Poetry Reading

Maine grows poets like wild blueberries

tender, stubborn, bursting with color.

They rise from rock and salt and loam,

springing up like shy buds after frost,

bearing fruit that is sometimes sweet,

sometimes bitter with truth.

We are the ones who notice:

dew-strung webs trembling in morning light,

the ache behind someone’s silence,

the infinite shades of gray

between a simple black and white.

And though we walk among you

stacking groceries, grading papers,

feeding children, mending nets

we are always dreaming.

We gather seeds:

strange, glowing words,

half-remembered stories,

snatches of song overheard in the dark.

We plant these in notebooks and in silence,

on napkins and glowing screens,

tending gardens of thought

that bloom into visions, ripen into verse.

We climb word-trees,

reaching not just for the sky

but for something deeper:

more earth, more story, more soul.

And sometimes,

in the shifting tides of time,

We are pulled together not by chance,

but by gravity of the spirit,

a secret call heard only

by those attuned to wonder.

We find ourselves drawn

to a place with shelves like spines,

where paper breathes, and voices echo

some call it a Library,

but to we dreamers, poem-carriers,

ink-hearted wanderers

it is a Conjurers' Paradise,

a Coven where we cast

Story and Spell.

There, we speak magic aloud.

We toss lures and lines into the silence.

Something in the air bends,

listens, blooms until we are not alone.

Our words take root in each other,

carry us forward like tides,

reminding us that Maine grows poets

not to keep them hidden in thickets,

but to send them singing

out across the world.

Conjured

I do not understand

how the magic works

how this molecule falls for that one,

colliding in an orgasmic explosion,

birthing something new.

But there are witches afoot

in laboratories scribing formulas in strange symbols,

enchantments inked in the grimoire they call science.

They awaken charms,

brew potent elixirs,

cloaked in white, gathered in sterile covens,

murmuring incantations

in a language arcane,

until they summon cures.

True sorcery conjured by study,

by method, by patience.

So while you may call upon

invisible spirits,

I will stay here, enamored of Earth

and all she holds,

blessed by sky and star

and the physical universe

utterly, hopelessly

in love with Science.

Invitation

Come to the festival.

The jewels of the earth are yours

equal riches possessed by all , belonging to none

deep amethyst cabbages round and crisp

ruby apples hang low on trees

garnet cherries weigh laden branches down

topaz pears freckle in the sun

amber pumpkins lay in new hayed fields

iridescent oyster shells bounce in time with tides

trees (our first fireworks) blaze bright in the sapphire sky

only emerald pine and her sister spruce refrain

(dignity holding them aloof

from the gaudy show)

this is our mantle our coat of many colors

our gift from the Earth

blazing bright to burn into memory

when winter's cold ivory has stripped the trees bare

and the shine of silver hangs icy from her empty hands

a sigh of golden autumn remains:

a few brave leaves that refuse to fall

and wait for infant green

to bud again in spring

Strip Show

Their limbs adorned in glory, hold up the sky.

Covered in red, yellow, gold, orange and a bit of green for contrast-

magic on the hillsides, the valleys, the riverbanks.

Ocean cliffs are dressed in coats of many colors that Joseph would envy.

Horizons edge the sea with bright hues the eye cannot truly see.

And the wind rises.

Rain begins thrumming-drumming-heavy-beating a music of change, foreboding.

They do not bow meekly.

Dancers all, they throw their hands high-

twirl bending, waving, graceful.

Here a leaf strips away.

There a dozen.

The striptease begins.

The dresses first, then petticoats

They know they will lose the struggle-

They change the game and lingerie is teased away

In flirting, twirling tornadoes of leaves on the wild air

until they stand wet, almost skeletal reaching up dark against the white sky.

They bow slightly to remind us

that we can dress for winter as they stand guard for Spring

Naked through the winter yet to come.

The Tale of the Wendy- Bird

Long ago, a maiden loved a boy who flew with shadows.

He carried her past rooftops and moonlight,

to a land where mermaids sang in hidden lagoons,

where fairies glimmered like sparks of flame,

and children laughed among the stars.

There she wished to stay forever but the boy only promised he would return for her in Spring.

He did not say which Spring,

nor how many winters she would wait.

So she kept her vigil on the window seat.

She watched the leaves turn and fall,

the snow drift and melt, the flowers bloom and fade.

Spring after Spring passed her by, and still he did not come

until she learned the ancient truth:

the promises of boys are woven of thistledown,

while the hopes of girls are stitched in oak.

One night, many years later, as she slept, the boy returned.

But not for her. He came for her daughter.

And when she saw the empty bed, she knew at once

that the child who returned would be no longer a child of earth,

but touched forever by sky.

So it was through generations.

The daughter and granddaughter of the Wendy-bird

stood watch at the window, and they too answered the call to fly.

Each left behind the next a warning:

Love may break the heart that holds it,

but memories, like wings, are worth the pain.

At last, the girl grew very old.

She sat alone in her rocker, beside the bow-window seat

where lace curtains fluttered in the breeze.

Then, as if the years had been no more than a dream,

the latch lifted, the window flew open

and there stood the boy, unchanged by time,

with his hand held out.

Her shadow rose and began to dance,

and with a smile she had been saving

she placed her hand in his,

and the Wendy-bird felt her heart leap as it had long ago.

Together they flew away

past the billowing curtains,

past the rooftops and clouds,

toward the place he had promised her long ago:

"the first star to the left,

and straight on until morning."

Swan Song

She shines,

She walks with a cane,

Onto the stage, but somehow the light finds her,

And she glows.

Silver hair and all,

Bathed in the followspot that still knows her every move.

She sings, quavering, a little,

But with a voice of velvet and time.

Once Mame, once Dolly, once Sally Bowles,

Now, a whisper of dreams still alive

On this sacred stage,

Where every word she speaks was earned

Through sweat and countless hours of devotion.

And oh, how the years fade away,

With every note she gives away.

She awakens imagination in the watchers,

Still the storyteller, the enchantress,

The comic, the tragic heroine, the lover.

Breathless, they watch her,

A hush in the rafters,

Is this her swan song?

Is this her last bow?

But no, oh no,

She’s standing now

With a heart full of curtain calls,

And a soul that will never grow old.

She knows the stage remembers her,

Like an old friend, waiting in the wings.

She hears the echoes of thunderous applause,

Like the rush of a long-lost spring.

Breathless, they watch her,

A hush in the rafters,

Is this her swan song?

Is this her last bow?

But no, oh no-

She takes her time somehow.

With silver hair, a halo of starlight,

She takes her curtain call…

One more time.

The Good Humor Man Changeth with Time.

The ice cream truck bell rang,

and we poured out of doors

a spring river overflowing her banks.

It was the Spring of life,

when pennies in pockets

were saved for this special treat, a celebration.

We stood, we danced in line,

waiting to claim our treasure.

It took time to save those pennies,

earned through dusting, cleaning, chores.

But it was worth it.

Now, we stand in line again

not for ice cream,

but at the pharmacy, chatting with others,

being pleasant,

waiting, waiting...

for small bottles of magic that help us live.

It is the Winter of life,

where all seems slower,

a little cloudy.

We work hard for dollars

to pay another person in a white coat

but not the Good Humor Man.

It is not a treat anymore

to linger in the line.

But perhaps it should be.

Perhaps we should still be dancing,

delighting in the science,

the alchemy that sustains us.

For this, too, is magic.

And we-

we are worthy of it.

The Wedding

May arrived softly,

wiggling her toes

in meadows of new green.

She watched the buds begin to unfurl.

She whispered "I love you"

to the Earth,

and the Earth answered, "Marry me."

She called the birds to make music,

the breeze to carry their song,

and the rain to wash everything clean.

The Sun sent warmth and brightness.

Lily of the Valley and Lilac scented the air.

Blossoms sprang from every tree

to adorn her bridal wreath.

Apple blossoms tossed petals in her path

as she walked to meet

her Bridegroom Earth,

who waited with roses and daisies yet to come.

Together they will move through Summer—

and all they ask of us, their guests,

is the gift of continuing.

Their wish is that we treasure Earth so deeply

that, like a couple pledging eternity,

we marry ourselves to the love

of ever-changing Spring,

the fulsome Summer,

the Autumn of plenty,

and the Winter of rest and recovery.

That we vow to protect them

from humankind’s neglect.

You are invited to the Ceremony

each and every year.

Come.

Celebrate.

And say I do.

That Lobster

Folks from away will never

know the cost of that lobster roll.

Oh, the price, yes

and complaining about it,

then buying one anyway

that’s practically an art.

But not the cost.

Not as we know it

those of us who live from the sea,

by the sea,

and at the whim of her moods.

We know the way the air stills

when a boat is late.

How we all hold our breath

when the gales rise suddenly

and word comes:

a search is on.

And it could be

your son.

Your daughter.

Your husband.

We know the stones,

set near lighthouses and harbors,

engraved with names

names, names

of our lost to the sea.

Please don’t say they should find other work.

Some have tried.

But the salt runs too deep.

The sea calls them back

a siren song,

a pull stronger than fear.

That Mistress

that dominatrix

the Sea.

So yes, our visitors know the price.

But not the cost.

A Tourist’s Siren Call

Today she lures you.

The music of the waves crashing in rhythm,

the gulls crying above,

the perfume of beach roses and salt-pine on the wind,

all of it beckons you downward,

toward the rock that waits like a throne at the world’s edge.

It shines in the sun,

curved and smooth,

an armchair carved by centuries of tide and storm.

Roots twist back as if to grant you passage.

You climb carefully, fingers closing on Sister Pine’s trunk,

feet testing each stone,

until you stand at last where sea and land kiss.

The throne welcomes you.

Warm granite cradles your body;

the air is full of hush and roar together.

Shoes slip off, and your toes find the bubbling surf.

The sun presses its blessing into your skin.

Peace wraps you like a spell.

Ah, this is the lullaby of Ocean,

deceptive and tender.

This peace is a lure, beloved traveler.

Beware.

Ocean, who feeds us here along this coast,

is a fickle mistress.

Her lullaby hides a darker tune

You almost drift to sleep.

But then the wind rises.

The song shifts, grows sharper.

She hurls a rogue wave at you

sudden, merciless,

slapping you from your seat

and dragging you into her cold embrace.

And in that moment of terror

you remember the bright red signs: DANGER. KEEP OFF THE ROCKS.

You remember the old man on the ridge,

his voice carried by the wind: Don’t go.

No one will scold you now,

not as they risk their own lives,

steering small boats into heavy seas

to drag you back from her.

If they can.

The sea is generous, yes.

She feeds, she soothes, she sings.

But she does not forgive.

Love her from the shore, traveler.

Do not mistake her song for safety.

The Boys of Summer

Look at them now, the boys of summer,

classmates from high school-

older than they dreamed they might ever be

moving carefully, cautiously,

wondering where all the curls went

My heroes , startled by 'old man' comments

casually dropped or thrown by those

too young to know that 'grandpa' was a soldier.

He mucked his way through swamp and jungle

wet, hungry, and sometimes bleeding.

That " move a little faster" person in the grocery store line

moved plenty fast once carrying his wounded buddy

while shots rang out overhead

or with a bullet in his own gut

urging him on.

Look at them now

our soldiers

who went, drafted, or on their own

to serve

to suffer

and too many, to die

walking a little bent now,

a bit too slow

for those in such a rush.

They overlook real heroes

These rushing souls

but they should be pausing

 to wait with awe

To bow low

as the keepers of their

freedoms

are passing by.

Ordinary

There’s no such thing as an ordinary day.

Did you wake this morning and wash the dust of pharaohs from your feet?
Did you comb your hair free of murderers and saints,
and brush stardust from your eyes?

Did you breathe in salt air off the coast of Maine,air that once filled the sails of pirate ships?
Or taste a Rhode Island summer, thick with the memory of Pilgrims and revolution?
Or wake in the woods of Oregon, where pioneers once passed beneath these same trees?

Or did you simply rise and feel your blood move, steady and miraculous,
ready for one more day?

Did you glance out your window to find the sun
filtering through leaves that were born overnight?

There is nothing ordinary about today.
It is as unrepeatable as your own fingerprints.
It’s magic, sometimes annoying, sometimes divine.

Blue sky or rain,
traffic or birdsong,
a cool breeze, or a dry, hot hush,
silence or singing

It’s all here,
and it’s all yours.

There is nothing

Nothing

ordinary about today.

Black Moon Rising

The Black Moon rises unseen,
a timid heart behind the veil,
shying from the world’s gaze,
yet aching to be known.

She hides her face in darkness,
a secret lover in waiting,
her silence trembling with longing
for the one she adores.

Unaware of her own gift,
she scatters stars like petals,
silver blossoms spilling wide,
adorning the heavens
as if to prepare a bed of light.

Their shimmering trails weave a path—
a gentle summons,
a lover’s hand extended—
calling Luna back from sorrow,
back from her night of solitude,
back into the arms of sky.

And when at last she rises,
soft and luminous,
her beauty rests upon the weary world
like a kiss upon closed eyes,
a promise that love returns,
always, again, and forever.

Consequence

The consequence of loving well
is loss.
Those who stamp themselves on your soul
will be torn away,
and the years ahead
are fewer than those behind.

The fabric rips,
holes shaped like this one,
that one.
No thread strong enough to mend it,
edges fraying
as they tear away from here.

But we will not stop.
We knot the holy shawl tighter,
we wear our scars like proof
yes, every patch that pulls away
marks us,
but it also declares:
we dared to love.

One day our own place will rip free,
and others will clutch their blankets close,
cursing the hole we left—
and blessing it too.

So today we grip the patchwork fierce,
we send love like wildfire into the dark,
knowing the cost,
knowing the ache,
and choosing
always choosing.

Dirigo: A Love Letter to Maine

I was born here in 1952,

a pastor’s child cradled between salt tide and spruce,

where mornings smell of woodsmoke and sermons,

and the sun lifts itself slow but certain

over a people who learned long ago

that endurance is its own kind of prayer.

Before my first cry,

Maine was writing its long, rough, shining story

a compass pointing ever north,

ever forward.

In 1642, Georgeana (York)

became the first American city to lift its name

to the wind off the Atlantic.

By 1677, Massachusetts bought this wild, stubborn land

for $6,000, a bargain no ledger could ever justify,

for how do you price a coastline

stitched from granite and longing?

In Wiscasset, in 1805,

forty-five women gathered in Mrs. Silas Lee’s parlor

hands calloused, hope unbroken

and formed a society to lift one another

before anyone else thought to do it.

Quiet revolutions, Maine-style.

Our history is a quilt of odd wonders:

the Portland Rum Riot thundering over cobblestones;

Thomaston’s donut cutter turning hunger into comfort;

Chester Greenwood’s earmuffs,

born of cold ears and Yankee ingenuity.

We gave the nation Margaret Chase Smith,

who stood before the world and said,

Yes, a woman can lead.

We gave the Church James A. Healy,

a Black bishop consecrated on Maine soil

where winter tries every soul

and still cannot freeze the spirit.

We watched young Samantha Smith fly to the USSR

a child carrying peace the way others carry backpacks

because Maine children learn early

that courage fits even the smallest shoulders.

We celebrated love in 2012

when our people said yes

to same-sex marriage,

the tide of equality rolling in

as steady as a harbor tide.

And then

October 25, 2023.

Lewiston.

A night when our hearts shattered

like ice breaking under sudden weight.

Eighteen gone,

the air thick with sirens and disbelief.

Maine, brought to its knees

but never to its end.

Because here, grief does not hollow us.

It binds us.

Like snowpack knitting the forest floor

so spring can break through.

We held one another.

Lit candles.

Named our dead like blessings.

Stood in grocery store lines

and hugged strangers with the gentleness

of people who understand mountains

and the storms that roam them.

This is Maine.

The coast that claws at the Atlantic

yet still offers beaches soft enough

for children’s feet.

The lakes that mirror heaven

on July afternoons.

The deep woods where the silence

is not empty,

but holy.

The mountains that rise like elders

ancient, patient

teaching us to stand back up.

We are a people carved by weather

and steadied by one another.

We carry our history like a lantern

we refuse to let go dim.

And so we say it still:

DIRIGO :  I lead.

We lead not with noise

but with endurance.

Not with force

but with compassion.

Not with perfection

but with the fierce, stubborn hope

that even in darkness,

even in loss,

even in the longest winter,

Maine will find its way toward dawn.

And we will walk there together.

The Stones Remember

At Glastonbury Abbey

The stones remember.

Their silence hums like bees in hidden cloisters

ancient prayers caught in lime and shadow.

The Abbey once rose to heaven’s height,

its spires gilded by the same sun

that now warms the backs of tourists

and the ivy crawling slow reclamation.

I walk where monks once moved in rhythm

the measured steps of devotion and duty.

Beneath my feet lie the buried echoes

of psalms and secrets,

of Abbot Whiting who would not bend his knee,

whose blood marked the path

to the Tor that still watches from above

a sentinel of myth,

its green shoulders cloaked in legend.

They say Arthur sleeps here,

that Joseph of Arimathea

planted his staff and it blossomed

faith rooted in Somerset soil.

Perhaps it’s only story.

But standing in the Abbot’s Kitchen,

round and hushed like a heart’s chamber,

I felt the air turn thick with something

not memory, not ghost,

but calling.

The Tor looks on, patient and knowing,

its shadow stretching toward the ruins

as though to bless what was broken.

Wind threads through archways

like voices learning again to sing.

And I, a traveler of aching bones,

feel strangely steady,

as though the ground beneath this holy wreckage

has whispered: 

You are home.

The Damariscotta River

Damariscotta wears her river like a ribbon in a young girl’s hair.

Some days she meanders, brightly blue, sparkling, shining as she passes the shore, reflecting the fluffy clouds above.

Other days, shabby and untidy, she frays around the edges,

unable to control where she lands or stay tied neatly to her banks. gray, lazy, almost feeble.

Days like today, she limps along, a lackadaisical pat here and there at a passing boat, listless,

dragging small swells up only rarely, sweltering in the heat, too damp even for a river to play.

But nights like tonight, when storms come in, she’ll show her true power

lashing out across the seawall, roaring into the flatlands, flooding the grounds

, and whipping the earth with gray sharp edges.

She unties small dories, heaving them to skitter ashore, while her water churns with electric ferocity.

If one lives near her long enough, it just takes closed eyes and a deep breath to sense what kind of tide will rise.

Even then, she guards her secrets well.

She won’t tip her hand

not for the docks or the rocks or for you.

Her ribbons of saltwater carry whispers of wildness and warning, reminding you that it is she

that chooses who to hold,

and who to sweep back into the dark, endless pull of the sea.

Ballad of the Bright Side (last wishes)

Bring the song and bring the fire,

Sing it loud, sing it higher

"Always look on the bright side of life,"

Through laughter and sorrow and joy and strife.

Launch the boat on the Damariscotta tide,

Flaming arrows at the ready, stars as guide.

Set it blazing against the twilight sky,

Let the river carry me, burning, high.

Find me a patch of earth to call my own,

Where lilacs lean and wild things have grown

Where damp boughs whisper of old sweet days,

And Spring stirs the heart in a thousand ways.

Plant me crocuses, lilies-of-the-valley, daffodils bold,

Let Spring dance again in green and in gold.

Let moss weave carpets, and ferns unfurl,

And a tiny forest be spun from this world.

Strawberries wild in the morning dew,

Leaves of fire when the autumn winds blew,

Snow like a hush on a diamond-lit night,

Seasons turning in endless flight.

Give me Earth, rich and deep,

Give me Sky, wide and steep.

Let me be dust on a faraway breeze,

Let me be song in the rustle of leaves.

No stone to bind me, no monument high

Just laughter, and memory, and love in the sky.

But

Not yet, sweet world, not yet today

I have a little more still to say-

Not yet, sweet world ,

not yet.

Moonlight Dancing

At least once in life

dance

on a deserted beach in lighthouse beams

with someone who sings

and holds you in their arms,

while the world stops on its axis.

Slip out of time,

into mystery,

to understand at last

the whispers of the stars

in their own language.

Live an eon

in that moment, spinning

spinning into eternity’s love song.

When sunrise erases the memory of how you spoke with stars,

bringing bare feet

back to the damp sand of misty dawn

and mosquito bites remind

that you are only human.

Your soul will remember that night,

beneath the gibbous moon,

when you danced in the arms of magic,

and fleeting joy