Map
of Austin Poetry #165-1 Theme: Snowy, Dark, and Deep: Tribute to
Robert Frost
1.
Leaf's Fall by Paula Bentley
So,
Frost
was
right
then. The
gold
cannot stay.
Crinkle
of a world
sighs
into a long slide
through
blaze of echoing leaves.
Believe,
know, each vein holds untold
wonders
and understands more than we
can
see. Be silent, and watch the leaf's fall.
2.
Neighbors by Jack Dell
Everything's
shut sometimes except the barn;
The
family's all away in some back meadow.
-
Robert Frost
A Hundred Collars
On
farms in northern Massachusetts,
a
willow seems obligatory,
with
pines along the drive,
at
least two sets of maples,
and
perhaps an apple tree.
Stone
fences, which Robert Frost said
make
good neighbors, are everywhere.
But
neighbors. Where are they?
Porches,
where they should
rest
from their labors on wicker rockers
and
slatted, chain-hung swings,
never
seem occupied,
come
Spring, Summer or Fall,
not
to mention Winter.
And
yet, though you seldom
hear
a sound, they surely are around.
Inside?
Day and night? Incessantly
sewing,
mending, washing, ironing,
hooking,
tatting, cooking, baking,
making
pies for the county fair?
Or,
out there in that barn, or shed,
thrashing,
threshing, meshing,
mashing,
milking, shodding,
seeding
nursery sod for crops ahead?
Never
stopping from bed to bed?
Or
in the fields somewhere,
Doing
who knows what they do out there?
And
do they see each other, anywhere,
except,
as Frost says, when they need to share?
3.
Winter by Forestine Bynum
Who
will go before you
your
feet, the dog, or dust
Who
will remember the trees
The
air or your voice
Step
silently as you proceed
For
you know not who is watching
And
taking notes of your passage
What
differences will you make
How
will you be remembered
Through
the carvings in tree trunks
By
an unknown or the birds flying south
Or
shall you go before the winter
Leaving
no tales for the feet to explain
And
let that be the end.
4.
Fire & Ice by Frank Pool
You
live in fire, and I in ice.
Within
the circles of desire
And
sentences that loves require
You
pay a public price.
My
solaces airlessly conspire.
You
to ash, me interred entire--
Either
judgment will suffice.
5.
Conserve Compassion by Danzr Von-Thai
no
child is born jew
christian
muslim atheist
only
pure human
6.
To R. F. by Gloria Amescua
Only
one more poem before I sleep
a
few more words to drown in
a
flood of images to keep
inside
my eyes.
I
swallow a hundred syllables
an
incantation on my breath
roll
them on my tongue
tasting
of stones, grey skies, grass and sweat.
Then
sighing--flowing, they seep into muscles
rhythms
binding blood and bone.
I
fall deep--deep
finally
coming up for air
fresher
for having been there
steeped
in magnetic words.
7.
Frostbite by Nicholas Schriber
"Good
Fences Make Good Neighbors"
pronounced
that dependable, wise, old
American
Sage
Practical...
Dependable... Unflappable
I
always hated that poem
Always
believed instead
in
the Me of smashing fences
and
walls of small minded
American
common sense(TM)
Pretending
to be the Other(TM)
you
might erect your fence against
who
would climb over
tag
it with graffiti
or
simply tear it down
Pretending
I was that One
Pretending
I hated that poem
and
the respectable Man who constructed it
That
his choice of roads and his snowy fields
leave
me cold
For
coldness in the face of such
simple
sageness
could
be an emotion with potential--
Antithesis
becomes the road taken
away
from his simple suchness...
to
find it wander back at day's end
and
fall like snow inside the soul of an old man--
From
rebelling chaos into:
Practical...
Dependable... Unflappable
Good
Passion Makes Good People
8.
Rock Creek by Maritza Rivera
On
this side of the creek
bikers
bike
joggers
jog
and
skaters skate.
On
that side of the creek
are
the deer.
9.
Snowed by Evening on a Woody Stopping by Michael Brown
Stopping
by woods on a snowy evening,
I
halted amazed and unbelieving;
In
a filled up forest of snow, quite losted,
There
alone stood Robert, frosted.
10.
Stooping By Trash On A Stormy Evening by Gary Martt
Whose
trash this is I think I know,
her
can is down the street below.
She
will not see me stooping here
to
pick it up while wild winds blow.
My
little dog must think it queer
to
run out in a storm so drear.
Is
it a service or romance
that
I should pulse to persevere?
I
saw her once, a haunting glance,
a
forceful voice, defiant stance.
Now
overhead the rain clouds weep:
why
should I choose another chance?
Her
eyes are lovely, dark and deep,
though
I have autumn leaves to sweep,
and
piles to go before I sleep,
and
piles to go before I sleep.
11.
Seeking Words by Sanjay Kuttan
Rummaging
through
paper
bags of memories
boxes
of cherished letters;
seeking
words
before
time caged freedom,
life
sentences
italicized
and cobwebbed
in
the attic of my mind.
Words
freely floating
without
the commercial print
of
supporting lines
rich
with beat and punctuation,
an
intoxicating rhythm
sensually
pounding
the
drum skin of my heart
gently
nursing a wanting soul.
12.
Breaking Through by Susan M. Ellis
The
page, like virgin snow,
beckons.
I hide in the forest.
It
sends whispers through the trees.
"Make
your mark, make your mark…"
First
one step, then another, the crunch
of
snow as pleasing as the scratch
of
pen across the page.
Impelled
by the sound I start to run,
darting
here and there wherever
my
feet take me.
Fear
dissolves like cumuli
on
a summer day.
A
field mouse joins me, the delicate
print
perfect counterpoint
to
my heavily booted foot.
Shadows
climb in and out of footprints
as
the sun plays with clouds.
The
work is alive, with voice
and
passion, I rejoice!
The
finale - a free fall -
exhausted,
on my back
I
sweep the snow with arms and legs,
in
benediction the angel appears.
13.
A Yellow Woods [excerpt] by Vicky Vlach
Part
2: During and After, or 'Maybe Some Floods Just Shouldn't be
Dam(n)ed'
We
were all hot and tired and dirty from trying to corral that wild
beast for weeks on one.
I
saw her that day, filling bag after bag with sand,
tying
them off and tossing them along a human chain attempting to make like
a little Dutch boy,
in
a heroic effort to save homes and loved ones.
I
noticed her unperturbed calmness amidst the swirling chaos of
encroaching anxiety and furor, and wondered if she might have been
through this before.
She
just smiled when others brought more bags to fill.
It
wasn't one of those fake smiles most people give when they get too
tired and too busy, when they're preoccupied and don't want to be
bothered anymore -
no,
not one of those smiles.
She
saw you.
She
looked into your eyes, and saw you.
Sometimes,
someone
would talk with her, helping with the bags, or the sand, or whatever,
and
when they moved on, they seemed lighter somehow.
And
then one or two or even three sandbags
would
come down the line feeling heavier than most,
though
each was filled to the top.
But
we were all hot and tired and dirty,
so
I could have been imagining it.
I
noticed that sand stuck to her exposed skin,
and
sweat carved its own rivers
around
and through her clothes.
She
wore hiking boots, jeans, and a butterfly-print tee-shirt with the
sleeves cut off.
I
wanted arms like that!
©
1993/1997/2000 Vicky A. Vlach