Vox Populi
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Barbara Crooker: Praise Songs for Autumn
SOME OCTOBER
Some October, when the leaves turn gold, ask
me if I’ve done enough to deserve this life
I’ve been given. A pile of sorrows, yes, but joy
enough to unbalance the equation.
When the sky turns blue as the robes of heaven,
ask me if I’ve made a difference.
The road winds through the copper-colored woods;
no one sees around the bend.
Today, the wind poured out of Canada,
a river in flood, bringing down the brilliant leaves,
broken sticks and twigs, deserted nests.
Go where the current takes you.
Some twilight, when the clouds stream in from the west
like the breath of God, ask me again.
~~~
SOMETIMES, I AM STARTLED OUT OF MYSELF,
like this morning, when the wild geese came squawking,
flapping their rusty hinges, and something about their trek
across the sky made me think about my life, the places
of brokenness, the places of sorrow, the places where grief
has strung me out to dry. And then the geese come calling,
the leader falling back when tired, another taking her place.
Hope is borne on wings. Look at the trees. They turn to gold
for a brief while, then lose it all each November.
Through the cold months, they stand, take the worst
weather has to offer. And still, they put out shy green leaves
come April, come May. The geese glide over the cornfields,
land on the pond with its sedges and reeds.
You do not have to be wise. Even a goose knows how to find
shelter, where the corn still lies in the stubble and dried stalks.
All we do is pass through here, the best way we can.
They stitch up the sky, and it is whole again.
~~~
PRAISE SONG
Praise the light of late November,
the thin sunlight that goes deep in the bones.
Praise the crows chattering in the oak trees;
though they are clothed in night, they do not
despair. Praise what little there’s left:
the small boats of milkweed pods, husks, hulls,
shells, the architecture of trees. Praise the meadow
of dried weeds: yarrow, goldenrod, chicory,
the remains of summer. Praise the blue sky
that hasn’t cracked yet. Praise the sun slipping down
behind the beechnuts, praise the quilt of leaves
that covers the grass: Scarlet Oak, Sweet Gum,
Sugar Maple. Though darkness gathers, praise our crazy
fallen world; it’s all we have, and it’s never enough.
~~~
IN THE MIDDLE
of a life that’s as complicated as everyone else’s,
struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather’s
has stopped at 9:20; we haven’t had time
to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
the chimes don’t ring. One day you look out the window,
green summer, the next, and the leaves have already fallen,
and a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,
our parents gone, it happened so fast. Each day, we must learn
again how to love, between morning’s quick coffee
and evening’s slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,
mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies
twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;
his tail is a metronome, 3/4 time. We’ll never get there,
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging
us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up
in love, running out of time.
~~~~~
These poems are from Radiance (Word Press, 2005). Included in Vox Populi by permission of the author.
Barbara Crooker’s many award-winning books include Slow Wreckage (Grayson, 2024). She lives in Pennsylvania.
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Love these. Fun to feel seasons as others do through poetry, but we Californians do feel that subtle shift. Warm to cool, light to dark, the strange expectation of fall, scent of spring. I always love Barbara’s poetry. Thank you.
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Some October:
I’ve always felt the west wind was somehow the result of God speaking to us with her blessings. Northeast wind is more of Thor shouting and waving his hammer.
Sometimes…
A couple of days ago, I walked across a field where a goose-gaggle just held a feeding. The ground they ate from was fertilized by their graze. Their circle of life, where I walked with crooked steps.
Praise Song…
Somehow the most beautiful psalm or prayer may remind us how close we are to despair. And how to live with it, as we kick through the fallen leaves, old poets miming a rucus. Doing our rejuvenation dance.
In the Middle…
My two big trees are a maple and an ash. Today the ash has finished its dropping of yellow, while the maple hoards gold for another week or two. In between it’s trick or treat time. Small beings swish the dry leaves between houses, wanting the life force to fill their plastic pumpkins with booty, like pirates on a quest for the meaning of life.
Thanks for such inspirational poems, Barbara and Vox Poppa, They still bring their gifts twenty years after they first saw the press.
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A lovely prose poem, Jim. Thank you.
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During this dark time, these poems stir my soul, and I feel warm, loved, and hopeful. Thank you.
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Thank you, William, for these very kind words!
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Because I live on California’s central coast I barely notice the changing seasons except for darkness lasting longer & longer. So reading Barbara Crooker’s poems so full of sensory nuances and perceptions brings me back to places I lived where seasons dictated so much in the way we lived. I love the tone and depth in any of Barbara Crooker’s poems — and learn from her precise & perfect choice of detail…
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I can’t imagine living somewhere where they don’t have four seasons. But every time I’ve been in California, the weather just knocks me out–
Many thanks for these kind words!
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Barbara Crooker’s poems allow me to FEEL autumn and early winter. Here in Peru we are just about to slide gently into yet another subtropical spring and summer. I miss the northern seasons.
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Yes, one of the reasons I live in Pennsylvania rather than Texas is the experience of the four seasons.
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Thanks, Rosemary! I can only just barely imagine Peru. . . .
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I love Barbara’s poems! “In the Middle” especially spoke to me this morning. Thanks for sharing them, Michael.
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Thanks, Jan. I like the way these poems echo and amplify each other.
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Thanks, Jan. That means a lot to me.
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What a perfect morning for a Barbara Crooker’s Fall extravaganza! Autumn has indeed arrived here in subtropical Florida on Treasure Hammock Ranch where it is at last cooler outside than in. Autumn means Calving season for us, I wish, Barbara, you could come and partake of that extra element, a kind of resurrection and forgiveness for all the things that went wrong in the prior year. Your poems also convey that feeling this morning, a levity and hope bound in nature we’ve only to see and receive. I’m cashing in so grateful for your love in this world.
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Barbara’s poems are such a blessing.
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Thanks, Sean. I love reading your comments–
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