Showing posts with label Maury Grimm. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Maury Grimm. Show all posts
Saturday, October 14, 2017
Saturday, October 7, 2017
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
Sunday, January 17, 2016
What I Hear
Late Summer 2014
by Maury Grimm
I hear the mockingbirds scolding
the dart of hummingbirds, a whir
the engine revving, a horses’ snort
Robins returned for ripening fruit
I hear the ripening of currants
a buzz of bees
the horses’ hoof hitting ground
I hear the shift of clouds
I hear the shift of clouds, that high murmur
broken mare’s tails adrift
the cumulus foaming
against the Sangres
I hear the pattern of leaves
the quelites flowering
the earth holding roots of parsnips
daucus and salsify
I hear the wings of butterflies
the hummingbird moth
lighting on the radish blooms
I hear the long probe
The sand moves when I walk
I hear it like doves
I hear the limbs of trees
these old Salix nigra finger
the summer sky
Not only do the bird songs vary
I almost know each one.
I hear how each wing resonates
species to species
I hear their spectacle in flight
Like wasps do not sound like bees
nor even the pesky fly
not one has a similar buzz
even the broad bumble bee has its singular sound
I hear the truck going by
laden with bee hives
an airplane overhead
and the sheep nestling
into the afternoon shade
I hear the yellow roses fading
pentstemons and jump-ups now overtaken
by hollyhocks, rudbeckias
I hear the rain settling into the dry earth
I hear the red-tail hawks, all ways on time, circling above
a fly bumps into the screen, another train
passes through town
I hear my neighbor return
gravel bitten by tires
I hear my heart
my pen across this paper
my eyes struggle to see and make
heeded the words I hear
I hear the follicles of skin the wind raises
that stand on my arms, my face
the truck with its hitch rattling
the distant wanting dog
I hear the heart wanting
the heart, if it could be overheard
with its stories of loss
with stories of hope, the dreams
Wanting to hear the birds
the soft shuffle of hooves
that do not want to eat the milkweed
I hear the jasmine-scented blossoms fading
pods forming seeds
The seeds of shepherd’s purse and amaranth
that come up all summer if I let them
I hear them in places
bursting the ground
A siren, I hear the crows
a conversation between the magpies
and in the night, sometimes a yelp
coyotes or dogs or both
I hear the heat on my toes
when my blood flows too hard
when the heart is quiet
I hear the heart when it pounds
I hear the click of a grasshopper
in the afternoon heat, clatters
grass breaking underfoot
or on the teeth of the sheep
I hear the flies
more restless in this late afternoon
I hear the manure and smell its sweetness
the hay being cut
I hear the sheep
watching me through the fence
and the thunder coming
in this afternoon’s storm
And now the rain
in all its blessings
beating on the windows
my skin, onto leaves
I hear it through nostrils
the leaves sucking this sparse moisture
I hear the smell of ripening currants
the amaranth and purslane winding around old bricks
and the old church, not far
its old bricks empty, decomposing
into the old and overgrown yard
I hear the rust of the old Studebaker
where it rests
I hear the well pump click on
the measure of time like clicks
the hearts’ desire denied
the many times leaving, the many times returning
I hear the presence of the beloved
the child, the lover, the parent
gone, but never gone, I hear them
voices that fill memory
I hear the dust
the demise of rock
ground by water
air and time
And I hear the water
a roar, a pounding over rocks
the crash and then thin vapor
when it returns to cloud
And clouds, I hear the air
its sky colors
from white to black
azure to crimson
I hear the wind in a breeze, the howl
And time
I hear its muffled drive from then to now
to where
to all that is my history
I hear my legs split apart
the birth of my children
my mother’s last breath
my father’s stern voice
grandmothers' lessons
And I hear nothing
only my body moving
through the water
through air, through time
And this morning I hear the poet
breathe then gone voiceless
a hole in the wind
where words once stood.
I hear the mockingbirds scolding
the dart of hummingbirds, a whir
the engine revving, a horses’ snort
Robins returned for ripening fruit
I hear the ripening of currants
a buzz of bees
the horses’ hoof hitting ground
I hear the shift of clouds
I hear the shift of clouds, that high murmur
broken mare’s tails adrift
the cumulus foaming
against the Sangres
I hear the pattern of leaves
the quelites flowering
the earth holding roots of parsnips
daucus and salsify
I hear the wings of butterflies
the hummingbird moth
lighting on the radish blooms
I hear the long probe
The sand moves when I walk
I hear it like doves
I hear the limbs of trees
these old Salix nigra finger
the summer sky
Not only do the bird songs vary
I almost know each one.
I hear how each wing resonates
species to species
I hear their spectacle in flight
Like wasps do not sound like bees
nor even the pesky fly
not one has a similar buzz
even the broad bumble bee has its singular sound
I hear the truck going by
laden with bee hives
an airplane overhead
and the sheep nestling
into the afternoon shade
I hear the yellow roses fading
pentstemons and jump-ups now overtaken
by hollyhocks, rudbeckias
I hear the rain settling into the dry earth
I hear the red-tail hawks, all ways on time, circling above
a fly bumps into the screen, another train
passes through town
I hear my neighbor return
gravel bitten by tires
I hear my heart
my pen across this paper
my eyes struggle to see and make
heeded the words I hear
I hear the follicles of skin the wind raises
that stand on my arms, my face
the truck with its hitch rattling
the distant wanting dog
I hear the heart wanting
the heart, if it could be overheard
with its stories of loss
with stories of hope, the dreams
Wanting to hear the birds
the soft shuffle of hooves
that do not want to eat the milkweed
I hear the jasmine-scented blossoms fading
pods forming seeds
The seeds of shepherd’s purse and amaranth
that come up all summer if I let them
I hear them in places
bursting the ground
A siren, I hear the crows
a conversation between the magpies
and in the night, sometimes a yelp
coyotes or dogs or both
I hear the heat on my toes
when my blood flows too hard
when the heart is quiet
I hear the heart when it pounds
I hear the click of a grasshopper
in the afternoon heat, clatters
grass breaking underfoot
or on the teeth of the sheep
I hear the flies
more restless in this late afternoon
I hear the manure and smell its sweetness
the hay being cut
I hear the sheep
watching me through the fence
and the thunder coming
in this afternoon’s storm
And now the rain
in all its blessings
beating on the windows
my skin, onto leaves
I hear it through nostrils
the leaves sucking this sparse moisture
I hear the smell of ripening currants
the amaranth and purslane winding around old bricks
and the old church, not far
its old bricks empty, decomposing
into the old and overgrown yard
I hear the rust of the old Studebaker
where it rests
I hear the well pump click on
the measure of time like clicks
the hearts’ desire denied
the many times leaving, the many times returning
I hear the presence of the beloved
the child, the lover, the parent
gone, but never gone, I hear them
voices that fill memory
I hear the dust
the demise of rock
ground by water
air and time
And I hear the water
a roar, a pounding over rocks
the crash and then thin vapor
when it returns to cloud
And clouds, I hear the air
its sky colors
from white to black
azure to crimson
I hear the wind in a breeze, the howl
And time
I hear its muffled drive from then to now
to where
to all that is my history
I hear my legs split apart
the birth of my children
my mother’s last breath
my father’s stern voice
grandmothers' lessons
And I hear nothing
only my body moving
through the water
through air, through time
And this morning I hear the poet
breathe then gone voiceless
a hole in the wind
where words once stood.
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Long shadows cross the fields
by Maury Grimm
Long shadows cross the fields, gold against the grey sky. The days shorten with a color so intense even the cottonwoods stark green and intricate blacks of branches stand like sculptures in the slow evening light.
The chickens scratch about in the garden. I talk to them through the open window. We have made some sort of bond now, even Łizhiní cocks his head when I speak to them. I tell him he is a good boy and he relaxes, closes his eyes. He is an amazingly good rooster.
The wind is up now. The newly planted hoop with winter vegetables shivers and the sudden cold makes me think of closing windows.
But I am not ready yet, to close out the wind, the light.
Long shadows cross the fields, gold against the grey sky. The days shorten with a color so intense even the cottonwoods stark green and intricate blacks of branches stand like sculptures in the slow evening light.
The chickens scratch about in the garden. I talk to them through the open window. We have made some sort of bond now, even Łizhiní cocks his head when I speak to them. I tell him he is a good boy and he relaxes, closes his eyes. He is an amazingly good rooster.
The wind is up now. The newly planted hoop with winter vegetables shivers and the sudden cold makes me think of closing windows.
But I am not ready yet, to close out the wind, the light.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
A prism of light
by Maury Grimm
A prism of light graces the San Juans over La Manga pass to the West as the sun breaks through the clouds, a shard. Winter birds line the wires and the horses head to the watering trough.
This overcast sky makes the morning warm as I slip out, bare-toed, to the chickens who are not yet roused awake.
This may be a day of more inside than out, but there is the catching up on cleaning garlic, storing potatoes, stripping the leaves and flowers of the dried herbs, clearing and organizing for the next round of tomatoes, rose hips, marigold and calendula flowers. And maybe after this round of rain, the mountains will proffer another round of mushrooms to dry.
And when to plant the garlic, lay down the red clover seed on the worn potato bed? Another day. Another day.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
The tomatoes are in hoop houses
by Maury Grimm
The tomatoes are in hoop houses, as well the fall planted crops. Wire around plants I don't want trampled. And all the birds, turkeys and chickens, roam freely about the place. I can too, all the fence barriers opened up.
Łizhiní and I are more comfortable around each other day-by-day and now Molly is laying eggs behind an old stump in the Quelites. She is not nesting on them, so that is good. Five eggs today from two of the girls, and they are getting bigger. Who ever said chickens do not like grass lied. They slurp the tender greens and I am praying they discover the wealth of grasshoppers.
Peanut and Red--the turkeys--range around from front to back. This eve they are playing back by the truck, whirling around, Peanut chasing Red and then vice versa.
It felt good to get this done today, to get the garden and grasshoppers in better control, one hopes.
Red & Peanut just now outside the window. I greet them. Red seems less nervous and more friendly and I think tomorrow to trim his toenails. They are in bad need; he has a hard time roosting.
This is new to me. I have had ducks, rabbits and other small animals, but never chickens and turkeys. And never free-ranging.
I can tell all are happy to have full range around the place, fences down, no walls. There is so much to forage from Currants to young Amaranth, Purslane and Quelites. I have left some Sorel, too as I know the chickens love them along with the Oregano. I chastise them all, "Bugs, eat those grasshoppers."
They take up different aspects around the place, and sometimes it seems the turkeys herd the chickens, and then the chickens herd the turkeys.
Fences and walls. Sometimes we create them to protect what we love. However, they have to come down to allow those we love to grow. As my mother all ways said, "Fences were made for people that can't fly."
The tomatoes are in hoop houses, as well the fall planted crops. Wire around plants I don't want trampled. And all the birds, turkeys and chickens, roam freely about the place. I can too, all the fence barriers opened up.
Łizhiní and I are more comfortable around each other day-by-day and now Molly is laying eggs behind an old stump in the Quelites. She is not nesting on them, so that is good. Five eggs today from two of the girls, and they are getting bigger. Who ever said chickens do not like grass lied. They slurp the tender greens and I am praying they discover the wealth of grasshoppers.
Peanut and Red--the turkeys--range around from front to back. This eve they are playing back by the truck, whirling around, Peanut chasing Red and then vice versa.
It felt good to get this done today, to get the garden and grasshoppers in better control, one hopes.
Red & Peanut just now outside the window. I greet them. Red seems less nervous and more friendly and I think tomorrow to trim his toenails. They are in bad need; he has a hard time roosting.
This is new to me. I have had ducks, rabbits and other small animals, but never chickens and turkeys. And never free-ranging.
I can tell all are happy to have full range around the place, fences down, no walls. There is so much to forage from Currants to young Amaranth, Purslane and Quelites. I have left some Sorel, too as I know the chickens love them along with the Oregano. I chastise them all, "Bugs, eat those grasshoppers."
They take up different aspects around the place, and sometimes it seems the turkeys herd the chickens, and then the chickens herd the turkeys.
Fences and walls. Sometimes we create them to protect what we love. However, they have to come down to allow those we love to grow. As my mother all ways said, "Fences were made for people that can't fly."
Thursday, September 10, 2015
A Hard Rain
by Maury Grimm
A hard rain. Łizhiní calls the girls together under the currant bush. For awhile there I feared hail, but it is blessed rain.
The coop run is about finished and there is still a door to make and hang, but that will be for another day. My hands hurt incredibly from pounding nails, pulling wire. A blister forming at the base of my finger and I managed to hit my finger with the hammer once, but it is not so bad.
The wind blows the rain into some windows so I shut them, think about what to make for an afternoon meal, what is easy. Some asparagus soup in the reefer, maybe a sandwich. There is plenty to make a salad as well.
The sheep are now in part of the pasture that has been untouched. It was a sight to watch them rush in, joyful at the bounty.
The work of men, and then the work of women. And then it goes on.
A hard rain. Łizhiní calls the girls together under the currant bush. For awhile there I feared hail, but it is blessed rain.
The coop run is about finished and there is still a door to make and hang, but that will be for another day. My hands hurt incredibly from pounding nails, pulling wire. A blister forming at the base of my finger and I managed to hit my finger with the hammer once, but it is not so bad.
The wind blows the rain into some windows so I shut them, think about what to make for an afternoon meal, what is easy. Some asparagus soup in the reefer, maybe a sandwich. There is plenty to make a salad as well.
The sheep are now in part of the pasture that has been untouched. It was a sight to watch them rush in, joyful at the bounty.
The work of men, and then the work of women. And then it goes on.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
Sacred Universe
by Maury Grimm
Sacred Universe. It must be the light of this near full moon that tricks my eyes into seeing every star, planet moving. Or maybe it is the eyes aging as they will, as they are.
The morning light floods slowly along the edge of the Sangres, red and orange like those mountains. Perhaps a reflection of the singular lenticular clouds that drift along the scree. And I, up at 3am and again in this past hour, waiting by the northeastern windows for a light to trail across this morning sky.
For me, this is really the beginning of the new season of years, upon tonight's full moon.
The prayer resounds fuller now into my 61st year, knowing all these evolutions--if I allow--bring me closer to myself.
And that is the prayer, to be. To be the whole and best, to work at my connections, my passion, my family and friends. Not behind the veneer one endures to sometimes 'grow up'. No, I want to grow out and in. Simultaneously out, in, around and continue to spiral to myself, to the Universe.
For in the light, before the cacophony of news, of day, of traveling, we are as old and as young in it. In one breath exhaled, inhaled.
Sacred Universe. It must be the light of this near full moon that tricks my eyes into seeing every star, planet moving. Or maybe it is the eyes aging as they will, as they are.
The morning light floods slowly along the edge of the Sangres, red and orange like those mountains. Perhaps a reflection of the singular lenticular clouds that drift along the scree. And I, up at 3am and again in this past hour, waiting by the northeastern windows for a light to trail across this morning sky.
For me, this is really the beginning of the new season of years, upon tonight's full moon.
The prayer resounds fuller now into my 61st year, knowing all these evolutions--if I allow--bring me closer to myself.
And that is the prayer, to be. To be the whole and best, to work at my connections, my passion, my family and friends. Not behind the veneer one endures to sometimes 'grow up'. No, I want to grow out and in. Simultaneously out, in, around and continue to spiral to myself, to the Universe.
For in the light, before the cacophony of news, of day, of traveling, we are as old and as young in it. In one breath exhaled, inhaled.
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
Two Cents
by Maury Grimm
A steady rain throughout the night and now a thick fog lies across the field, making fence posts a haze and the cottonwoods not even visible.
I scan the news feed and would rather listen to Łizhiní crowing in the gray than the radio. Not much seems to change and it seems too much sometimes, the constant hate of war-drum beaters, people afraid of each other because of race, sex or religion, the greedy decimation of our home. I am saddened as I approach 61 that we could not learn to live together on this lonely planet and care for her better.
I have no religion but this place, the places I wander, my family and meager friends. The heaviness I feel, is it just the fog? Another day of small, but meaningful accomplishments? One hopes they be meaningful, are the right way and not another mistake to undo, redo, overcome.
Chart out the tasks for the day: Fix the chicken coop door so the magpies do not get in to steal eggs, measure fence lines, gather materials for building a new coop for winter, check the currant bushes and harvest quelites, radishes, cilantro. And maybe there will be time for a mountain foray before meeting with the Forest Service to discuss the fauna, the endangered plants.
I will put my two cents in where I can and pray what I leave reflects who I was and am.
