At Last

At last the warm air drifted in

after a long, cold and bitter winter

a day when birds landed in droves

and fresh warm air filled the land.

I, breathing the scent of that warmth,  

cast off my chores for the day,

and stayed outside.

All day.

It was as if I had been released from a long imprisonment.

I walked through mud that sucked at my shoes.

I listened to the trickle of melting snow as it formed puddles around me.

The music of song sparrows drifted over the wet, melting earth

—a song of joy to me!

And then in the evening, as dusk settled like a fawn to the ground,

the peenting of woodcocks was heard

and the winnowing of their wings in an eager mating flight display

and I stood in the yard, my mouth agape,

Listening to the music of spring—at last!

~Kathie Adams Brown (April 4, 2015)

NaPoWriMo/ 30 Poems in 30 Days

The Old Red Barn

There is a place of dreams,

an old red barn with memories

of my grandfather who was

and now is not,

Buried beneath a granite slab

with Nana now by his side.

How do I recall the days that were?

With him walking the earth

With him feeding the cows

With him cutting the hay

With him in his chair silently puffing his pipe

With him fishing along the banks of Black Ledge Creek

With him rushing out the door during Christmas dinner, donning his fireman’s hat as he went.

With him that one and only time he let me help pluck the feathers from the warm breast of a pheasant he had shot—a task usually reserved for his grandsons.

And we stood behind the old red barn

Where his fishing boat stayed in the winter

Only to be towed back to Moosehead Lake in Maine the next summer

To the place of his dreams and deep desires,

the place he brought his bride to all those long years ago,

the place that he loved,

the place of his being,

the place that he died one summer.

But the old red barn is empty now

Save for his memory

or his ghost.

~Kathie Adams Brown (April 1, 2015)

Maine is Not

Maine is not Arizona.

It does not have saguaros and ocotillos and cacti

You cannot wear flip flops all year round.

You cannot grow oranges in Maine.

There are no nectar feeding bats in Maine,

and the fragrance of creosote bush does not perfume the air after the rain.

There is no song of the desert toad singing its wild mating cry during the monsoon.

In Maine there are not ten kinds of hummingbirds flying around.

In fact, in Maine, only one species is found!

Maine is not sunny, day after day after day.

Maine is not flat and dusty and dry,

Maine is not landlocked.

Maine is not predictable,

Maine is not tame.

Maine is not crowded or bustling or boring.

You cannot escape nature in Maine.

You cannot drive very far in a straight line,

and in Maine, “You can’t get there from here.”

In summer you cannot stay outside too long because of humidity, mosquitoes, black flies, and ticks.

In winter you cannot stay outside because of snow and ice and below zero temperatures

with high, gusty winds to drive the point home.

Maine does not have rattlesnakes, scorpions, or tarantulas.

Maine does not have Spanish style houses.

There is no place else like Maine.

Maine is not Arizona.

~Kathie Adams Brown (April 1, 2015)

Messalonskee Lake in Maine 6-23-14

NaPoWriMo 2015 / 30 Poems in 30 Days

Day One Prompt: A Poem of Negation

Regrets

Santa Rita Mountains in Arizona 8-7-2010

I guess it’s too late to be a ballerina, lithe, graceful and pretty.

I guess it’s too late to own my own horse and ride wildly over the fields.

I guess it’s too late to build a log cabin, all from scratch with my own trees and on my own land.

I guess it’s too late to live in the mountains, far away from anyone or anything.

I guess it’s too late to live in Idaho, a place more wild and beautiful than I could have imagined.

I guess it’s too late to be an Indian princess and live in a teepee and wear a buckskin dress and moccasins.

I guess it’s too late to become a doctor and practice in some faraway place where I am most needed.

I know it’s too late to save my poor dog, the beautiful Irish Setter—poetry in motion. I let him down. He was my friend. He was my heart.

But it is never too late to sing my own song, or write my own story.

It is never too late to love, or forgive,

or to dream.

~ Kathie Adams Brown (4-1-15)

I Like a Windy Day

I like a windy day,

When the wind comes to tease and play

And we prance and dance around the meadow.

I like the wind to toss the leaves

To bend the trees,

And make them clap their hands.

I like to feel like a wild pony

And run and kick

And toss my mane and tail.

But this fierce arctic wind is a nasty bastard

And I wish he would go back from whence he came.

Kathie Adams Brown (March 22, 2015)

National Poetry Writing Month starts in one week! NaPoWriMo 2015

A Battle with the North Wind

You roaring wind,

You arctic sledgehammer

pounding out of the north,

I turn my face to you

and beat my wings to fly

You push me back,

You seek to overpower me,

and still my chest expands,

My sinews elastic and powerful as my lungs

fill with your icy breath.

You push me back, and back, and back,

I feel my pinions fill and spread

with the power of your wind,

as we do battle.

You pour a winter’s weariness upon us,

refusing to release your grip,

while I fly on with a fierce hope

into Spring.

Kathie Adams Brown (March 22, 2015)

For World Poetry Day 2015 (One day late!)

To Reach for the Sky

Cattle Egret in CA 2012

What joy it is to reach for the sky

Arms open wide

to receive all there is,

or to celebrate

and cheer

With elation.

These arms of mine

So taken for granted

Are essential things

I use them every day—in so many ways;

to hug, to reach, to grasp,

to perform essential tasks!

How wondrously and marvelously made we are,

Birthed into this world, perfectly formed,

We crawl and walk and run through life

Arms outstretched and open wide

As if we were always born to fly.

By Kathie Adams Brown (March 15, 2015)

Common Terns, Chatham, MA 2011