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