"chautauqua" poems
i.
Such is their reward, then,
This graceful bridge bisecting the lake at Bemus Point,
Not far from the spot where Bishop Vincent
Parsed the geography of the holy land,
Narrow beaches fronting a higgledy-piggledy of cottages,
Most comfortable but staid,
Though the odd McMansion grotesquerie
Has sprouted here and there,
Courtesy of some frozen-food magnate in Buffalo
Or casino second-in-command from Niagara Falls
(Those more famous waters, apparently,
Insufficient to slake ones thirst for the gaudy)
In any case, likely no more than admired from afar
By those generations of boys
Who, leaving their spot on the line at Crescent Tools
Or fields rife with bumble-striped heifers,
Never returned, drill press unmanned, corn crib unattended.
ii.
You’d been on those waters once, however,
Spending an afternoon both bewitching and idyllic
On a dock fronting a relatively humble beach bungalow
(A friend of a family friend or relative’s place,
The whos and whys lost to the manila folders of recollection)
With a girl of ten, perhaps twelve at the outside,
Beautiful in an untrammeled manner,
Or at least primarily, unconsciously so,
And you remember her having green eyes
Which utterly belied description
(Though that was all long ago,
Such reminiscence likely no more than the rheuminess of memory,
And you have not returned to that shoreline since.)
iii.
Such daydreams are perilous, on many levels,
At seventy miles per hour even more so,
And you shake yourself back to the present
While approaching yet another bridge
(Humble span noting humble beginnings)
Honoring the region’s most famous daughter and her husband,
Who did indeed have much ‘splaining to do,
As you proceed eastbound toward Salamanca
(Wholly owned by the Seneca Nation,
Those non-native descendants of Mertzes and McGillicuddys
Paying rent and fealty to the tribe each year)
And thence to the slump-shouldered hills
Which shelter the sauntering Allegheny,
The pines thick, green, inscrutable,
Beyond our everday squabbles,
Answerable to nothing but time itself.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
Chautauqua I
lying in a field of tan the sun hits my back
I see a shadow of me or am I merely the shadow in this scene
The wind inhales and exhales
breathing at its own pace I can feel its calmness
Nature's unorderliness does have its own sense of pattern
the blades of straw yield to the wind without any hint of defiance
I am the only one that stands apart
out of defiance I decide not to bend
under all the straw hides the mud
makes me aware of
how wet the ground is under my boney ****
Chautauqua II
stopping to smoke a cigarette
I notice the vast difference in landscape
from the northern and southern views
the heat of the sun requires i take off my coat
and I allow
the wind to control the change in temperature
nature constantly surprises different beats various patterns
tiny minds
always try to find
sense in randomness
Chautauqua III
I, too, am on a chautauqua of some sort
this journey a quest for fulfillment
many seek it few obtain it
the given clues are false society's road markers
get me lost in wrong directions
the drummer
who marches out of step
not following the same beat
is blamed
no one ever thinks
to find fault with the beat itself
lying in a field of tan I begin to find my way
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC