Poetry by Josh Stearns
Summer Afternoons and Long Ago
Remember as kids when we used to get drunk
off of grape juice and summer afternoons,
raging mad into the woods and streams
through the wild forests of our backyards?
Remember the sunshine occupations
mud pies and sand castles
when sweat tasted sweet
and blisters were badges of a day well spent.
Remember the wars we waged,
the backyard battles,
fighting to be king of the mountain,
or just sultan of the swing-set.
Remember the games we played
before we knew the rules,
or cared to follow them,
when we made them up as we went along.
Remember the long afternoons
playing Cowboys and Indians,
when we died a thousand deaths,
and always came up laughing.
Remember traveling in packs,
when friendship was religion,
and nothing could tare us apart
except for the setting sun.
Remember walking home
along the dirt road of youth,
still buzzing on the glory of the day,
and looking forward to tomorrow.
Nov. 16, 1997
This Dying Season
You scatter your hopes like a tree in fall,
a dying season spread over the golden ground
in leather backed leaves and harvested fields.
Your branches sway in quiet solace
with a hundred dreams written on the wind;
each one leaving you more alone.
You stand in windows and look out at the world,
waiting for the time in-between seasons
to fade into definite winter.
Under your bark the water freezes
and you crack wide open to the elements,
leaving behind a memory in rings.
Spring melts the snow that hid your cast off hopes,
and you face the death and rebirth of your dreams at
once,
realizing each time that this is the shape of time.
Sept. 18, 2000
Arbor and Ardor
You are my secret hiding place,
my favorite tree.
Let me sit above your roots
and cast your cool shade over me.
Give me your limbs and I will climb you,
looking out over the horizon.
Give me your leaves
and I will show you the hundred sunsets
collected in their veins.
Your trunk has gathered rings,
storing the memories of your life.
I wish I could crawl inside
and read your layers.
I hide in your branches
and fall asleep in the curve of your limbs.
June 12, 2000
Catherine
The roof of the old barn sags like your back in May
after one thousand winters weathered,
and it creaks in the wind,
telling stories in the language of wood.
Its heavy beams moan in fear of another storm
and remind me of the strength you once held.
Thinking back as far as your roots,
and remembering the tree.
Your tired face is lined with time,
like the beaten planks of that aching barn,
paint chipping away to reveal
a history of hope and sweat cast on those walls.
May 23, 1997
Josh Stearns is a graduate student and writing instructor at the
University of Massachusetts, Amherst. He can be reached at joshuastearns@yahoo.com
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