Fall Poems Inspired by Paintings and Photographs
Autumn is here and swirling with the gifts of rain at last in Central Oregon. Rain is dampening fires, cleansing bird feathers, awakening wilted fall flowers, and opening my pores to the possibilities of a new season. In that spirit, I’m sharing September poems. The first three I wrote for a Fall Ekphrastic poetry group, and always with gratitude to the fine poets who offered critiques. The last two are part of a “Refugia of the Blue Mountains” series with watercolor artist Robin Coen. We are honored to be the first of the new Wild Blues Artists in Residence program for the Greater Hells Canyon Council.
I’m leading with an Albert Bierstadt painting that brings back memories of delving deep into this painter’s life and works in sixth grade at Westtown Friends School in Pennsylvania. Each student chose an American artist to create a report by year’s end. Ever a romantic and longing for the West where our family had lived prior to Pennsylvania, I remember writing cursive letters to museums asking if they would send me prints for my project and excited for the mail’s arrival. I still revel in Bierstadt’s way of illuminating sunlight on great rivers and canyons, his attention to the detail of trees, and his inclusion of people only as how they appear within such grandeur–very small.
Albert Bierstadt Falls in Love
Who can turn their backs to Nevada Falls of the Yosemite?
To the pounding pummeling misting mighty magnificence?
I will paint people the size of ants attired in hats, suits, and flouncy skirts,
One woman sitting on a log, longing for the man who reaches his hand for the other.
Turn my brush to the greatest love story pouring from the cliff.
No holding back. This passion of shiny creamy frothing arias stirring my soul.
Live like this. Love like this. Paint as if this were my last day.
Catch a ride on a rainbow. Sweep all the lovers off their feet.
Sometimes I fall to my knees. Enraptured by ponderosas spearing the highest clouds,
sunlight streaming on roiling rivers. My heart split by lightning.
Quietus ( pantoum)
When churning engines jangle my peace
I go to the floating dandelion orb
Land on the untethered perch
Tuck my black feathered head inside
I go to my floating dandelion orb
Silky seeds soothe me into ephemeral silence
Tucking my aching feathered head inside
muffled from the cacophony
Silky seeds soothe me into ephemeral silence
as toes balance on a lichened twig
Muffled from the cacophony
a perfect globe within a broken world
As toes balance on a lichened twig
I know only this fragile eternity
A perfect globe within a broken world
before the wind puffs and scatters
I know only this fragile eternity
Future woven in a weightless ball
before the wind puffs and scatters
seeds like asterisks destined to bloom
Future woven in a weightless ball
where I land on the untethered perch
Seeds like asterisks destined to bloom
Churning engines jangle my peace
Abecedarian of a Peeling Lemon
Arranged upon a mauve tablecloth set for a garden goddess
butterfly bearing a strange “8P” tattoo on a marred wing
clasping the stem of a plucked blue flower petaled in fours, this
design a coquetry of lemon waving an arm of peeled skin
enchanting a bewildered house fly into landing upon tasteless
flecked rind. Essence of tang arcing over sliced fruit forms a
grinning mouth. Puckery blossom sour as the day
he left in a glass-stomping temper shattering her still life
ideals of afternoon tea time and smearing strawberry
jam on buttered crumpets, pale hand in his paw of a palm.
Kissing in the bliss of unknowing, assuming a gentle
lion of a lover, ignoring his predatory nature, even when he
mashed a beetle with the heel of his boot.
No matter now. She prefers the single crystal goblet,
Only the company of the garden goddess who never criticizes
paintings or scoffs at grand plans for exhibitions, or
questions her value as a woman with dreams. Good
riddance to him! Caterpillar no longer, she is ready.
Shed her tremulous timidity. Unfurl pulsing wings.
Tango out of her too still life. Peel and slice all that’s sour into
undulations of flying birds set free.
Vault every gate. Break every crystal glass ceiling.
Wiggle out of too-tight brassieres. Avoid all that’s
xeric and desiccating. Embrace what’s lush and slightly askew.
Yes! The goddess is clapping her wings
zinging away as the lemon rolls off the table.
Calliope hummingbird alights upon a hidden nest woven into the fork of a lodgepole pine. He takes no part in nest-building and raising chicks. Instead, the male courts a female with ascending flights and steep dives. But there’s more! Hovering close to her, he flares his magenta throat feathers like a starburst. If swayed, she may fly from her perch to spin with him in a tight circle as they clasp their slender beaks.
The Weaver
Spider silk she chooses .
Tough and sticky yarn
binding moss to bark, leaf to lichen
Cup nest to tree fork.
Living lichen she plucks.
Presses saucer shapes
to camouflage her tiny ball,
another knot in a knotty tree.
Feathers, thistle, and fur she gathers.
Lining for a cozy bed where
she will lay two white eggs
the size of lima beans.
Nestle in, fluffing her feathers,
warming new life.
One tiny cup nest
Knitted, woven, integral as
silk to spiders, fungi and algae to lichen,
feathers to birds, fur to rabbits,
leaves to stem, bark to trunk,
pollinator to wildflower.
Binding us together.
Our one little blue planet
This nest—too precious
to unravel.
The Wolverine Way
Rumpling downhill, a flying magic carpet
Wolverine races in a flow of muscle, sinew, and claw
Glossy torrent of cinnamon and ginger fur
Feet like snowshoes, head like bear, legs like badger
Wily and fierce as smaller kin of the weasel family
Wise in the ways of wandering high and wide, among
blizzard and buttercup, thunder and thrush song,
full moon and frosted breath. Fully alive!
