While I marvel at the starred, phantom sky— where silver clouds scud and the pale moon beams in an epic ether, tinted ink blue— a weary, worthy town slumbers and dreams of fortune, of flight, or falling through space. Where the air smells of pine sap and wood smoke, fireflies blink, the dirt path leads into trees, and pondside bullfrogs call mates with hoarse croaks. When descending the hill through low grasses— that run to the foot of a hemlock stand, whose spectral shadows hide the wispy way— there come a turn and vista of the land. There lie the distant village and spired church, the quiet houses, and earthy, quaint lanes surrounded by arable wheat pastures: rolling hills topped with rippling grains. While on a solitary nighttime stroll through rustling grass and the brisk, biting breeze, in view of an old, wild, gleaming river, there comes a worn, welcome feeling of ease.
The Rope Fence of the Pastel Houses was a poem that I returned to many times over the years. One draft then another then another then another was discarded. This poem was probably reworked more than any other poem that I’ve ever written, with the exception of one which is called The Corner of Farm and Lincoln Rds (and which is still not finished).
The poem tells of a young man going on his way along a pretty road where he meets others and sees the sights. I imagine it to be set in New England, perhaps in an area like Martha’s Vineyard.
The poem rhymes and is written in blank verse.
The Amalfi coast, Italy.
I pass a seashell of no significance
as I follow the curves of a whitewashed fence
and the uneven coastline of the sea.
The fence is jagged, hardly even, somewhat ragged,
with braided rope in place of slats,
stretching further than I can see.
Above my head, squawking shrilly, are hoary seagulls on the wing—
circling, circling, flitting, snatching, snatching at a crust of bread
then aloft again to form a ring.
And in the distance, softly scratching their stemmed backs upon the posts,
are coastal grasses, likely latching their seeds upon white painted posts,
for the wind to blow and foster breeding.
To my left are pastel houses, built on stilts with reading nooks
and oriels for those with books
to put their backs to while they thumb through pages of Of Mice and Men.
While from a cattail, singing sweetly, warbles warmly the gentle wren
Brown and round and barred so drably, yet still considered very fair,
The pleasant wren makes moving music then flies upon a gust of air.
I continue on my road to fortune, whistling with the wandering wind,
Getting there as quick as those folk who have in mind no certain end,
And speaking with an amiable neighbor, I’m kindly told a thing or two
That when traveling over any distance, it’s but common sense to enjoy the view.
Here is a blank verse poem about a man walking down the path of life, with Death always trundling along a few steps behind.
Well, I walk hand-in-hand with Life,
And Death walks a few steps behind,
And wherever I go, and wherever I lead,
Death is sure to follow.
So I had a few words a few years ago,
With that reaper known as Death.
I said, “So long as you’re coming wherever I go,
I’ll go wherever I want.”
He said in reply, “That’s a very fine view,
Just keep in mind, my friend:
When your time comes,
I’ll take you away,
You cannot run too far or too fast.”
So I nodded and considered,
And I went on my way.
And Death walked a few steps behind.
