Poem for Today: Beartown Rocks

In ocean of green, eternal stones stand,

split by some almighty force
the explosion of their parting surely shook the earth
to its molten core, melding sand to stone in the furnace
of upheaval and rebirth; unnamed

birds swim a leafy sea, dripping liquid notes to earth
they drink from tidal pools in primeval caverns
of lichen-crusted castles made of ancient rock
standing sentinel to time while

fairydiddles find furtive places,

hidden in enchanted canyons
beneath the ferns and forest fodder
moss covers wounds of past disruption
and prehistoric disarray; outside,
history repeats its sorrowful mistakes
in the world that labors only two miles distant;
in this secret place, children still seek dinosaurs
hidden in the stone

Beartown is a small West Virginia State Park with unusual and almost spiritual rock formations. It is a place that inspires belief in fairies and otherworld creatures, a place to meditate, refresh, and wonder.

Winter Haiku

Prayer

woody fingers stretch

stripped ebony limbs beseech

beg winter's mercy

Interior Decorating

Icicles curtain

Windows to a frost-tipped world

Inside, white-hot fire

Soul Food

Chocolate-brimmed mugs

cinnamon buns with icing

altar offerings

Quilt

ragged print patches

rub rough against pale dry skin

mothballs scent old wool

Woodstove

Rusty steel hinges

creak, ashes spill fire-hot on floor

frosty nostrils singe

Biscuits

flour, soda, salt

butter, milk, mix together

bake, eat--piping hot

Strawberry Jam

Jars of summer's sun

sweeten winter's sere cellar

hold sunlight hostage

Sleep

pile on blankets

snuggle deep in fleece cocoons

recover lost dreams

Monday Morning

On my way to work this morning
across the ridge and around
the end of the world turn
I looked in my rear view mirror
and saw what I was leaving behind.

Sometimes it is not easy to keep going
when I know that behind me
the dew is soft on bending grass,
the birds are calling from nests,
turkeys herd their young,

tomatoes hang ripe for picking,
dill and basil are ready for harvest,
and flowers turn their heads,
just as I did,
to welcome the morning sun.

July

July spills a surfeit of vegetables onto my kitchen floor--
fire red tomatoes, golden squash,
green cucumbers and royal purple beans
tumble from white enamel washpans and broken oak baskets.
They glow like rampant jewels

retrieved from long-lost treasure chests buried in the garden loam.

It is mid-summer; the bounty is effortless and wanton.
I choose only the best to be preserved for winter use.
The imperfect offerings are tossed aside—
a scarred skin or a spot where a box turtle has nibbled a hole
is enough to send a tomato to the garbage bucket;
the chickens will enjoy a feast of discards.

In winter, the bruised tomato and spotted bean
would be carefully trimmed and the good parts
saved to be added to a simmering pot of hearty soup.
In winter, soup from even imperfect vegetables
recalls the freshness of summer.

In July it is the chickens who savor the leavings.

After the lavish destruction and careful preservation of the day

--cut, chop, boil, freeze, store--

I rock in my chair on the porch,

listen to the chickens' contented cackles,
survey the gardens and plan tomorrow's work.
The ruby sun filters through leaves

already suggesting the coming autumn gold.

All Together Now

Two days after Christmas we traveled over the mountains,

past Spruce Knob, the highest point in West Virginia,

past Seneca Rocks, site of WWII training site for rock climbing,

past rushing waters,

abandoned schoolhouses,

and wind turbines,

to see this crowd:

my four oldest sons' grandmother from Florida, now 83 years old (and their only living grandparent),

4 of my 5 sons (our youngest had been home at Christmas, and had returned to Morgantown),

10 of our grandchildren,

and of course the WVU football bowl game (which WVU won in a cliffhanger 31-30).

Great trip? You bet!

I took these photos with my new Nikon camera. Am I happy with it? Not entirely. The USB cord doesn't work with the camera for some reason. The card reader on my computer wasn't working either. Grrrr.

So I could not retrieve these photos until I soled at least one of those problems. An hour on the phone with India determined that the card readers were defective (duh). A week later the new piece arrived. A week after that I finally had time to install it, and a week after that I remembered to get the camera out of the car and see if I could get the photos. Happy day! It worked.

I'm still thinking the camera may go back to the store; I mean, why would they sell a camera that didn't have the right USB cord packaged with it? Weird.

But still--it was a wonderful day, and a beautiful trip with rare good weather in late December.

Sunrise, Sunset

I can never resist a stunning sky view. These were taken earlier this week; the first one was taken from the ridge looking down to the left fork of Joe's Run at sunset. The second was taken two mornings later on the way to work.

The red morning sun portent was correct; by evening it was showery and changing weather was on the way.

Robert Frost is one of my favorite poets, and here is one of my best-loved poems by him:

Looking For a Sunset Bird in Winter

The west was getting out of gold,

The breath of air had died of cold,

When shoeing home across the white,

I thought I saw a bird alight.

In summer when I passed the place

I had to stop and lift my face;

A bird with an angelic gift

Was singing in it sweet and swift.

No bird was singing in it now.

A single leaf was on a bough,

And that was all there was to see

In going twice around the tree.

From my advantage on a hill

I judged that such a crystal chill

Was only adding frost to snow

As gilt to gold that wouldn't show.

A brush had left a crooked stroke

Of what was either cloud or smoke

From north to south across the blue;

A piercing little star was through.

Poem and Photo for December

I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.

We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.

- Oliver Herford, I Heard a Bird Sing

The photo is from last winter at my house--although we've had a little snow, I have no new bird photos yet. A bird singing as I left this morning called this poem to mind.

Ready for Winter

Once it sheltered babies,

smelled fried bacon and baking bread,

heard laughter and crying,

felt joy and sorrow,

within its rough-hewn rooms.

Time has not been easy on the house.

Foundation stones tumble and corners sag,

the tin roof is rusted through.

Only one thick board

keeps the porch attached.

The people left.

The windows shattered,

mice burrowed in its walls.

no longer home to man and child

today it's just a barn

But the farmer

patched its roof and shored the walls

to keep his golden haycrop dry.

He loads it full, stands back to say

"Now we're ready for the winter."

Sandstone Falls Morning

Red berries gleam in silver
metal. A bucket
with orange rusty handle stands
alone by the old slave
wall that follows the narrow twisting
road that leads to Sandstone Falls.

Beside the river, the road,
the wall, the bucket
she stoops, gray hair shining
with sweat as she searches
for berries whose thorns
rip her flannel shirt and skin
as she fills her bucket
to the brim.

“Best be watchful of snakes,” I say.
“Snakes?”
She answers, smiling.
“That’s what this hoe is for.”

Random Shots: Summer Photos

The new moon rides high over the hills,

the garden is yielding a jeweled spectrum of vegetables, fruits and flowers,

Monarch butterflies on a wild pink butterfly weed seem drunk on summer ,

and each mountain morning starts with the sweetness of fresh dew and new promise.

Empty Houses

Empty windows speak rebuke
beside the country two-lane road,
paint peels and tin rusts and curls
on roof that no longer shelters living hearts.










Lean and list, yet still upright
the house stands as testament
to times and living long since done while
shadows of the present brush old walls.











There was the garden, there the pump
to sweet well water far below
there is the barn, no springtime rush
of birthing cows and clucking hens





The home forgotten stands alone
as evening traffic rushes by,
the gate swings open but not one soul
comes to visit in the past.

Photos by Haley Ford, May 16, 2008

Photo poems

I've created several of these myself, without realizing that is what I was doing. A picture inspires a poem, or a poem links itself in my mind to a photo. I didn't realize there were so many people doing the same thing, and that it had a name--actually two names: photopoem or picturepoem. I expect there are other ways such poetry/photography combinations are referred to, but these two make the most sense to me.

First 50, the writing prompt blog, posted the first one on this list. that intrigued me, and I searched for more. Here are a few good ones:

A Day by Emily Dickinson (the one I found at First50. Thanks, Deb!)

The Evening is My Book by Rainer Maria Rilke.


Two not so well-known, but intriguing poets:

Morning Earth Daily Poems by John Caddy.

Wilderness Stones by Bruce and Mary Sue Rosenberger.