April Snowfall

I am going to continue using the same blog address, but not commit myself to entering a new post every day, just enter those poems that feel right without pressure.  

Thus, Part Two.

April Snowfall

It takes a late April snowfall

to remind us we are still

in Idaho and not Guatemala

or on the island of Bali, leaning

back in a lawn chair to watch

a lady in her conical hat glean

debris at the edge of the grass

and a man balancing a pole

over his shoulders with two bags

of detritus gathered from the sea.

Yes it takes late April snow

to remind us we don’t even live

on a prairie where Emily says

all you need is a clover, one bee,

and misspelled revery.  

By afternoon snow will be gone.

Bees in the pear tree will resume

their annual pilgrimage of pollination. 

Wind will be sufficient to confirm

we are still in Idaho long after the bees

are silent and Spring turns to June. 

The man with two bags will fade

into reverie spelled right,

as I bend my own back

to rake detritus cottonwoods

bestrew across the lawn.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        27 April 2012

The Lure

This the 110th anniversary of my father's (William Wallace Hunter) birth.  He was a lonely sheepherder poet who married my mother (Bertha O'Donnell) in 1929.  I am their first child.  Both were killed in a car accident in 1971.

So I have chosen this day to end this blog with my 100th post.  I have posted every day since I began it except for Sundays.

I feel this is the best poem I have ever written, and thirty years of writing and publishing since then have produced nothing better.

I plan to begin another blog, but without deadlines.  When it is ready I will make a notice of its title on another post here.

                    The Lure

The thread of my life is waxed,

ready to be wrapped on a hook, decorated

with fur and feathers, then flung in a pond.

The fish below—shiners, bluegills, pout—

will watch me floating, dangling helpless.

They will laugh themselves dizzy asking

what fisherman could be sucker enough

to fall for anything phony as that.

They will take turns swirling up through clear

water, at the last moment turn tail

and veer away.  The man on the wrong end

of the line will see the ripple and twitch

back his pole.  He will curse anxiety and luck,

make another cast.  The fish will laugh again,

releasing bubbles of mirth.

                             This will go on

afternoon after afternoon.  The sun will beat down

on the fisherman.  He will keep casting and missing,

missing and cursing, cursing and—you may wonder

why doesn't he reach down into his tackle box

and try another lure?  But the fish are right:

anyone who would cast me out will never come

up with the idea change is in order.

One day the pond will produce the fish who can match

wits with the fisherman:  a long pike or heavy trout.

The others will scatter in panic, leaving him

to swim alone, under my shadow.  Reflex will turn him,

slowly ascending, opening the dark cave

his jaws make when he holds his breath, gills slack

tongue flat on the floor.  He will feel the hook

tear flesh.  His bones will tighten.

The reel will sing to the fisherman whose hands

will remember what to do.  I will fall

in love with my captor.  His pain will be mine

because he is the only one who ever wanted me.

Together we will rise just as the sun

drops into the kingdom of darkness

where stars refuse to shine.

                                    —Donnell Hunter

Sunstone  June 1986

The Frog in our Basement 1984

Harvest 1989

Mitsubishi

Mitsubishi

I dream of the road of life, wide at first

and one way.  What happened to happy

hour after the sun went down? 

My son asks, “Shouldn’t we wait to watch

the news?  This could be the start of World

War III.”  I’ve watched the news

for fifty years and not even seen the

end of World War II.

The white Mitsubishi we follow

slows up. Why is he doing this?  

There are no traffic lights, no side roads

that lead away from the road of life.  

One by one the shops close down.  My hearing

aids pick up sounds I’ve never heard before:  

water falling, clicking spoons, the tick

of the mantle clock I forgot to wind. 

Time to wake.  This dream is about to end. 

It’s a long drive to Dallas by way

of Abilene or other routes unknown,

no intersections, no Mitsubishi

to lead the way.  I keep my eye

on the center line and try to ignore

north bound traffic going too fast

the wrong way home.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        19 April 2012  

The Waiting Game

The Waiting Game

At dusk minnows slap

at your bait below the dam.

The fly you tied so carefully

floats ignored by the trout.

Their interest in minnows

is more than nostalgia,

but it’s been a long day,

their bellies full already.

They play the waiting game.

Tomorrow the sun will

likely shine, and the boots

of the fisherman be gone.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        18 April 2012 

Cezanne

Cezanne

When someone stole Cezanne’s

painting of a boy in a red jacket,

I wondered which one.

Cezanne was too honest.

He wasn't above trying the same

thing twice.  So many mornings

he spent ten minutes looking

at Mont Sainte Victoire, reducing

it time after time to just three shapes

while the light was right.

Then he moved to another easel

set up the day before to try

a different point of view.

Did it matter to him that he

was founding a new form of art? 

Or did he just focus on what

he saw and paint, even though

what he did never would for him

nor for those who scoffed

look exactly right.

                    —Donnell Hunter

                           17 April 2012   

Wisely and Slow

Wisely and Slow

Even at eighty some days follow

a routine. What was once a rut, a grind,

provides opportunity to reminisce

when it was easy to sit down or get up

without weighing in each alternative.

What once I decided by whim gets

thorough rumination.  I weigh

the benefits, calculate the costs,

consider urgencies, try to side-step

all emergencies.  “Wisely and slow,”

Friar Lawrence cautions his young friend,

“They stumble who run fast.” 

At eighty-one, if not wiser, but

for sure much slower, running is never

urgent when it take ten minutes first

to decide whether to sit or stand.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        16 April 2012

By the Numbers

By the Numbers

After 4 girls my grandson

finally fathered a boy.

How’s that for a trial of faith?

His sister has 5 sons

as well as 3 daughters

who squeezed in between.

And our family has grown

year by year until we are a clan

of 75 plus 22 spouses and 3 exes

to reach the century mark

in this 21^st century since

the Lord came humbly in a manger

and died 33 years later then rose

after 3 days with the promise

of everlasting life for all

of us that Easter morn.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        14 April 2012  

Codicil

Codicil

Some nights an arm strays outside the covers

and changes my dream.  Rain turns to snow

and winter begins.  I shift my body

and see the friend I forgot through the years. 

“You’ve come back?” I ask.  He nods and says,

“I can’t stay, but stop by this afternoon.  

I’ll bring you up to date.”

I don’t want to wake from this dream.

I think of amends still to make,

of promises kept and those yet to keep

made years ago long gone. 

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        13 April 2012

                                     

Decisions

Decisions

On the day I decided to walk

I let go the rail and held both hands

in the air.  

On the day I decided to run

I found wind even though trees held

still, every leaf.

I decided not to fly.  Leave that for birds.  

And daredevils.  Down to Earth is good

enough for me.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        12 April 2012

For Every New Star

For Every New Star My Life Turns a Little Crazy

There are too many to give them all

names, so we use numbers and letters

with class:  alpha, beta . . . you know

the rest.  Alpha Centauri, the closest

one--you can graduate from college

before her light comes.  If Betelgeuse

died today, no one would live to see the end. 

Do you believe when a star falls

someone dies to take its place? 

I'm not so sure, but when clouds part

after a storm, no matter who shows

up first I say a little prayer: 

if you have my name tattooed on your arm,

stay up there a little bit longer, friend.

                              —Donnell Hunter

Interim  Fall 1989

Before the Tide Comes In 1990

Flowerbed

Flowerbed

It was not a mountain,

only a small mound of earth

I found in the woods.

This would make good soil

for a flowerbed out back

at the edge of the lawn.

I didn’t move it by faith,

but with shovel and cart

hauled and spread it out

among four cottonwoods

that need to die some day soon.

The faith part comes next

with seeds:  hollyhock,

poppy, flax plus other

perennials I can’t name

that need transplanting

before they crowd everything

else around them out.  

Maybe some bulbs next fall—

daffodils for a flash of yellow

and crocus to first greet spring. 

I’ll omit the tulips this time.  

Let the doe go elsewhere to chomp

buds about to burst and spoil

someone else’s dreams.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                          10 April 2011 

Early Morning

Early Morning

The sky hasn’t decided what to be—

cloudy or clear.  It hasn’t read the forecast,

nor have I.  What can I do with the gift

of another day?  I feel light headed—

a new allergy?—and hope for the best.

A robin hops across the lawn, too early

for the first worm, and meets a friend paler

than he.  There’s a thread I should follow but

don’t know which way nor which end to pick up. 

I talked about this with my friend, long since gone. 

Another friend waits in a hospital bed. 

Each breath could be his last.  Too early

to call, too late to find that thread which winds

through the dark into a sky like this one,

not yet decided what to be.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        9 April 2012

Passover

Passover

I wake to a morning white and clean,

as one of the first born spared,

even though we forgot to stain

the lintel and door posts red again.

Beneath, grass struggles to cast off

winter’s spell.  Seeds planted in faith 

make ready to sprout new green, 

no track to show where the doe had been.

Tomorrow this snow will all be gone.

The sun will chart his path another degree

farther north.  Time to rejoice, to raise

my voice once more in grateful praise

to him for whose deliverance

I have no way to recompense.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        7 April 2012

Dreams

Dreams

Any dream is better than no

light in the dark.  No matter

how bad, at the end you wake up.

The next dream you may want

to keep past morning into afternoon. 

Or say it’s worse. Well, then,

just open your eyes.

Sometimes a dream recurs

until you write it down. 

Then you don’t have to dream

it over again.  You can read

what you wrote and say

it’s time to move on. 

One more dream, your last. You wait

at the edge of the river.  Clouds open

and all the dark will be gone.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        6 April 2012

Conjugations

Conjugations

I am that I am

I am hath sent me

Before Abraham was I am

You are little children

You are a gift unto the Lord

You are mine

He is the Lord

He is my brother

He is coming

We are strangers

We are servants

We are the offspring of god

We are the people

of his pasture and

the sheep of his hand

                    —Donnell Hunter

                            5 April 2012

                                      

Porcupine

    Porcupine

Two porcupines dead

on the road

within a mile

this morning,

the first I've

seen all season.

No tire scuff

marks where death

came in the night,

guard hairs still

in place, no

streak of blood

nor scattered quills,

everything tidy

like sleeping.  No

it was more

like praying over

folded paws.

Oh Kaheta, friend of the Paiute, only a starving

man would take your life, giving thanks to four

winds.  You never rushed into anything.  But we

have forgotten the old gods.  We worship diesel,

the sleek sedan.  Pray for us, for the wide path of

our intentions paved with stone.

                          —Donnell Hunter

         Previously Published in  Jam To-day December 1983;  Children of Owl 1985;  Harvest 1989

Landscaping

Landscaping

Transplanting prickly

pears reveals a tiny hole

in my buckskin gloves.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        3 April 2012

Reflections

Reflections

Each time I carve an inlay,

an owl looks away

or at me with one eye.

Three times I found the right

tree with a burl someone else

threw away.

It’s been windy all week,

this first day of Spring.

No leaves to hop across the lawn.

When we twain became one,

before long we were three.

I walk home whistling.

The tune doesn’t matter— 

no notes to come out wrong.

My father was thin, his voice

soft when he said, “Be like the sun.”

He’s never far.

In dreams I remember

the apple tree we used to climb.

Beyond the window new sounds,

maybe a breeze unfurls

the flag or grass bends to hide

the beginning from the end.

On the day he left

he held his hat in one hand

and opened the door

for mother on the other side

of the car.

The light turned green.

No one saw what happened,

nor heard the tires scream.

That was half my life ago.

My youngest son, now half my age,

doesn’t feel the slope going down.

No mountain left to climb,

one more river to cross,

lower this year than it’s ever been.

It could snow tomorrow

though it may turn to rain.

Time to plant or to prune

back the cedar limbs.

—Donnell Hunter

                            2 April 2012