Tom RileyMy favorite poet is Robert Frost whose grave I occasionally visit in hopes of inspiration. Most of my poems arise from living in the same area for 60 years. I have known or witnessed a number of people, events, and sites whose stories needing telling. My wish is to tell them well. I am happy to report that reCAPTCHA has decided that I am not a robot.

 

Blueberries

The blueberries there on the mountain side
That neither birds nor human pickers found
The North wind had blown upon til freeze-dried
The plump blue withered to a wrinkled brown

A summer spent growing up on the slope
In storm and hot sun, they managed to cope
To leaf and bud and draw bees to flowers
Set and ripen fruit o’er uncounted hours

The bitter wind blew hard as if to mock
A season’s labor lying there wasted
That labor’s fruit to be left untasted
Now dry and hard as the surrounding rock

 

Odyssey

White pines, like masts of sailing ships
Tall, straight, pointing towards heaven
Anchored around the still lake shore.

I hear them softly in the wind.
Singing. Haunting. And whispering
Of sun, water, peaceful quiet.

The phone ring returns me to work
Where duties have me tied, before
The masts can lure me with their song.

One day, I will unstop my ears,
Remove the waxing workday noise
To follow the pines’ siren song.