Jenny was born to be a healer
With gentle hands and kind and caring way
She played nurse to her three little brothers
And rescued the lambs that went astray
No husband ever claimed Jenny
She was content with her life on the farm
She worked hard for her mama and papa
And guarded her brothers from harm
Save a place at the table for Jenny
She’s wandering out in the fields again today
She might be binding up a bird with a broken wing
or seeking shelter for some poor lost stray
Too often a sweet peace is broken
by guns that call brothers to fight
one by one those boys up and left the farm
turning Jenny’s sweet day to night
Jenny set the table each evening
For each brother she knew would return
She waited with her mama and papa
as the battles continued to burn
One day a call went out for nurses
to tend men wounded and sick from the war
Jenny knew in her heart she must answer that plea
she said farewell at the farmhouse door
Save a place at the table for Jenny
She’s wandering out in the fields again today
She might be binding up a bird with a broken wing
or seeking shelter for some poor lost stray
Jenny joined an army of angels
who faced a battle with death every day
They bound up the wounded with loving care
and for the dying they just eased the way
One last battle took a grievous toll
Jenny tended to the hurt through the night
But her heart could bear no more suffering
They found her dead by the morning light
All her brothers came back to the homeplace
And in their hearts for the past they did yearn
But they wept to sit at the table
Knowing Jenny would never return
Save a place at the table for Jenny
She’s wandering out in the fields again today
She might be binding up a bird with a broken wing
or seeking shelter for some poor lost stray
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Fallen Tree Near Red Bridge
Water drowns the tree
toppled by last night’s cold wind.
Fish swim among leaves.
Who will set the tree up straight
back on its river bank perch?
toppled by last night’s cold wind.
Fish swim among leaves.
Who will set the tree up straight
back on its river bank perch?
Monday, May 14, 2007
The Broken Coffee Cup Blues
It was my last remaining coffee cup
now it’s just pieces on the floor.
Why did you have to throw that cup
when you walked out the door?
I’m sort of sad you left me,
but it was time to say goodbye.
But you know you could of shook my hand
instead of letting that one good cup fly.
How will I drink my coffee
now that my one good cup is gone?
I have pot full of fresh coffee
but my one good cup is gone.
I can’t drink my coffee right out of the pot.
I know it’s time for me to roam.
Goodbye and good riddance
you’ve given me no choice.
I’ll go stepping out for my coffee now
You’re making me rejoice
for the freedom from home brewing
and a chance to meet somebody new.
Guess I’ll throw on my coat
and head down to the corner.
Gonna get me a table for two.
now it’s just pieces on the floor.
Why did you have to throw that cup
when you walked out the door?
I’m sort of sad you left me,
but it was time to say goodbye.
But you know you could of shook my hand
instead of letting that one good cup fly.
How will I drink my coffee
now that my one good cup is gone?
I have pot full of fresh coffee
but my one good cup is gone.
I can’t drink my coffee right out of the pot.
I know it’s time for me to roam.
Goodbye and good riddance
you’ve given me no choice.
I’ll go stepping out for my coffee now
You’re making me rejoice
for the freedom from home brewing
and a chance to meet somebody new.
Guess I’ll throw on my coat
and head down to the corner.
Gonna get me a table for two.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
McClinchy's
(First draft of new lyrics)
He believed in his whisky
like a cure for his ills
as if he was snake-bit all the time
whisky was the slow soft death
it suited him just fine
Tuesday night at McClinchy's
She just wandered in
dazed from the cold and the pain
McClinchy's looked warn
in bar light glow
a haven from the cold bitter rain
If she'd known that he'd be there
she'd have just kept walking
He was cold in her heart
that was true
but she was sitting
and waiting for a glass of cheap red
before she knew he was sitting there too
He raised a glass, an old gesture
she stared straight ahead
but in the bar's mirror he was looking at her too
so she stared into the wine
like a prayer an incantation
He said
"If you're here, it can't be good news."
He believed in his whisky
like a cure for his ills
as if he was snake-bit all the time
whisky was the slow soft death
it suited him just fine
One glass of red was enough to warm her
two could ease her pain
and three made him warmer in her heart
by closing, she had missed the late train
They stumbled together through the
late night mist
to his walk-up down by the tracks
In the grey light of morning
she knew she was going
to leave him again
as always, for the last time
He believed in his whisky
like a cure for his ills
as if he was snake-bit all the time
whisky was the slow soft death
it suited him just fine
McClinchy's on Main Street
is down by the tracks
where the trains from the city roll in
The whisky is cheap
and it's dark and it's quiet
if you stop there
you'll be back again
He believed in his whisky
like a cure for his ills
as if he was snake-bit all the time
whisky was the slow soft death
it suited him just fine
Tuesday night at McClinchy's
She just wandered in
dazed from the cold and the pain
McClinchy's looked warn
in bar light glow
a haven from the cold bitter rain
If she'd known that he'd be there
she'd have just kept walking
He was cold in her heart
that was true
but she was sitting
and waiting for a glass of cheap red
before she knew he was sitting there too
He raised a glass, an old gesture
she stared straight ahead
but in the bar's mirror he was looking at her too
so she stared into the wine
like a prayer an incantation
He said
"If you're here, it can't be good news."
He believed in his whisky
like a cure for his ills
as if he was snake-bit all the time
whisky was the slow soft death
it suited him just fine
One glass of red was enough to warm her
two could ease her pain
and three made him warmer in her heart
by closing, she had missed the late train
They stumbled together through the
late night mist
to his walk-up down by the tracks
In the grey light of morning
she knew she was going
to leave him again
as always, for the last time
He believed in his whisky
like a cure for his ills
as if he was snake-bit all the time
whisky was the slow soft death
it suited him just fine
McClinchy's on Main Street
is down by the tracks
where the trains from the city roll in
The whisky is cheap
and it's dark and it's quiet
if you stop there
you'll be back again
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Fibonacci MTA
The
train
wheels us.
Wheels us to
the big dream city.
We spend the day imagining.
Lost in life just beyond the limits of what might be.
train
wheels us.
Wheels us to
the big dream city.
We spend the day imagining.
Lost in life just beyond the limits of what might be.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
August Rain
Quiet
but not silent.
Birds sing.
Tires spray.
Drops bounce up
from
leaves grass windows.
Waterfall dwelling,
this morning
this moment.
The rain brings itself to me.
but not silent.
Birds sing.
Tires spray.
Drops bounce up
from
leaves grass windows.
Waterfall dwelling,
this morning
this moment.
The rain brings itself to me.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Blood Scales
Blind old men send blood to be measured.
Blind old men sow to the wind.
Blood calculated
on rotten scales
won’t balance heaven or hell.
We reap the whirlwind.
Blind old men sow to the wind.
Blood calculated
on rotten scales
won’t balance heaven or hell.
We reap the whirlwind.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
News Budget
1
Every afternoon we met to rank the stories of the day.
2
I decided the story about the bicycle crash wasn’t interesting enough for page 1.
3
You were late getting back with the photo we needed for the sports page.
4
You were in an office romance with a reporter.
5
Is what actually happens more important that what we imagine?
6
The reporter who covered the cops called in to tell us they didn’t have an I.D. on the cyclist who died.
7
It was April.
8
You still hadn’t checked in.
9
Everyone in the newsroom believed you were falling in love.
10
The police reporter came back to the newsroom with a written description of the cyclist who had died.
11
Watching you fall in love gave us all a kind of thrill.
12
The cop reporter read us the description of the body in the morgue.
13
Did I mention that your girlfriend was working in the newsroom that night?
14
We moved the story about the accident to page 1
15
It took us a long time to find your picture in the files.
16
The presses started at 1 a.m.
Every afternoon we met to rank the stories of the day.
2
I decided the story about the bicycle crash wasn’t interesting enough for page 1.
3
You were late getting back with the photo we needed for the sports page.
4
You were in an office romance with a reporter.
5
Is what actually happens more important that what we imagine?
6
The reporter who covered the cops called in to tell us they didn’t have an I.D. on the cyclist who died.
7
It was April.
8
You still hadn’t checked in.
9
Everyone in the newsroom believed you were falling in love.
10
The police reporter came back to the newsroom with a written description of the cyclist who had died.
11
Watching you fall in love gave us all a kind of thrill.
12
The cop reporter read us the description of the body in the morgue.
13
Did I mention that your girlfriend was working in the newsroom that night?
14
We moved the story about the accident to page 1
15
It took us a long time to find your picture in the files.
16
The presses started at 1 a.m.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Dishes in the Cupboard
I wipe the dish gently,
place it carefully
in the cupboard,
on the top shelf,
in the back,
where it won’t be seen,
and won’t be used.
place it carefully
in the cupboard,
on the top shelf,
in the back,
where it won’t be seen,
and won’t be used.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Flyin' Geese Blues
I’m watching out my window as the geese go flying by
I’m watching out my window as the geese go flying by
I’m looking at the door and wondering why I try
Oh the geese are heading south, where there ain’t no cold or snow
Oh the geese are heading south, where there ain’t no cold or snow
And if you loved me baby, I would never go
But your heart’s grown cold as winter and I never see the spring
Oh your heart’s grown cold as winter and I never see the spring
There’s nothing left to warm me but this tiny little ring
Did you ever love me?
Did you ever care?
What makes you think
I’ll stick around
When winter’s in the air?
The geese are calling lonely as they fly to find the sun
The geese are calling lonely as they fly to find the sun
I think the geese are saying that they know our love is done
I’m watching out my window as the geese go flying by
I’m looking at the door and wondering why I try
Oh the geese are heading south, where there ain’t no cold or snow
Oh the geese are heading south, where there ain’t no cold or snow
And if you loved me baby, I would never go
But your heart’s grown cold as winter and I never see the spring
Oh your heart’s grown cold as winter and I never see the spring
There’s nothing left to warm me but this tiny little ring
Did you ever love me?
Did you ever care?
What makes you think
I’ll stick around
When winter’s in the air?
The geese are calling lonely as they fly to find the sun
The geese are calling lonely as they fly to find the sun
I think the geese are saying that they know our love is done
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Department of Peace
No poetry today.
Here is my new goal - to do one thing everyday for peace.
And here is my action today.
Go here, and think about what it might mean if we did have a Department of Peace.
thepeacealliance.org
Here is my new goal - to do one thing everyday for peace.
And here is my action today.
Go here, and think about what it might mean if we did have a Department of Peace.
thepeacealliance.org
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
A Bluegrass Festival on the Hillside
Midnight campfires
twinkle under the summer stars.
Someone tunes a mandolin
in the warm July darkness. Then
a harmony of voices begins.
Further up the hill
a battle of banjo and fiddle
under a canopy near the trees.
The sound of your guitar
draws me to our campsite.
The propane lantern on the table hisses.
You stand in a tight circle
of friends, following the thread
of the song. Without a pause,
you smile as I move
into the circle of light.
The musicians are fired up -
you will play until sunrise.
I slip out of the lamplight.
In our little tent
I listen as the shifting breeze
takes the songs drifting up the hill
and composes its own music.
Published in the Spring / Summer 2004 Issue of Pine Island Journal of New England Poetry.
twinkle under the summer stars.
Someone tunes a mandolin
in the warm July darkness. Then
a harmony of voices begins.
Further up the hill
a battle of banjo and fiddle
under a canopy near the trees.
The sound of your guitar
draws me to our campsite.
The propane lantern on the table hisses.
You stand in a tight circle
of friends, following the thread
of the song. Without a pause,
you smile as I move
into the circle of light.
The musicians are fired up -
you will play until sunrise.
I slip out of the lamplight.
In our little tent
I listen as the shifting breeze
takes the songs drifting up the hill
and composes its own music.
Published in the Spring / Summer 2004 Issue of Pine Island Journal of New England Poetry.
These Are Just Words
You aren’t my muse anymore.
I haven’t written a poem in months.
My therapist is pleased.
Not about the writing (I didn’t tell him),
but about the strength of my grip
on reality, now.
“You were living in a fantasy, as I recall,”
he said.
Thinking of course that I
agreed agreed agreed.
I was yes probably.
But you aren’t my muse anymore.
(I haven’t written a poem in months.)
And I’m happy, of course.
Peaceful. Sort of.
Not ecstatic or passionate or out of control.
You aren’t my muse anymore.
I haven’t written a poem in months.
My therapist wants to make me
a poster child for the talking cure.
I haven’t written a poem in months.
You aren’t my muse anymore.
I haven’t written a poem in months.
My therapist is pleased.
Not about the writing (I didn’t tell him),
but about the strength of my grip
on reality, now.
“You were living in a fantasy, as I recall,”
he said.
Thinking of course that I
agreed agreed agreed.
I was yes probably.
But you aren’t my muse anymore.
(I haven’t written a poem in months.)
And I’m happy, of course.
Peaceful. Sort of.
Not ecstatic or passionate or out of control.
You aren’t my muse anymore.
I haven’t written a poem in months.
My therapist wants to make me
a poster child for the talking cure.
I haven’t written a poem in months.
You aren’t my muse anymore.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Today's revision
I just added an earlier version of night ride mountain to that post. I wanted to see what they looked like together.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Bull Riders
The bull always wins.
The bull will throw you.
Do bulls want riders?
Or are they just straining for the long grass?
Would cowboys still ride, if they could choose?
In the ring,
wearing fancy chaps and bravado,
what’s in the heart
that needs this ride
and not another?
Do you love the bulls?
You take the horns - no metaphor.
You hurt no one but yourself.
Not even the bull,
who leaps
when you hit the dirt fast and hard
when you come up bruised, scrambling for the fence.
The bull owns the ring,
for a moment.
You were strong
you fought hard
you took the fall
you will ride again
once that arm heals.
This will never heal.
There are too many fences.
You and that bull
push those fences down.
The bull knows it. You know it.
The fences come down a little
every time you ride.
You and the bull.
No fences.
No struggle.
You ride toward that.
The bull and you.
Riding hard
real hard.
The bull will throw you.
Do bulls want riders?
Or are they just straining for the long grass?
Would cowboys still ride, if they could choose?
In the ring,
wearing fancy chaps and bravado,
what’s in the heart
that needs this ride
and not another?
Do you love the bulls?
You take the horns - no metaphor.
You hurt no one but yourself.
Not even the bull,
who leaps
when you hit the dirt fast and hard
when you come up bruised, scrambling for the fence.
The bull owns the ring,
for a moment.
You were strong
you fought hard
you took the fall
you will ride again
once that arm heals.
This will never heal.
There are too many fences.
You and that bull
push those fences down.
The bull knows it. You know it.
The fences come down a little
every time you ride.
You and the bull.
No fences.
No struggle.
You ride toward that.
The bull and you.
Riding hard
real hard.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
September to October
Blue
Beckons
And beckons.
Geese fly to blueness
Blackness
Nightness
On wings of blue wind.
On wings of black wind.
Call back to the blueblack wind,
sky lover sighs.
Just beyond the horizon
the body of my lover,
Calls
And calls.
I walk. I run. I fly.
Blue cuts my heart
out. Almost out.
Star of my navigation.
Horizon.
Edge.
Bleed me
blueblack
in the sky.
Beckons
And beckons.
Geese fly to blueness
Blackness
Nightness
On wings of blue wind.
On wings of black wind.
Call back to the blueblack wind,
sky lover sighs.
Just beyond the horizon
the body of my lover,
Calls
And calls.
I walk. I run. I fly.
Blue cuts my heart
out. Almost out.
Star of my navigation.
Horizon.
Edge.
Bleed me
blueblack
in the sky.
night ride mountain
I
The Night We Rode Through the Green Mountains
“Boys and girls, come out to play,
The moon is shining bright as day.”
Mother Goose
Past midnight
You drove
Up
Toward the high bright moon
Through rising mist
You drove
I practiced ignoring ghosts
You drove
Everything in your hands now
You drove
I anticipated endings
Can we outrun ghosts?
Can we run them down?
You flicked the headlights OFF
Sent us flying up the dark
You drew the moonlight in
Dared me
You asked
Was I frightened? Was I thrilled?
Both, I said.
Can’t it be both?
II
night ride mountain
furnace heart
not light
moon highbeam
off up
ghost no ghost
dare.
After -
inquire
answer
inquire
answer.
Equal.
The Night We Rode Through the Green Mountains
“Boys and girls, come out to play,
The moon is shining bright as day.”
Mother Goose
Past midnight
You drove
Up
Toward the high bright moon
Through rising mist
You drove
I practiced ignoring ghosts
You drove
Everything in your hands now
You drove
I anticipated endings
Can we outrun ghosts?
Can we run them down?
You flicked the headlights OFF
Sent us flying up the dark
You drew the moonlight in
Dared me
You asked
Was I frightened? Was I thrilled?
Both, I said.
Can’t it be both?
II
night ride mountain
furnace heart
not light
moon highbeam
off up
ghost no ghost
dare.
After -
inquire
answer
inquire
answer.
Equal.
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