was white:
snow and twinkling lights
revolving like midnight stars.

Even so, the dawn sky resounds
bare of clouds and branches.

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So please tell me, did I make it worse? Better? Did I change some things that should't have been changed? Is it any good? What could be better still? Please let me know what you think. Thanks and enjoy!

Loneliness Poems

Sometimes, as Wordsworth once said, there is a bliss to solitude. But often not. Sometimes when I'm tired I begin to feel a little lonely and I write poetry about it. Not that I'm actually lonely, I don't think, but being tired can play its tricks on you. So here's a long list of poems that I've written, not tonight but a while ago, about that topic. Some I've posted previously, and others not. Interesting how often the topic has come up in my poetic life, and these aren't even all of them. I'd say it's one of the larger themes in my poems - either loneliness or trying to deal with it, or finding comfort from it, such as the last poem here. Anyway, enjoy as you will.

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Hidden WIndows
Are you, too, blessed with open eyes
that you see the patterns in my movements,
the quilt of my days? Are you so wise
that you watch, but never speak the events?
My eyes are windows, thick and tucked inside.

Why do I find you in the crowd where you aren’t lost?
The jumble pushes us together and apart,
yet you trace a path in the shape of a broken heart.
Did you notice all these lines you crossed?
It’s lonely within, stuck amid the moments I hide.

Are you, too, cursed with watchful eyes
that see time and again how others take no note:
the giving hands, the walking feet, all disguised
by a serious face and silence, that ragged coat?
I’m always learning that no one cares to see.

The wind doesn’t stop for a leafless tree.

Why do I veil meaning in a string of words?
No one notices even that which is heard.

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Trusting in Compassion
You know her:
she who loves everyone,
but still sits down with you,
to listen to your good and bad days:
the time when you made 1st place,
when you found a beautiful site,
when you someone loved you,
and also the car accidents,
the arguments that left you weak,
the stress of shouting.

But she knows you;
she talks with you about anything,
listening, mainly, to the tender mercies:
the small smiles and the simple songs.
To her you open up your hopes and fears too,
trusting in her compassion.
She tells you to dream big:
to catch the moon in your palm,
like it’s the hand of a new friend.
And she assures you that you can do it,
that success is yours, if you will take it.

But who really knows her?
When the time comes, you leave her,
for other friends who don’t care as much,
because you know she understands.
You are sure she doesn’t mind.
And she doesn’t mind,
but alone in her room, she thinks aloud;
she writes with ink on paper,
and bangs on the pillow,
hoping she can bury the silence
and re-write her heart.

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Stranded
Listening to the sluicing of conversation,
the lull and roar of the passing minutes,
I am suddenly aware in the silence that drowns me.
I look across the room to see the crowds,
where one laughs and all laugh, and sometimes a shout.
Elsewhere a small group of friends tell the story
how they met someone over the weekend,
how they ought to call him or her sometime, maybe.
A young couple holds hands and forgets
the sounds around them which like waves
wash incessantly upon their solitary island.

And even more are stranded alone on their islands,
calling out, though no one hears them in the wake.
They wreck ships, light fires, run into the dangerous ocean
and still no one sees them or plans a rescue.
What is lost in the confusion of the waves?
These people and I, we are lost in a forgotten sea,
falling apart and sinking deeper into the cold water.
My cliffs are eroding; my shore is slipping away.

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From the Spirit of this Japanese Lake
The high-pitched flute that is casually played
in and out of tune, reminds me of the desert,
like the wind on the water is sweeping sand…
is merely a mirage.

How lonely, the rustling of leaves on the center islands,
the black birds and dead flowers fluttering away
(this cannot only be the wind’s fault),
the vast emptiness.

The walkers do not swim here on a warm day,
as if respect is the same as isolation.

In the shrine-like pier a young boy kneels to ask
if I am truly the master of the lake?

Or is it the old man fishing where there are no fish,
the flute, searching for a watery snake;
the gray bridges, or the bums who come to sleep
in a stretch of shaded paths?

There is life here, but we are not connected;
and how far could I reach anyway, lying only here,
rocked by an inconsistent breeze, unstill like a child,
unseen in an orange corner.

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Late Nights
It seems a habit now to go to sleep at this time
when my eyes are heavy like stones in my pockets
reminders that I carry a burden beyond myself.
I promise myself that if my eyes ever open again
I will rest early tomorrow.

But it seems a habit to sleep at this time
when the moon has disappeared behind the high clouds
and the yard outside is lightless.
It appears so lifeless, but then I hear the owl coo
and far away, the coyote howls as if the moon was never lost.

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Minnesota
I have been a stranger in Minnesota.
The airport and a camp are all I really know.

In the tired airport,
early and alone,
I walked up and down the escalators,
retracing my steps ten times over.
No one knew me
and I recognized none.

We were packed into buses.
The Californian beside me talked without stop
and the scenery consisted of aureate fields and silver highways
that I have forgotten and reimagined.

The camp was little more than a forest by the lake
whose forest was thin,
whose lake was cold and reflective at the end of summer.
And I was still a stranger
walking up and down hills
tracing the steps of ghosts before me.

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The Labyrinth
The sound of water
sluices through the walls of the garden,
the leafy hollows of green.
I am meant to be here,
lost in the shade of an unknown ivory tree
whose branches are my fingers pawing at the blue.
I am a part of this.

If I leave the central fountain will be forgotten,
but there will always be that longing,
a desire for the solitude that stands by you.
I have been lonely in a crowd of friends.
That is why I return
and search for a different companion.
I can join these leaves
where they form the looseness of my hair
and the curve of my face.
They hold me close
until nothing is hidden to them.
I can watch from in there.

And when I reappear,
stepping again onto the red stone trail,
new paths unfold that lead me on,
closer to the one who waits at journey’s end.
He is neither child nor adult,
only the reality of being,
a presence,
an inner self who understands.
He stretches dormant below the magnolia blossoms,
beside the foxgloves that hold his soft fingers;
the emerald grass bends beneath him,
extending out like pleated wings.
He’ll know innately where he is when I wake him;
he has flown above this spiraling world.
Please, I will whisper, carry me home.

Spinning Wheels

Here are two poems, the first one new, the second one old. Both have spinning wheels, but both have a different feel to them, for me at least. Without further ado:


What spins in place
A light spitting rain,
beneath the dusty city lights,
begins as I begin home.
It smells of clay,
a potters wheel spinning.

My wheels also spun once
stuck in the ditch
off the road, where
I couldn’t see
the curve in the road.

The mud kept me down
and I’ve been told that flying
is kept for others.
Couldn’t just ditch the car
or walk home alone.

That was up north, but down
here a different wheel spins
the dust behind my eyes.
As I move, all this moisture -
will it make mud or clay?

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The First Vineyard
A pinwheel spins at the end of the driveway
and, across the road, a vineyard runs
uphill and out of sight
before the final row.

Yet neither is moving away.
Endlessness waits in a line of emerald leaves
and a crawling space beneath,
hidden by the upward slope.

The pinwheel creaks at every moving car,
but cannot be heard in passing.

I am listening, fool though I am,
sitting on the edge of the road,
wishing I could enter the deserted vineyard:
an open land, a heart I have not touched.

I long to be welcomed beyond the fence:
to join and not steal,
to gather and not partake,
to wander and never be lost.