A Believer's Journal

among scattered clouds orange sun looms
        still high in the southwestern sky
its orange light bathing orange sandstone boulders
        jumbled in shallow emerald waters

from high above we first spy the pond
        this jewel among the mountain peaks
an beatific island floats at it center
        and dark green spruce crowd its banks

following sea blue blazes and stacked stone cairns
        we descend the grey granite ridge
tired legs and tired lungs
        still recovering from the grueling climb

at the shores of the alpine pond
        we gaze over its glistening waters
delighted by the flittering schools of chub at our feet
        and promising splashes farther out

after shedding our day packs
        we zip off the bottoms of convertible hiking pants
and replace hiking boots with water shoes
        eager for a fishing adventure

we piece together fly rods
        and rig lines and reels
doing our best to ignore the swarming black flies
        as we assemble leaders and tippets

I tie on a hare’s ear wet fly
        with soft partridge hackle
wading out over slippery rocks
        to a stable spot from which to cast

the next two hours will see many casts
        a few overeager chub brought to hand
and six magnificent, extraordinarily beautiful, elegantly exquisite — did I say, magnificent?
        Tumbledown Pond brook trout

duck harbor sunset
(an acrostic poem)

black silhouette of mast and forestays pierce
cotton candy clouds edged in waning light
dark limbs of jagged spruce and duck harbor’s looming headland
extrude from the periphery of the photograph
framing the numinous scene ever seared into memory
gracious moment intimating an inexpressible
holiness for which neither word nor image suffice
ineffable, transcendent, and sublime

into the familiar flow of an ordinary day
there breaks a brief instant
of exquisite longing

not for another world, but for this world
for what it could be, what it should be
what it can be

longing for synchronicity
for synchronous affinity, for multilateral humility
for unrelenting comity

for eyes attentive
to subtle tonalities of stone and leaf
and human skin

for ears attuned
to the glorious cacophonies of wind and wave, of bird song
and human speech

for hands offered
palms open, not fists closed, intimating the offer too
of a human heart

for mouths enouncing words
not to cajole or outdo or intimidate, not to revile or ridicule or fulminate
but to reveal, disclose, elucidate, to heal, delight, appreciate

longing for an unquenchable thirst for life itself
and for the glory of sharing it, one with an other
one with every other

into the familiar flow of an ordinary day
there breaks the breathtaking luminescence
of an exquisite longing

Rogacious fingers clatching the butt of his fly rod,
He swang its stendorous tip into the suppellment,
Setting the creffalated caddis gently onto the tordent waters.

He watched as the tribullent fish plutted back and forth,
Back and forth across the grobbled bed of the sliffent stream,
Slipping souciously from one bromulated eddy into the next.

He waited patiently as the inkled trout sluffed his lure,
One time, two times, and a third, wippily, purtuously,
Until, with a sudden flimp, the fish scrobbled the fly.

At once, he prammeled the rod tip and sevelled the hook,
Feeling the hoffal of the fringent fish on the end of his line,
As it swam sgentuously into the heart of the prunsic current.

Giving line, then lallently taking it back, torble by torble,
He coaxed the rediant trout toward his enturpated net,
At last, swarping it up with a cry of declant.

For a moment, he hoppled his grantilous quarry in the water,
Admiring its brantitude and its unmatched entillity,
Before letting it siffle from the net and swim quandrously away.

Love is not delicate but fierce,
No fair flower, fragile and fleeting,
Flourishing rapturously for a time
Before fading in the face of frigid fall winds.

Love is fierce and unflinching,
Unflagging patient, insistently persistent,
Bravely navigating the caprices of this life,
Fading and re-blooming, faltering and rising again.

Love is no rare treasure,
No prize of fickle fortune
Celebrated in song and fable
Sought by many, but found only by a fortunate few.

Love is as common as it dares to be,
Its path not hard to find, but daunting to undertake,
Long and sometimes laborious, uncertain but certainly formidable,
Reaping its rewards, both at its end and all along the way.

cruel indignity

        awakened some minutes before way too early
        muted moaning escalating to pitiful whining
        then a sudden yelp or insistent bark

        is it a cry of pain or frustration
        an urgent plea for help or an evocation of despair
        I don’t know and maybe he doesn’t either

        leveraging myself from the bed
        I leverage him, hoisting heavy and trembling body
        to stand over legs now all too unreliable

cruel indignity

        he staggers forward, stopping and starting
        sometimes just standing, as if lost
        not knowing or not caring what to do next

        trundling, stumbling, crumbling over the threshold
        he saunters round the corner of the porch to leave his refuse there
        unwilling and unable to descend the few steps into the snowy yard

        sometimes he doesn’t make it that far
        raising himself, somehow, in the night
        to urinate or defecate within the house that is called by his name

cruel indignity

        beautiful thick coat now bedraggled and smelly
        listless and laggard now at his brother’s invitations to play
        body collapsing, legs splaying, beside his supper bowl

        sleeping most of the night and the day, peacefully enough
        but restless and demanding when awake
        out and in, up and down, unable to be satisfied

        endearing, affectionate companion now provoking irritation
        his disrupted life disrupting mine
        our being together, once a consummate blessing, now an ordeal

cruel indignity … and heartbreaking ending

        just this morning, a sudden turn for the worse
        out once in early morning, but now struggling futilely to rise
        spirit willing but flesh weak and broken beyond repair

        I put my hands under his chest and lift, in vain
        body uncentered, wholly off balance, legs limp and useless
        I carry him outside and he poops as I hold him

        I lay him on his bed and stroke his muzzle
        and in the midst of the struggle and the sadness and the losing
        there is a moment of peace and of deep gratitude

goodbye, Stoney Bear