Five Seven Five

With the energy and optimism of youth, a young man here in town organized a poetry night at our local library. It sounded like something different and fun to do on a cold February evening. I wouldn't call myself a big fan of poetry, but at times I find resonance in the work of some poets like Robert Frost, Donald Hall or Gary Snyder. There were six of us, and I thought that was a pretty good turnout for a place where everybody is always too busy. It was fun and stimulating. I met a few new people and got re-acquainted with some old friends.

I didn't want to go empty-handed, and since the closest thing to poetry I had to offer was a handful of haikus that I've put in this blog in the past, I went through my old posts and jotted them down. About all I know about haiku is that, in one form, there are three lines, the first and last lines have five syllables and the middle one has seven. That length is appropriate for my attention span, and I like to have some simple rule to follow.

These little poems brought back memories, both fond and bittersweet, so I decided to collect all of them in one place. Each one is accompanied by a little background about the moment they came to me. The dates refer to the blog posts where they first appeared.



May on the Deck
May 2007

I like to think about the cycle of seasons and how it affects the natural world around us. Every summer on May first, the chimney swifts return to Sharon to zoom and twitter overhead all summer long. On September first, they are gone. Also in May, the catbirds return to nest in the overgrown and unruly clump of forsythia in my backyard. I love to sit on the deck on a warm May afternoon watching formations of swifts flying their patrols over the house and listening to the catbirds mewing from the green depths of the shrubbery. It makes me feel like the world will be OK for at least one more season.


chimney swift catbird

sky above forsythia

good to have them home



Running to Another Place
June 2006

One of my regular runs takes me from home, through the town center, and over the tracks to the road up Moose Hill. On a good day, my body will feel efficient and my stride will be smooth. As the pumping blood washes over my brain I can get lost in dreams and, at times, I feel like there are secrets in the forest and that maybe a little bird - like the wood peewee - might be trying to share them with me.

Warm summer rain run.

Endorphins bathe open mind.

Pewee calls from woods.

Cold Blood
June 2007

Often times on these Moose Hill runs, roadkill is a reminder of life and death and the way we can crush the natural world beneath our feet and machines. One warm, damp late spring morning, following an overnight thunderstorm after a long dry spell I came across a big bullfrog that had me wishing we could all slow down and be more careful when we drive.

Rain lets bullfrog move

Warm road feels good to cold blood

Driver does not care.



How Quickly We Fall
June 2007


In 2007, I was trying my best to recover from prostate cancer surgery. (Everything is fine now, thanks.) My recovery was not going well, and in fact, I was feeling sicker and weaker all the time. What I didn't know at the time was that I was coming down with a nasty case of Lyme disease, totally unrelated to my surgery. I was confused, frustrated and depressed.

Having had almost no exercise for about seven weeks, I decided to hike to the summit of Moose Hill. While I was reaching for life, once again it didn’t take long to be reminded of death by roadkill as I turned onto Moose Hill Parkway.

Shagbark hickory.

Squirrel tempted by crushed nuts.

One last fatal bite.

Walker sees squirrel.

Maggots dine on rotting flesh.

No life is wasted.

This brought to mind the writings of Gary Snyder where he reminds us that all death nourishes new life.

As I climbed, I felt sicker and weaker. It was hot and dry and trees were dropping leaves prematurely. I was thinking of seasons - and lives - ending before their time.

When does youth turn old?

Like summer turning to fall,

We want to hold on.

How will we turn old? Will it strike overnight like a sudden hard freeze? Or will youth slip away gradually like summer slipping quietly, barely noticed, into fall?

A Beating Heart

Like a long-neglected lover, my heart responded eagerly to the attention I was finally giving it. It beat with a happy thump as I pushed up the trail through the thick August air to Moose Hill. Just 15 days ago I was lying, unconscious, on an operating table. A giant machine, like an inquisitive alien, was scoping, probing and snipping inside my body through five punctures in my abdomen. Only four days ago I was still carrying tubes and bags. The technology and surgical skill that would ultimately save my life was also changing me in ways I will fully understand only in time. I was returning to Moose Hill on a quest to begin to understand this new me.

My throbbing heart was part of the old me. Through my surgery and early recovery, my heart served me well, repaying me for years of cycling and running. Several times in the hospital when a nurse would stop by to take my vital signs, she would not trust the high-tech device that recorded my temperature, blood pressure, oxygen saturation and heart rate. She would take my wrist and read her analog watch the old fashioned way to verify that my resting heart rate was indeed as low as 48 beats per minute. I was happy with my heart even as other body parts let me down.

It was warm - in the high 80’s (F) – as I climbed Moose Hill last Saturday, but I don’t think it could have been too warm. I wanted to sweat and feel the blood flowing through every vein. I wanted my heart to bring life-giving oxygen to every cell and to wash away the poisons that made me feel weak. I wanted the warmth to penetrate to my very core and depths to bring life and healing.

Like those recovering from traumatic injury, I would have to learn new ways to do things I’d been doing quite well all my life, thank you. When in a good mood, this need for new discoveries could seem interesting, if challenging. When less upbeat, the doubt and uncertainly about my future could be depressing. In every mood, the preoccupation with my disease and the resulting surgery and their impact on the rest of my life put me in a strange state of mind. The things that used to hold my attention held little interest. I wasn’t listening to the radio or even music. The TV sat silent (One thing I hope I grow to like!). I couldn’t focus on the newspaper. Early efforts to get back to work, even if only for a couple of hours, were, at best, endured. I didn’t even want to think about blogging. The world was passing me by, and I didn’t care. I was beginning to wonder if the anesthesia had poisoned my brain.

This walk was about me. I needed to take a long hike to reassure myself that my past self was not completely erased and that I had hope for a happy and healthy future. After about four miles of brisk walking a good kind of fatigue began to set in. My heart and legs were telling me I had done the right thing but it was time for rest. As I began the final descent out of the woods my spirit bird the pee wee called, as if reminding me that he would be there and ready to teach me the deep secrets when I was ready, once again, to listen.