Poems and Stories

Wednesday, April 9, 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

Sunday, April 6, 2014

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