Tag: Russell Rowland

Two Poems by Russell Rowland

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Angels Unawares

If all the most vibrant feathers soared together—
Bluebirds, Goldfinches, Cardinals,
additional primary colors—we’d get a rainbow.

I had a child tell me once, the sweetest songbirds
are angels in disguise.

I decided she must be one herself, to think that.

And I wondered if the seraphim
in Isaiah’s Temple might have been Goldfinches;
maybe two Bluebirds in the empty tomb;

a Cardinal flock, the twelve flames of Pentecost.

Now, whenever I hear a White-Throated Sparrow
sing on the summit ledges,

I reply, “Let it be to me according to your song.”


Interventionist

Wells went dry, grass crisped.
“Chance of showers” was all that meteorology
could offer us.

Upstairs under the roof at night,
windows wide to welcome the least rumor of rain,

we listened, sleepless—hopeful, but in vain.

It took intervention,
and the interventionist needed to act from a tree
at the edge of encircling woods,

wearing ceremonious barred apparel for the task.
He chanted his mantra,
“Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you-all?”

And at that very moment, the rain began to fall.




Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire.  Recent work appears in Red Eft Review, Wilderness House, Bookends Review, and The Windhover. His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications.  He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region Conservation Trust.

Two Poems by Russell Rowland

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Wound Wood

In the tutorial of the hills,
Closed Gentians taught me to keep confidences.

A mother bear
demonstrated never putting your best assets up
the same tree twice.

Pine Warblers convinced me, though,
it’s all right to repeat a song, if it’s a good song.

When I edged between tall cliffs,
pairs of bald eagles modeled how to mate for life.

One particular trait of trees
resonated through my thickening skin of bark—

how they generate “wound wood,” to seal off
or callus over injuries.
Some survive for decades, entirely on self-repair.

I would learn to do what trees can do.


No Leftovers

Our trail-boss Larry found the carcass of a moose
on a distant section of the High Ridge.

Larry contacted New Hampshire Fish and Game
for advice—was told, just leave it.

When he went up on the High Ridge a month later,
no more carcass, not even a bone.

That Fish and Game man was right—
in the economics of survival nothing is wasted;

even bones gnawed,
down toward the sweetmeat of marrow. So,

no leftovers. And before reading gruesomeness
into this, we should consider

how it made life easier for Larry,
and how many guests ate their fill at the banquet.




Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire.  Recent work appears in Red Eft Review, Wilderness House, Bookends Review, and The Windhover. His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications.  He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region Conservation Trust.

Two Poems by Russell Rowland

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Elocutionary

When I get out of my bachelor’s bed,
often it’s hours before I speak to anyone,
voice cracking even then from under-use.

Sometimes I forget proprieties
overnight, and dread speaking too candidly—

“Maybe that’s why your daughter doesn’t call.”
“Yours is the only unmown lawn in town.”

The sun passes above, voice acquires
resonance with the hours, and civility reclaims
precedence in social interaction—

“I’m certain you’ll be hearing from her again.”
“I love the dandelions on your lawn.”



Passing Showers

Just now I drove into, as quickly out of,
a downpour—convergence

of heading and anomalous weather.

In my childhood, the sun shone obstinately:
I lived outdoors. Adolescence

seemed endless drizzle—I kept to my room,
no one missed me. Later,
clouds broke and I realized I was an adult.

The inclement marriage at least produced
a rainbow—

which might reassure
the next person caught outside in showers
with no umbrella.

Would I have dared talk to Don in his bed
about passing showers,

as his hospice nurse sat at the kitchen table?




Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, where he has judged high-school Poetry Out Loud competitions. A seven-time Pushcart Prize nominee, his work appears in Except for Love: New England Poets Inspired by Donald Hall (Encircle Publications), and Covid Spring, Vol. 2 (Hobblebush Books). His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications.