Long Adirondack Poems
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God was so pleased with his six days of creation
The seventh day He declared a day of rest
Bound to have some heavenly
Well-deserved relaxation
As soon as He woke up
He brewed a cup of java and
Set up his most comfy Adirondack chair
On his fluffiest favorite cloud
And so on this seventh day
A most magnificent morning unfolded
Watching from every conceivable angle
One glorious sunrise after another
By noon for Sunday brunch
God challenged his angels to make
The tallest fruit salad unimaginable
For a rendez-vous on the Hawaiian islands
The first summer games
Were held that very afternoon
Playful racing with dolphins
And swimming in the seven seas
Then dusk began to fall
All were cordially invited to board
The fabulous celestial party bus
For a ‘round the world premiere trip
Westbound capturing one endless sunset
For hours and hours of a colorful joyride
Ending with a final detour to the north
For a late night aurora borealis show
AP: 3rd place 2020
Riding Water Rapids
New York State Adirondack Mountains
Beauty and Charm
Lakes, Rivers and Waterfalls
Observing Water Rapids Saulteaux
The thought of challenging Fear
Conquering the Water Rapids in preserver
Courage through assurance
Faith enriching endurance
Canoe and venture
Close to nature
As I pulled the canoe from the pier
Determined to fulfill
My mind on God’s will
I had to do this
Hit or miss
The canoe drifted into smooth then rough waters
It was hitting against rocks below
I had worry within
That was my scare then
Adventurous on every sense of the word
Determination with a promise
No defeat until Victory
Achieved and Accomplished
Rode the Water Rapids
Confident and Brave
Success being a story
A behold
Rapidity
There is a house on Nashatuck hill in Concord
with beautiful open spaces
It was built in the 1930s
and it has an Adirondack style porch that looks out over
a small valley and Concord center
The house has three stories
and on every story the detail work is craftsmanship
shining wood railings
grand moldings
I don’t know who lives there now
I only saw it once like a boy whose eyes meet yours
that you never forget somehow
I am sure by now some wonderful wealthy people have moved in
and given it beautiful colors
filled it with beautiful lamps and light and laughter
I am sure it has become a show place where people come
and go and ohh and ahhh and laugh and eat
and chink glasses
and I will always remember it just like a boy I loved once
even thought I may never step foot inside it’s doors again
A polite rain
joined me briefly
before heading uptrail
to leave me standing, alone,
in a suddenly steaming forest.
I wrote this on a hike in the Adriondacks to to Mt Marcy, the highest mountain in New York State. My Adirondack Guide indicated that Tahawus was the a first Nation (Iroquois ??) name for the mountain and it meant “cloud-splitter.” I decried that the mountain is now named "Mt. Marcy"after William L. Marcy, who as Governor of New York (1833-1839), authorized the geological survey that explored the area. I speculated that this is why there is so little poetry in our time.
However, a later Wikipedia search revealed that the name was likely never used by the aboriginal peoples of the area to refer to the mountain, and its meaning, may have no roots in any language.
Shimmering in a chilly mist,
skyscrapers overlooking NYC.
August left into September's cooler mornings,
schoolchildren dressed in plaid and Hush Puppies.
In Central Park the leaves are a green-yellow,
squirrels scurry to store acorns.
Pretzel vendors appear as joggers feel
relieved from humidity,
in autumnal New York.
Driving headed north,
Upstate farms yield cider,
and the Catskills and Adirondack mountains
are banners of emerging colors.
Deer gather from the edge of the woodland
to drink from a pond as the fading moon sails,
in autumnal New York.
Years ago my siblings and I in our Long Island
suburban yard,
leapt into golden and red maple leaf piles,
and ate candy apples-
How much simpler and joyful our lives
were then,
in autumnal New York,
I wish I were still in,
autumnal New York. ~
My bathing suit under a sundress
I race to the end of the dock
where my adirondack chair calls to me
A canoe glides by in the distance
and a blue heron is poised for breakfast...
the placid lake awaits an August sunrise
Making the most of vacation adventure
a swim at crack of dawn
an oversized mug of iced coffee
a light summer novel...
Is there a better way to start a summer day?
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~CAFFEINE INFUSION~ 2020
AP: Honorable Mention 2022, Front Page Pick 2024
Submitted on May 3, 2019 for contest OBJECTIFYING A SEASON sponsored by SHERI FRESONKE HARPER - RANKED 7TH
In the green Adirondack foothills lies
the haven of our old summer camp,
once a place of adventure and outdoor joy,
and the loud cries of precocious scamps,
their energy you never could tamp,
scurrying ’round on small, rapid feet,
leaping into the pond without a beat.
I remember coming here myself,
gazing up at the grand totem pole,
the mess hall with fieldstone fireplace,
where countless tall-tales were told,
and lordy, was the pond bitter cold!
There was a trading post for candy, snacks,
and toilets which all amenities lacked…
To scampering kids it felt like we were
far off in a rugged wilderness,
that tall white pines just rolled on
in a vast and uncharted forest,
and we were just the ones to explore it!
The only sign of steel on our trails
was a pair of rusted, forgotten trial rails.
Then I came back here as an adult
and found the revelry was long passed,
the town had bought up all the old camp,
no kids raced swiftly ’cross the grass,
it had been too good of a place to last,
folks blamed it on poor demographics,
cell phones, and parents afraid of risk.
I suppose I should be thanking the town,
because the made the space into a park,
at the very least it will be preserved,
even though it’s missing that old spark,
and youngsters sprinting ’round on a lark,
they’re even cleared out some new ground…
by tearing half the rustic buildings down.
The trading post, now a picnic pavilion,
the staff cabins now an empty field,
the docks pulled up and carted away,
the pond belongs now to minnows and eels,
not entirely sure how I feel,
out there we swam and swamped canoes,
now it’s blocked off from public use.
The mess hall, at least, is still standing,
they say it’s becoming a historic sight,
but to see it still present, all alone,
somehow just doesn’t feel all that right,
with its clap-board fading in bright sunlight,
at least the boat-house still rises near,
though it’s probably collapse within the year.
I turned away in a very glum mood,
made my way to my car rather slow,
thinking of all I had done here
that my children are never going to know,
there are few places like this left to go.
it brings a well-known though to my mind:
Damn you, damn you, damn you time!
I was out walking on a trek
through forested Adirondack hills,
looking for a good place to camp,
to drop my pack and just chill.
It was a weekend excursion,
and I’d already done eight miles,
seeking out the kind of peace
a man only finds in the wild.
Summiting a gentle knoll,
the forest dropped by the wayside,
for a moment I couldn’t register
what lay before my eyes.
There stood a sprawling logging camp,
hewn from rough, fallen trees,
and a beaten path where horses
had trod upon the scene.
I stood there in stunned silence,
how could this all exist?
How could they be profitable,
and in this modern world persist?
Maybe It was a niche thing,
some sort of nostalgic deal,
or a camp of recreationists
who wanted to make it ‘real.’
Just then one of the ‘jacks waved,
and I walked into their camp,
He smiled, saying,”You look like
a right regular deep woods tramp.
“Cookee’s serving up chow soon,
why don’t you come and stay,
we can always find a spare bunk,
you won’t get in the way.”
Now a hot meal in the deep woods
is not something to turn down,
so I went inside and feasted
On beef, beans, and bread brown.
After eating I settled on in
to the spacious, if rank, bunk room.
The men told stories of their times,
of log drives and forest gloom.
Their names were Dutch, Red, Albert,
Guillame, Flash, and Scotty,
They frowned but once, when they said
they sure missed their friend Guy.
We all played cards to pass time,
and a few smoked long pipes,
one by one we all dripped off,
and slept a quiet, peaceful night.
The next morning after flapjacks
I set back upon my path,
and waved to the fellows true
who’d recreated the past.
They were such a friendly lot
that I went back two more times,
a fine summer, I do say so,
but something itched in my mind…
That itch came to the forefront
one chilly, October morn,
I was talking with my good bud,
local historian Nick DeLorn.
Nick had a brace of posters,
pictures of old logging camps.
He was putting them up above
the town museum’s wheel-chair ramp...
CONCLUDES IN PART II
An ordered massif of concrete
in the green Adirondack range,
crumbling Greek amphitheater,
it’s presence strikes the mind as strange.
The chips and cracks throughout the tiers,
the weather worn orchestra shell,
a dry fountain before the stage
where grand tales performers did tell…
Atop is a projector house,
clad in lichen, needle of pine,
for movies from a golden age,
now half-lost to ruin and time.
On shifting paths of pavement cracked,
up an old sidewalk to the hill,
saplings grow where the lodge once stood,
its rooms with New Yorkers filled.
They fled here from limpid summers,
when the heat was too much to take,
well before airplanes and A.C.,
they came to this place on the lake.
Scaron Manor, once so sprawling,
now it stands fallow, gone to scale,
the nine holes, at least, still are clear,
bushy meadows where critters wail.
To the water I stroll leisurely,
the beach of old still is in use,
motorboats moored ten yards off shore,
on the fine sands are scampering youths.
I smile and walk past the fun,
to the big cement walls I do go,
craved right into the lake’s shoreline,
once home to old-school wooden boats.
I stare into this square lagoon,
it’s now all frogs and lillipads,
a child sits near with fishing pole,
has far less nibbles than his dad.
They say it’ll be a campground soon,
with bathrooms put up by the state,
showers and power for RVs,
and I’m not saying that isn’t great.
They’ll even preserve the ruins
so others can look back in time,
but I still wish the lodge was here,
to see what it was in its prime…
Underneath the looming hemlocks,
the incline makes each step a strain,
up sandy earth and broken stone,
but I see sunlight up ahead.
Emerge upon a high ridgeline,
underfoot now is all bedrock,
scraggle pines peak through its big cracks,
throw shadows, the squirrels chitter…
The hot gaze of my favorite star
bounces off my boonie hat,
glorious, cancerous sunlight…
so I did out the SPF,
Slather it across my pale hide,
it will protect from one cancer,
pray that it won’t cause another,
a risk of the game, I suppose.
Pack is feeling heavier now,
more weight on my tall walking stick,
looking for a spot to sit down—
a sudden flutter to my right!
Something brown flying away fast,
grouse or turkey, can’t see clearly,
just shrug, the sound echoes inside,
pleasant soundtrack for my next steps.
The small pines clear and before me
a granite dome does loom up proud,
framed by Montana-blue sky
even thought it’s upstate New York.
Small figures stand at the top,
early hikers who beat the heat,
drinking views, taking pictures
with an Adirondack back-drop.
Just a half-mile left to go,
I’ve done much longer than this one,
will take a thousand pictures too,
this isn’t my first rodeo.