A Sign in Winter - November 2014

A Sign in Winter

We should have seen it coming

The storm had called ahead

We never got the message

We got the tree instead.

We knew it was too tall

But we loved it just the same

We loved it every season

until this winter came.

No wait! we still loved it

like a child we knew could hurt us

But this was just a tree, right?

One that would never desert us.

Our children climbed its branches

We sliced its limbs for Christmas decor

Dead limbs insulated the garden

Yet, still we asked for more.

More shade!  Grow Taller!

We need privacy, please grow wider!

We created this monolithic spruce

And moved in right beside her.

Then winter winds grew stronger

This year, God added rain,

sleet and snow and loaded limbs

The big tree was in pain.

It took the wind, it took the snow

It took all that it could bear

Then came the gust that knocked it down

Now dead, we all despair.

We mourned for all the tree had given

But even strong winds abate

We went outside to see what was left

and decide the big trees fate.

Thanksgivings close, and Christmas too

Those branches will make decorating fun 

Perhaps we'll sell the lumber

Next spring, we'll plant a new one.

Sometimes we miss the one thing close

That God had blessed and made.

We move on too fast, ne'er stop to grieve

Until we need the shade.

There is no moral, no secret plan

Just read this and if you please

Remember God made the forest

But man cut down the trees.

FTC - 11/19/14

A Time To Kill...Keith or What Happens in Como...

When Jake asked me to go on a hunting trip to Mississippi I was doubtful.  I’m not a hunter but I really wanted to go to see what it was like at a real Mississippi hunting camp.  You see I’m from the north and Jake is from Louisiana. That really shouldn’t matter but I think you can guess that there were some differences in how we looked at things.  We drove from New Orleans to a small town in the middle of Mississippi just north of Oxford. Jake found the driveway easily but all I saw was overgrown tangle of bittersweet and thorn bushes. We drove up the long winding driveway as I anticipated coming into a courtyard in front of a large rambling southern rustic hunting Camp. 

However the building was a vintage, aged southern plantation complete with wraparound porch tall columns in a series of outbuildings that, from a distance, looked like a movie set.  Jake drove his pickup right up close to the porch. That was when I noticed some serious differences between a classic movie set and a real-life scene from Deliverance. Three men were sitting around a stainless steel high-legged fire pot on various types of seating; a white moldy plastic fake Adirondack chair, a broken wooden high-back chair, the front seat passenger side of a Volkswagen beetle, and a wooden bench that look like it was about to collapse under the weight of a beaming, greasy, long haired drunk weighing at least 300 pounds.  He is set up with some effort but surprising grace and introduce himself as Norfleet Ruffin Sledge, the SIXTH, and welcomed me to his home and estate with an ice cold Budweiser.  As he threw his own empty bottle down a nearby well, I knew I was going to like this place.  When I saw two all-terrain vehicles in the yard and 4-5 rifles and shotguns leaning up against the crumbling porch, I knew I was going to love it. 

We threw another hunk of some ancient looking plank onto the fire and everyone stood up to greet Jake warmly, cursing and teasing good-naturedly and of course passed around more beer.

“Hey Jake and Tom, throw your stuff in the house, get your guns, and let’s go take a drive!”

We headed up the broken steps to the more broken porch, opened a rusted wooden screen door and walked into hell.  The room was a smelly shambles of moldy mattresses on rusty metal springs and piles of muddy, wet hunting clothes in every corner.  Three TV’s were on in three different rooms all playing the same porno-video tape over and over with the volume turned down to a low moan.  Jake walked over to the cleanest bed, picked up all the blankets, clothing along with some stale Fritos and empty beer bottles and threw the bundle into the nearest corner chair.  He then cleared the bed next to his and spread out a clean blanket and our own sleeping bags before he put down any of his clothing and gear.  I did the same.  In a few minutes we were outside and climbed into an old Ford Bronco which was running in the driveway with Norfleet in the passenger side and two men in the backseat. The driver seat was empty.  I thought it was for the designated driver but it appears that when Jake arrives he always drives.  I learned much later that this was probably a very good idea and kept most of us alive.

More beer was passed around and we started down one of the trails leading away from the house.  Just as we entered the woods at sunset another car pulled into the driveway it was a late model Ford or Chevy, looked very clean and somehow out of place.  A small, thin, nervous young man jumped out of the car, waved his hands excitedly at us and ran over to Jake’s window. I heard a collective groan from everyone in the Bronco and the words “Oh Shit, we are too late! Keith’s here!”

“Hi guys! Hi Jake!  Hows Valerie and the kids?”

“Shut-up Keith and get in the God damn truck if you are coming!”  (this was from all four men in the Bronco)

“OK guys! Just wait a minute until I change and I’ll be right back”

More shit and goddamnits and beer later, Keith returns with an obviously new or recently laundered Eddie Bauer down vest in Mossy Oak Camo, with matching zippered pants and an orange hat.  I get out, Norfleet gets out of the passenger seat, shoves Keith into the middle seat in the back and offers me his spot riding shotgun with Jake.   By now, it is getting dark so Jake turns on the one headlight and the one, opposite, foglight as well as the light bar (with 2 of 4 lights out) and we roared off into the dark down one of the many trails made just wide enough for an ATV or one truck...

  to be continued - stopped here  on 11/11/14 at 7 am  - FTC

The Spirit of Eagle Lake - October, 2014

The Spirit of Eagle Lake

Part One – written in August, 2014 after my first trip to the Eagle Lake Sporting Camp.  On the last night there I joined Alan Theriault by the fire pit on the shore overlooking Eagle Lake.  It was August but the air had cooled from the day and was perfect for reflecting on a great day canoeing and exploring the lake and the Thoroughfare where we watched a bull moose as he watched us before he turned and quickly disappeared into the woods.  Along with the smoke from the fire and the red wine I was inspired to write this poem:

It was almost dusk over Eagle Lake

When he made his ghostly visit

I couldn’t move from my wooden seat

Afraid that I might miss it.

I froze in place daring not to move

As he turned his massive head

Towards me as if he knew

That my dream was now my dread.

His eyes were sad and tired, too

As if he had never slept

Ancient tracks of many tears

Told me he constantly wept.

Saddened by the changing times

And the changes at Eagle Lake

He searched my face with many questions

I wondered if I had made a mistake.

Part Two – continued in October, 2014

He turned to face

His home, the wood

Rack held low,

Sad, he stood.

But, looking back

He saw a light.

It was too late,

He walked into the night.

Behind his back

They came “en mass”

To save the camp

“Renaissance”, at last.

They fixed the cabins,

Rebuilt the docks,

Stoked the fires,

And cut off the locks

Historic birch bark

On a hand-hewn log.

Plaster chinked

By the lake shore fog.

Tables were set,

Curtains were drawn.

Open of business

A brand new dawn.

The men and women

Came to see

Eagle Lake Sporting Camp

And History.

They laughed at night

Tall tales were told

Awakening the Spirit

From a winters cold.

He stood up, stiff

And stared towards the camp.

What noise is this?

He gave his great hooves a stamp.

He lumbered with care

And noiselessly stood

Peering into windows

Hidden by wood.

The camp was alive

Each cabin was saved

Alan and his family

Brought camp back from grave.

The Spirit was moved

He gave his antlers a shake,

Turned in his tracks

Found his family, awake.

They all walked the path

Their ancestors made before

From woods to the camp

By the Eagle Lake shore.

Now three stood together

Three Spirits, alive

Glad to be watching.

The camp will survive!

Now we all can enjoy

This great camp

Where Eagles fly

And the bull moose stamp.

If you get the chance

And you don’t mind the drive,

Head straight for the lake

Where the Spirits are alive.

Settle into your cabin,

Breathe clean, balsam air.

Walk down to the shore

At night, if you dare.

Sit down by the fire

As the Spirits awake.

If you are lucky you will see him

The Spirit of Eagle Lake.

F. Thomas Crowley, Jr.

Lincolnville Beach, Maine

October 28, 2014

Blood Springs...Spring Blood

“Blood Springs…Spring Blood”

A few years ago, a young man from Hope who worked with me told me his family had a sugar house and made their own Maple syrup.  "Excellent! - Tell your parents I will write them a poem for a small jar of their maple syrup.  In fact, I will write it in advance, right now, for them".  I did not have any paper so I wrote this poem on a wooden board and handed it to him.  On the following Monday, he brought in my maple syrup AND gave me back my original poem.  I still have it, despite the desperate search for kindling that occurred this winter.   I hope you do not mind me "re-purposing" this old poem.

Senior citizen

With snowy mane

Bleeds so you

Can dream again.

You stabbed him

Time and time anew.

Each time he bled

And stared at you.

There was no hatred

Nor judgment from him.

A hint of smile

Shivered ancient limbs.

You drank his blood

Each drop held dear.

Amber gold

From crystal tear.

You feel no shame

You will strike again

In one more year

When the sap runs clear.

Tom Crowley

4/09/2014

This version has changes from original

Written on a wooden plank -  4/7/09

POETRY MONTH (AGAIN) 2014

The other night I went to my first Poetry reading thing at the library. Holy shit. These people are serious and use really big words!  They also refer to OTHER poets and a lot of the people in the room (not me) knew who they were talking about...They also talked about where they went to GRAD school and where they learned to write and from whom.  I was totally awestrcuk and felt like an idiot.  I had a little poem in my pocket which I had just written an hour before the meeting.  I didn't want to read it at all.  But, then, I decided to read it EARLY on so I wouldn't chicken out.  My poem actually rhymed and was pretty "sophomoric"  (big word that means "dumb")  I read it and they seemed to like it but they were all polite and liked everyones poems.  It was nice.  I am glad I went.

Local Merchant Attacked!

LOCAL MERCHANT ATTACKED ON SHARP’S WHARF!

It was 9 o’clock on a moon-lit night

when we heard the anguished cry.

A merchant attacked by his featured fare,

as Kay Tucker and I passed by.

The scene of the crime was Sharp’s Wharf,

the victim was Lobster Stu.

The suspect escaped in the waning light,

A bloody glove was our only clue...

It seems a crustacean selected

took umbrage with his fate for the night.

So he pinched Lobster Stu on the finger.

As he dropped to the deck, he took flight.

As the wound and the pain caused commotion,

the assailant headed straight for the sea.

To the harbor and then to the ocean

as the lobster, on the lamb, did flee.

A posse was formed in an instant.

They were witty and quick on their feet.

Sam Yorty and Kay Tucker were aided

by a FULL MOON over Bayview Street.

He was stopped on the dock looking guilty

as they blocked, he looked ready to “Dodge”.

As Stu picked him up, it was our turn to sup,

so we took him right home to our lodge.

Rubber bands make good cuffs for a Lobster.

Hot water made the suspect lurch.

We dispensed with Miranda quite quickly

opting for a body cavity search...

As we ended the interrogation,

we saw blood on the left rubber cuff.

I’m not surprised that we missed it,

distracted by a lot of green stuff!

The moral of this true Adventure

will be clear to all but a few.

If you like to pinch, you won’t get an inch,

If you try it with Lobster Stu!

F. Thomas

Friday, August 19, 1994

Snow Melt

Snow Melt

The snow melts, revealing secrets

An empty bottle, thrown

April is the cruelest month

The old man died alone.

He waited through the winter

His wife had left him there.

But he could not bear the spring

Watching her garden, bare.

The ground was thawing daily

It would soon be time to plant

He stared out of the window

His memory fading, scant.

The harvest would be slim this year

He dug the hole quite deep

He climbed inside, close to her

And laid his head down, to sleep.

The snow melt dripped down jagged sides

His face got wet and grave.

He climbed back out and got a tarp

From  his boat “Be Not Afraid”

She would not sail, he could not row.

They agreed to separate paths.

Him to sail and her to grow.

That year would be their last.

Each day he left, sail bag in hand.

He waved as he crossed the field

To step his mast and ply the waves

Neither wished to yield.

The corn grew well, the wind died down

She weeded, sowed, and reaped

He put his canvas sails away

And met her in the keep.

They knelt beside the brussel sprouts

He pulled the wrong thing twice.

She kissed him on the top of his head

And said “water would be nice”

He rose, brushed off his soiled knees

It was harder now, to stand.

Returning to her side, he sat,

A glass of water in his hand.

She laughed, that wondrous smile beamed

He laughed too at the joke.

They sat together on the ground

The air cool, smelling of wood smoke.

The snows then came, the jars were opened,

Butter beans, peas  and corn.

The boat was covered with the tarp

The wood stacked in the barn.

She slept, like death, arose no more

They found them both in bed.

A gentle smile on her face

He slept on, like the dead.

There was no funeral, children gone.

Her ashes were in a Ball jar.

He sprinkled them on her flower bed

By the back door, not too far.

But here he was, close to her

Like she always wanted him to be.

He wondered if she felt him there

As the wind rose on the sea.

He stood up in the grave

To take one last look around.

And saw a gull perched on the boat

And a crow walking on the ground.

“Be gone!”, he cried, to scare them off

“I am trying to rest in my grave!”

The last words he saw were on the stern:

And read “Be Not Afraid”.

FTC – 3/30/14

Lincolnville Beach, Maine

Lost Poem, Poetry Lost

Lost Poem, Poetry Lost

One time I wrote a poem

It wasn’t very good.

I left it in a drawer

To age like seasoned wood.

I thought about that poem

It took awhile to write.

But I Ieft it in the drawer

I will look for it tonight.

I forgot to check the drawer

A friend came by for wine.

I will check on it tomorrow

Tomorrow should be fine.

A week went by, then another two

I think I will read it tonight

I left it in an old dresser

In the barn where I can write.

The night was cold, the barn was dark

The dresser wasn’t there.

I doubt that it had disappeared or

Vanished in thin air.

I looked around in panic

The poem grew better with time.

But I still could not find the dresser

I had lost my greatest rhyme!

I knew it was a masterpiece!

How could I have let it go?

Written with #2 Ticonderoga

I t was gone for good, I know.

I always keep the original

Each one a precious thing to save.

No matter how or where I wrote it

So I can take them to my grave.

I can write another one

But it will never be the same

As the one I left in the drawer that day

It could have brought me fame!

Tom Crowley

 4/4/14 – 5: 48 pm

Lincolnville Beach

Still Life

Still Life in the old pencil!

sort of like "lead" in the pencil

but you have to move it around

the paper to make it work.