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Poetry and Earth – EARTH DAY

Posted in Ecopoetry, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 22, 2026| Leave a Comment »

 . 
[ poems by William Stafford, David Radavich, Robert Morgan, 
Lenard Moore, Robert Frost, Tori Reynolds ]
 . 
Ask Me
 . 
Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made.  Ask me whether
what I have done is my life.  Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt—ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.
 . 
I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait.  We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.
 . 
William Stafford
selected by David Radavich
 . 
“Ask Me” by William Stafford is one of my all-time favorites.  It is profound in thought and feeling, but I also admire the great artistry of how Stafford employs sound, line breaks, punctuation, and rhetorical balance to achieve what for me is a masterpiece.  If I could ever write a poem this good, I should die happy!
— David
 . 
❀
 . 
February
 . 
They call this apple tree “wild.”
And so it bends over the road
like an umbrella or saint
beginning to pray.  Always
 . 
among the first to bloom—
no fruit, it is wild, remember?—
reminding others of their coming
obligations, soon or later
 . 
and then maybe more
glorious for the waiting.
 . 
Every year it is a surprise
beside the road, every year
a bit taller, more redolent
 . 
so even a cynic tired of cold
cocks an eye and writes
a poem about being ready.
     . 
David Radavich     
first published in The Raven’s Perch
 . 
❀ ✿ ✾ ❁
 . 
Ironweed
 . 
There is a shade of purple in
this flower near summer’s end that makes
you proud to be alive in such
a world, and thrilled to know the gift
of sight. It seems a color sent
from memory or dream. In fields,
along old trails, at pasture edge,
the ironweed bares its vivid tint,
profoundest violet, a note
from farthest star and deepest time,
the glow of sacred royalty
and timbre of eternity
right here beside a dried-up stream.
 . 
Robert Morgan
from Terroir, Penguin (2011)
 . 
I’ve always been in awe of the dark purple flower often found along the edges of fields and woods. When we lived near Hendersonville in 1970-71 there was a meadow along a branch where many ironweeds thrived. In late summer I walked out there almost every day to enjoy the temporary presence of those special flowers. In many ways that was a tough time of unemployment, but those flowers made a day seem better.
— Robert
 . 
 . 
❀ ✿ ✾ ❁
 . 
Resurrection Sunday, Early Dinner
April 5, 2026
 . 
We sit at the long table,
anticipating the spicy broth
where we place bok choy,
broccoli, mala, cauliflower, sliced potatoes,
barramundi fish, shaved chicken, fresh eggs,
king trumpet mushrooms, water crest,
La Mian noodles.
All the while I look into my date’s
pearly eyes and imagine our future.
I love that she’s God-fearing
and glimpse the crucifix glinting gold
and gathering silence like an Easter lily.
How I glance at her peach-tinted lips.
Did I tell you that I know their softness,
their sweetness that keeps me longing her
like a sparrow longs for a mate
on a powerline? Did I tell you
that she’s more beautiful than a mimosa,
dogwood, Bradford pear, or cherry blossoms?
We dab our lips with napkins as white
as the cloud-puffs lingering like light.
We leave like lovers that we are,
hungrily holding hands.
 . 
Lenard D. Moore
 . 
I love nature so much. As you know, I have written haiku, tanka, and other Japanese short-form poetry for decades. Haiku especially lead me on a ginko (haiku walk). In short, I love nature walks. In fact, I have also written free verse poems about the natural work, such as the one I am sending, due to the invitation. My Easter Sunday date also loves nature. Thus, I hope the poem speaks for itself. With gratitude!
Blessings — L
 . 
❀ ✿ ✾ ❁
 . 
Two Look at Two
 . 
Love and forgetting might have carried them
A little farther up the mountain side
With night so near, but not much further up.
They must have halted soon in any case
With thoughts of the path back, how rough it was
With rock and washout, and unsafe in darkness;
When they were halted by a tumbled wall
With barbed-wire binding. They stood facing this,
Spending what onward impulse they still had
In one last look the way they must not go,
On up the failing path, where, if a stone
Or earthslide moved at night, it moved itself;
No footstep moved it. “This is all,” they sighed,
“Good-night to woods.” But not so; there was more.
A doe from round a spruce stood looking at them
Across the wall, as near the wall as they.
She saw them in their field, they in hers.
The difficult of seeing what stood still,
Like some up-ended boulder split in two,
Was in her clouded eyes: they saw no fear there.
She seemed to think that, two thus, they were safe.
Then, as if they were something that, though strange,
She could not trouble her mind with too long,
She sighed and passed unscared along the wall.
“This, then, is all. What more is there to ask?”
But no, not yet. A snort to bid them wait.
A buck from round the spruce stood looking at them
Across the wall as near the wall as they.
This was an antlered buck of lusty nostril,
Not the same doe come back into her place.
He viewed them quizzically with jerks of head,
As if to ask, “Why don’t you make some motion?
Or give some sign of life? Because you can’t.
I doubt if you’re as living as you look.”
Thus till he had them almost feeling dared
To stretch a proffering hand –– and a spell-breaking.
Then too passed unscared along the wall.
Two had seen two, whichever side you spoke from.
“This must be all.’” It was all. Still, they stood,
A great wave of it going over them,
As if the earth, in one unlooked-for favor
Had made them certain earth returned their love.
 . 
Robert Frost
selected by Tori Reynolds
 . 
I first encountered Robert Frost’s “Two Look at Two”  as a teenager. I lived in Frost’s New England and was an avid horseback rider who spent hours roaming the fields and orchards. I was truly, for the hours I was on my horse, not a single being but a “two” — connected to another being with all the intimacy and fraught tensions of any couple. So, I felt a visceral connection to the idea of “two” proceeding through the landscape that Frost was describing. Wherever I went, I, too, had seen the mark of humans (..,a tumbled wall/With barbed-wire binding) and the mysterious movements of nature (…if a stone/Or earthslide moved at night, it moved itself;). I always felt it a privilege to move among and within such mysteries.  
 . 
As a young person more comfortable communicating with horses then with words, I had not yet understood the power of language.  Until I read this poem, I hadn’t known that someone else understood the experience of seeing and being seen by nature the way I felt I was when I was out riding my horse.   Two had seen two, whichever side you spoke from, perfectly describes how it felt to have Frost stretch a proffering hand  –– to me. His “spell breaking”  became a sudden apprehension:  poetry could be as powerful a connection to nature as nature itself. 
— Tori
 . 
 . 
✾
 . 
Dear Tulip Tree Silk Moth 
 . 
Dear tulip tree silk moth,
dear skunk cabbage,
trout lily, beaver, and
pure green sweat bee,
dear white pine, dear white tail
and yellow-rumped warbler,
dear red clay, granite,
Neuse and Swift Creek,
dear silent breath of the Tuscarora,
 . 
you live and die at the confluence
of human and bulldozer,
humans with our cars and pesticides,
our maps and fences, our wars,
and our crushing booted steps.
 . 
At the confluence of the Deep and Rocky rivers,
you show us how to live
by floating, flying, sprouting, swimming–
you sprout, swim, rest, dash, nest,
pool, chirp, screech, stand tall,
rot, collapse and fall –
 . 
while we tromp, we bike and scramble
over rocky scree, put binoculars to our eyes,
ooh and ah – do you see the green heron
at the edge of Brumley pond?
place a finger to our lips, shush –
can you hear the peepers’ chorus
in the Horton Grove lowlands?
 . 
So, may we steward
by raising our picks, chop and clip
the kudzu vines and stilt-grass invasives,
then gather the welcome walnuts,
and drink its bittersweet beer together.
 . 
May we learn to re-wild
our science, our understanding
and even our minds.
 . 
May we name
all that’s lost, cleared, disappeared –
then walk to the center of the labyrinth
and look beyond its borders –
 . 
as we unwind our worries
with committed steps,
dogged daily steps,
 . 
towards the morning
when we raise our eyes
to search for the downy woodpecker
in the loblolly, listen to the tap tap tap
of its persistent question,
how? how? how?
 . 
and answer with the YES
of the spring winds bending the little bluestem
in the meadows.
 . 
Dear people,
dear scientists
dear creators and clerks
workhorses and mourners,
neighbors, friends, benefactors
–  stewards all –
of this copious, generous, generative,
disappearing land –
 . 
We find ourselves here
on the bridge between
storm and flood,
in the promise
of blue skies and drought,
 . 
to safeguard the fragile hives we tend,
to celebrate the honeyed-habitats we defend.
 . 
Tori Reynolds
 . 
I was asked to write a poem for the Triangle Land Conservancy gala this past February. This poem was the result.  Since it was originally written for a specific audience and to be read aloud, I’ve revised it somewhat make it readable on the page. My hope is that it still rings with my reverence for the Piedmont area of NC and calls us to look closely and love the places we live.
— Tori
 . 
E&A flora hydrangea bee
 . 
❀ ✿ ✾ ❁
 . 
There are only two ways to live your life: as though nothing is a miracle, or as though everything is a miracle.
— Albert Einstein
 . 
I had been fooling myself that I was the only teacher. The land is the real teacher. All we need as students is mindfulness. Paying attention is a form of reciprocity with the living world, receiving the gifts with open eyes and open heart.
— Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass
 . 
Thank you for celebrating the month of April with International Earth Day (April 22) and National Poetry Month. And thank you, Readers, who have shared poems that connect us to our planet and each other. We will continue posting EARTH POETRY throughout the month of April – and beyond, of course, since EVERY DAY is EARTH DAY!
 . 
❁
 . 
Thank you for visiting Verse and Image: If you would like to receive an email each time a post appears, please SUBSCRIBE to Verse and Image using the button on the Home Page.
 . 
If you have a hard time finding the SUBSCRIBE button on this WordPress site, you can send me your email address and I will add you to the subscriber list. Send your request to
 . 
COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM
 . 
Thanks again for joining the conversation.
 . — Bill
 . 
❀ ✿ ✾ ❁
 . 
Doughton Park Tree -- 5/1/2021
 . 

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Why Sing – Scott Owens

Posted in poetry, tagged , , , , , , , on March 27, 2026| 2 Comments »

 .
 . 
[ with 3 poems by Scott Owens ]
 . 
Now and Then
 . 
The mountains came down to Hickory today.
It happens now and then.
Clouds low, mist hanging between the trees,
a coolness that makes everything feel
less urgent, more contemplative.
I saw a boy on a hillside, sitting,
back leaning against a tree,
not minding the fine mist
against his skin at all.
I imagine he was writing.
I imagine it was a poem
about the mountains coming down to Hickory.
I imagine he was me.
It happens now and then.
 . 
Scott Owens
from The Song Is Why We Sing, Redhawk Publications, The Catawba Valley Community College Press; Hickory NC © 2026
 . 
❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
Existential Knot
 . 
I picked up a knot from the ground today,
not an important knot,
not of significant size,
not of any significance really,
at least not initially,
but then I realized if not for the knot
I likely would not have noticed it at all.
In fact, the knot would have just been
 . 
a string, not of any special size,
not of any noticeable color,
not anything special about it at all,
but the fact that it was tied into a knot
made it not exactly like every other
unknotted expanse I’d seen.
Of course, I thought about unknotting the knot
but ultimately decided not to,
as the knottiness was exactly what made it
exactly what it was and continues to be,
 . 
a knot not like any other,
insured by its knottiness
not be left unnoticed.
 . 
Scott Owens
from The Song Is Why We Sing, Redhawk Publications, The Catawba Valley Community College Press; Hickory NC © 2026
 . 
 . 
❀    ❀    ❀     ❀     ❀
 . 
Ten. You, after all,
are half the poet, and in all
likelihood, the better half.
from 13 Ways of Reading a Poem
 . 
Reading a poem is like turning over a mossy log. As you approach, you appreciate the appealing form of the log without even thinking about it. Its green cushion, so inviting, perhaps a scent of fresh pungent life. But when you turn the log over, who knows? I am personally a fan of grubs and larvae, flabbergasted ants grabbing their white nits and sprinting in all directions, an oozy slug or two. Double bonus if there’s a salamander.
 . 
But beneath some logs there’s just not much. A few bark fibers lingering in their immediate pre-humus status. A tired worm casting. Dirt. If that’s all there is beneath the mossy log of the poem, I’m done. Maybe I’ll go turn over that rock over yonder instead. I, the reader, need something to discover when I get down on hands and knees and shift the poem. I have to do the work of coming closer, of noticing, and the poem has to do its work of sharing.
 . 
Scott Owens’s newest collection of poems, The Song Is Why We Sing, is about poetry. Writing poetry, to be certain, but even more this book is about reading poetry. And maybe most of all so many of these poems are about the partnership, let’s even call it companionship, between writer and reader. The lines and stanzas break down the fourth wall. I as reader become part of the process, part of the poem. Perhaps in reading no other book of verse have I been so intimately invited into the mind and life of the writer. Scott’s offer is sincere – here I can be half the poet.
 . 
Scott’s poems are existential knots that freely allow themselves to be untied. They offer up their essence like a flower offers nectar, hidden but discernable, just follow your nose, and always keeping the promise of a sweet droplet on the tongue. I first encountered the term “quiddity” in a philosophy book but I know I first read the word “dailyness” in a poem, and so are these poems, filled with essence and substance. Here is the world with its warts and its wonderfulness. Scott takes seriously his poet’s calling of showing you what you already know in a way you’ve never seen. That mossy log, what lies beneath? I am dying to turn it over. And throughout these pages I know I will find what this poet is determined to show me, because as he says, You have to care / enough about the world / and all who live in it / to take the time / to not just find the words / but also get them right.
 . 
 . 
❀    ❀    ❀     ❀     ❀
 . 
Chores
 . 
fr. Latin, chorus, those who do the work, who carry the play forward
(titles from Poetry in Plain Sight selections July 2025)
 . 
I rise from my knees, not from prayer,
not from planting autumn blooming crocuses,
but from fixing a table bending beneath
the weight of too many ovens. Still,
any rising is a good thing.
In the heat of early July in the South
I head out to make my monthly delivery
of poems. One called “Tomato Sandwich,”
transforming the taste of summer to art,
for the front window of my coffee shop.
One called “Hum,” for the community theater,
about a boy remembering the sound
of his father blowing on his face to cool him
off in a Louisiana Church on Sundays.
Another called “Wild Women,” for the wine shop,
about girls who were told they couldn’t be cowboys,
who hitched up their chaps and spat on the ground.
And one for the library, called “Song
to a Little Tree under the Eve of Terminal 2
at Raleigh Durham International Airport,”
just about a tree in an unlikely place
refusing not to grow.
 . 
Scott Owens
from The Song Is Why We Sing, Redhawk Publications, The Catawba Valley Community College Press; Hickory NC © 2026
 . 
❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
Scott Owens teaches at Lenoir Rhyne University, coordinates the Poetry Hickory program, and promotes poets and poetry year round at his coffee shop and gallery, Taste Full Beans. The Song Is Why We Sing is Scott’s twenty-sixth volume of poetry. Among his many honors and awards are two nominations for the National Book Critics Circle Award and appointment as Hickory, NC, Poet Laureate. Scott’s most recent books are available from Redhawk Publications.
 . 
Sample additional poetry by Scott Owens at Verse and Image:
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❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
Perhaps you’d like to turn over a mossy log (metaphorically speaking)? Walk along Elkin Creek and discover Foamflower in bloom (for real beginning early April)? Watch a Blue Head Chub build its spawning nest in the creek? Breathe deep? Join me and other curious comrades on one of this spring’s naturalist walks, a program of Elkin Valley Trails Association. Upcoming dates are March 28, April 11, April 25. Details and registration (free!) here:
 . 
 . 
❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:
. . . . . every Friday I present one or two poems I’ve read this week that particularly speak to me;
. . . . . every Saturday I present one or two poems submitted by YOU, my readers.
 . 
If you would like to offer a poem for consideration, either by a favorite author or your own work, please view these GUIDELINES for Saturday Readers Share:
 . 
 .  . 
If you would like to receive an email each time a post appears, please SUBSCRIBE to Verse and Image using the button on the Home Page.
 . 
If you have a hard time finding the SUBSCRIBE button on this WordPress site, you can send me your email address and I will add you to the subscriber list. Send your request to
 . 
COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM
 . 
Thanks again for joining the conversation.
 . 
– Bill
 . 
2016-10-17b Doughton Park Tree
 . 

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Passage – Earl Huband

Posted in family, tagged , , , , , , , , on March 20, 2026| 5 Comments »

 . 
[ with 3 poems by Earl Huband ]
 . 
Cocoon-spinner, straining / to engineer the risk out of life.
from Rites of Passage
 . 
❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
A Sister’s Presents
 . 
Across the table
two goggle-eyed owls,
my pepper and salt,
hoot at me. Wise to
a bric-a-brac heart,
my sister Mary
surprised me with them
many meals ago.
 . 
And here she is still,
cheering me through these
efforts to add spice
to this saucepan life.
 . 
Earl Carlton Huband III
from The Dix Hill Blues, Main Street Rag Enterprises, Edinboro PA; © 2026
 . 
❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
The Pavilion of the Old Chinese Poets
— for Priscilla
 . 
Leaves resist the ground.
The ground calls to the trees.
The trees slowly nod their heads
and leaves fall to the ground.
 . 
The canoe is propelled
through the parting waves.
Island water whispers;
the canoe rocks.
 . 
Here the winds caress
the flanks of the island.
Here the lover caresses
the arms of the beloved.
 . 
The moon hides its face
behind fingers of cloud.
Lover, close your eyes
at the touch of love.
 . 
Earl Carlton Huband III
from The Dix Hill Blues, Main Street Rag Enterprises, Edinboro PA; © 2026
 . 
❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
Lost
 . 
Do not condemn this granite.
Become one with the stone
and weep as water trickles
down the cracks in its face
 . 
Look for your reflection
in the pool of moving water
at the bottom od the stone.
 . 
Earl Carlton Huband III
from The Dix Hill Blues, Main Street Rag Enterprises, Edinboro PA; © 2026
 . 
 . 
❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
Years ago, during one of my longer visits, my mother had me sit for a portrait. I watched the back of the canvas, smelled the linseed oil, while she worked ochre into the surface for an hour. Her technique was to create the subject’s shape and dimensions in monochrome, then remove pigment to add detail. Later she would dip into her entire palette to finish the portrait. Only on another visit when the oils had dried did I realize that for this painting she had folded the canvas and painted me on the right half. She opened the hidden side to reveal beside mine another man’s face with Mephistophelean goatee and declared, “I’m calling it ‘Saint and Sinner.’”
 . 
How to respond to the idea that my mother considered me a saint? Oldest child, studious, diligent, following the straight and narrow passage through life? I will smile a little that Mom evidently drew some comfort from that image. Only to myself do I confess every thoughtlessness, unkindness, misstep, outright mistake and fuckup I’ve every committed, all those demons that throng three AM when I can’t fall back to sleep. Sins of omission and commission. That is the real passage, straights and turbulence beneath but only untroubled waters showing. On canvas, my mother could create reality from her artist’s imaginings. I ask myself today, is this the life I imagined for myself? My imagination was clearly not sufficient. Short on wisdom, insight, compassion.
 . 
Earl Huband’s imagination does the heavy lifting of recreating the reality of his life’s passage in Dix Hill Blues. There are no softened edges in these stories, no cheerful hues to the palette. The first two sections of the book capture the struggles and failures of his family through the generations and paints them into a montage which narrates Earl’s own passage through life. One might at certain points use the term sin, or one might simply call this truth. Earl as poet, however, touches each person and each event with benediction. Yes, we are all human, fallible, broken; yes, love can still enter here. These poems need to be read as a whole to grasp the hopefulness that survives even darkest nights.
 . 
The third and fourth sections of the collection are a deep and cleansing breath. A bit of humor from a wry observation, the other side of a dreadful story, a moment of joy: Earl’s imagination is not short on wisdom, insight, compassion. He unwraps his own failings and I am comforted that we are brothers. The poet can be healed by the telling. Perhaps none of the saints that surround me have such a straight and unerring passage as would seem apparent. Perhaps tomorrow will be the day I glean a little wisdom. Perhaps I will pick this book back up and read again from the beginning.
 . 
❀
 . 
Earl Huband lives with his wife Priscilla Webster-Williams, also an accomplished poet, in Durham NC. I have met him many times at various poetry events and never seen him without a warm and welcoming smile. Dix Hill Blues is his third collection and is available HERE
 . 
 . 
❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:
. . . . . every Friday I present one or two poems I’ve read this week that particularly speak to me;
. . . . . every Saturday I present one or two poems submitted by YOU, my readers.
 . 
If you would like to offer a poem for consideration, either by a favorite author or your own work, please view these GUIDELINES for Saturday Readers Share:
 . 
 . 
If you would like to receive an email each time a post appears, please SUBSCRIBE to Verse and Image using the button on the Home Page.
 . 
If you have a hard time finding the SUBSCRIBE button on this WordPress site, you can send me your email address and I will add you to the subscriber list. Send your request to
 . 
COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM
 . 
Thanks again for joining the conversation.
 . 
– Bill
 . 
Doughton Park Tree 2020-11-22
 . 

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