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Index of poems:
- Finally, A Child I'm Becoming
- Have You Heard, The Ivory Billed Woodpecker
Has Been Seen, Though I Haven't As Yet - The Cat Outside His Door #3
- The Cat Outside His Door #4
- There's A Melody Playing In My Head
- What Is It In Us Which Pushes Us
To 'See The Sun The Other Way Round?
Now, walking out into the garden in the early morning hours I use the sunlight growing full, and in looking closely at each petal, each bush, each hedge, I see the child I was years ago is returning, and in my way of seeing I know I can and still do laugh, I walk and still I do stumble, I grow and embrace love, and yes, I still do tumble. But, at the very least now, as I age slowly, so it feels, I’m finding my heart opening, my mind twisting and twitching, and it is true, finally, I’m just starting to learn, in my sometimes unlearning, where I can go without worrying, without anxiety about where I’ve been. Once more I am crossing open fields and pause long enough to notice the small things under my feet, and listen to the sounds surrounding me, and in this reaching I begin to touch my very roots. Back to top
Have You Heard, The Ivory Billed Woodpecker
Has Been Seen, Though I Haven't As Yet
© Fred Wolven
Short Ode to the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, Number 1 Listening to WLRN, as I am prone to do while not so aimlessly driving The other day, I caught the announcement that someone, Actually more than one, had spotted the ivory billed woodpecker Previously thought to have become extinct. So, okay, that’s Just wonderful. Now I can return to my reading of da Vinci And neither lose any more sleep nor be unable to eat lunch. Short Ode to the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, Number 2 Oh, Myrtle, have you heard, even though I haven’t seen ‘em, The ivory billed woodpecker has been seen, I think perhaps By Pedro, though I’m not sure. I am certain, though, that By the time I finish explaining the connections between The Fibonacci sequence and lateral thinking to my students At least some of us will sigh--probably me, “Whew.” Short Ode to the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, Number 3 If I didn’t need to cut the lawn, front and back yards, or If I didn’t have to drop our youngsters off at school, or If I didn’t have to show up in front of the class each day, or If I didn’t understand the significance of income and debt, or If I didn’t hear the coo, cooing of the morning dove, or If I didn’t recognize the colors of the cardinal darting in and out, or If I just didn’t know the sound my heart beating emits, I really wouldn’t listen to Mozart again and again, and I surely wouldn’t care if the ivory billed woodpecker survives. Short Ode to the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, Number 4 In December the air turns chilly; up and down the street Homeowners have bright colored lights turned on. In the evening I often wait, wondering if my fox Will step out into the light again. Of course, I also Wonder if fire ants hibernate in the cold weather. And, yes, I wonder when I will see the ivory billed woodpecker. Short Ode to the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, Number 5 In winter the brisk air slips in under the door, And through the not quite tightly shut windows Around the ac unit. The trees are now in full leaf, The summer flowers dot the meadows and hillsides. I am still waiting to cross the river Styx, Though I realize I can never step into the same water twice. Wish I had composed at least one great masterpiece—you Know, like an armless torso or Sisyphus, in a momentary Pause, taking a breather from rolling the boulder downhill. Where was the ivory billed woodpecker in the cold months? Short Ode to the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, Number 6 Unlike the ivory billed woodpecker, a turtle moves so very slow Across the path leading up from the water. Overhead a single bald eagle dips and turns catching Air currents until eventually settling in a tall pine On the side of an unnamed foothill. Short Ode to the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, Number 7 Walking along the two lane street I think of changes, Changes in seasons, changes in people, changes in reasons, And I find that I am often alone, alone and afraid, But not broken. How it is The ivory billed woodpecker survived all this time? Do creatures have some divining spirit unknown to mankind? Some Dali fourth or fifth dimensional sense, that which Carries them through the ages, through decades of cascading Global changes, environmental and societal? Short Ode to the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, Number 8 There are many tales, tall and real, shared or unspoken, Perhaps even mostly unread, but I still can sense my pulse, Feel my own heart beat, and notice my every breath. How small is this ivory billed woodpecker? There is a tree leaning over the stream With two squirrels scampering half way up the trunk. Short Ode to the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, Number 9 Now I cannot see the turtle, except when it tries to cross the highway, Nor do I always hear the sounds of each bird crying in the midst Of a forest, however isolated or in chorus it may be, Yet I expect to listen and hear its call When the ivory billed woodpecker’s cry registers in my ear. Short Ode to the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, Number 10 Somewhere, sometime, I expect to see this ivory billed woodpecker, And meanwhile, I will listen carefully, asking you to listen quietly, Looking carefully, and all the while gently touching what is near. Then, for as long as possible, ask of me whatever questions Come to mind, but be prepared to accept the answers, Whatever they might be, wherever the ivory billed woodpecker is.Back to top
The Cat Outside His Door #3
© Fred Wolven
from a suite of poems Even now he just sits waiting, looking in. The wall is sturdy, no rocks will fall; the ledge is small, the movement slow. A glimpse, a sparkle, a tear or two…. It makes little difference when I’m with you. There’s the turning sound; as I pass round & round, it grows louder & louder filling my head, shoving aside careful thoughts & lasting longer. The spinning is more frequent, the twists, the shapes, all move too; the feeble efforts, the pills I take do not stop the on-coming wall of water. My hair’s too thin, my legs too small, & though I give my all, how can I dismantle this my wall? Unlike Roethke’s, this dance has neither a beginning nor ending.
The Cat Outside His Door #4
© Fred Wolven
from a suite of poems And yet he sits, head raised, looking in. Do you see? Do you know? Do you care? Will you get up & walk down the hall? I’m just around the corner, right here, only two blocks from where they laid him to rest, just yards away from fields Roethke walked through passing this way once or twice. Can’t you tell it’s me you want? Here, look around the corner, out in the back, over here in the dark, waiting for the sun to come up, for one morning glory to open, its petals uncurling one by one. This song & dance is not nearly done. In fact, it’s not for you; it’s something I had to walk straight through. So, it’s nearly nonsense, I know, with little rhyme, light rhythm, & a wall that’s too tall. Back to top
There's A Melody Playing In My Head
© Fred Wolven
“I have stolen forth for a walk at the eleventh
hour...too late to redeem the day.”
--Thoreau
I step lightly, walk softly, listen carefully, then,
pausing for a moment, notice how few follow this trail.
A pair of squirrels plays in the palms and live oaks
calling and responding, chiding, then inviting each other,
in a hid and seek around trunk and up and down branches.
Spanish moss drips down, hanging barely two feet above
an abandoned fire ant mound nestled next to the trail.
Then, floating down stream, I watch a common cooter raise
its head eye-level above water, but upon hearing our canoe
he ducks, creating ever-widening circles until suddenly
he’s gone, disappearing into a yellow cow lily patch.
Later, moving around a toppled oak tree resting on the shallow,
sandy bottom, giving the young fish a chance to feed
under its branches, protected from predicators,
I wonder if I am learning to feed the plants,
nourish blades of grass, and sit still upon a hill.
Now, still listening, I hear a melody playing in my head;
there’s a sense of discovery in these nearly uninterrupted places.
What Is It In Us Which Pushes Us
To 'See The Sun The Other Way Round?
© Fred Wolven
It is said that the possibility of home Is that which keeps us going. I don’t know, but it seems that Someone must have said that Previously (as apposed to henceforth), For obvious reasons, whom I may know Very little about, sort of like my limited Acquaintance with Schumann’s romantic Song cycles. But wandering through The museum I had no way of realizing Then, that perhaps you too were There viewing some amazing exhibits. The other day I overhead someone Wondering aloud, what is it in us Which pushes us to ‘see the sun The other way round.’ So, now, I too wonder. I also wonder why A glass of rose has a different Flavor in various stemware shapes. I wonder what it is about the anhinga Which forces it to perch and spread Its wings to dry after each dive. I wonder if then, like now, you Were delicately pleasing or merely Pretty and cute? Yes, in this somewhat Convoluted nature of my mind, is There an image, a symbol, perhaps, Some kind of indelible marking Which will underscore the reason, Whether it be in season, just which String of the violin I must pluck, Without relying on pure luck, To stretch a single note well beyond Its normal range and enable any Creature to simply walk out of its cage. Ah, what is it in us which, in turning Us around, permits us to see, Yes, just, in fact, to see more clearly?
