December

December orphans the dove

permits growing pains flight

whispers this is why you fought —

in a wrap of bright cerements

weans solstice with a mutter and a kiss

bestows sparkle to ruined promises.

December lends diamonds

spins a symphony in crackling trees

waltzes us to the whistle of sleet —

seizes the ripple in my weary stream

warns a feral life knows no end

argues reasons to abridge the verdict.

December chaperons chill

points out the joy in an ashen sky

bends all light across the gaunt branch —

she liquors my lips with her tongue

allows secrets loosed on a smile

re-pours the bitter vintage till it is gone.

December is a confession

knocking down the tell-tale curtain

promising weakness will set you free —

directs congealed communions

palming our dead leaves as wafers

proffers intinction in a frosty spirit

and glazes gravestones so I can sleep.

— Sam Barbee

The Neighbor’s Pears

The last of the pears dot the neighbor’s

yard, their taut green skins giving way

to brownish pulp. Yellow leaves flung

from wind-tossed branches scud across

our lawns like golden clouds — the sun’s

slim rays a decoration, a bit of gilding

with no real warmth. It seems the time

has come when all of life seeks its place

before the soil hardens beneath a skein

of frost and pale blue skies turn gray.

Even pear trees go dormant, dreaming

of budburst and blossoms — little green

bells swinging again, from every limb.

— Terri Kirby Erickson

Poem

DON’T WALK FAST

Rock … fallen leaves … soil.

At first just listen … after a mile

or so sound will distill in your body.

Find rhythm … keep that pace …

then slowly refocus mind & ear

so as to attend the measured silence

between boot swing & boot fall.

There’s the music … call it that.

It was not here before you came

won’t be here when you’re gone.

The spaces pulse … connecting links

making sound complete & movement whole.

Do not avoid the steeper slopes.

Against grade the intervals will

widen & deepen so that you

will hear the lovely up-

curving arc of trail.

  —George Ellison

 

Painting by Elizabeth Ellison

The Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities presents The Wilderness Poet, George Ellison, and his wife, Elizabeth Ellison, renowned visual artist and illustrator of her husband’s works. A reading and art exhibit are in the Great Room at Weymouth on Sunday, Sept. 10, at 4 p.m., $10 for members and $15 for non-members. A reception will follow.

North Carolina State Toast

Here’s to the land of the long leaf pine,

The summer land where the sun doth shine,

Where the weak grow strong and the strong grow great,

Here’s to “Down Home,” the Old North State!

Here’s to the land of the cotton bloom white,

Where the scuppernong perfumes the breeze at night,

Where the soft southern moss and jessamine mate,

’Neath the murmuring pines of the Old North State!

Here’s to the land where the galax grows,

Where the rhododendron’s rosette glows,

Where soars Mount Mitchell’s summit great,

In the “Land of the Sky,” in the Old North State!

Here’s to the land where maidens are fair,

Where friends are true and cold hearts rare,

The near land, the dear land, whatever fate,

The blessed land, the best land, the Old North State!

Photograph by Tim Sayer of the oldest longleaf pine tree

Reclamation Project

Sunken shapes of claw, paw, toe

betray those who trespass on the beach

when tide is out.

Shells, their chambered lives

destroyed by roiling waves,

spread detritus like chad.

Stones that shine with wet color,

bronze, gold, orange, onyx,

dull to grey as sea breezes

dry them out.

Evening tide awakens, reaches,

erases evidence of interlopers,

leaves the shore like a bedsheet,

taut, smooth, tucked in.

— Sarah Edwards

Cave Men

A full wine rack is

Saturday mornings,

The first day of vacation,

A just-waxed car.

It is a promise of future good dinners,

of future celebrations,

of a future.

A full wine rack murmurs:

Don’t worry.

There’s plenty.

You’re safe.

— Joseph Mills

from Angels, Thieves, and Winemakers

A Natural Petition

When cats go to Heaven

they rearrange the order.

First, who made God, God?

Who decided angels didn’t

need fur, tails and whiskers?

Consider tail as a talking point.

Consider tail as a tour guide.

Consider tail conversational mapping.

But whiskers — ah, they let you

nuzzle a nuzzle. Soft, sexy.

Whiskers are out there

antennae catching vibes.

Whiskers are words

translated into touch.

Fur. . . the grandest of all.

One is always dressed for any

occasion.  Every occasion.

Tuxedo, calico, Bengal, leopard,

Persian. Fur is what the world

would wear if it could.

— Ruth Moose

Hawk

Driving to work, I spotted

the red-tailed hawk perched on the stop sign

at the corner of Courtland & Adams.

Surveying the suburban yards

for his next meal, he looked in my direction,

then turned away, disinterested. 

I lowered my eyes to check the time

and when I looked up again he was gone,

leaving me alone in the warm comfort of my car,

delighted by what I’d seen,

desperate for his return.

—Steve Cushman

Grievance

The winter wind is searching for a love

To love her like one loves the fall,

spring, summer, seasons better thought of

Than her silent biting chill, her pall.

Forgotten, crystal blooms on bare-branched trees,

Crisping air that skates on glassy lakes

Wakes the spirit, opens sleepy lungs to breathe

While snowflakes choose their own design to make.

Now she hisses sleet through blizzard teeth,

Love me for who I am and what I bring.

There is no resurrection without death,

Without a sleep, no dreams, no notes to sing.

Hear my lonely recitative,

Say you love me. Say it to me, please.

— Sarah Edwards

Wintry Mix

Without warning, you alter my day —

wanting more firewood before

it becomes soggier with morning snow.

I see no reason to disembark the sofa.

Horizontal before the fireplace,

I offer you a quilt that needs no tinder —

but your posture is stern and straight.

Rising, I moan like only I can, still unconvinced.

Children sled outside, asphalt’s black spine

revealed with each pass, down the block where

we sometimes stroll comfortable evenings,

or other everyday occasions when we leave,

yet return. Warm in a wool scarf I gave you,

you emerge smiling, extending leather gloves

to fend off spiders and splinters, and seize

some oak, encouraging me to hurry inside.

— Sam Barbee

from That Rain We Nee30