The leaves are falling
The dense green wall of foliage slowly disappears
into yellows, oranges mixed greens,
the growing bronze of towering oaks,
dots of scarlet here and there,
and in this thinning, vistas opening up;
more than we can,
for it is about us, of course in the long run
though we may not see it that way,
for the vistas opening here , always it seems
to the sea.
The sea that surrounds this island of Beau Port, Glosta
or the sea tide that floods the marshes
our island sea
its sad for those who cannot open up
closeted in importance
who can’t feel the ebb and flooding surges
of this sea in and around us.

October 20, 2016


Its boiling hot, they’ve gone to catch the wind
at high tide when you can sail the tidal river
above the sandbars, when the scope is wide
room to tack and reach, as we try to reach to the far
points in our life where you are the self you wish to be
away from the effigies others might prefer
beyond the expectations of correct behavior and pieties
free of the sand bars in our circumscribed environment
the enclosing freeways that bind us into pockets
webs of mercantile definition, malls of distance,
the all-together loneliness of the social web.
This is not a place for me.
Where can one go to be free of American entrapment
where black and brown and white can live in harmony,
where all beliefs, intellect and toil are respected?
was our Cape Ann like that? brawls were plenty enough
but when the morning light breaks
bright on sea calm water
rancor stills and the gulls cry instead.
Tentacles of wealthy desire buying the old houses
twists the old mix out. Poor working people
can’t afford to live here, to smell the same sea air,
feel the tidal sweep over the marches
swim in the warming creeks.

July 7, 2016

The day wind blew color away

The day wind blew color away denuded bush and tree
seems all of October’s brilliant display has gone away
though days later after the gales have ceased to be
all that’s left shakes off its lethergy. A sunny day

reveals a new range of delight, its not over yet:
but an anxious need to hold to what has been,
perceptions and expectations create a debt
paid out often in a poor currency’s meager bin,

compared with reality that dictates all will be changed
from today’s recovered brilliance to winter white
seems difficult to accept, though often rearranged
by vain hope, rather than accept what’s in sight.

And so, bouncing reality to what’s desired
indentured to wish’s belief poorly inspired.

October 27, 2016


Oh, pussy cat, pussycat your meow so low,
lowing out of your yellow ball of fur, so low
I can hardly hear you. You don’t look at all
like our stone Geshe Ganesha in the hall,
elephant head, pudgy boy below,
petting the head of a mouse, the louse,
oh the fun our cat could have with a mouse.
Its fitting for such a big guy to be guru
not a goose, flipping in the night.
He’s a meter long from tail to noose,
inside safe from the fisher cat
who hides in the rose.
He seems to be a Coon cat but he has five toes,
hidden in his fuzzy big paws.
His litter box doesn’t dull the claws
he flexes as he purrs,
OK if you wear lederhosen,
hell if you’re in cotton pants,
and he’s on you nose to nosen
compresses your chest,
needs nuzzling; the pest.

Kent Bowker
Oct, 1 2006