For Ash Wednesday.

Not a single day

“Can any of your worry add a single day to your life?” –Matthew 6:27

On the porch
a dozen clay pots
gather and cup the bulbs
beneath the long window panes;
who brings the spring
into the closet of January,
tomorrow opened to today?
So daffodils rise up
as a month of dawning,
not a single day goes by
without stopping on my way
out the door with my pack of worry
slung over my shoulder subtracting
to stop and sway
clothed like one of these—
the zeros of their mouths could add up
to a single day.

6 Mar 09

Recessed Lighting

Lying on my back
under flood lights
illumines things unseen—
there’s an embryo
of filament curled
in this flask of resistance
as if the air were the table
and I the legs
of ideas popping up
as bulbs

6 Mar 09

Reflection

You can watch a room behind you in a dark window
as it happens without you,
people seated on a couch
knitting, reading a book,
staring into a fire
resting an arm on the table
reaching over one’s head scratching.
Someone is talking now;
I can tell by the way her head moves.
If I look off into the night
remnants of snow hinting on the porch
and onto a lawn
I remember being
there under it all—
and these pair of eyes closest to the cool glass
staring back,
is me.

6 Mar 09

Clementine

Sticky
is its surprise—
its been leaking its orange-ness
against the dry cotton cuff
of my hand;
my thumb invades
its rind
opening a window;
veins of white curse the light;
now its clothes lay back,
fall to the floor,
a trail to the bed
of my tongue—
a tiny arc of truth
undressed on my lips
blooms.

6 Mar 09

Daylight

Sun coming up in the mountains
undresses the top of trees—
the forest is a crescent moon,
trunks in the shadows,
river wets their feet,
shade drain from the hills,
runs with the rapids,
washes out to sea,
white birch begin to sing.

7 Mar 09

Ode to French Toast with Berries

Oh,
I know you are pretending to be dessert,
masquerading at breakfast
with your custard wet with berries;
you really intend to finish my day,
push me to the end of the poem,
where what begins
ends with
Oh!

7 Mar 09

Three Benches

Three benches sit
in homage to the edge
of lawn long under snow
before the earth trips
over rocks and tree trunks
to the river roiling by.
I imagine two or more people gathered
sitting deep in contemplation
in late spring
when the greens have run
together,
looking up from the Feng Shui gurgle
of the Housatonic slowing to summer
and see each other
for the first time.

7 Mar 09

Route Seven

She disappears there
among the trees
on the other side
of the Housatonic,
the light falling
among the late winter trunks
that are open to the in-between—
a red Caravan shutter-clicks north
and is gone,
its absence telling
of the tail lights
seen winking
the night before.

7 Mar 09

Paying Attention

Feel each step
she says—
it requires slowing down
so each step
bleeds.
I remember this as I strap
on snowshoes
and step onto wet snow
for a walk
of weight.

7 Mar 09

When were the moments of joy?

Slipping sun settling down the late afternoon
peeks beneath the clouds
and illumines the room—
searchlight from the mountain top makes
exclamations of each tree,
as if they were the best word
at the end of the best sentence,
of the best wood
at the end of the best winter
and this is the best moment—
now.

7 Mar 09

Feeding frenzy

I hold a bag of sweet potato fires
left from last night’s meal—
too much to consume in one sitting.
The gulls swarm, fall over each other and the swans
diving for any morsel
as I toss them one by one
into the air;
the gulls hover, timing their stop and lunge
to catch the bit of broken orange starch
in mid air as you click frame after frame.
there is no end to the feast
and I am feathered in the joy
of the Lord.

7 Mar 09

See the video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f5lFrpiQfCA . Thank you Shirley for the inspiration.

Compline

Three candles
snuffed.
Their light
turned to smoke
that twists
in fury
to the rafters
then disappears
swallowed
by the deeper night.

7 Mar 09

Morning on the third day

Day pours
over the Berkshire hills,
sunlight soaks the tips
of the bare trees of early March,
their fingers burn,
even as their trunks are still
in the shadow of night,
roots still anchored under snow.
On a Sunday
deep in Lent
God comes
in the slow places,
a trace of touch
at the waking.
I burn.

8 Mar 09

Worry

The problem with worry
is all the leaving
at the beginning—
so arriving
is departure,
never getting the coat of now
unzipped
and tossed across the chair,
keys still in hand
never make the bowl of the baseball cap
on the table,
its still on the head
turned to the door
still open
the knock
still sounding.

8 Mar 09

The Oz behind the curtain

Lying on my back
floating on this ocean
of green flecked carpet
I see the underside of the room,
behind the valences
to the bare curtain rods
the metal brackets
and Philips screws,
the hollow arms
of the window cranks,
the tongue and groove
of the porch ceiling planks—
all these points of holding
this house together,
the recesses of the glue
of home
and peace.

8 Mar 08

Betsy

"I tell you," he replied, "if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out." Luke 19:40

She makes the rounds
passing the peace
as if a greeter
at a door she carries to each of us
where we all enter
one by one
no ticket torn in two
a hug and a kiss
say we have a seat
in this chapel,
where even the stones
call out my name.

8 Mar 09

* * *

The Seven Deadly Sins

The following seven poems were written in response to Jamie Wyeth’s paintings,
“The Seven Deadly Sins,” 2005-2008, one of my study books for the weekend. The
painting are all of seagulls. I wrote the poems in reverse order. Sometimes it takes a new perspective to see. (see http://www.adelsongalleries.com/frame-7deadlysins.html for the artwork.)

Pride (7)

It’s the last painting;
a red lobster glistens,
claw held in the beak
of the gull
whose eye looks up,
a half moon
lit to the heaven
he rules,
blind to his brothers
buckling under the web
of his strut
one’s shriek,
another’s objection;
one complicit,
one eyes closed,
already tucked to the death
of resignation.

7 Mar 09

* * *

Greed (6)

The gulls beak opens
to a grey billowed heaven
and breaks the silence
of a shared repast,
its body barring the boundary-less-ness
of a sandy beach,
the hungry to the south,
the feast to the north;
popcorn floats,
an egg sunny-side up:
a perfect yellow dome;
a cherry wet with sun—
even as the ice-cream melts the irony of blueberry pie,
and runs over its starving feet,
the single spoon resounding the shriek of
mine, mine, mine!

7 Mar 09

* * *

Sloth (5)

The gull settles into the afterwards,
the banquet taken in
as the wisdom of the slow times,
soaking as a full sponge—
where the angels dance
the demons lurk,
in the restful wings
and neglect of now,
while Prometheus, consumed in the dream
has not a leg to stand on,
the fire has not gone out—
so to fluff the feathers and loll,
while the soul is renewed
and plucked from us.

7 Mar 09

* * *

Envy (4)

These two with the red-ringed eyes
are steepling their beaks,
one just a feather higher—
there is the noble gull
there is the mirror gull
reflecting not himself
but this other.
The wise gull below,
with closed eyes,
is walking away.

7 Mar 09

* * *

Lust (3)

I save this one
until after making love
after holding your arms
taking flights
taking wing—
gulls feet upon
the shoulder,
gull shriek
at the taking
the taking
the taking

7 Mar 09

* * *

Gluttony (2)

It takes the divine cinnamon baked apple
in maple puffed pastry with crème anglaise
to send me over the edge.
A gull in a sea of beached catch,
fresh from the net
holds a fish aloft
in triumph
in giving up to this god
who so filling
we gag

7 Mar 09

* * *

Anger (1)

They are screaming
south and east
one over the other,
not at each other,
not at the god
who anchored them
to this stretch of gull sand,
but in an aria
to the god
shimmering off the still sea
the silver-backed god looking in the glass
and blind.

7 Mar 09

* * * *

Spring Poems

The following poems were written in the weeks following the silent retreat. Still in Lent, as in winter, yearning for Easter and spring.


Wind

The leaves swirl,
scritch across the pavement,
rise up as a obelisk
in a Stonehenge cloister--
the shadow is cast just so,
from where the time teller stands;
here is the hour
of my belief;
here is the hour
I first began to doubt.

20 Mar 09


Blackbirds

Six blackbirds pepper the still barren tree
eying the high-rise feeder
made for smaller birds;
not quite half of thirteen
they whistle just after we fill
the feeder and wait;
the chatter of the sparrows call
and the blackbirds come
and watch
before taking all the seats;
hanging sideways
they try and curl their beaks,
flecking out the smaller seeds
in search of smoky sunflower gems;
now the squirrels gather on the picnic table below,
and eye the tall speckled column
even as they pick up what rains from
this little oasis of heaven;
everything points to God's
bounty,
His scarcity,
and this ache for something higher,
something more.

21 Mar 09



Poet Reflecting

I look at the blackened glass
late in the evening
and see an older man,
one with a tired face,
intense eyes,
graying beard;
the glow of the digital screen
illumines a face ever emerging
out of the unknown, the unseen,
giving voice to all that is behind
and beneath;
his mouth opens, hand raises,
finger points,
and there is not a sound
save the click on the keyboard
of digits searching for the dimly lit
letters that are each a full-belly sun
waiting to be pressed
and bleed.

27 Mar 98



Alliteration Again

Driving to church in the rain,
the still barren trees weep
for what wonder waits;
I strain to see the tint of red
on the hardwoods,
the yellow beacons before the lighting
of forsythia,
the hinting lime of the willows;
changing lanes on a Sunday late in March
reminds me
of a long winter slowing to a standstill,
a spring still silent, speaking
in the thin slices of the branches,
a hope forked in the lanes of sugar maples,
sweet sap shouting beneath smooth skin
that runs, if I watch and wait,
as surely as this rains rolls down the windshield,
puddles on the hood
and into the rich wine of a cup
that does not pass.

29 Mar 09

Holy Week

East Norwalk Historical

1871, near the gate
47 years
1836, June
1881 aged 33 yrs, 4 mo's & 14 dys--abbreviated,
when the crowns of trees are full;
Carr, no dates, no years,
just Carr;
his wife, their mother,
dearest sister,
a member,
a captain,
father, Paul, Albert,
Sally widow of Charles,
Seth Smith
who departed this life--
this train bound for glory,
the row of granite ties
and rails of grass;
one enters once by an iron gate,
remnants of vines wound
in its curls;
but here
in front of Redling
is a thick cluster of daffodils
with all the power
of their yellow sun
trumpeting the silence.

10 Apr 09

Reversal

Sometimes we are so startled
we stop in mid flight,
almost as if to go backwards
and see what just happened here,
what death has just become a life,
what life has been caught up in such reversal,
killed and lifted up?
what surprise
grabs us by the outstretched bones and feathers spiked
pulls and grounds us even as we soar?
what startling morning bursts
onto this night
and stains even the stones a linen white?

8 Apr 09


Note: The Easter video-poem version of Reversal is on YouTube --egh