This was today's blog entry - Jan. 18, 2020
Impeachment reflections in verse
I wonder if you’ve noticed that my blog avoids the news.
I’m quite aware of all the mess, the falses and the trues.
Impeachment is enormous, then again it’s sort of not;
With Trump as head of state we hear unheard-ofs quite a lot.
My paucity of politics is not a blog mistake.
The rest of life continues, is the point I’d like to make.
I hope we’ll all work hard to tell the real news from the fake,
But also we should give our frazzled faculties a break.
No matter who’s in power, we all work and rest and eat,
And love our friends and family and give furry friends a treat.
Oh yes, work hard for goodness! Be a beneficial force.
But also we are human, and we must refresh our source.
The sun comes up, the moon goes ‘round, the seasons flow and ebb;
Breathe deeply in the whole wide world; shut down the World Wide Web.
Reserve some time to be an independent self, alone.
There’s wisdom in our natures, if we’ll just turn off the phone.
Here is a very Maine-based poem I wrote a few years ago:
A New Year Contemplation
I went out walking yesterday –
new crampons on my feet.
The well-timed gift gave me a way
to grip ground slicked with sleet.
A sheet of ice two inches thick
had blanketed December.
It was a trial, a Christmas trick
we all will long remember.
I tramp out back into the field
three dogs slip-sliding near me;
they splay their toes on ice congealed
but cannot anchor, clearly.
In spite of all our trouble, though,
I cannot help but see –
the ice-encrusted world of snow
is also heavenly.
The open stretches and the hills
are shiny like meringue;
I breathe in deep, my cold nose fills
with scent of wood smoke’s tang.
Each filament of twig and grass,
adorned with icy sleeve,
is capped with snow and gleams like glass
all bound in fragile weave.
But many suffer, well I know,
beneath this armored shell.
This heaven fantasy of snow?
For some, a scene from hell.
“We have no power,” many say,
and heat is necessary.
The roads are slick, limbs block our way
and even walking’s scary.
“We’re in the dark,” “Mom took a fall;”
“An accident’s reported.”
“We planted trees and lost them all;”
“Our generator shorted.”
But still I cannot help but see
when walking in my field,
that nature’s frozen fantasy
is like a gift revealed.
The beauty takes my breath away
and I must pause and stare,
as sparkling diamond tree boughs sway
and crackle in the air.
How do we reconcile these two
At once, two different points of view
demand our brain’s attentions.
It strikes me that this icy strife
is like a mock rendition
of every aspect of our life’s
A New Year starts for us today;
it’s time to look ahead,
and we can choose the hopeful way
or cloak our minds with dread.
Our government’s embattled state
will muddle on as ever,
and global wars may not abate
despite our best endeavor.
We’ll fight against injustice
with our webs of information,
and refuse to let grief bust us
even faced with desolation.
Our little globe is fraught with icy,
but even when life’s dicey,
its magnificence remains.
The glory and the burdens all
inhabit us together.
We must decide that we’ll install
equipment for all weather.
As we go forth, as this New Year
reveals its rising dawn,
see beauty when it does appear,
and keep your crampons on.
Older than the hills – poem
By Robin Clifford Wood
June 23, 2018
Written in an English garden, behind the The Galaxie Hotel in Oxford, England
(originally published in the Bangor Daily News)
Why is it that we frantically resist
Acknowledging the passages of time?
We cling to fading youth with knobbled fist
Instead of recognizing the sublime.
A friend of mine completed sixty years,
But when they called him “senior” was appalled.
I’d like to give appeasement to his fears,
Despite the fact he’s old and growing bald.
“He’s old as time;” “He’s older than the dirt,”
Say Hallmark cards that seek to entertain.
But time is infinite, and I assert
That dirt’s as precious as the sun and rain.
I’m only just beginning to be old,
And on my bucket list of future thrills
Is that I’ll still be vital when I’m told
That I am someone “older than the hills.”
Just think about the years a hill abides,
Beginning as a jagged mountain tower.
Millennia have beaten down her sides
Reducing both her grandeur and her power.
But contemplate the hill from off some distance --
You’ll see the greater strength she’s gently wearing.
Through quiet observation and persistence
The hill exudes a wise, eternal bearing.
A rocky mountaintop lies starkly barren
Without the flourishing of earth’s erosion.
It needs the stream, the birch, the wolf, the heron,
In order to engage in life’s explosion.
Upon a hill there’s rich and fertile soil
Where beast and forest multiply and thrive.
From gnat to bear entanglements embroil,
And hills engender everything alive.
I’ve had my days of jutting high with pride,
But I don’t mind the calm that age fulfills.
As agents of eternity, let’s glide
Toward noble lifetimes, older than the hills.