tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:/blogs/poetry?p=2
Poetry
2022-01-12T17:01:56-05:00
Andrew McKnight
false
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177578
2018-12-03T19:00:00-05:00
2021-03-12T20:24:48-05:00
"A Meander in the Winter Valley of the Crooked Run"
<p>A single bright cluster of crimson berry stands<br>against the dusky tones<br>and taut dry chill of early winter<br><br>The scents on the grey wind are hard to taste,<br>as the consequences of the season<br>have taken firm hold of my sinuses<br><br>The hedgerow pops with near-iridescent blue flashes<br>as the flocking bluebirds forage<br>in barren twig, and naked underbrush<br><br>A lone Osage Orange clings to a branch,<br>like a grotesque leftover<br>of Halloween weeks ago<br><br>The cow cabin clings barely to the steep hillside,<br>slowly losing its battle with gravity and time<br><br>Mine is a gravel path, infrequently traversed<br>ready to offer passage from this world into the modern din<br>and the multitudes awaiting not far to the east<br><br>For vehicle or wanderer, it gives only preference to that<br>which is capable of tolerating<br>its pock ruts and muddles<br><br>My feet grind percussively along<br>moving to their own rhythm<br>along with the beating of my heart as the hill resists them<br><br>the sign says, "began 1749",<br>and I know it to be true<br>for some of these stately oaks tell me of it<br><br>in whispers</p>
<p>that they were here<br>first<br><br>I am sentient, and cursed with language,<br>I am cold,<br>and blessed</p>
<p> </p>
<p>©2018, Andrew McKnight</p>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177577
2018-10-29T20:00:00-04:00
2020-11-29T08:39:27-05:00
"I Will Not Hate"
<p>I will not hate<br>you<br><span class="text_exposed_show">because of how you look,<br>who you love,<br>where you were born,<br>who or how you worship<br>or whether or not you worship at all</span></p>
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<p>I have no room for hate in my heart,<br>or in my life</p>
<p>Some who do not share my views<br>of how the world works<br>or theories about nature's mysteries<br>or how humans should treat each other<br>might insist<br>that I belong<br>in a vision of vitriol<br>faceless anonymous masses marching<br>under some banner of some other side<br>"those who are filled with hate"<br>I simply smile, and say "I'm sorry that you feel that way"<br>and "I'm sorry that you do not understand me"<br>Namaste</p>
<p>It is easy to aim our outrage at "them"<br>"they"<br>those "others"<br>they who see things differently<br>I've always thought that we learn a lot<br>from that which is different<br>Culture, food, customs, spirituality<br>our landscapes, our families<br>our language, our music</p>
<p>We are not supposed to be the same<br>Our DNA proves it<br>I do not hate you<br>even if I do not understand you<br>even if your beliefs are the polar opposite<br>of mine<br>you are no less entitled to your beliefs than I am mine</p>
<p>It would sadden me to be hated<br>simply because you see me<br>as a bumper sticker<br>that simplifies my complicated life into<br>a label<br>that tells you everything<br>about me<br>and now it is easy<br>to know what I must be<br>that I am somehow "other"<br>less human</p>
<p>Even if you felt that about me,<br>with whatever anger and rage<br>brought to a boil,<br>I will not return it,<br>nor reflect it,<br>nor absorb it</p>
<p>I stand for love<br>and respect<br>and our innocent birth into this world, each of us<br>naked<br>helpless<br>completely devoid of hate<br>needing the same things<br>but not all receiving them<br>if we learn hate<br>it is because we are taught<br>by those who have been hurt</p>
<p>Sorrow is overwhelming<br>The victims of those wounds that festered<br>those flames exploded<br>triggers pulled, fuses lit<br>so much pain, inflicted<br>by so much pain<br>when hate consumes<br>from within</p>
<p>I will not hate you<br>even if I vehemently disagree with you.<br>I work til my last breath to defend your right to do so<br>and to honor those words<br>"that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness"<br>All<br>Each<br>"and justice for all"<br>no exceptions<br>no matter the label they choose<br>or the epithets they hurl<br>I still believe in the dream</p>
<p>I cannot say it more plainly<br>I cannot make you believe it<br>But I can say it, because I live it<br>I<br>will<br>not<br>hate</p>
<p>Anyone</p>
<p>©<em>2018 Andrew McKnight</em></p>
</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177558
2007-05-31T20:00:00-04:00
2020-01-27T12:41:32-05:00
"A Circle of Four Women" (for Madeleine Rose)
<p><em><strong>Welcome to the world, dear daughter, welcome</strong></em></p>
<p>I stand in a circle of four strong women<br> their stories intersecting,<br> overlapping<br> through time and space<br> the first three united not by blood<br> but by choice of men married</p>
<p>This new one,<br> Madeleine Rose<br> holds all three within her tiny body<br> born in the care of nurses<br> compassionate angels<br> like the one whose name she bears</p>
<p>The first of the four<br> the nurse<br> giver of life and comfort,<br> her great-grandmother<br> my beloved grandmother<br> my mother's mother in law<br> the one who stood as mother for her<br> when her own passed far too soon<br> She who lovingly taught<br> my mother<br> of a woman's compassion and wisdom<br> and kindness<br> how to be the ideal mother-in-law<br> Lessons all that my mother has learned</p>
<p>beautifully</p>
<p>as she embodies them now<br> as a beloved grandmother<br> as a cherished and kindly mother-in-law<br> to the love of my life<br> who lies in front of me holding<br> our flesh and blood at her breast<br> exhausted<br> from the ordeal of bringing the circle a new</p>
<p>soul</p>
<p>and filled with love for her family<br> my mother shares the lessons lovingly<br> teaching by example and not<br> by lecture<br> and judgment</p>
<p>In her arms my wife holds the fourth of four<br> strong women<br> wonderful women<br> her tongue gently dancing through the rolled r's<br> and lilting trilled syllables<br> of her <em>lengua materna</em><br> As though she has prepared for this moment<br> all her life</p>
<p>I am safely held in a circle of<br> four strong women<br> no matter where</p>
<p>I stand</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/391975/4326df9180620364699aa5578dac55131120ecb6/original/newborn-m-daddys-fingers.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDMwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Newborn Madeleine finds comfort with Daddy's fingers" height="300" style="vertical-align: middle; margin: 10px; border: 1px solid black;" width="400" /> </p>
<p><em>Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</em></p>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177559
2007-04-30T20:00:00-04:00
2016-02-03T10:23:55-05:00
"A Piece of Moon Pie"
<p><em><strong>An old favorite, short and sweet, from the seasons of the long dark nights, and perhaps more aware of our celestial companions</strong></em></p>
<p>There is a shiny sliver of a moon<br> hanging in the crisp clear southwestern sky,<br> like a piece of cherry pie<br> through a freshly cleaned counter glass<br> that you'd ram your nose into<br> by accident<br> because you'd never see it...</p>
<p>And it feels like blackberry winter is here<br> the mercury is curling up<br> in that low part of the thermometer,<br> huddling together for warmth</p>
<p>Does mercury keep itself company?<br> I reckon I should ask the moon,<br> but I might wait<br> until it fills itself in<br> a little more<br> it might feel a little vulnerable<br> answering questions<br> in such a<br> scantily clad state</p>
<p>For tonight, I'll dream of moon pies,<br> and pretty smiles<br> and I will sleep soundly</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<p>Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</p>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177560
2007-03-31T20:00:00-04:00
2016-02-03T10:25:28-05:00
"Al Mar Pacifica"
<p><em><strong>Panama, August 2004</strong></em></p>
<p><em>El Bohio de la bahia</em><br> rainy season relieved<br> if only for the hour<br> Azure ceiling fleeting<br> teasing the constancy<br> of limitless horizon<br> and infinite Sea</p>
<p>The lovely <em>Señora Gringita</em><br> emerges like the mermaid<br> alone with the surf<br> and the observer<br> muscles rippling<br> like one who is in constant motion<br> beneath the surface<br> of the Sea</p>
<p>High tide lapping at her toes<br> tracing her return<br> just as I would<br> if I were the Sea<br> I would be with her<br> as far as I could reach<br> and I would swell and pound the sand<br> like surf in desperation<br> as she departed my embrace</p>
<p>By the Grace of God<br> And the Providence of Luck<br> I am but a man<br> with pen and coffee<br> chronicle of a morning<br> rare and fleeting<br> spent like the Pearl<br> precious and magical</p>
<p>I am not the Sea<br> vast and unbroken<br> and earthbound and humbled so<br> I await<br> The Señora's return<br> for it is I who keeps<br> her company<br> and her towel<br> at our <em>bohio</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177561
2007-02-28T19:00:00-05:00
2016-02-03T10:29:15-05:00
"Anna's House"
<p><em><strong>We had the luxury of having a beautiful old Vermont house to ourselves on a warm spring day. Sort of like being lost in time, with the world all around. I hope this captures the essence of the lives chronicled in the art and decorations in what could easily have been a quaint country inn on a sunny mountainside.</strong></em></p>
<p>Anna's house sits on the marblemount<br> where the houses of used to be<br> still leave their footprint in the thicket</p>
<p>Anna's house brings the world to her<br> from Honduras to the Himalayas<br> in the work of many hands distant</p>
<p>Anna's house stands like a postcard perfect<br> against the maple syrup background<br> of the mountain slowly falling down</p>
<p>Anna's house celebrates the wood<br> that holds firm against the elements<br> and upright against gravity</p>
<p>Anna's house knows longing and loss<br> celebrates things remembered<br> leaves room for things to come</p>
<p>Anna's house is a chapel<br> preordained to outlast the living<br> unable to speak its story</p>
<p>Anna's house is a simple mystery<br> spinning the wool of history<br> into threads of memory</p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177562
2007-01-31T19:00:00-05:00
2016-02-03T10:30:29-05:00
"Before the Summer Morning"
<p><em><strong>A summer sunrise in the south is a sacred happening - the sounds, sights and smells of dew covered greenery, birds awaking, and the sun slow to lift from the eastern fields.</strong></em></p>
<p>I lay with my lover in a predawn<br> Sundrop awaiting the alarm<br> that will end this embrace<br> for the moment, alone<br> with our thoughts</p>
<p>Of each other<br> fresh in the wrinkling sheets<br> and folds of our minds<br> where all the time in the world<br> seems safe in this rosy sunrise bubble<br> with us</p>
<p>There is no rush until<br> the radio awakes<br> except this morning by some chance<br> it is the CD player<br> instead of important news intruding<br> from the public station sleepy still<br> but now sings</p>
<p>The cedar flute of a friend<br> and a meditation born in the red rock canyons<br> the home of those who have been longer<br> brought here to this wet green spring sauna haven<br> a softer echo than stone</p>
<p>Slipped-through-the-dust-crack spider<br> and smaller-than-screenmesh wingsmith<br> linger<br> because this is an old house<br> and here love and weddings<br> and death and mourning happen<br> occasionally<br> over decades<br> but each spring<br> the insects do their thing<br> same as it ever was</p>
<p>Take up and carry on and mate<br> and feed<br> and hunt<br> and hunger<br> intense as summer rain<br> in the brief shimmer moment of their<br> existence</p>
<p>Until they are found by the broom<br> or vacuumed into ether-mist bags<br> in a time-honored ritual<br> where naught but the tools<br> change</p>
<p>In the laughing dawn of bittersweet<br> a single tear of temporary parting<br> but there is no mourning today<br> and no broom to sweep us<br> away</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177563
2006-12-31T19:00:00-05:00
2016-02-03T10:34:33-05:00
"Doppler Hum of the Highway"
<p>When I was small<br> I dreamed of following every road<br> to its logical end<br> and its surrender to nature<br> <br> Living on my high hill<br> on clear windless nights sometimes<br> I could make out the far-off sounds<br> of the interstate<br> In the valley below<br> <br> When we would go to visit<br> my aunt and uncle<br> in their leafy subdivision at Damon Farms<br> Backed up against the never-dimming roar<br> of the Massachusetts Turnpike<br> I would fight sleep listening<br> to the Doppler hum of the highway<br> Dreaming of all those night travelers passing<br> Artists and cops<br> Truckers and thieves<br> Boston or Albany?<br> <br> Now I am a man<br> and I am the Doppler hum of the highway<br> Tracing my solitary wanderings<br> in the great American darkness<br> between the mega glowing urbanias<br> Tonight I will go farther than all my counterparts<br> for I will see my fair Virginia home<br> by first light</p>
<p>I am like that;<br> I roar into your life for but a moment and vanish again<br> Stealing my place in the flow<br> I am the Doppler hum of the highway<br> and I already<br> miss you<br> </p>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177564
2006-11-30T19:00:00-05:00
2016-02-03T10:35:48-05:00
"Echoes Etched in Sandstone"
<p><em><strong>Inspired by the heartening but likely premature discussion about the future of the huge Glen Canyon Dam, which for over 40 years has drowned one of the most spectacular canyons of the Colorado and drastically altered this magnificent desert river's ecology </strong></em></p>
<p>The ruins of Glen Canyon Dam<br> How many centuries hence?<br> Will its end come as its beginning did in human hands?<br> Or will it slowly crumble in the absence of its builders,<br> Long after we have returned to dust and salt?</p>
<p>The raven's song will echo,<br> The snake's rattle will mark time,<br> Desert thunder fills dry washes<br> And the great red land will heave and draw breath<br> Barely noticing our passing, as our presence was so brief<br> The canyon hardly had time to blink and notice the bath</p>
<p>The ancient ones left their stories and signs etched<br> in far more ancient vermilion stone<br> we newcomers who followed poured our own smooth grey stone<br> of our own composition and design<br> but in the end</p>
<p>will we have lingered any longer?</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177565
2006-10-31T19:00:00-05:00
2016-02-03T10:36:59-05:00
"First Frost"
<p><em><strong>An early October tour of northern New England was predestined to include some inspiration amongst breathtaking fall foliage in the White and Green Mountains</strong></em></p>
<p>Crystallization returns<br> absent since springtime<br> teepees on the Ammonoosuc<br> tourists departing<br> final glance at leaflife<br> ending</p>
<p>Boulderfield riverbed<br> floodplain spread<br> crowstalk cornstubble<br> shadow of summer shortsweet<br> Sunheat of October<br> fleeting and misleading<br> for those misreading<br> its meaning</p>
<p>Maplefire autumn<br> dancing tremblebranch<br> skipping down the mountain<br> spreadfast through the valley<br> and pulling soon the now dusktoned<br> deathleaves onto the land<br> beneath<br> birchtrunk light<br> and the certain snow</p>
<p>Silver fishsides gleam<br> flitting over waterstone<br> flashes in the current<br> below<br> vermilion leafboat landings<br> on a dun breeze<br> for the short sweep<br> to deep water<br> Connecticut<br> to the sea</p>
<p>All too soon the river<br> will bridge its shores<br> with icebreath<br> to greet the freezeframe rhythm</p>
<p>The antique and trinket vendors<br> saltboards bare<br> prepare for the sixmonth snow<br> "Closed for the Season"<br> and those other three together<br> still shorter<br> add up to less than<br> "Impassable<br> in Winter"</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177566
2006-09-30T20:00:00-04:00
2016-02-03T10:38:11-05:00
"Ghost in the Branches"
<p><em><strong>During the wet cool season here in Virginia, the mist rises from the morning creek bottoms, and the spring beauties and bluebells add flashes of color to the mystique. Down where the sycamore seems king and the water truly rules, sometimes the eyes can play tricks on you.</strong></em></p>
<p>I saw a ghost tonight,<br> wrapped round the branches of a creek bottom sycamore<br> orange eyes gleaming in the mist</p>
<p>he moves in mystery and myth<br> his existence denied, since the century turned<br> yet he is here,<br> wraith or reality<br> matters not really</p>
<p>conversationally, the murmurs always<br> beneath the surface<br> "a painter landed on a tin roof upholler, thain he was gone"<br> "a cougar loped cross the road right in the headlights, so quick I couldnÕt be sure"</p>
<p>the murmurs grow, like drops of water<br> collecting from many hillside seeps,<br> joining down holler<br> legends grow much like rivers do<br> from tiny beginnings</p>
<p>A legend looks me in the eye,<br> from perhaps 50 feet,<br> perhaps 100 years, his tail stretching back into the past</p>
<p>It is hypnotic, this sensation<br> the possibility of being hunted by an adversary;<br> larger,<br> stronger,<br> faster,<br> more cunning,<br> and more motivated<br> perhaps<br> more hungry</p>
<p>the fear is strangely dulled<br> he is a myth after all,<br> myths do not have appetites</p>
<p>and now he is gone,<br> perhaps he was never here at all<br> perhaps he is always here;</p>
<p>after all, that's how legends are</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177567
2006-08-31T20:00:00-04:00
2022-01-12T17:01:56-05:00
"I Love the Sound of Your Name"
<p>I love the sound of your name<br> <em>Madeleine</em></p>
<p>It was my grandmother's name of course<br> and I loved her dearly and deeply<br> but the sound of your name<br> I speak it softly sometimes when you're not here<br> the syllables make me smile<br> almost uncontrollably<br> it happens every time</p>
<p>It is of course because<br> it conjures the image of you<br> now, as you are<br> seven and free of most worldly cares<br> running, laughing, joking<br> only beginning to be aware<br> of all that this hard world will demand of you<br> and impose upon you<br> simply because of your gender and your background<br> despite all my protestations and refusals to participate<br> in acceding to societal demands and cultural expectations<br> I cannot stop them<br> I may only deflect them for awhile<br> but in the end my stand against them<br> is destined to be as foolhardy as the sand castle at the edge of the sea</p>
<p>I am keenly aware of how fleeting this time is<br> that you will be your age, and I mine<br> for only this time<br> and we can never go back<br> it will never be like this again<br> these moments will become memory<br> as endangered as any other with the passing of the years<br> it is a curse of my age to know this</p>
<p>And yet, today is today<br> we are right here, you and I<br> you are seven, and that will not change tonight<br> or tomorrow<br> we are who we are and where we are<br> right now<br> and nobody can take that from me but me<br> being too worried about how fast time goes<br> if I allow it<br> it will rob me like a thief<br> taking away the enjoyment of this very moment<br> which is in no more hurry and of no different length<br> than any other</p>
<p>Soon it will be time to walk up to school to get you<br> and as usual I will leave late and walk fast<br> perhaps you will want to linger on the playground with friends<br> and I'll agree, because moments are precious, as are our friends<br> and when we walk home we will take our time<br> because we can<br> and because we are in no hurry</p>
<p>Those moments belong to you and me<br> and I can't imagine any better way to spend them<br> I might even say your name a couple of extra times<br> just because</p>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177568
2006-07-31T20:00:00-04:00
2016-02-03T12:31:47-05:00
"The Lincoln Lilac Larceny"
<p><em><strong>The names, faces and details have been blurred to protect the not-so-innocent.</strong></em></p>
<p>I was a lilac<br> thief in Lincoln,<br> the church grounds<br> dark, deserted<br> just me<br> and God<br> and two noisy dogs<br> who obviously cried<br> wolf too often<br> for no one came<br> to the watch window<br> when the crime<br> occurred</p>
<p>A few quick snips<br> the biggest and bloomiest<br> bunches of Godwork,<br> soon ringed by the neck<br> of a small plastic bottle<br> the converted vase now<br> their new and final<br> home<br> to finish their<br> perfumy procession<br> once<br> and for all</p>
<p>There were no witnesses<br> just the Creator<br> and the appreciator<br> flung far from<br> lilac delights<br> of home<br> blessed such<br> for journey returning<br> guilty as charged<br> unrepenant<br> unscathed<br> uncaught</p>
<p>Amen</p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177569
2006-06-30T20:00:00-04:00
2016-02-03T12:33:14-05:00
"Marking Time"
<p><em><strong>Winter always seems to be the season for deep reflection, and pondering the past seasons.</strong></em></p>
<p>I mark the passing seasons by the shifting of the sun<br> Gone are the luminous red fireball evenings of summer<br> Replaced by the naked clarity of cold air,<br> a relentless north wind and the remote southern horizon</p>
<p>The sun retreats quickly now,<br> as if acknowledging the inevitable superiority<br> of the winter night's chill,<br> And heads home early to curl itself up for warmth,<br> until it is again time to brave the elements<br> and bring the new dawn</p>
<p>It is the season of truth, when all is laid bare,<br> It is the season when joy reveals itself unexpectedly,<br> It is the season of solstice when the present of the shortest day<br> promises the future of lengthening light,<br> It is the season of rededication and grit,<br> Time to stand steadfast against the gravity of polar rotation</p>
<p>I stand in the icy reflection of day's last light,<br> and mark the promise of a new year</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177570
2006-04-30T20:00:00-04:00
2021-02-08T03:50:33-05:00
"Mothlight"
<p><em>In a few short weeks between Thanksgiving and New Year's 2004, we bid a fond farewell to my 101-year old grandmother Madeleine and prepared to welcome my first nephew into the world. I have struggled these past several years with grandmom's faded memory, but I hold all of our memories together close, and there are lots of them from the not-so-distant past as well as childhood. She inspired her only grandson to write "<a data-imported="1" href="http://andrewmcknight.net/when-the-maples-turn">When the Maples Turn</a>" on <strong>Beyond Borders</strong>, and in her passing I find myself trying to contemplate all of things that we cannot know or see. It is always a mystery how the circle tends to complete itself.</em></p>
<p>We do not understand mothlight<br>the flicker that draws<br>the nightwing to its death</p>
<p>Nor do we know the mysteries of our own mind<br>once it surrenders memory<br>and simply dwells in an altered consciousness<br>until the shell yields</p>
<p>We do not know the freshest thoughts<br>upon emergence from the great ocean womb<br>behind the wrinkled forehead and screamscowl of first breath<br>the neurons and synapses fire<br>but their content is unknown to us</p>
<p>We guess, and interpret,<br>and trust instinct<br>but the facts remain<br>mysterious<br>by definition</p>
<p>It is too easy to see our world<br>as we perceive it<br>conscious in our realm<br>and we think what a great gift it is</p>
<p>For indeed that is so<br>but we extend and bend<br>applying that windowslice of consciousness<br>like some crocheted sampler<br>trying to blanket<br>the entire world<br>animal and insect kingdom</p>
<p>That one size of consciousness<br>somehow covers and fits all<br>and its neatness would give us comfort<br>Remaining ignorant or steadfast against<br>the mysteries that simply are<br>We apply all that we know and feel<br>and interpret everything else<br>through its lens</p>
<p>But what might lie beyond our sight and sense?</p>
<p>Does the moth see God<br>as his wings explode into flame?</p>
<p>Does he feel great peace as he slips<br>the burdensome night?</p>
<p>Do we have any way to know<br>the portals and boundaries<br>that guide us to and from this gifted<br>conscious?</p>
<p>Can we say certain<br>that all is as we see it?<br>Or just that we see<br>all<br>just as we see it<br>and no more?</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr><div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177571
2006-03-31T19:00:00-05:00
2016-02-03T12:37:44-05:00
"The Pen and I Are Old Companions"
<p>I am finally learning to reward myself for being a writer,</p>
<p>or a cistern</p>
<p>collecting gravity-bound drops of words together</p>
<p>saving them for a bright moment,</p>
<p>or a dark truth,</p>
<p>or simply an apt place for their release</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I have at last accepted</p>
<p>that the pen and I are old companions</p>
<p>together making paper rue the day</p>
<p>when it stood blank against our indomitable will</p>
<p> </p>
<p>If the sinews of my hand ever give up</p>
<p>their will to take the droplets</p>
<p>and distill them into verse,</p>
<p>like fine mountain shine from corn</p>
<p>then may my lips utter those distillations</p>
<p>in the presence and company of ears that may enjoy them</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I am neither judge nor jury as to their content</p>
<p>or holy meaning</p>
<p>or even their sensibility</p>
<p>but am rather a taste-tester</p>
<p>enjoying their delicious spicy flavor</p>
<p>as they roll across my tongue and lips</p>
<p>bound for air ears and heaven</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Yes, I'll have more please,</p>
<p>and one for my good friend the pen</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177572
2006-02-28T19:00:00-05:00
2016-02-03T12:39:00-05:00
"Smokemont"
<p><em>The Great Smoky Mountains are far and away America's favorite national park and a glittering jewel of biodiversity. As with Shenandoah, my own "backyard" national park, winter is often the best time of year to visit. I particularly like it when visits sort of happen spontaneously thanks to the gift of a day or two off in between cities, when the Smokies just happen to be kind of on the way.</em></p>
<p>High Cherokee in distant haze<br> blanketed in a rhododendron sampler<br> stitched haphazardly over canyon walls<br> and foothill knees</p>
<p>Hemlock hanging water over</p>
<p>Streamside floodwood bleached and battered<br> helpless awaiting<br> the next torrent tempest<br> compelled towards flatter land and water</p>
<p>From the summits perched high<br> where the snowmass melt<br> births relentless rivers<br> braiding and churning their way<br> through the bouldered remnants of what was<br> from the firmaments of what remains</p>
<p>Land of lofty leaf and wingwind gathered</p>
<p>Hear the raptor master patrolling the heavens;<br> Hark the call of the raven poets watching,<br> and the stilling spring whispers<br> as they blossom from the frozen firmament<br> continuing their quiet insistent assault<br> on what is massive and majestic and doomed</p>
<p>Rippled ridgelines drop away in all directions<br> from these steep crags<br> and rocky ramparts<br> hassling thistleberry plucking at all<br> attempting to navigate their coarse bramble<br> in search of a more perfect view</p>
<p>The smoke clears again and the vista awaits<br> another transient eyeglance<br> brief reward for the visit<br> tonic for the soul<br> a reminder keepsake<br> and companion back to the flatlands</p>
<p>Soon the redding dusk will glow light these heights<br> as it has done for ten hundred million days before this one<br> Back when these peaks kissed the sky on the lips<br> and before our eyes could bear witness</p>
<p>It is grander that way,<br> for now we have their wisdom and experience<br> to teach us<br> rather than the rash arrogance<br> and boastful pride of young mountains<br> ignorant of the imminent<br> and irresistable erosions<br> that slowly bring us all</p>
<p>Back to earth</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177573
2006-01-31T19:00:00-05:00
2016-02-03T12:40:11-05:00
"Untitled (Isla Grande)"
<p><em>Panama, August 2004</em></p>
<p>Senor Pablo dances<br> with his broom by the sea</p>
<p>casting off the remnants<br> of the weekend guests<br> at Sister Moon</p>
<p> Always new,<br> occasionally familiar</p>
<p>their stories and laughter<br> briefly carom off<br> the wood and stucco,<br> fueled by corvina and Atlas</p>
<p>then fading to the silent place<br> of memory<br> untangled<br> untethered<br> back from whence they came</p>
<p> leaving the innkeeper<br> and his sweep</p>
<p>He does not see it thus<br> to him, the movement of the bristles<br> in his hands</p>
<p> and the sway to silent music,<br> this is the mortar<br> between the bricks</p>
<p>which are conversations<br> anticipated and unexpected<br> that build each day</p>
<p> into his castle<br> by the sea</p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177574
2005-12-31T19:00:00-05:00
2016-02-03T12:42:26-05:00
"When Pizza is the Yardstick Measured By"
<p><em>Might there be more to our menu choices than meets the eye?</em></p>
<p>My sister and I eat pizza<br> the way our mother taught us<br> with reverence and gusto<br> Faux Italians<br> eating Greek pizza<br> in Sicilian style</p>
<p>Life has its occupational hazards<br> and occasional surprises<br> at times bursting forth<br> like the hot reservoir<br> of lava sauce<br> concealed beneath the cheesy surface<br> when teeth arrive<br> too hastily</p>
<p>Gathering at the table<br> comparing our differences and opinions<br> we struggle to make sense<br> of each other's decisions<br> because we cannot<br> be in each other's bodies<br> nor can we step<br> in each other's footprints<br> so poorly fitted to our own feet</p>
<p>Life offers many impediments to misdirection<br> that gather and sprinkle themselves<br> before us<br> like some Romano fairy dust<br> but they are easily missed</p>
<p>When pizza is the yardstick measured by<br> it is so much simpler<br> an 8-slice curve unbroken and unending<br> until someone makes the first bold move<br> and this is so easy to do</p>
<p>We can always burn our mouth-roof<br> in our haste<br> but the prospect offers little resistance<br> and we gleefully make our mess<br> with strings of melted cheese and life<br> connecting the burnt palate and the plate<br> to the greater whole,<br> and we giggle<br> like schoolchildren</p>
<p>It is a slice of life to be sure;<br> all the right ingredients<br> in all the right proportions<br> and the catharsis of convection<br> in the mystery of the oven<br> is what brings us back to the table<br> again and again</p>
<p>My sister and I wink and nod<br> for we still love pizza<br> and now we each order our own<br> with toppings most suited<br> to our own wishes<br> and our own journeys<br> we share in the experience<br> and no longer fight<br> over the last piece</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177575
2005-11-30T19:00:00-05:00
2016-02-03T12:43:47-05:00
"White's Ferry"
<p><em>For the month of the Blue Moon, a little summer romance and reminiscence perhaps amidst the statuesque floodplain sycamores, following a moonlight ferry ride across the Potomac</em></p>
<p>The Jubal Early,<br> Slowly, steadily, restlessly<br> Making its way back and forth across the water</p>
<p>All quiet along the Potomac tonight<br> Moonglow on the ripples<br> sweet summer smells,<br> the moist floodplain,<br> and the stately sycamores</p>
<p>Where once great grey armies stretched<br> Now fields sprout trophy houses<br> Where young lovers courted by water's edge<br> Now idle the restless commuters<br> Waiting for their shortcut<br> Five minutes of peace on the water<br> And right back to the routine and tumult of traffic<br> On the far bank</p>
<p>We are crossing over my love, into Virginia!<br> The welcome warmth of the South<br> and its front gate is locked and guarded not by grey ghosts,<br> but by suburban dreams built on the invisible wealth<br> of information</p>
<p>The ferryman hears the water,<br> Hears the echo of lovers cavorting and cooing<br> Delighting in discovery of their nascent sensations</p>
<p>His ancestors carried Marse Robert's army<br> home from the heartbreak at Gettysburg<br> Back to beloved Old Dominion</p>
<p>But we are not in a soldiering way tonight<br> The river still steps down, mindless of human folly<br> finding her way through the chasm at Great Falls<br> fighting the tide past Washington's Mount Vernon<br> for a hundred miles more before yielding<br> to the stronger tide of the Chesapeake</p>
<p>Yet here along the rippling shadow waters<br> Young lovers still flit like ghosts through the trunks<br> The moon remembers the blood red river<br> The ferryman remembers the cool breeze<br> Tempering the muggy summer's eve for a moment<br> Greeting the weary traveler returning home to the new Dominion</p>
<p>Come away my love!<br> Let us walk in the shade of the sycamores<br> And we shall dream of growing older.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight
tag:andrewmcknight.net,2005:Post/6177576
2005-10-31T19:00:00-05:00
2021-09-11T09:00:32-04:00
"Writers, Bears and Biology"
<p>How dare I be so presumptuous</p>
<p>to suppose that my words have meaning to others?</p>
<p>That these scraps of thought</p>
<p>and ink</p>
<p>and wrinkled paper,</p>
<p>Are anything more</p>
<p>than the poorly digested</p>
<p>pile of berries</p>
<p>Left behind by the bear,</p>
<p>Without even the benefit</p>
<p>of steam to herald their arrival</p>
<p>in the cold morning air</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I must have faith,</p>
<p>That it is necessary to me</p>
<p>To process these words</p>
<p>to make room for new ones to draw sustenance from,</p>
<p>And discard those</p>
<p>of no further use;</p>
<p>A simple act of biology</p>
<p>and survival,</p>
<p>Much like the bear</p>
<p>and his stomach</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr>
<div style="text-align: center;">Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.</div>
Andrew McKnight