Category: Morning Meander

I walk the dogs and write raw poetry. Won’t you join me?

Samhain, 2019

It is now,
It is now,
It is now.

Come to me
Wild
and Death
and Life
and Free.

Come to me
Wild
and Love
and Joy
and Now.

Wild One,
I See you,
Hear you,
Taste you,
Scent you.

Feel you.

Now.

You pause
and touch me with plum-dark gaze.

And you wait.

For me.

Yes.

And I let you into my heart.

Now.

29 October

They took me on a different walk today – round back of the house
where all the excellent burrs and brambles are.

My ankles have paid the price. But I had
delicious coffee with me.

I stood on a bit of construction material,
and 8 x 4 sheet,
and the size was indeed right for a poet’s treehouse.

Just sayin’.

October 27th

I can tell that it’s coming,
the dead make such a noise in my head.

In the end, though, they will hush and settle. Most of them only need to be told,
“Yes, someone will remember.”
“Yes, I will tell your story.”
“Yes, it will be all right, just you see!”

And then I’ll sit
out on the lawn
with a small cauldron fire
and have a beer with my dad and all the good dogs.

Saint Crispin’s Day

What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember’d;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

Will Shaxper

October 22nd

Last night, I drove home through amazing fog and foliage
on a stretch of New Hampshire road that I have never seen before.

It was new and luxuriant in its gorgeousness, my senses feasted –
feasted and sated and yes.

I thank You God for most this amazing day.

tip-of-the-hat to e e cummings

17 of October (already?)

A sweet and worthy rain,
very cool, very dense, with those big drops which spatter (you know the ones)
fell on the grass and dogs and me.

A worthy and delicious rain.

Thank you, Goddess of Rain, for this treat
and this laughter
and this running of four-foots and two-foot
and this safe, dry, warm house.