"fens" poems
A calendar knows little of a day,
Of any day; its arbitrary squares
Mark seasons as they amble on their way
From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs
When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue
Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens
Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to
Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens
Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)
With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn
For he is merry too, and quick to bless
The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn
Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,
And soon comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
In the lowland fens at the worlds end,
Like the ferryman, a blue heron waits,
Eyes of dragon fly, hover, over still water,
His legs are the oars rowing to the dead.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
In the lowland fens at the worlds end,
Like the ferryman, a blue heron waits,
Eyes of dragon fly, hover, over still water,
His legs are the oars rowing to the dead.
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
In the lowland fens at the worlds end,
Like the ferryman, a blue heron waits,
Eyes of dragon fly, hover, over still water,
His legs are the oars rowing to the dead.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
a half moon rises
as the sun sets over
a golden Charles
the Fens
luminescence
guide scullers
chasing the days
ebbing light
shimmering
upon near
stillness,
as dancing
black ripples
push silver
splashes of
floating sheens
toward the
gentle slopes of
grassy banks
fisherman cast
the day’s final
hopes upon
gracious waters
as shad fry
breech to
proclaim
a promise
of a dutiful
return to fulfill
a future bounty
this accessible
river, the pulsing
heart conjoining
two cities;
flows as a
democratic spirit
drawing all to its
hospitable shores
my eyes remain
transfixed on
the glowing ember
of a twilight Charles
drifting under darkened
portals of the
Harvard Bridge,
while the rise
of a sunset breeze
whispers a cool
end to the
summers day
I imagine
Luna blowing
a goodnight
kiss to a
yawning Sol,
as she winks to
young *****
lovers embracing
the long shadows
and sweet fragrance
of tall bulrushes
a slight puff of wind
anoints my minds eye
as lazy water rolls
toward me, lapping
my feet, lollygagging
along, slowly strolling
towards the bay
as I salute pilots
navigating this
most friendly
course
Music Selection:
Grant Green, Moon River
Cambridge MA
7/7/91
jbm
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
In the lowland fens at the worlds end,
Like the ferryman, a blue heron waits,
Eyes of dragon fly, hover, over still water,
His legs are the oars rowing to the dead.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 11:08 PM UTC
In the lowland fens at the worlds end,
Like the ferryman, a blue heron waits,
Eyes of dragon fly, hover, over still water,
His legs are the oars rowing to the dead.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
The gnomes sang and danced while the faeries all pranced
and the elfins got drunk by the fire
The pixies hummed tunes and got ****** on mushrooms
I can't remember what happened to the choir.
Sethark the lord of the dark was roused from his sleep by the din
the djinn in the lamp though he at first appeared camp
wished up the drawbridge and pulled in the ramp.
This gathering, like babies were safe in the glades
while Sethark from Hades was sharpening the blades.
But it all fizzled out when Sethark gave a shout
to a beautifully jewelled little lady
and they tarried away somewhere deep in the hay
and the result was a devilish imp of a baby.
The party goes on though the pixies have gone
because too many mushrooms had doomed them
and now they're doomed to the glens
banished from the fens
No longer to hum or strum on guitars
nor sing sweet melodies to the brightest of stars
sad tales are told by old faeries and gnomes
of pixies evicted from family homes
but they know in their bones that it should have been them in the glen
but say nothing of this thing
or bad luck they will bring on you.
The story that's told is quite true
Believe if you wish
and if you wish it
it's true.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
Rain dapples in fens of the marshland brooks,
Among the rue hillocks of the sapling woods,
What little peace may fall to drop the shivering
Leaves, rood of the sun, a crop, kestrels quiver
In midair, to keep as they sway into the stations
Of all minions moused who faulter in formation
And bright is birth, when night clothes the day,
As all the mornings long, song of hope, in May.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 9:17 PM UTC
.
Rain dapples in fens of the marshland brooks,
Among the rue hillocks of the sapling woods,
What little peace may fall to drop the shivering
Leaves, rood of the sun, a crop, kestrels quiver
In midair, to keep as they sway into the stations
Of all minions moused who faulter in formation
And bright is birth, when night clothes the day,
As all the mornings long, song of hope, in May.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 5:49 PM UTC
Wee little moors, giant over bog,
Sparkle in the lilles, loll within a frog,
In a flash of dragonflies - fires the sun,
All the meadow rising, spirits overcome!
Wee bright moors, cropping round a meadow,
Songbirds singing dear, hummings in the nettles
In minnows of logged pools - reeds set fire to sun
All the gold of fens rising, spirits overcome!
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
He walks in stolid darknesses
At days zenith, hears whispers
In the dew dusted fens, lights
Leaves into sun candle flames,
Drew a lake sword by maidens
Hand, alchemic shaper of water,
Air, old fires and earth, bending
Cold elements of moly and lode
Rushing forth, in extra emotions.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
The soil and sand remember
how the cities wept,
the towers bowing and breaking,
collapsing with the weight
of the blame they kept within;
the coastal causeway meanders
down a bone-dry path
to nowhere,
passing nothing in particular
but some stilted shacks
in the former fens;
and my own familiar forest,
where I trapped a fox
and made a friend,
was caught off guard by
a flash of light, and some
freakish violent wind;
and now I sit on a stump,
glowing green with
weaponized dust,
to scan this new Sahara
for some sign of life—
some vindication, or some
hope—
but alas,
it’s now past midnight,
and we are all just
silhouettes.
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
He walks in stolid darknesses
At days zenith, hears whispers
In the dew dusted fens, lights
Leaves into sun candle flames,
Drew a lake sword by maidens
Hand, alchemic shaper of water,
Air, old fires and earth, bending
Cold elements of moly and lode
Rushing forth, in extra emotions.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
In the lowland fens at the worlds end,
Like the ferryman, a blue heron waits,
Eyes of dragon fly, hover, over still water,
His legs are the oars rowing to the dead.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
Rain dapples in fens of the marshland brooks,
Among the rue hillocks of the sapling woods,
What little peace may fall to drop the shivering
Leaves, rood of the sun, a crop, kestrels quiver
In midair, to keep as they sway into the stations
Of all minions moused who faulter in formation
And bright is birth, when night clothes the day,
As all the mornings long, song of hope, in May.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
He walks in stolid darknesses
At days zenith, hears whispers
In the dew dusted fens, lights
Leaves into sun candle flames,
Drew a lake sword by maidens
Hand, alchemic shaper of water,
Air, old fires and earth, bending
Cold elements of moly and lode
Rushing forth, in extra emotions.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
Rain dapples in fens of the marshland brooks,
Among the rue hillocks of the sapling woods,
What little peace may fall to drop the shivering
Leaves, rood of the sun, a crop, kestrels quiver
In midair, to keep as they sway into the stations
Of all minions moused who faulter in formation
And bright is birth, when night clothes the day,
As all the mornings long, song of hope, in May.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 3:01 AM UTC
This winter has been harsh and cold; these winds
have scoured the frosted fens for miles around.
I only hope, once the seeds have sprouted,
and long-kept zephyrs hum above the chapped and chastened earth,
that you might walk the woodlands by my side—
and make with me a new, glad spring.
I could not bear
another sighing sad spring.
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 9:47 PM UTC
In the lowland fens at the worlds end,
Like the ferryman, a blue heron waits,
Eyes of dragon fly, hover, over still water,
His legs are the oars rowing to the dead.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
Marshy night, feux follets
glow, foo fighters on reeds.
Birds flocking from the fens,
nerve-wracked, prized
possessions left behind,
their collective nevermind,
divining rods to show them away.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
In the lowland fens at the worlds end,
Like the ferryman, a blue heron waits,
Eyes of dragon fly, hover, over still water,
His legs are the oars rowing to the dead.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
Little boy lost,
Among the valleys
And the fens.
Took shelter under cloak,
The elements to defend.
"Mother!"
"Father!"
He yelled into the air.
"Brother"
"Friends"
But there was nobody there.
The boy marched on into the torrent of the gale,
As tears entwined with rain
Drops.
Whispering forgotten tales.
Alone.
Kind of,
But the wind has a way of bringing the world to life.
As little boy lost shivers in the pale moonlight,
He comes upon a brook from the corner of his sight.
Just enough to make him stop.
Inquire,
"Where just is this stream among the mire?"
No matter where he looked, whether,
Left
or
Right.
The stream remained unbidden,
Forever out of sight...
Forever is never as long as it seems,
When we are but young with youthful dreams.
The little boy no longer as lost as we.
Finds a guide in the sight of that once brook,
Now Stream
Meandering into that river to the sea,
Flowing tidal
Through waves of possibility.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC