I sat under an azure sky to watch
My kind come and go.
Though few were innocent,
Innocence I saw in them that
Saturday afternoon.

Why I saw a man lift a child 10 feet in the air.
The child laughed with glee while the mother frowned,
Yet you could not mistake her pride in them
Saturday afternoon.

A boy came with a girl to walk in the park.
She hid her fears of him rather well, I thought.
Hardly looked at him as they walked that
Saturday afternoon.

He tried to impress and failed
But with courage that should be noted
He held her warm, moist hand on
Saturday afternoon.

I saw a man of some age looking to the sky.
A seagull circled. It seemed propelled by joy.
We knew in unison, by age and experience,
The white bird was another gift of that
Saturday afternoon.

My kind I observe with constant care;
Their sudden change is not rare.
But before I think of the father against the son;
Of the mother in the bars;
Of the boy with a gun;
Of the ******* drugs;
Of the man gone ill,
I will with magic protect our
Saturday afternoon.

It is done. Written.
Frozen in time,
Memories and lessons of this
afternoon.

© 2016

I see them pause to talk and wonder
What could be said between the ages of old and young
Of womanhood in full bloom, womanhood at near end
Except if not by word then by presence speak
Of the preciousness of life begun between their legs.
.

© 2016

Does memory serve right?
For memory says she stood
Upon that hill in summer’s light
Expressing perfect womanhood.

How could it be a girl in shorts and blouse
That summer’s light taught thru
Stand as Helen did at Troy
To represent idyllic womanhood?

What she stood for did she know?
To stand in view wrapped in morning’s light
To make her beauty clear.
She must have known the lure of womanhood.

Yet they say ancient rhythms first sound
Before teachers come for the innocent ones.
They say the dance is never shown
Before they know the love of womanhood.

The story lies, though truth resides within it:
Innocence wilts before beauty’s soft eyes.
And on that day, upon that verdant hill
She knew the truth and used it well
To bring me the blessings of womanhood.

© 2016

Because your life is short
I thought you should know
about lawn bowling and polite clapping
by women in summer dresses and white gloves
and men in white shirts with club ties
and black trousers who we called the other
and who stood on utter green grass that day
and played the game with dignity
in summer’s late perfect light,
and all was well,
all was very well
the day before we went to war
and killed them all.
I thought you should know
because your life is so short.

A gray day – cool, frost will come tonight.
And in the coolness they arrange the scene,
Just so during the waning light of day.

A scene of Christmastime, wreaths and lights
Adorn the doors and window frames.
Wealth and solidarity, joy and love I see in them.

They pose now before their work.
The camera snaps,
Their well-being so obviously displayed.

In the future they will go each by each,
Yet bound by such events
A family they will forever be.

Of that family I so record
In these observations from afar.
Now pray a grace protects them from the likes of me.

A poison is in the land
without antidote
we wait the effect.
May God bless America
in this her poisonous state.

At a window that looked to the edge of the sea,
within the home that sheltered her,
she perhaps saw me when I was callous
and need not care for her or the land or the sea.
Now I think I will soon join her
and perhaps then have time to speak to her
of the good earth and cleansing sea
and explain what she has finally come to mean to me.

Yet if there was a god I would need not explain.
If there was a god, protection of her would have sprung
for in goodness she was supreme.
Tell me why was her love for her god not rewarded?
Why was she left to suffer? Leave me.
Let me rage, fill the air curse to curse
for what of this god, this god whose back was turned
what do I owe him save my fury in equal measure to her love.

Look there. Her grave. Pitiful thing.
Who would know that the best of our lot lies below.
Build here a monument colossal in scope and size,
raise it to goodness, patience and forgiving love.
Hold. It does no good. Be deaf to a fool.
Surely I knew by having her her god was also there.
Then I cease here for my curse echoes to her.
Ah, but it is not fair — I live, she does not.



© 2016

The house, old and gray,
Sits back in a field
As houses did then,
Before cars came to compress the day.

From here I see the woods,
The river’s run, the spiral of the valley
Under clouds of rolling snow
To the road the machines come through.

I think I will stay here tonight
To keep company with the house,
And recreate the goodness of our small love,
To be ready for them when they come.

Yet I fear when they come
I will only say I came to watch
Machines destroy a house
Built with someone else’s small love.


© 2016

You expect it to happen.
Oh, how much you want it to happen.

But because you are not blessed
It will not happen to you.

It will happen to him.
And all the good in it will flow to him.

Without plan, without intention, without effort
He will gain at your loss.

So listen: Dance with the dream
For it holds everything you gave up for him.

The boat shudders against this force.
Thirty feet the rolling water comes against the bow.
Now again I hold the wheel, chance the wave,
Sliding down with a sickening sound,
Tossed hard up, careening down.
After the light I may be safe and sound.

Cold, cold this haggard wind.
Fail nothing now. Rolling up, hissing down,
Flesh against wood and the sickening sound,
Holding this craft against the shudder,
Hands bloodied from this rough rudder.
After the light I can be safe and sound.

The chance was taken, but no option ever given.
As they in my past did, so do I:
To sea to fish, to master whatever I see.
So to this storm-wracked sea I go with prayer
To see again the land and family.
After the light I will be safe and sound.



© 2016

The time is done I fear,
The time composed of all my years.
Soft paws stalk close to me.
Inevitable is its presence upon me.

I have seen it before,
Looming in full sight,
Oblivious to my terror.
Inevitable presence nosing at me.

I often thought merit given, honors achieved,
Wealth amassed would shield me from this:
Foolish that. Soft paws stalking me.
Inevitable is its presence upon me.

I see well the instruments of its will.
Strange, I find fear of it unfulfilled.
What I ran from now I accept. Let me see,
Inevitable presence, the place you have for me.

Closer still. Hesitate not now.
Soft now. Silence now. Upon your back
I go, gently. Conduct me to whatever is my end,
Merciful presence.


© 2016

There is that tree in the park,
The one those men converse under,
Of what was, should have been,
Before their loss.

Under a winter sun I once heard them say
The truth while lying all the same,
Of how things were and
How came their loss.

Go hear those men by the tree.
They speak from near the end,
Of love found and lost,
Of what might come,
If love is not lost.


© 2016

Young girls, there were two, in boots, pink and blue,
     standing near the cold, angry sea,
Shouting over the wind,
     giggling at the sea and the world of us,
     and dreaming of life to come.
And for all that surrounded them
     they were all that was good and precious and worthy
     to be held as shining.
And though we will fail them and they us
     we should not forget them, diminish them
     for they were all we will ever be on that day
When the cold, green Atlantic raged before their play.

© E. C. Vadnais

The mill reflects in the pond
The pond that fed the dynamo
The dynamo that powered the mill
That fed the people who worked the mill
Who grew sick and old in the mill
Who knew little else other than the mill
That consumed all their worth
That clawed at their children to come within.

Fallow mill: just a reflection in a pond,
Scoured yesterday by evening storm,
Slapping water high upon walls still strong.
A lovely reflection washed and washed again,
Glazed and glazed again to shine
As if there was no past,
No responsibility for the pain.


© 2016
.

I want to know what is important to you;
I want to know how you think,
Because it is important to me.
No – that is not true.
I know how you think.
It rings in my ears like low-tongued bells.

I stay near you even as you harm me
With your snake-like ferocity,
Which never warns of its need to strike,
Because I have been blessed with a clarion curiosity
Which seeks to glean root-like the differences
Between the one of me and the many of you.



© 2016

On a flat gray sea a freighter moves
     to feed, to care, to improve,
     sunlight gone, lights blaze,
     against the careless sea
     the freighter goes, little by little.


© 2016

Where is that little boy?
The one I saw riding down the grassy hill.
I saw him look down that hill,
Summon courage, gauge the drop,
Judge the moment before he might be lost.

Was he lost?
I saw him make the run,
The spokes of his bicycle flashing in the sun.
Twice he ran the hill, sharp right and
Sped along the river as if he could not be lost.

Was he lost?
While I was gone did he go?
Tell me no, though I know
Boys grow to be men
Not far from loss.


© 2016

I don’t know about that light.
Clean it seems, quite warm and bright,
Joy enclosed in a single sight, it seems to me.

Will you not say what you see
Within the envelope of that light?
Do you see similar to me?

Or is what I see individual to me?
Am I alone in what I see?
Please tell me what you see?

If not, say nothing to me.
How can you understand me,
If you do not see the same as me?

Yet I fear you ignoring me.
I need to tell you what I see;
You are after all, all I have of me.


© 2016

A ship passed to sea
in sunlight on cloudless water
though ruffled sea-foam trailed behind,
and by chance I saw it before it was no more
forevermore gone to the open sea
away from me
who made it be
by observing it
pass through the sea.


© E. C. Vadnais

Since boyhood came the sound.

At eight in a field of snow
Under a sky blue and high
I heard the sound.

At sixteen after love’s embrace
On sheets stiff and white
I heard the sound.

At twenty-two in a place green and lush
Under skies filled with war
Above all I heard the sound.

At thirty-two in early morning light
As I comforted my infant son
I heard the sound.

The sound of all the world trying to fall in love.


© 2016

Girl walking,
Full sunlight shining,
On the beach,
On her figure
Slightly hidden.

All eyes watching,
As she moves.
All to see
A million years
From the slime of the sea.

As it is now,
As it was before,
As it will be,
They come to see,
To touch,
All of them the same to you.

With scorn or love you take them,
Your gifts allow the choice.
Gifts honored before honor to the Cross,
Before the word reached us
Your gifts called and we came to you
In suspension of belief.

I see you looking in the glass.
No, do not turn to find me.
By chance your powers I can ignore.
Take no alarm: I only wish to observe
To report, as it were, on woman served,
The human made whole at birth by chance.

By chance, as on a train
You saw in passing
A girl and boy by darken woods kiss.
No comfort could beauty offer then,
For in those woods something moved;
Something came as if to call.

A tossing of your hair, a crossing of your legs,
Lipstick reapplied, a man’s flirtatious eye.
The first embrace, you hear and feel him sigh
As the darken woods slide by.
The girl and boy you pretend never meet again;
The thing in the woods blessed beauty avoids again.

Now know what you avoid comes to all
To transform, to move, to mitigate.
Yesterday it held a woman plain of form, of face.
It touched her here, it touched her there.
She laughed and sent it away to seek fairer form, fairer face.
Age to her seemed no disgrace.

She spoke to me of the poets she had read –
They warn of beauty’s trap, she said.
Beauty conquers all; beauty fades fastest of all.
Simple of form and face, lovers few – even young, she endured.
Balanced now – where desire lies she finds her place;
With love for one she surrenders nakedly.

Such grace she showed.
Can beauty compare?
Or at my touch will she cringe
As if a polished blade caressed her flawless skin.
Come beauty, come –
With age let us see what haughty beauty does.

© 2016

And in between the ice and the fire we created,
And the creations were poor but some we used,
And those we remembered,
And in our best moments built upon them,
So in the time between the ice and the fire,
We became those creations,
Because they were all we were allowed to be,
As if something would not let us move beyond them,
For some reason or perhaps for no reason,
For it may be blind and moves without knowledge,
Other than the need to move to the next ice or fire.


© 2016

He said to me he had a wife and child
and one day he just grew tired,
left them he did, but couldn't say why.
On the road he met others like me and
around campfires we looked at the stars
and laughed at the towns we had seen.

And you know we always knew our freedom would end:
age would catch us, animals eat us, the cold ****** us.
George, that was his name, said he had a plan for it
but of course it wasn't sane, though we listened to it good.

Then one day on a high bridge I saw him go,
arms and legs spread wide as if in flight,
the splash so small I thought him right,
he had suffered enough to get the end right.


© 2016

Quiet now.
The children are dead.
Do you understand?
The children are dead.

Words you see,
Just words, you see, you hear.
But do you understand?
The children are dead.

We are responsible.
Do you understand?
The children are dead.
Shot.

We have loss our right to speak.
Quiet now.
Tonight in Newtown
Children are dead.



© 2016

The sky hangs close in a shade quit blue,
And below the boys ride the waves,
And the surf crashes and rolls,
And someone laughs,
And someone yells – in joy,
And the young strut,
And the old remember,
And I observe,
Do be aware.




© E. C. Vadnais 2016

On the clothesline the tablecloth hangs
And its pattern moves in the breeze
And in the blue sky sunlight
And against the strength of the line.
And in no other place does it reside
Except here and now in your mind.

It is not enough to see the world
Spread out in frenzy.
Not enough the lilies bloom,
Not enough until we say so.
Not enough bees come and go,
Not enough unless we think so.


© 2016

In the summer we fished the lake
in the high country where the sky touches the land
and the water of the lake is black because of its depth
and cold because of the mountains
and the fish in it are big and fight hard
and taste wonderful when cooked over a campfire.
We slept under the stars then
and fell asleep naming the constellations,
and during the night the wolves came down to look at us.
We were not afraid of them because we were invincible
back then and the world bent to our strength.
In the morning we bathed in the lake and then fished again
and all day you could see the line zipping through the soft pure air
and the plug going through the water and the fish coming in to it
and the sound of them fighting us.
We didn’t talk then, just fought the fish
and listened to that world vanishing around us.


© 2016

The sea does hate the land. For I tell you
   under a white full moon that lit the break of horrid surf,
   under cliffs of changing rock and hard sowed grass,
   I saw the sea strike the treasurable earth with vengeance.


© 2016

It may all depend
On the silliness of a boy
Sitting on the roof of a car
In a graveyard,
In the gentle shade
Of a summer afternoon.


© 2016

I see you, severe and strong,
hands upon a massive stone,
building a wall along a line,
dividing his from yours, fields and woods.

I see you place the stone,
build the wall true to line,
stone-upon-stone, a mile long,
marking evermore yours and his.

Now here’s the case I build against you and him:
You claim yours forever more will not be his,
forevermore he says his will not be yours
but what I build shuts out those claims
and disdains all agreements between you and him.

Now know today evergreens grow
through the walls of stone laid down
along the lines of map and grid
agreed upon by you and him
of what fate proved was never yours or his.


© 2016

With the printer's art Congress declares to reward
All citizens who watch all citizens of a certain sort
For they are said to be in the shadows of our land
Plotting terror of the most terrible sort,
To maim our babies’ precious limbs,
To spur our fear of the Other’s ambitious will.

So I have you, don’t you see,
Because your piety is suspicious to me.
Deceptively, maliciously I say you act
And call for the reward the law says you’re worth.
Oh yes, you will do. Money in the till.
Praise the law and my virtuous will.

With the charges pressed by me,
Have no doubt to trail you will go.
How proud I will be to see you stand
Before your peers sitting there in fear.
Stranger, admit I have you on the run.
Pay my price, or face my ambiguous will.



© 2016

I saw a little girl plant a tree
on a beach by a watchful lapping sea;
her mother dug the hole
and by lark I guess covered in the tree.

To their sturdy neighborhood, I then saw them go:
to family, friends, perhaps we may say too
one to a moon-dipped lover, lulling by the shore.

Skip and hop, spin and swirl, laugh aloud, hand-in-hand,
bare-foot princesses dancing through august light.
Whatever cares they share hidden by delight.


I will remain, I think, with the tree.
Soon and carefully I will take it
to a place of loving worms in dark, moist earth,
to dig it a home free of the watching, lapping sea.


© 2016

With no fear of breaking his body
The little squirrel floats free
From that tree to this tree
To all the trees I am allowed to see.

Brave fellow.
With boundless joy
It seems he plays my fool
To cheer a dangerous mood.

I remember I killed his kin.
For sport they died.
Hundreds I suppose.
And suppose it must have been a sin.

Of which retribution should flow
From him to crippled me
For bitterness I would not be
Surprise his playfulness hides.

I stagger from bed to chair.
He runs the trees as if for glee.
I crawl, when times are bad,
Just to see him running free.

And if I could I would tell him
I know his ancestors’ pain.
I would tell him I am sorry;
I served no purpose for the pain.

Now I watch him
As if to pray,
As my body goes
My mind will stay.

© 2016

Yes, I saw them,
One hundred forty-three souls
Pointedly thundering through
Tepid morning’s light.

Yes, I heard they are gone.
One hundred forty-three souls
On a shrouded distant shore
Flushed away in evening light.

In truth I witness here,
Without responsibility made clear,
What went wrong on that flight,
Or perhaps to say what went right
In the fate of those souls.

© 2016

Morning frost lambently fine
Beneath a sky of madder and blue
Wheel gulls crying foul
To a fleeting packet of cold silver food.
The same they sounded
As Joyce did listen, once upon a time.


© 2016

It is the street you see;
It is the voice you hear;
It is the bright sweep of beach on which young bodies move;
It is the mist in the evening on which this music rides;
It is the gay colors of the swishing gowns;
It is the solidity of young manhood, gold and strong.

Close your eyes, to memory keep the scene.
For in time I will ask for it to come be with us.
Now rise up. Let us dance.
In the glow of this evening,
In our passing time of perfection,
Let us dance.

© 2016

I hear you seek to be;
To be without cant;
To be free of the weakness in yourself.

It is not enough just to be —
Hear what I say —
The acts in the shadow do not allow you to be.

You see, men who are
Make by right the claim to be
And stand in place for all to see.

As some few lead,
Most must follow.
Folly it is for you to make believe.

I see — draw the weapon,
Rail against your fate.
The quest answered thus.

Yes, ****** home knife, gun, bomb.
You have the right after all endured.
By this act you will be — infamously.


© 2016

We are failing
and falling
and will not
be redeemed,
Yet the Sun rises.

The Earth is warming
and slowing
and will not
be altered,
Yet the Sun rises.

The Universe is expanding
and stumbles upon itself
and will not
be appeased,
Yet the sun rises.

Because without us,
It could not be.


©  2016

Brown leaves sparse caught
To gray trees reflected in the river
Running under winter light
Cold, hard, blue, to ice
To mist, to the sea.


© 2016

In this heat and night go to where the fireflies fly,
Where land ends and the lighthouse stands,
Where the horn warns of sudden danger,
Where curls of fog roll in from the cooling sea.

Child, hear me – this is important.
Where I stood one night with the fireflies lighting me.
Where the universe was for a moment understood.
Where the poetry I lived there will not be understood by you.