Fred Wolven

WALKING THE ROAD, LISTENING, I AMBLE ALONG

STOP, AND LISTEN AGAIN

Poems from a series in progress

# 1 – STANDING ALONGSIDE A POND

Standing here alongside a pond at the end of the neighborhood
I wait quiet, barely breathing, looking out through the steam
rising off the still water. Now, letting my thoughts, my body relax,
I feel a light joy in my chest but sense an interruption that’s abrupt.
Why, in this peaceful scene, here, where I can walk unencumbered,
here, where I feel so quickly, so completely at home & not alone,
does my heart now start to feel heavy, tears drop from my eyes,
& I remember as vividly as I see what’s graphically in front
of me, here & now, being in December or maybe January,
at my father’s funeral, at his gravesite—the earth frozen,
the wind icy, no one talking. Then, I remember his dying
in the hospital room, such a strong man at that moment seemingly
helpless, & I alone in the hallway, unable to be with him. Then,
my memory shifts to his mother’s funeral & seeing Dad break down
& cry, childlike, his head resting on my wife’s shoulder.
Then I didn’t reach out, & he needed me more, more that I ever knew.
Perhaps, here now, beside this pond, he knows I am connected with him.

# 2 – IN THE YARD LIGHT

There in the yard light my silver grey fox stands
motionless, waiting, looking directly at me,
the shadows of palm & avocado tree branches
& leaves spreading out on the ground around me,
the light reflecting off his eyes bringing me back,
drawing me back to my grandmother’s gravesite
with father breaking down, after the short service,
weeping nearly uncontrollably for a few moments.
Afterwards, I started to reach out to him, wanted
to have him near me, to hug me, just to be
in my father’s arms, the pain of love in his tears,
but I didn’t know then how to reach him.
Now, here, standing still near the pond in this spring
evening’s moonlight, I can feel his presence, even
in this place I’ve not been before. Perhaps, now
I can learn to reach out, to connect as I have not.

# 3 – IN A CASSADAGA NEIGHBORHOOD

Steam rises above the pond’s surface;
it’s quiet, serene, and silent. The moonlight
faint reflection off the water has dissipated,
even the night birds’ calls are now replaced
by the near owl-like sounds of morning doves.
Early squirrels begin to scurry from tree to tree,
the softly growing morning’s rising sun
brings a gentle wind rustling leaves,
the tree branches rubbing, creaking overhead.
Underfoot there’s a soft texture of grasses,
the nearly glass-like surface of the water clearing,
dim light fades from old-fashioned streetlamps.
Passing piney woods, oak trees,
hearing a couple yelps of dogs on the next street
and muffled music from a nearby house,
I now move slowly down the street
past a small garden with its aging wooden benches,
past the 1920s apartment building with it’s protruding
front porch and each neighbor sharing coffee
in the morning or visiting in the cooling evenings,
like my parents must have in their early married years.

# 4 – TURNING AROUND FIRST

Turning around first to notice a bed of pansies,
its colorful faces peering out from their centers,
then further up the hill path I notice a tree
encircled by a ring of black-eyed Susans,
rare in this planting, shape and place,
I realize feelings expressed are much
like flowers—their scents nostril-filling,
and their petals unruffled when not picked.
I remember Dad liked mother’s chrysanthemums;
she always won awards with them in the flower shows.

Copyright © 2005 Fred Wolven

Cover Design: Joseph McNair