Some Ducks
"Now, if we're real quiet...," I whisper to Caitlin,
and with the
next step
a thunder of
wings fills the sky,
cloudburst of
feathers and spray
as dozens of
mallards explode
from the small pond.
Blue-white
shimmer of wingbars and vapor
billows across
the winter sky.
Caitlin stands
frozen,
as a second,
then third wave
erupts before us,
astonished
that our quiet
approach
could trigger
such spectacular alarm.
The roiled
surface splashes up in waves
over the shore
ice,
the din of wingbeats
fades,
and the sky is
suddenly
monumental in its
emptiness.
Our eyes meet with
my unfinished thought:
"...we might see some ducks."
Tim McNulty
My Father Speaking
In those years, the oughts
and early teens,
it was woods from Mt.
Pleasant Street clear
to West Peak. Eight of us kids then—
Fran wasn't born yet—and
I'll be honest,
we were often hungry. We'd find food
where we could.
In fall when the chestnuts
were ripe
we'd comb McCarty's woods
for them.
We smaller kids would get a
boost up
to the lower limbs, but
the big boys would find
stout logs
and give the trees a whack.
Oh brother,
would those chestnuts come
showering down.
We'd fill gunnysacks, all
we could carry,
and haul them back to Ma
who'd roast them in the
cookstove.
The house would fill with
their flavor,
the nicest, sweetest nuts
you ever ate.
In 1917 the blight took
them all.
They never came back.
When you were kids I'd bring
home
bags of European chestnuts,
remember?
But nothing, nothing
compared to those wild nuts
from the woods.
To tell the truth,
I don't know what we'd have
done without them.
Tim McNulty
Write your Poem!
What does your family inspire for the internal portion of the poem. Although poetry was the language of royal court life and even the story telling medium poets seem to always find gentle ways to address what is intimate and central. Write your poem in the snow, or on a napkin and let the ink float away in a melting drift.
Baby's World
I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very
own world.
I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops
down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.
Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never
could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with
trays crowded with bright toys.
I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind,
and out beyond all bounds;
Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms
of kings of no history;
Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, the Truth
sets Fact free from its fetters.
own world.
I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops
down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.
Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never
could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with
trays crowded with bright toys.
I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind,
and out beyond all bounds;
Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms
of kings of no history;
Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, the Truth
sets Fact free from its fetters.
Rabindranath Tagor
