"Writing … is discovering." Frost
Oh come, let us sing to the Lord
Shout joyfully to the Rock of our salvation,
Enter His presence with thanksgiving,
Shout joyfully to Him with psalms.
For the Lord is a great God
A great King above all gods.
His left hand holds the Marine Trench
The height of Mount Kilimanjaro is measured with his pinkie
He patted out the Mojave
And cups the Caribbean in His right.
Gather round and worship—kneel down.
He is God
Be silent at his feet.
The place where cod and cliff and cove
kiss fog and fisherman, where humpbacks blow their
watery horns and puffins dance on peat and locals invite
you to the hearth to warm your damp soul in July
where crumpled piers dot the rocky shore
alongside each fishing shack
and each b’y pulls his dory to dock in the dusk
when the capelin and lobster are done.
The place where crab and sea arch
play tag as the tide serves salmon or
halibut cheek at the Twillingate
theater, family lore lights the stage
peals of laughter are washed down with wine
while Jack was Every Inch a Sailor and Saltwater
Joys are accompanied with Gary’s accordion,
Chelsea belts forth in Newfoundland gusto
guests wipe wet cheeks and notes fade on the
Labrador Sea, Will the Circle be Unbroken?
When you tell me Guys Mills is beautiful, I just want to say,
Honey, yo’ must have eyes like a grasshopper for yo’ sur’
aint never been to Virginia where the mountains run up
one of side of the forest and down the other and where the
curves twist the roads around boulders and across chortling streams,
where hay fields and vineyards border market stands piled with
sweet corn and tomatoes and melons. I don’t blame yo’ if you think
the golden rod colors the swamp lovely, what with the geese flying
over the sumac and a cream moon shining down, there was a moment
to pause. It must be all in perspective, I suppos’.
Must be somethin’ about knowing
Barbara Hudgins that lives in the trailer in the woods with seventeen cats
and first hearin’ then barely seein’ Nick go by on his bike.
Must be more about the peepers and the wide blue sky
fog steaming off the James River hazing an early morning drive
more about Boutetourt and less about peach ice cream and a paycheck.
Are your grasshopper eyes up for grabs?
Living in the Now 