One Person's Poetry

Am I Here So I Can Write These Things?

A pair of bald eagles lifts off
From my swamp front on a wind
That's twelve knots at the dock.

Their wings stay stiff as aircrafts.
They slip away, across the wind.

They have to accept the cold
And still spread their wings.
Am I here so I can write these things?

Naming Your Boat

Half the reason for having a boat is watching
it bobbing away in front of your modest
frontage.
If I wanted to be on the water I would go there,
go anywhere, but now I'd rather watch it and
read

Maybe I should get in it and be on the water,
and be anywhere on it, or not, just stay there.
Her
movement is so lithe, like the waves themselves,
and
she could be a projection of you in a jiffy, a trice.

That might be a good name for her, jiffy. But
it's not true. Wooden boats take time. She could
be
Viking for her style, or Helga, after Wyeth's true
love
or Jiffy or Trice, but those aren't nice

I'll just watch Helga!

Mysterious

Leaves fall in the yard
Some fall on the bench
Slip through the slats, ad
Lie on the covered porch floor.

An hour before setting the sun
Barely warms my back. Every leaf
On the water seems a turtle's head
Until a zephyr turns them, shows

They're hollow. A few leaves glide
On the current out of the stream.
Mallard children, three females and
A green head, come out first

Behind me, towards the sun
A big fish strikes. I turn,
But there are no ripples.