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Sweet New England;
its where my heart is, and where I belong.
I know,
the day I left I buried it deep
on the western prom of Portland Maine
to call me back someday
though I may be old and frail
when that times comes.
And though I am southern born
it’s scents, moods, colors and cold
have etched themselves like scrimshaw onto my soul.
I now want my bones shattered by frost,
not left to mildew in the humid southern heat.

For me New England’s like warm light
shining through frost covered windows,
or a cozy, cluttered old room
filled with the bric brac of a life long well lived,
an attic garret maybe,
confined yet comfortable.
The rest of the country’s expansive and open
except parts of the south
where the heat & humidity will smother you in your sleep;
then hide the evidence
in swamps of ancient illusion like southern hospitality,
smiling to your face while sharpening the knife.
Offering another helping
while grandpa finishes the grave.
Ya’ll come back now ya hear.
Give me the hidden heart of New England any day;
chilly and cool outside
but warm as a glowing wood stove.

While memory tends to shade everything
in afternoon’s golden light or midnight blue and gray,
I’d rather hard scrabble times up north
than easy living in a place that says nothing to me
even if this place is home.

I miss Maine so very much,
I taste her like a lover in October air
rich with the season’s smells
of apples, leaves, sea, smoke and pine.

Sweet New England;
where I belong is where my heart is.
And though I wasn’t born there
I’ve walked that land as a pilgrim
singing its songs as my song
until they became my own.
My heart reaches out now
longing to return,
to the place I called home,
until the end of days.
And my bones not left to mildew
in the humid southern heat,
shatter with the frost.
This is perpetually a work in progress in which I try and express what my life in  New England and especially in Maine came to mean to me.

"Spring Comes to Maine", "In the Birches", "Southern Summers and "Yankee Lasses" were all originally part of this much longer piece.- From Poetry Jam (on Toast)
Scenes from a marriage
lay scattered on the cutting room floor
of memory.
Our passion,
your lies, my lies,
separate truths never one
mingle and moan
when just the right sore is touched.
Do you have any idea what we were looking for?
I don’t.
Why won’t you answer me?
Do you care?
You wiggled and squirmed
holding me tight
whispering “I love you” in my ear.
Now you claim nothing happened.
If this is true
then why the emptiness?
If you’re not going to respond then go,
close the door
and let in the cold.
Written during the breakup of my marriage so this makes it one of the oldest poems here. I had asked my now late wife (we never divorced) if she had ever loved me and she gave a mealy mouthed answer...I was really hurt and told her to leave. The poem came out of that pain.- From Poetry Jam (on Toast)
A great expanse of northern sky;
Cirrus clouds,
faux marble blue and white.
Late afternoon’s golden sun;
red autumn leaves,
fire on fire it seems to me.
Tall, silent, Mast Pine forests
haunted by Owls,
ancient Indian spirits
and dreams of sailing ships
on wild Gulf Stream rides
across the sea.
Waist high fields of Ragweed and Clover
rippling with the wind.
Clear, crisp days
geese in flight.
Iridescent dragonflies zigzagging overhead
like jet-fighters
hunting mosquitoes.
Noisy crows squawking the news,
people in the back forty.
A deep blue, Lapis sea
sparkling in the breeze
just beginning to chill.
Ohh…what a feeling;
these late summer
just a blush of autumn
cool New England days.
Mackworth island is right off the coast of Portland Maine and it is a park. Access is by a long causeway. When I was younger I used to bicycle out there as often as I could and I consider it one of my spiritual homes. I haunted that place and came to know it like the back of my hand.- From Poetry Jam (on Toast)
Buck naked November,
cold, aloof and alone;
her seasons garments
in tatters at her feet.
The wind howls through
her empty limbs.
The southbound sun
no longer warms,
much like
a lost lovers stare.
There is a quality to this month
like no other,
an austerity of spirit
bitter yet stoic
as if to mourn
years end.
November...especially in New England is a special time. Not autumn actually but not winter either...a brown season all its own. I tried to capture its feel and what it means to me.- From Poetry Jam (on Toast)
Shuffling through the ground fog
like fallen leaves.
Beneath a rust orange dawn,
feet damp
from autumn’s morning dew.
Composed early one morning while out walking the dog in the park near me. The fields near the river were thick with dew and ground fog and the sunrise just before the sun came up really was a rust orange.- From Poetry Jam (on Toast)
Coffee and words,
always more words.
Lost between youth & mid-life
listening to others read their work
applauding quietly while
muttering about doing it better yourself.
Dribbling words like splattering coffee
on empty pages,
stains on the sheets.
How do you **** your muse?
I like ****** notebooks
Myself.
This is the oldest poem I have...was written in the late 80's at a poetry jam put on by my favorite coffee house at the time...the Cafe No in Portland Maine. I had been writing poetry long before this one...its just the oldest one I have now.- From Poetry Jam (on Toast)
Footprints in the sand
wandering like ripples on a pond.
or skipping stones across the water
like dancing or a life.
Sing to me songs of moonlight and madness,
of a lover’s waltz spinning;
going nowhere
but for the dancing
like footprints in the sand...
but ahh...
the dancing.
Back in the late 70's I composed a poem that is long lost and this is an attempt to recreate it. I have no idea if I came close or not but it did have the footprints in the sand image in it.- From Poetry Jam (on Toast)
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