Silent Spring

This will end. We will be.
Closing doors, still spaces, spring
streets abloom with children.

The world is slowing silent
into layers of contemplation,
stillnesses of reflection
we had lost, unexperienced
in our futile failed flail
against the scourges of history
read as “Black Plague”
as wars others fought in and died.

It is our plague now, our war.
We do not know who will live
or die but all will suffer –
this, our common grief.
What will be if we pass this time
without insight, humility, or will
to make of closing doors
entrances to a transformed world?


Portland, Oregon – March 19, 2020. Vernal equinox.

Before Birds

Before birds in ancient forests sang
swirling winds made grasses rushy sound
leaves flutter crisp on autumn branches.
Ocean waves on crumbly beaches
pounded sounds on shalely shores.
Rain splash, tornado whirl,
branch break fall into needle leaf
fern rustle – winter ice crack
snap of spring in river gurgle
noisy ramble down to silent lakes.
On, on the sounds of tumbling water
in rivulets to the sea or whishing
soft silent into the air spin
whispering around the world til plop!
N’er a chirp or cacklecaw, by Gawd,
for there were no birds
to sing the morning praise! 


Portland, Oregon – March 12, 2020

So say the geologists, the first trees appeared in the Peleozoic era/Devonian period while birds first appeared in the Mesozoic era/Jurassic period. There may have been millions of years between the time of the first forests and the first birds.(https://www.infoplease.com/math-science/earth-environment/table-of-geological-periods)

Ashes, Ashes

“Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return.”


We begin with the end –
how our bodies will be
when we let go
of our last breath
when the blood in us slows,
stops, and our hearts
drum no more inside.

Ashes as warning
signs on our foreheads
soon washed away
leading us darkly
as, with solemn steps,
we cross winter’s desert
for the oasis of spring.


Portland, Oregon – February 26, 2020.  Ash Wednesday

The Closing Door

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Fairy door on oak – November 29, 2016

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Fairy door on oak – February 11, 2020

One day the fairies will close their doors
lock the locks and retreat to the places
where, though we may seek them,
we’ll not be able to find them.

The welcome offered by the green
glorious world may be withdrawn;
the joyful play of creation in the garden
of time – the cosmos in slants of sunlight
on the floors, shadows in corners, swaying
branch movements in the pale air – may
no longer find a place in human words.

Still there is time, the precious gift
given, offered to peoples who alone
count the minutes, stash them away
into the past, wondering, fearful,
how many more may yet be theirs.


Portland, Oregon – February 18, 2020

This is our front yard oak tree, damaged by a hit and run driver. The injury is giving way to the healing work of a great tree.  I like to think that the artwork of our granddaughter, Audrey, acted as a bandage to assist in the healing process.  Then, all the children in the three years since who have stopped to play by that door.

Winter in Cascadia

The earth moves beneath storm fronts
bearing sacred gifts of snow and rain
falling as if from tender hands
windblown over the land –
drenched, dripping, drowned
in emerald green down – winter
making its way in dun and drear. 


Portland, Oregon – February 11, 2020

The Blank Page

The blank page waits, offering no help but for intimidating silence
steering me away from the emptiness to the view out the winter window –
the dreary garden
the falling rain.

The cursor blinks unmercifully, questioning all my choices –
my use of time that wraps around me and flies away;
the mistakes I’ve made in the material world, yesterday,
the ones I’ll make today and tomorrow, thoughtless and unaware –
the tedium of idleness
hours stealing away.

A word pokes its head out of the brambles following a line –
where it is going or where its path will lead I cannot tell.
Something is trying to emerge out of the thicket – a small bird
poking around from branch to branch, alighting, vanishing
seeming careless or carefree, wandering through the tangled growth
seeking something just beyond its reach, knowing it is there.

I, the bramble and thicket.
I, the bird.


Portland, Oregon – January 23, 2020

Day’s End

Each day is an end –
a sun’s set or moon’s fall
over the horizon’s hidden edge.
It was always that way,
always that way.
We will go over our own horizon
one day, our dazzling sun
aflame in the tapestry of heaven –
that twinkling star far away
from someone watching out there.

This day’s end will be a winter sun
setting over the windy Oregon coast –
ocean gobbling up the flames,
rain cooling the waters.
The moon will wander
between clouds and the night
to mark the end of another day.


Portland, Oregon – January 1, 2020

Darkening Days

Perhaps it is the settling in of winter
I mean when I write of darkening days.
Yes.  That is what I mean.
Or, the darkness descending
on one growing old.
I mean that too –
I am one within the other.

I wake in the night
open my eyes to see
darkness. I wait for fear
as when I was a child.
Fear does not come, only
silence as at the end
of a difficult journey
when I lay down my coat
take off my hat and shoes
and sit to gather my breath.

I search for understanding of darkness
unfolding in many forms and disguises.
Each day might reveal some new thing
about what is coming, what lies
in and beyond the seamless
sacred realm of darkness.


Portland, Oregon – December 11, 2019

 

Sentient World

I sit outdoors in every weather
letting come, inside or out, what comes.
Today it is steady rain and chill.
I take cover in the garage
sitting on a camp chair
before the open door.
I see down the long drive
the last oak leaves hanging on
in the face of December
soon to fall to winter’s floor.

Out in Cascadia’s realm I am
being drawn into the phenomenal world
scented in the calm and quiet of natural life –
wild and mysterious in sensual appeal.

Wool cap and down jacket, warm boots,
fingerless gloves for work –
finger tips getting cold now.
The steady rain turns to a slow drizzle
as my thoughts slow and still.
I hear whispers out there, seekers
searching for listeners.
The sentient world
trying to tell me something.

Here I am.


Portland, Oregon – December 7, 2019

Poet?

I began this site in December 2015 after many years of writing only occasionally. During those years I would, from time to time, dash something out on paper and quickly abandon to a box without taking the time to sit with it, work on it or, as often happens now, trash it because it simply was not satisfying and I could not think how to make it satisfying.  In those days I thought to myself that, after all, I am not a poet because I do not write or only so rarely as to not qualify even for my own sense of what calling myself a poet might mean.

Since I began In Cascadia I have written at least one poem every month, for four years. My average output per month is something over three poems. Quantifying poetic output doesn’t go well with the poetic sense, I know, but my reason for doing so is simple. It means that I have been writing consistently and for a number of years. This gives me confidence to say, at least to myself, that I am a poet.  While I know that the innate desire was part of me, patiently waiting since at least my high school days, it was not until I began to write with some consistency that I felt I could claim to be, in earnest, a poet.

Now, there is no need to go into whether I am a good poet or not. There are far too many  subjective and objective qualifiers to go into here.  I have, however, read a few “how to” books from “real” poets, enough to understand that the quality of my work will not likely bear the hard scrutiny of established critical standards. So be it.

My own standards are these:

  • Do I like and appreciate my own work?
  • When I go back to read poems I wrote months or years ago, am I still satisfied?
  • Does writing add meaning to my life?
  • Do I enjoy the process?
  • Am I fascinated by the way a poem morphs along the way, sometimes ending far differently than how I thought at the beginning?

Yes.  To all, yes.

My conclusion is that to be a poet means that I must write poetry and with some regularity.  This is no different from any other writing form.  One just has to sit down and write and see where it takes you.  I do not think it has as much to do with meter, rhyme, line break, or any other of the many qualities that are ascribed to poetry.  All these are important of course but writing itself is the finest teacher I have – always there for me.

I am very grateful for those few who follow my work here. I never expected to reach many readers so I’ve not been disappointed. I greatly appreciate your expressions of “like” for my work.

Peace,

Tom