Poems by Gene Berson
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April Seventh
by Gene Berson
From Canary Spring 2020
Gene lives in the northern California foothills in the Yuba River watershed. Everyone goes to the river. Like a temple, with its falls its rapids its green pools, it seems to restore everyone in a personal way. We feel our kinship through it.
The sun is making the camellia leaves
sparkle and I’ve got a decent cup of coffee at my elbow
as I type along in bed. I will get up to do
whatever I want to do; I am healthy;
my financial anxieties are in abeyance.
That the world is turning on a spear
through its beautiful heart, that blue jays
tune their shrieks by sharpening their beaks
on a whetstone of human bone
indicates the wider world is continuing
its common suffering under a calm sky. I suffer the silent
opening of the white camellia in private bliss.
© Gene Berson
By August
by Gene Berson
From Canary Summer 2019
black oaks are already discarding
bits of crisp lace, skeletons of worm-eaten leaves
(some damp chamois-colored ones will stubbornly hang
motionless, like defeated prayer flags
in the mist of late autumn ravines)
rivers slacken, scummy algae
cloud the bottom, putrid
water, dark as tea steeped too long
trapped in miniature granite tarns
reflects sky, a bluish cataract, in a sick
oily rainbow of decaying leaves
the river thins
exposing rocks like refugees
to the barren glare. . . .
Incandescent cumulous clouds tumble up
into the bruised sky.
We sense the end of our cycle
yearn to freeze them in place
watch in silence.
The curtain strangely rises
on what’s to come.
We stay in that silence as long as we can.
We hope for everything
but are given a splendid day.
© Gene Berson
Fall Squirrels
by Gene Berson
From Canary Fall 2018
Squirrels speak in little sentences
over and over, six or seven
squeaky revolutions,
it’s like they’re trying to crank up a Model T
that shivers, sputters whistles and stops
over and over. There’s nothing to do
but take a breath
on the brink of anxious despair
and try again
in the fall silence.
The squirrels
bicker helplessly, like people
revolution after revolution an effort
little squeaks in each tremor
they try to get the engine going
the engine of language
not even knowing what it would sound like
not even knowing what it would do
just driven to try and get through
to break the silence
that drives the squirrels to the edge of hysteria.
So they try again
squeaky little sentences
over and over
to no avail . . . the engine of language
hasn’t even been invented yet.
But they can’t give up
they are surrounded by quiet
winter coming on
mist in the ravines
doesn’t move
there’s no way
to get away, no way
to say what they are trying
to say.
The animals are cold
knowing what’s coming
and nearly out of their minds
because they’ll never have enough
acorns.
Although the squirrels’ situation is dire
we have to admire
their determination
the incessant pleading
in their urgent squeaky sentences
and how touchingly
they tuck their agile black-gloved fingers
to their chests as if about
to receive communion
and squeak, even daring
at times, to bark—tiny belligerent barks
coughing forth puffs of fog, like smoke signals
in protest, or in appeal.
We try and the squirrels try
over and over
to get an engine
to turn over that won’t.
They bicker and
chase each other like smoke up the tree
then chatter at each other
and we watch them
they’re like comedians
who won’t get off the stage.
It’s vaudeville all over again.
It happens every winter
as the earth dies in our mouths.
© Gene Berson
Geese
by Gene Berson
From Canary Fall 2019
I thought for a second they were bowling pins
balanced on the bank of the drained reservoir
but they were so attentive
beaming in a radiant aura, a devout
congregation of little monks robed in light
soaking in the last rays of the sun.
Their brown-hued breasts swelled
filling with the day’s last warmth—
about twelve of them.
we didn’t think we’d disturb them
since they seemed far enough away
on the opposite shore
but one started working the rusty hinge of his voice
and they all gently took to the air, flying as if one fabric
layering the valley with trombones
spiraling higher as they circled the reservoir
passing above us, lifting just enough
to thread an opening in the trees.
But what if we had been more patient
crouched on our haunches
in the shadows at the base of the trail
and attended the last light with them
felt the coolness come, the darkness, and when
they took off, unable to fully see them
listened to their wings
as they swept overhead and escaped
with that part of ourselves
no one can see?
© Gene Berson
Hard To Plan For
by Gene Berson
From Canary Summer 2020
Outside the tire shop waiting room
a sparrow underneath a faded Subaru
sips from a puddle of condensation
dripped from the air conditioner.
Smoke from the fires is everywhere.
“Have a seat.” The young woman
behind the counter takes care of business:
“I’ll get’m right on it!”
The dude next to me into his phone
scrolls through pics with his expert thumb
an older lady across from me
fidgeting with the clasp on her purse
looks at me, her face full of apology.
I smile, and look away.
The tire shop is full of the smell of new tires.
We have Coffee Mate and hunting magazines
as we wait, and are grateful to have made it
and not to be stuck on the side of the road.
I look out the window again.
The sparrow stays
in the shade under the bumper
her beak open for the heat
as if she’s trying to sing.
© Gene Berson
In the Mix
by Gene Berson
From Canary Summer 2017
swirling more slowly
in an inner tube
having just rippled below rapids where the river
widened into quieter water
I spun beneath alder trees
where damselflies were mating
males, attached behind each female’s thorax
faced other attached males
seeming to shadow box each other
females holding onto blades of river grass
elbows jutting out, threadlike forearms angled
in a sure grip, anchoring their mates
wind high up the ravine
spilled down its path of paling leaves
lichens quivered
umbrella ferns twisted on their stems
ripples reached me
hair on my arms
leaned in the direction
the breeze was following
all because the earth was turning
in soundless space
© Gene Berson
October Cricket Posts a Personals Ad
by Gene Berson
From Canary Fall 2020
I saw you at the kitchen window
listening to the space between us.
Forgive my forlorn sound, a single cricket,
at this time of year—
but this is our only opportunity.
I know you hear me
there are so few of us now.
In August there were too many of us
you couldn’t hear me.
We sizzled like a field on fire
waves within waves every voice
conjuring for a listener.
The solitude we feel now, the few of us
still singing
has a stranger allure. Our songs
no longer overwhelm the quiet.
They are as much listening as singing.
Blades of the raven scissor the air.
Schubert, who heard only five percent
of his work performed,
would understand
this silence
we listen into.
Come outside
my legs sing
feel the hair on your arms rise and lean
following the wind following
my veins’ violins into late fall ravines
where the mist doesn’t move.
Those who sing in October
sing to enliven your cold cheek,
evoke a frosty plume, a gasp . . .
answer me
we stand within a terrible pause
my brethren are dead
disappearing beyond memory
glaciers so fragile a cricket
cracks them loose with his song.
This call spans space between species.
Lets enkindle between us
what we’re afraid to hope for. Let’s sing
until stars shake
a raiment over this temporary
immensity.
Call me
however you can.
I will hear you.
© Gene Berson
On Deck
by Gene Berson
From Canary Summer 2023
The boatload of Libyan refugees
who had hoped to escape bewildering slaughter
were drowned, perhaps on purpose
—eighteen year-olds
desperately fleeing to live.
Dawn revealed
their bodies, floating apart, stiff arms reaching
on the reliable tide, the previous day’s screams
replaced by a sky full of excited gulls.
I turn off the TV, go outside
start sweeping leaves from the deck
layered six inches thick
crisp as potato chips.
Heavy rains this spring, double the average
caused a mold so the oak leaves
are dropping early, stressing the trees
to put out a second wave of leaves in one season.
Barely August, the black oaks
are releasing a slow-motion fountain of leaves
showering shadows over a meadow of wild peas
pods twist open
a fusillade of seeds
crackles like a wicker chair
as if the wary rear end of a favorite aunt
were settling into it. Indeed it is hot
and we all know it is hotter than it should be.
Please bring mother earth a glass of iced tea.
Watering the deck plants
I surprise a little frog
that spurts from the fern
sticks to the wall, terrified,
praying he’s not seen,
depending on human tenderness.
A truant breeze
ripples through the wind chimes.
Those refugees’ cries, strangled by water,
subsided in the sparkling sea.
The little frog is hiding
in stillness, in plain sight
against the wall.
Neither of us is kidding himself.
We’re both terrified
and we’re both amazed
we’re alive.
© Gene Berson
Primal Visitation
by Gene Berson
we woke to hear soft rain drip
onto the damp deck
where pollen coagulated
into small yellow gobs
even on the backs of our visitors—
salamanders—
silent and stealthy
had surrounded our house
gradually drawn around us as we slept
an aura of protective
prehistoric calm
quelled our anxious dreams
until even our bones
felt as still as the mountains. it's true
mountains were once people
now here we are
listening to rain
hardly able to speak. please
tap the planet gong
gently with your knuckles
as you pass by to the kitchen
to mark our being with each other
I will listen to your journey
trail you down the hallway
and there will be no within
without you.
© Gene Berson
River Fire, 2021
by Gene Berson
From Canary Summer 2022
After we were cleared to come back
we noticed burnt oak leaves,
caught in the updraft,
had floated to the deck, showing us
how close flames had come
like shards of scripture on blackened parchment
we’ve been trying to translate, numbed out
picking through the house and property.
The people we were
apparently left in a hurry, drawers half open,
dishes in the sink,
whole files pulled out of cabinets—
we went through this house trying to grab anything
we felt we couldn’t live without, that called to us
while we could hear the sound of hot wind
in the high trees. Death must suddenly show up
like that, us unprepared, snatching at our souls
flying around the room out of our bodies
like strips of celluloid flapping
free of old projectors
the movie screen gone blank.
We took off leaving any dignity behind.
Our house is still standing
with all the work it still needs,
my uncle’s paintings, family pictures
too many to take, my books,
my wife's crystals. . . .
Sixty homes burned and my god the poor animals
one friend had ash covered bear cub prints
pawing her car to get in.
I opened up my computer to read
fires in Siberia were breaking records
burning more acreage
than all the world’s fires put together.
Olympus in Greece, home
to the original games, burning.
Powder burns on our driveway
a flap of tarpaper torn off someone’s burning roof
balanced on my gutter, like a scout
sizing up the place,
and going down the stairs leading to the lower deck
we look out on tinder-dry weeds. Blackberries
crawl through a visible layer of ash,
too slow to be seen moving, reluctant refugees,
lugging small dark-green leaves on their crablike canes
as if it’s not too late.
© Gene Berson
Salina, Kansas
by Gene Berson
From Canary Summer 2019
I couldn’t get a ride out of town
I couldn’t get a ride
back into town, and it was cold
getting dark
so I went into a wrecking yard
crawled into the back seat
of a ’39 Chevy
when I opened my eyes
a caravan of dew
was crossing a velvet terrain
back of the old front seat
each drop quivering under its burden
of morning sun
when I finally got a ride
from a farmer and his wife
he spoke to me
with respectful affection
he was from world war two
could see I was in the infantry
assumed I was like a son
he’d likely never see again
and although he never did
I think of him now
a father I didn’t know I had
his war was over, however
it was still playing inside him
but we both knew another war
was coming
his eyes passed something into mine
a cartridge of grateful sorrow
locked into the breach of time
chance had thrown us together
we met in a cosmic synapse
so something transferred
but it was too late
for a repeat, fighting for your country
was already obsolete
I now realize how rare it is to see
the caravan from afar
apart from it
lying in the back of an old car
in a wrecking yard in kansas
in winter
without a dollar in your pocket
it came with a feeling of happiness
being solitary, able to watch
each wobbling dewdrop
carry its sack of sunlight
across that old velvet seat
they don’t make upholstery like that now
its musty but not unpleasant smell
a residue from the nineteenth century
textile industry, a world that has gone
no one could avoid the war that came
whether he fought in it
or fought against it
and even though I lucked out
I became a refugee from civilization
and caught up with the caravan of dew
I saw that morning
I could have been anyone
anywhere
but I was there
because I was luckily broke
and stuck
I became my father
and gave myself a ride
it seems, as Lily Tomlin said
We’re all in this
alone
but when I think
of the caravan of dew
I’m part of everything
—that’s the caravan
I’m still traveling in
and will travel in until I die
and even then . . .
but if you’re nostalgic
for romantic glory, and want to die
to prove how much you love
your country, which doesn’t exist,
or even for your brothers-in-arms
I recommend getting between a whale
and a Russian harpoon
and stick up for a peaceful
Leviathan
that is already dying, incidentally
of plastic plankton
there’s no shortage of things to fight for
when you’re a drop of dew full of sunlight
which you are
© Gene Berson
Snow Reclines
by Gene Berson
along the honeysuckle
a womanly figure
melts, each flaring drip
a wet cold spark
runoff from the roof
trickling in the drainpipe
the sun burning
ninety three million miles away
incidentally warms my hand
melts my snow queen
to quench the plant
her lesson for me
is how to relax
as you give yourself away
a figment of light in what you let fall
away, oh
she’s destined to disappear
(if I sit here if
I sit here long enough . . .
I’ll not only see her go
but feel her hand slip
from its sleeve of ice in a vapor
take mine and lead me to an iron bridge
silkened by frost)
she’s both metaphor
—a glittering wheel of snow
turning in the untended garden
and a form of water
you may freely
regard this spectacle as mere phenomena
which it is, or accept it as a vision,
a shapely woman stretching
into luxurious languor
which it is, but you
what are you, then, sitting in your chair
on your deck drying out, en délire with the spinning
wheel, in the snow and sun
everything dripping, sparks crackling in the snow,
branches leaning, branches fallen
bits of mossy bark scattered everywhere?
you are the part of it
that pretends
the wide-awake dreamer
on which the future depends
© Gene Berson
So at Home on Their Wings
by Gene Berson
I found myself on a folding metal chair
at an environmental film festival
with a few dozen people
in an echoing junior high gymnasium
wind and rain slashing the high windows
on the screen a biologist
a woman with the bravery
stamina and love it takes
to look at things as they are
spreads open the belly feathers of a dead albatross
stretches its intestines to reveal
the red bottlecap that killed it
in a nest of bones
the movie ends soon after, credits scroll
people get up, pull on their coats,
avoid looking at each other
once outside, grateful for the cold air
I walk down the hill toward Main Street
this is an old gold-mining town
second story iron shutters and ghosts
to be reckoned with as this town makes do
facing longer fire seasons every year
up the street a black oak in the mist
looks like a silent figure about to depart
people fill the sidewalks, cross the street
check film catalogues and venue maps
on their way to the next film
the rain has stopped, pieces of sky
lie shattered in puddles
cars pass over the wet street
as if someone were slowly tearing pages
out of the newspaper
I get a black tea at the cafe
sweep raindrops off an outside bench
squeeze the lid off
a flat scarf of steam twists and disappears
into the cold air, the tea tastes clean and bitter
and I'm glad for it
after that movie
I'm thankful for those who made the film
for its sobering effect
and the softness it caused in me
what it made me remember again
after fifty years
we slept in the second hold
deep amidship
racks of four or five fold-down hammocks
hundreds of them, taut canvas
laced to steal frames hinged to a pole
you could sling your arm around
to keep from rolling off
as the giant ship rocked like a toy
in the Pacific
one night the storm was so insistent
I got up, the other soldiers sleeping
throughout the bay, breathing
as if lungs of the rocking ship
made my way over the riveted floor
through the angled latrine toward the fantail
all the heads gleaming silent and bizarre
and out the steel door
I emerged into sweet ocean air
the sea rose up like a mountain
night blue, galaxies of luminous foam
loosening on the wave, the air so alive
I felt pulled through my own skin
albatross circled without a wingbeat
softly threading every nuance of air
days from land, prehistorically patient
for the galley scraps we tossed overboard
I stood there watching them silently sweep
up and out of sight, as if they were shadows
lifted off the surface of the water
to circle back into view and pass through me
so at home on their wings
© Gene Berson
temporary ongoing
by Gene Berson
From Canary Spring 2018
a great blue heron flaps and lifts
from the estuary
where splintered pallets float
gathering the daily tide of wrappers and scum --
the bird tilts
veers back over the freeway
fishing line hanging from its feet
to a cypress where it
luffs its wings
dances for footing, slightly
hampered by the monofilament
before settling
onto branches nodding
under its weight
neither of us
can do anything about
the problem
but there’s no getting away
from it: I’m the one
with fingers
© Gene Berson
The Plum Tree
by Gene Berson
From Canary Fall 2016
My father liked to sit in the backyard
next to his little plastic fountain
near the bamboo, sipping a highball
his French cuffs folded back glowing like gardenias
following the orange satellite of his cigarette in retrograde
when he took a drag in the darkness
the night warm
the plum tree full of stars.
© Gene Berson
The Seahorse
by Gene Berson
From Canary Spring 2020
While nuclear submarines nose between angles
of shadowy green below the South China Sea
where a new variety of seahorse was recently discovered,
the stately seahorse coils its tail around seaweed,
a negligently familiar gesture, and hovers
in a world where everything sways.
Steadied by that intimate touch,
the rocking seahorse stays in place
its hummingbird fins a blur.
What does it know
hidden in the orchestral sway of kelp
in its miniature G-clef body?
We answer its mystery with a category.
No seahorse knows it shows up in a book
as a fish. And it doesn’t know the strategic
geopolitical value of the South China Sea.
Its coherent eye is so meticulously
camouflaged within warping shadows
we cannot see it as it sees a world
through its own disguise.
The seahorse is serenely alert
in its palace of kelp. Everything is perfect.
Can we ever contemplate anything
without believing it reflects mankind?
Thus my mantra for sanity is this:
The seahorse is calm
below the leaping ocean where wind
tears loose the hem of the waters
continually unraveling them,
a magic carpet woven with spit,
coming apart in space
and coming together again so no one can tell.
Little flying horse of the sea,
guide me bravely through the trash
with your wide-open eye. Lift me
on the music your tiny wings create
without going anywhere.
My wish is to see as you see
touch as you touch
if only to break from the bleakness
of what I think I know.
Help me leave myself
behind, on purpose.
I’m behind on getting ahead
anyway, I’m going for strategic
withdrawal
and predict
renewal.
Everything is dancing
to death and everything
is perfectly perfect. It couldn’t be
any better that this.
There will never be any more this
than this, any more that than that.
The seahorse will stay where it is,
wordless, its wings going so fast
we have to imagine them
to see them at all.
© Gene Berson
Timing My Breath
by Gene Berson
From Canary Summer 2018
I got out of the car
into a fragrant gown of shade.
a magnificent fig tree
just beyond the edge of the bank parking lot
enveloped me, its scent carried me
back to my childhood
five years old
at the chicken coop
the skin of purple figs swollen and warm
dense green sandpapery leaves
the smell of dry shingles
the sweet smell of corn in my bucket
the quince next to the fence
like layers of clothing
decades
slipped from me and I stood
at the chicken coop door
knees bumping the pail
stretched to lift the hot doornail, pushed in.
squawking chickens gave way in a wave
— the kernels rattled like gravel
as I poured corn into the trough
a gray rat with unblinking eyes
plush as velours, nosed
out of a hole
then withdrew again. I dropped
the bucket. I stood there
the diesel engine of a Ram truck idling
at the drive-through ATM . . .
when its moist exhaust reached my face
I held my breath
as if holding back time
after it drove off
I breathed the reprieve of aromatic air
of the fig tree, spared
by a property line
© Gene Berson
When we went to Ontario
by Gene Berson
From Canary Fall 2018
we often saw Adirondack chairs
at the end of a pier that extended far
into lake after lake
they didn’t make you feel sad exactly
they were kind of a blues note
that stirred a yearning
for another life, or for something
that may never be
sometimes two people
would be sitting there
looking out on the lake
not saying anything
but mostly there were just
the chairs, at the end of the pier
then the lake
and the changing light
the chairs were waiting
people not making it down to the water
as often anymore
sometimes only one, angled
to suggest the favorite perspective of a spouse
who had become part of the view.
It seems irrefutable that we die alone
even after a long life together
but those chairs made you uncertain
as if everything were poised—
boulders in a boulder field—
we drove by each lake
piers carrying chairs would float into view
glide along the side window
slightly more slowly
than cars we were passing
contract in the mirror
and disappear.
Then they beckoned us from memory
their solitariness corresponded to our own
afflicted us with their forlorn being
tempting us
not to leave them behind.
But it had to be
like young forced to fend for themselves
we knew we couldn’t yield to their call
we had to leave
or we’d never be able to keep going
through those birch forests
that got shorter
and shorter as we drove
toward the top of the world.
We wanted to say goodbye
to the polar bears.
© Gene Berson