Raymond A. Foss
April 29, 2009
Poems read for the class (not in exactly this order)
Nouns Verbs and AdjectivesWe added words, one by one
onto the blackboard
at the front of the classroom
little arms raised in the air
sometimes too excited to wait
words blurted out,
urgent important words
They were nouns, verbs, and adjectives
words of a walk in the woods
All are worthy, all valid
at least for him, for her
String together, communally
amid laughter, easy, fun
together writing a poem
before they wrote their own
with their own words
nouns, verbs, adjectives
and adverbs, daringly
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A Walk in the Woodssitting at the end of the dinner
thinking of a walk in the woods
just before fall
not in the deep unfamiliar thick forest
no something familiar
suburban woods
looking for opportunities for discovery,
for moments of wonder
in simple things
curled leaves, a translucent leaf
from another season,
sprigs of checkerberries
princess pine
moss on the lee of the fallen oak
a chipmunk darting through leaf litter
a dragonfly disturbed
at the edge of the field
nearby
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Snail TracksDown by the water’s edge
in the space between the tides
tiny little roads for one
the furrowed rows
meandering to the sea
of the snails cast by the surf
up onto the beach
purposely fighting
to push their way
into the water
for dear life
Struggling but persevering
because they must
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DunesAn old weathered section of snow fencing
half buried in the lee of the dune
gray skin gnarled by wind and water
saw grass and beach plum bloom
intertwined with the rusted wire
holding the slats of the fence
flip flops and sandals
lined up along the path
leading to the Atlantic
warm white sand drifted
mirroring the swells and troughs
undulating offshore
under la luna’s spell
Martha’s Vineyard, ca 1995
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Beach GlassHow do you beach?
Sorry, don’t want to get
Too personal
Just asking, to get a perspective
To put us on the same page.
Do you lay in place
drink in the rays, melt the stress?
Or maybe play – ball, Frisbee, or V-ball?
Not me. I walk, the length of the beach
Too restless to sit
Lost in my own thing
Looking for shells, people,
and beach glass.
Taking in the scene;
Hoping I remember where I left her
on my return.
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Beach SandMaybe it is the memories
the change of pace that brings us there
the sense of vacation
maybe the smell of the place
the sights of the gulls, the dunes, the grasses
but oh it is the feel of it,
the crunch and slide of it
the feeling of beach sand
so different from dirt, soil, loam
no, not earthy, moist, rich,
but oh so granular and gritty
even when wet,
moveable paper spreading under toes
sliding beneath the soles
smoothing my skin
clearing my mind
unburdening me of the rest
drawing me to the tactile, the feel
of beach sand
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Dollars in the SandHead turned down to the sand
sunburn to be, on the back of my neck
looking for the little treasures
at the edge of the lapping waves
glistening wet bits of gifts of the sea
tumbled, exposed, revealed
for those who share the wonder
of the little children
further on down the beach
bits of sand dollars, of beach glass, shells
barnacles on the seaweed, the driftwood
prized possessions for my shelf
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Sand Castles Molded and shaped
Specks of the rocks they once were
Packed and organized in the buckets
Like the seconds of our lives
Held together,
The stories of us
On the beach, in the sun
Working with the girls to create
A mighty fortress, regal and expansive
A myth
Thanks to Shanequa’s
Errant bucketful of destruction
Giggle and shriek
Splash, spill, dribble
Squander, linger
In the mote we created
Breached walls
A mirage of strength
Our handiwork flowing
Back to the water
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A Lobster PotA lobster pot
tossed by the sea
onto the rocks
wedged in the jetty
between the boulders
of the breakwater
pristine, but barnacled,
seaweeded, lost, adrift
crashed where we found it
in the jagged wet rocks,
on the Maine coast
that long ago summer
climbing down among the stones
to bring it up, into the light
no minor feat
Lug the dead weight
down the jetty,
to the beach
abandon our find,
our catch
to true owners
claiming their rights
as we left the rocks
and touched the sand
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Windward DawnWe were alone with our thoughts
Warm breezes off the southerly ocean
murmur of sea foam on a soft expanse of sand
a solitary couple, alone with each other
for our wonderful show, repeated daily
Early morning on the beach
long before the commotion of day
gazing at the horizon and beyond
through bleary eyes,
thick with northern slumber
Ready to drink in the cascades of color
as the artist paints the windward dawn
before us
Reeling from the brightening sky
like fireworks too close
rich yellows morphing to white
ripping through clouds of grays,
slate blue, and whites
Ours alone to share
on our honeymoon
in our memories
in the whispered language
of love
December 16, 2005 16:25
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GlassworksMesmerized, watching
The skill, artistry
Effortlessness in the heat
Of the sweating craftsmen
In the beach air
On the Vineyard
Living,
Molten glass, clear
Droop on the shaft
Entering the
Orange maw
Mouth of the furnace
Glow yellow
from the warming
Glistening wet
Grow with the blow
Liquid and free
Spin and catch
Supple flesh
Add color and form
Enter again
Translucence now
Hot gases
Fill the space
Wipe brow
Enter again
Cool and gel
Cut from the pipe
Clutched like a robin’s egg
By a toddler’s wonder
Placed to firm and harden
Into permanent wonder
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A Field of FernsAbove the bluff, the scar,
the clear-cut of the power lines,
a forest of pine opens
to the north
Surrounded by conifers,
a field of ferns, rising on sturdy
erect stalks, broad leaves
to drink the shafts of light
falling briefly, through the canopy
the tall mast pines, straight and true
red-brown needles, a carpet between
the ferns, the regal trees, an evenness
of surface, short pile rug
green ferns, red-brown needles,
green-brown trunks, bright green needles
above, reaching to blue sky
----------------------
SausageForget the frank,
Give me the Fenway sausage.
Lansdowne or Yawkey,
Just give me the street, the crowds, the carts.
Sausage you shrug, you the reader
Of this trifle, this whimsy
What do I mean, me the storyteller
Read on.
Peppers and onions
Tease the tongue
Bun and hot mustard
Set the stage
The scorched and blackened piece of meat
Reminds me of every one
Eaten before
So much memory
Of family and fun
Of ballgames, tailgates, and the carnie
A cacophony of moments
Drip with grease
Do you smell it too on the smoky hot grill?
My lips curl with a smirk
Writing these lines
As I laugh to myself
Of the pleasures of excess
The lusty gluttony
Of another one.
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Night in New Orleans (Nuhawluns)
The Big Easy
A world away
From home
My ears rang and sang
With the loud jazz music
The jumbalaya
And red crawfish taste like magic
To my tongue.
The crowds, the colorful noise, the spicy coffee
Music like a brush fire.
I see it all/hear it all
Still again
Rhythm and movement
Hips grind
Body sways
I lick my lips
And smile
For the music and food
Of my soul
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RedsRich vibrant, living color
Dying on the branch
In glory as I drive by
A canopy over my way
Or buttresses along the living border
Of the blacktop I traverse
Saturated, tickling synapses
Charming my eyes, beguiling
Oranges, yellows, and reds:
Candy apple, empire, merlot, barn and fire engine
Fighting for their share, their due
On the canvas
Tree after tree, mile on mile
On the ground, the road, the sky
In clouds and whirls
Filling my vision
Sun sky clouds frame the mood
Backdrop and highlight
Juxtaposed light and shadow
Fall clouds, showers and rainbow
Over the harvested corn field,
Ground turned over
And rolling hills beyond
A curtain call of October
For the failing blood
The fleeting chlorophyll
Gone for another season, another cycle
Neither etched nor burned into memory
But part of the collective
The knowing - fall near and at home
Warm and enduring again
Comfort food for other senses
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Red Sox Win Red Sox win
Yankees lose
A story so big
It led the news
Bumped politics
Down the page
It may even reduce
New England road rage
A-Rod and Jeter
What can be sweeter
Oh look,
We caught a cheater
Taking two from them
In their park
Big Papi
Was our spark
Down and out
A three-oh slide
Not the end for this
Team with Pride
Red Sox Nation
Delirious
This whole World Series
Will be just as serious.
Reverse the Curse
All these ages
So this club’s history
Will fill more pages
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The LedgesEight silent canoes
Pushed off onto the still waters
At 2am on a July night.
The full moon and stars
To guide us across the lake
And down river.
The loon and bullfrog
The only sound
Save for the sound of
The bite of the paddle,
The drizzle of water off the blade,
And hulls breaking the surface.
No one spoke,
None of we sixteen.
Lost in our own thoughts
Not wanting to break
The spell
The night and the water
Held on us all.
----------------------
NightfallThe sun drops behind the shore,
The sky aglow.
Nightfall on the water.
I pull and push
The canoe away from shore.
Longing for the warmth.
The great blue heron
Perched on the skeleton
Of the ancient pine,
Silhouetted on the
Oriole sky.
The skin of the lake
Ablaze in orange, yellow, and black.
Waves swelled and fell.
The canoe pitched and bobbed.
The paddle blade leaves
Bright eddies on my side.
Colored lights on a deck
Elvis on the stereo
Easy laughter from a porch.
Failing light, all in shadows.
Dark houses, silent waters
A beaver before me.
He slaps his tail and dives
Shallow near shore.
We cross again,
Repeating the dance.
A light from my window
Guides me home.
Dark around me
All is still.
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Ribbons of ChildrenAmid the controlled chaos
the schoolyard, playground this morning
ribbons of children, running, skipping,
dancing over the blacktop,
being children, free, out in the open air
snaking their way, through the hopscotch
the jump rope, the tag and the banter
coursing, like ants to the nest
following a scent line in the dirt
no hands were held, but they moved
as if connected, giggling and
laughing all the way
August 29, 2008
Pembroke Village School
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