Author Archives: Russell

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About Russell

Annie’s man. A dad, a grandpa, a lover of language, a lover of trees, an angler, and the luckiest man who ever lived--married to his epic love.

Baptism and benediction on the Brule

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The trout ran strong and swift, the stream ran cold
and clear, and both ran past a pair of felt-
soled boots. The angler in the boots stood long
alone and watched the water rushing by.
The hair beneath his hat was graying, but
the hands that held his pole were still as thick and
hard as when they guided softer hands
and smaller boots down muddy banks to take
that first enchanting step on mossy rocks.
He turned and looked at tiny, gleaming drops
of sunlight dancing upstream where the boy
had caught a rainbow on a fly he’d tied
himself.  Around the bend, a little way
beyond where he could see, was where the boy
had caught his first and found his private joy.
He watched the water, waiting, aching to see
the colored pebbles that were not what they
seem rise through swaying shafts of light and hold
near ripples, glitter-capped and quick, until
they tap the surface, take a bite and flash
away.  He watched the Mayflies lift and fall
on gossamer wings that fluttered helplessly
against the breeze until they failed.  The frail
and floating insects, their genetic task
complete, returned the river’s gift.  He looked
across to where the boy and he had sat
to wait for countless suns to sink and call
the trout to rise.  There, in the cool of grass
still soft, still moist, still shaded by the trees,
the words were easy.  Fears had fallen there
and drowned beneath the current.  Dreams were born
and carried high on summer winds.  So sweet
was one, it swept away the dreamer–yet
no sweeter than the one that brought, and kept,
the other here.  The angler bowed his head
toward the stream and, smiling, waded in.

Bitter harvest

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Too late a spring delayed the corn

that grows in summer’s heat;

too soon a frost has killed the crops

before they’re ripe with meat.

Too late a rain has bogged us down

in sinking, flooded fields;

too soon a gleaning of flesh too moist

has crushed the fragile yield.

Too wet to store, too much to dry

and all the work’s a waste:

The years of empty hope and toil

have left a bitter taste.

But changing fates is not a choice,

and there is no place to roam:

I’ll sow again, I’ll reap again,

because this is our home.

Season’s end

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He pitched a lure across the stern and watched

it land beneath the pines that bent along

the shore, then glanced toward the man at the bow.

“Are you OK?”

………

………… “I’m rid of those tubes,

ain’t I?  Look boy, if you are planning to play

doctor all day, I’ll lend you my pocket knife–

who knows?–you might find something the quacks left behind.”

……..

“I know it was rough, but they’re just trying to help.”

He reeled the lure, with a tug on a weedy snag.

……

“Ya, so they kept telling me.  The look of the bear’s

a little different once you’re inside the den.”

The old one tested his line for strength, attached

his bait and looked out over the lake.  “Oh, no–”

…….

“What’s the matter?”

…….

………………….. “I don’t have a license to fish

in Canada; they’ll come take our gear for sure.”

……..

“Relax; this isn’t Canada.  Hey, you sure

you’re OK?”

…….

…………. “Of course I’m OK.  I may be old

and worn out, but I’m twice the fisherman

you’ll ever be.  Now quit treating me like a girl

and stay out of my way.”  He made his cast,

but sounds of passing geese in southward skeins

drew longing lines around his fading eyes.

He closed his coat against the autumn chill.

…….

The trees along the banks were once a stand

of heroes–having strength and will enough

to mock the fates that put them there–but now

they sunk as withered husks, as easy prey

for winter’s first harsh wind.  The young man turned

and trembled.  “Dad, are you afraid to die?”

…….

“For the love of– What the hell kind of question is that?

I swear I’ll never figure out why you

have to talk about everything all the time.”

…….

“I thought you’d want to talk.  I thought it would help.

Forget it.”

……..

…………..“Afraid I’ll leave you out of my will?”

…….

“Damn it all, Dad.  You know better than that.”

He held his rod tip high, looking for a place

to make another cast.  “I’ll tell you why.

I talk because I’m scared to death.”

…….

………………………………….“Of what?”

………

“Of what?  Of what?  Of all of it.  Of you.

Of losing myself after you–”

……

………………………..”“That’s enough.”

………

“Hold on!”–he jerked the line to set the hook,

and pulled it tight to hold the fish he thought

he had caught.  “It’s a big one.  Quick, get the net.”

……

“Keep your rod up, line tight.”

……..

…………………………“I am.  I am.

Must be twenty pounds or more.  Listen to the drag

screamin’.  You set with that net?  She’s comin’ up.”

……..

“All set.”  The old one leaned over the edge

and looked into the water.  “What the hell

is that?  Afraid, that ain’t a fish there, boy.”

…….

He pulled a dead, decaying goose in close

and worked to free the snag.  “Oh, Dad– Poor thing.

The big old bird just couldn’t make it through

another year.  He really fouled my line.”

……

“Hurry and cut it loose, damn it.  Let it go.”

The old one laid down his rod and fixed his eyes

on the distant shore.

…………The young one cut the line.

……..

“I’ll miss you, Dad.”

…….

……………“Huh?  What?  What did you say?”

…….

“Nothing.”

…………The father looked at his son and a nod

of knowing eased them both.  “Let’s go home, son.”

The pond

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The pond is open now.  The cold

of winter’s grip no longer holds

the water’s gently pulsing scroll.

Surprised, I watch the spring unfold.

Surprised, because I feared the toll

of losing you would break the whole

and leave me lost in endless past,

beyond the touch that might console.

But now the darker months have passed

And spring’s return to life is fast –

My walking’s gained a stronger pace –

As if from death you’ve come at last.

The pond is now a sacred place

Where on the waves I find your face.

Click here to hear the poem read aloud.

Firewood

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The glinting arch of sun on steel that split

the air absorbed the life of muslces warmed

with vernal heat and drove the axe head hard

against the wood.  Good blocks of oak he split,

and sweetly scented pieces lay asprawl,

prepared to yield their heat, their meat, to him.

The hands that held the axe were supple still,

though course to touch.  Their strokes were sure and quick,

and driven by the joyful ache of earnest love.

….

She said, “It’s time for me to go.”

……

………………………………………He stopped.

“What’s that?  I thought you had some things to do.

You know:  Some things to do up at the house.”

…..

“All done.”  She moved her eyes away from his

and whispered, “I’m all packed.”  She saw the axe

he held and laughed.  “What’s wrong with you?  You know

how fast the chainsaw is–”  He dropped the axe.

She watched it fall, and in the worn-out grip

she glimpsed the man as she had not before.

She paused, then set herself and said again,

“It’s time for me to go.”

……….

……………………………“The corn’s about

to come.”  He knelt as if collecting wood

and tried to steady failing legs.  He bowed

his head to hide his face and gasped against

a searing pain that started low and spread.

“This could be our best crop.”

……….

………………………………….“I have to go.”

……….

The hollow slap of sleet on pitted steel

that lay where it had fallen rose unheard

and died above the nearby fallow fields.

……….

The untouched handle, cracked and splintered, sunk

a little deeper in the mud.  The blocks

of wood, unstacked, unburned, and brown and soft,

now fouled the cutting winds with fetid mold.

The muscles warmed with vernal heat grew still

and cold in the grieving ache of earnest love.

For my mother

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In spring, the wind blew over you so fresh,

so full of hope, it seemed to be the breath

of dawn itself.  In summer, warmer winds

of sun and rain aroused the sleeping life

you knew was yours to give.  And in the fall,

the wind brings you the fragrance, sweet and strong,

of the fruits so gently nurtured by your hands.

Before the winter nights approach, and you

fend off the cold and cutting snows with coals

that glow in memory of fires past, lift

your face into the wind and feel the spring

again.  And if it may, allow the breeze

to speak my heart in whispers soft and brush

your cheek with my most tender, filial kiss.

This old spouse

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The paint is peeling from the heat,

and walls are showing signs of wear.

The floor complains beneath your feet;

beware the sagging bottom stair.

The years may dull that youthful gleam,

but nothing shakes the solid base

nor saps the strength from any beam:

This house remains a living place.

Since this is where you choose to live–

bring light to dark and stoke the fire–

you know this house has much to give

and dreams to be all that you desire.

…..So long as you will make this house your own,

…..the rooms will wake with life and love of home.

A quiet light

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The city lights looked coldly in at her

through jagged lines of the frost that gathers on

the panes in empty rooms.  What kept her eyes

from giving back the gaze was the naked bulb

that hung above her head.  What brought her to

that creaking room was dread–and aging locks

that fastened only when they turned just so.

She stood, at a loss amid the dark decay,

and worked to keep the night beyond the door.

And having scared the hallway rats with her steps

(a willful weight to each) in coming here,

she tried to scare whatever ears may lurk

in the shadowed streets below in stomping off.

The city nights have sounds–the highway’s whine,

the sirens’ scream, the cries of angry men–

that strike severely against a mother’s ears.

The locks are hurried to guard the inner night

against the outer, and tender songs are sung

to guard the children’s ears against the din.

She feared they might become easy neighbors

with it, and stroked their sable curls to ward

off any dreams the outer sounds inspire.

A light she was to no one beyond this room

where now she sat:  a quiet light amid

the gaudy glare, a gently warming glow

against the flashing neon ice.  She pressed

her lips against their tiny mouths, one kiss

to each of two faces scented with soap.

And then she slept.  The child closest to her

turned over in the bed, disturbing her,

and she shifted, but the day hung long

and heavy, weary on her and still she slept.

One young woman–alone–can’t keep a home,

a family, a dream, or if she can,

it’s thus she does it on a winter night.

The death of dreams

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The quilt, thrown back the way it is, allows

the warmth of sheets still moist with sweat to rise

and fade, and cool the heat your scents arouse.

Against the longing, I have to close my eyes.

You stand, I know, at the window where you’ve stood

before and watched the winter sun you dread

forsake the day much sooner than it should.

Against the wanting, you slowly bow your head.

Beyond the pane, a mist embalms the trees

in shrouds of ice and, as the storm lurks near

the house, the sodden sheets of raindrops freeze

against the glass, too cold to run as tears.

………I can endure the death of dreams no more:

………I wake, and turn my face toward the door.