* * *
former field
the ruffed grouse makes a drum
out of thin air
Poems on the topic: field
Poems on the topic “field” on Poets.by.
Waiting to launch
The first greens
out of the ground are rockets:
dame’s-rocket, garlic mustard,
winter cress where it’s wet.
Then come the wild onions
up at the wood’s edge—
but not yet. I stand watching
a dark spot in the field that fails
to turn into a bear.
Sledding
The spruce grove
at the top of the hollow
harbors a north-woods chill.
Seated on a runner sled
I hurtle down into
the sunlit field,
my shadow like a witching rod
stretched out before me,
alive to every bump and dip.
Pastoral
The squirrel’s tracks end
in a smudge of blood on the snow,
one tuft of fur
and the long furrow
its dangling tail drew
beside the fox’s footprints.
Alone in the field,
a bulldozer lowers its blade
to a white and heavy harvest.
In the weeds
in the old field I walk
between turnstiles
wind comes alone
with no good message
but one toke and I see
my dark nest
give the whole day
new fur
Where The Sycamore Grows
There is a field where a sycamore grows
Whether it be day or night, one could say it glows.
It is a peaceful place for thought;
A place where all is quiet, my own little spot.
I love this place, enough to have said
That I wanted to rest here when I'm dead.
While I'm here, I feel sort of free;
A type of magic that affects only me.
Because there, I could truly be alone.
Sitting at the tree; my own wooden throne.
And here was my kingdom; seen from a palace so grand
That I could look all across the land
Now I grow old, as most rulers do;
So I let loose my crown and gazed once more at the view
And whispered the story of the place now nobody knows;
Here in the field where the sycamore grows.
Psychedelic Psalm
The universe is liquid;
it fits any container.
The universe fits
in a field
and we play a pick-up
game of football.
The universe fits
in a blade of grass on a field,
drinking the dew that
forms on its shaded face.
The universe fits
in a football;
what joy it is to be
kicked around!
The universe fits
in the cells of a blade of grass,
In the Year of the Rooster
This is not really Chinese zodiac
But born in a year of the rooster last century
I was fated to crow aloud to summon
The first morning glows above the
Rice-fields, pecking here and there
For a seed or a pebble bit close
To my grandma’s straw-roofed
Cottage, ready to put up a chicken fight
With my fleshy crown standing up straight
But never able to fly higher than a broken
Fence, since my body was winged
With more fat than feathers
Only after I died did I manage to travel afar
To an exotic land, when my naked being
Was minced and served for a minor course
In a recyclable plate as in this little poem
Apparition #562
I see you foraging through
weeds in a field; it’s spring,
air streaked green. I’m with
you in the field: I’m mud, or
grass, I’m beneath your nails,
held fast. Bark flakes off me.
You pass on, satisfied. Branches
sway, flecked by tongues—
look at my garden’s sprawl;
do you see me here, or in the air?
The Field and I
The field and I had cut our hair
last afternoon.
We had a shower by rain
last night.
Today, the field was woken up
by a kiss of the rainbow
Me, by my mother’s
phone call.
Bare Winter Prairie &
bare winter prairie &
a little smoke rises
from an empty field
On Both Sides
on both sides
of the old wood fence
flooded field
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