I heard it fall
It was just a leaf
A tiny dried leaf
Yet when it fell
Alone on the wood porch
I stopped
On that warm, sunny, summer day
A slight chill
Fall foreshadowed
Another season
Suddenly present
© 2016 Thomas W. Cummins
Posts Tagged ‘poetry’
Another Season
September 21, 2016Staying true to self
October 4, 2015Turmoil and pain from events, even if separated by 30 years, can be reawakened by the words of a poem.
In Desert Run, Mitsuye Yamada reflects upon her family’s time in an internment camp during World War II. In the last stanza are these words:
I cannot stay in the desert
where you will have me nor
will I be brought back in a cage
to grace your need for exotica.
I write these words at night
for I am still a night creature
but I will not keep a discreet distance
If you must fit me to your needs
I will die
and so will you.
When I re-read those words a few months ago, moments of shunning and rejection came creeping back out of dark passages in my life. Most assuredly, there have been times when I couldn’t/wouldn’t, or can’t/won’t, dance to the tune of someone else. To have done so would have been sacrificial and destructive to my own sense of self and well-being. This isn’t about following instructions or performing job expectations. Rather there have been behavioral and performance expectations of the most unreasonable and servile nature.
What is most interesting to me has been the astonishment and rage, punishment and revenge, observed and experienced as a result. Not bending in order to conform to a misinformed and delusional notion of who I am, or who I should be, comes from my unwillingness to be an enabler. Been there, done that, the ‘walking-on-eggshells’ thing.
As you can see, Ms. Yamada’s poetic reflection struck a nerve with me. Much suffering has come from my resistance. But I must not create a false self to meet unreasonable expectations of others. Nor can I sit idly by and await the next page for me to recite from an unshared and unexplained script. I’ve never been very good at playing guessing games.
If you must fit me to your needs
I will die
and so will you.
A North-woods Walk
October 1, 2015—∞—
If only words could let me share
But what can they do?
Re-imagining a morning walk
On an hilly dirt road
Through the woods
Past driveways leading down to the lake
To hidden cabins
Early morning rising sun
Leaves bursting with color
Light flirting with shadows among the trees
Aspens shimmering in an unnoticed breeze
It was very cool, if not cold
Hands taking turns
Between pocket and hiking stick
A deer’s follow-me white flag
Bounding, bounding, bounding … gone
At the bottom of a hill
A pair of ducks exploding from a small pond
Little flocks of tiny birds
Gathering something for breakfast
Amidst the weeds and lingering wildflowers
Unnoticed before
The breeze has picked up
And plays with the holes in my walking stick
A horrible flute
Producing a tone that is simply beautiful
Appearing then vanishing
With the rhythm of my gait
An hour later
Back at the cabin
Warm
Invigorated
Sitting by the window
Steaming cup of coffee
Sparking lake beyond the sheltering glass
© 2015 Thomas W. Cummins
Hopeful Anticipation
June 14, 2015An indifferent lake early
Foggy
Monochrome gray
Offering no invitation
To look closer
Approach
Enter
Ride upon
Yet filled
With possibilities
Latent beauty
Much to be revealed
Later
Sparkling blueness
Drawing laughter
From children playing
Those fishing
Waiting in hopeful
Anticipation
Copyright 2015 Thomas W. Cummins
River
January 11, 2015I found this in a basement box. Written in February, 1979 while we were living in Muscatine, Iowa. No editing or improving. A solo effort flanked on each side by decades of silence.
—∞—
Trembling in the early morning sun
Dewy tears shown with joy on the grasses
As breezes chasing the fleeing night
Shook them to the roots buried
Deep in the dark soil at the woods edge
A drop shuddered
Lost its hold
Fell to the ground
Others fell too
From the warmth of the dawn
Into the darkness close to the earth
Those near each other touched
Meeting … mingling … joining … pulling
Moving
Running … sliding … wandering … merging
Swelling
Flowing … splashing … scattering … gathering … rushing
Rippling
Slowing
Spreading … deepening … quieting
Light, shadows, birdsong
Peace
Solitude
Silence
Imperceptible movement
An occasional sparkle
A lonely swirl
Lingering from the touch of a willow
Drooping to the surface
Cottonwood fluffs suspended on the line
Between air and the green water
Warm beneath them
Hours had passed
The treetops felt the approaching noon
Heat from the sun arrested the breeze
Thickened the humid air
Trapped the rising vapors
From the river below
A locust’s call rang across a clearing
and died away
Water drying on the sweltering mud
Left on the shore from a passing barge
Days had passed when a gull wheeled overhead
Salty water was closing in on our dewy wanderers
The sun had long since set
Last traces of hue on the western horizon
Gone
A horn warned of the approaching fog
© 1979 Thomas W. Cummins
A Rosey Hue
November 10, 2014
Outside the window
Just beyond the Amana clock
Stands a Japanese maple
Its fall array of colors
Brilliant in the early afternoon sun
Filling the corner of the family room
With reflected light
Touching everything
A rosey hue
Never to be reproduced
By our meager palette
© 2014 Thomas W. Cummins
In a dim light... 