Ten Poems II

Trail Cat

Walking steeply down a hilly and remote Scottish footpath

On a glorious sunny Spring day

When below us emerging from the wood and crossing the stream

Appear two women with several young children

But wait! What is that?

Trotting determinedly along behind the last child

Like a loyal dog

Was a cat! A trail cat

Yes, a cat was marching with the women and children

A sleek, gray, attentive, and unusually compliant cat

The troupe climbed the hill toward us and we stepped aside

Ascending slowly but dutifully up the hill the cat panted

Uncommon sight it is to see a cat huff and puff

After a brief pause to study us

The cat answered to its name called from up the path

And resumed its hike leaving us to gape in surprise at the trail cat

 

An Unspoken Conversation

It’s a conversation he hasn’t wanted to have with himself.

Even though he knows it is necessary to do so.

Funny to think of avoiding a topic of which only he knows.

No one else need judge or reprimand.

He could speak to himself, but does not.

And that too scares him.

 

Pain and despair press down making it hard to breathe.

This weight suppresses any light or spirit he may have remaining.

There is no one else to blame.

Decisions were made.

Risks were taken.

The only one holding him back from taking the next step is him.

But, the future is wide open and so very frightening.

 

Back Among the Trees

We came back in late May.

The trees had fully leafed a couple of weeks earlier.

They’re hovering now over us and the house in a quiet, but imposing manner.

The wind is still and so are the trees.

But they can still shoot the color green all over and around us.

And the oaks alpha over the maple, birch, and beech.

These are things one notices.

Such can be life living under a dome-like canopy.

In a forested land that rolls and stretches as far as the eye can see.

 

The Rain

The Spring on the coast of western Scotland was very rainy. Unsurprisingly.

The Scots seemed to take it in stride and some let on they even appreciate it.

Returning to New Hampshire we found the Spring to be dry. Surprisingly.

The rain today clears pollen from the air.

And gives the thirsty plants a wee, but so far insufficient drink.

Usually I do not like rainy days.

They depress me and leave me feeling confined and annoyed.

Like an energetic child stuck inside a boring house.

But occasionally a rainy day comes along that soothes and comforts.

I make an extra pot of coffee to nurse throughout the day.

Allow myself more daytime reading than usual.

Listen to the steady sound of water striking leaves and ground.

It can be easier to sense the rhythm of nature.

On one of the good rainy days.

 

How Old People Can Keep Fit

Remember what we did so naturally as children?

Run

Jump

Stretch

Bend

Climb

Lift

Roll

Crawl

Reach

Kneel

Swing

Fall

Crouch

Hop

Skip

Twist

Dig

Balance

Squat

Flip

Let’s continue doing these activities as old adults.

(Except maybe Flip)

Doing so keeps us feeling alive.

 

The Introvert

People

Interactions, relationships, encounters, friendships

Reveal cringe-worthy memories.

Moments that produce anxieties, fears, fumbles, gaffes, regrets.

And of course, faux pas.

People

Was I smart enough?

Friendly enough?

Witty enough?

Charming enough?

Moral enough?

People

Cant’ live with ’em. Can’t live without ’em.

So many feelings to hurt, offenses to make, blunders to smooth over.

People

Avoid them purposefully.

Shift my focus.

Choose solitary tasks.

Allow thoughts to wander.

Reclaim a center.

People

Sorry, but I am out, done, finished.

Forever.

 

Seasonal Affective Mood

The muted light

illuminates the woods

in yellow.

Lively winds

from the northwest

send dry leaves

fluttering and spinning

to the ground.

Despite this beauty

I feel apprehension.

Another lengthy, frigid, dark, and biting

winter is just around

the corner.

The stratus clouds

are steely gray today.

They form a canvas

against which a V-shaped

flock of honking geese

fly south.

Firewood is stacked.

Flower gardens put to bed.

Colorful summer gear stowed.

The precious sun

sinks lower in the sky.

And I brace

myself for the advancing

onslaught.

 

The Bicycle

A borrowed bicycle

belonged to the homestay

in Hoi An

where I stayed.

Old and red

it rekindled a sentiment

of being a kid again.

I wove through a street market,

past tropical houses,

along dusty roads,

toward the sea.

Being a foreigner

among natives and locals

of Vietnam

who barely gave a notice

to this American

riding through their homeland.

This land

spoke fear and war

to my teenage years.

But today

the sun is warm

the ocean is bright blue

I am free

to ride a bicycle

across this land.

 

Listening Intently

We walk along the dirt road

located through the old woods

that was once a stagecoach route

which started carrying passengers in 1831

from Hanover to Lowell in a single day.

 

Today, as is true most days,

the road is quiet and seemingly still

as it penetrates this patch of forest

with its tumbledown stone walls

and a visible opening left over

from a logging operation five years ago.

 

We pass the pond with its far-off view of Mount Sunapee

as soon the road begins its rise to a stand of hemlock

where the wide path to the right invites

us to the lonely clearing on Shadow Hill

that displays the remnants of a campfire

and a high view of the pond and western hills.

 

Here the dog is off-leash sniffing and exploring

as I try to read the story of today’s woods

told cunningly and gently

through blowing of soft winds and solitary warbling of birds

and filtered light amplifying the lapping of water against the steep hill.

 

For those with an awareness and an attentive ear

and a consciousness which takes in the delicate vibrations of nature

can also be heard the orchestra of trees growing

with fallen wood rotting and humus decomposing

and the creaks and groans of water freezing

all punctuated by the tone of the decaying flesh

of a squirrel who lived its brief life among these trees.

 

A Day

Another day to float through.

Free of agenda and schedule.

Except for picking up your pieces.

Or so I tell myself.

What did you say?

I couldn’t hear you clearly.

You know, I’m not what you think.

Although maybe you know that.

With your head thrown back.

And your eyes closed and mouth gaping.

Excuse me, but…

Choices are strange, you know.

Life is a lot of risky business.

With stinging rebukes.

And nods of agreement.

Just by stumbling through another day.

Which reminds me.

Of the confusion of youth.

And silly false choices.

Combined with conflicting images.

From 1973.

Of cornfield mazes.

Abandoned gold mines.

Hitchhiking through Ohio.

Trying to be alternative.

While embracing middle class life.

And doing neither particularly well.

Doesn’t matter now.

It’s in the past.

Heaven and Hell can wait.

There’s more living to be done.

Beneath the full moon.

Which was here before birth.

And will be here after death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bill Ryan