This page has a listing below of poems by members or friends of UUFCC.
The list contains the Title of each poem and the name of the poet who wrote it.
After and below the name you can select to hear the poem or read the poem.
The poems are listed in alphabetical order by the poets last name.
If you wish to add a poem contact Miram Menna.
Springbrook Spirit by Kenneth Brennen
I, the present, heir to all that lived before,
Wedged in this cleft With the future,
Feel here the power of connection.
The flow of inner peace smooths every nerve and bone.
My recycled atoms - from dinosaur, from tree, from gliding bird,
or dragged up from deepest ocean fish -
Conspired to bring me to this new and ancient spot
Where untrammeled nature yet presides.
In concert this marsh, these trees, my brief existence in this form,
Mesh to understand yet disregard all concepts of time.
We share our secret oneness and celebrate the fact that in this place
We Will always know the true meaning of eternity.
By Kenneth Brennen to commemorate Springbrook Nature Center, December 2002
Each Time You Go Away by Tom Deuley
Each time you go away; - and I don’t know when you’re coming back,
And I know I’m not to worry, but find that after time I do,
My sorry brain begins to wonder so many things; eventually awful.
And I know that I know better, but find that it just happens.
Then just as suddenly you’re here again, for moments, or for days,
And I know that all my worries should not have ever been.
So now, from the beginning, I promise me in your name
That I will not, will not worry, - but find that after time I do,
It seems it is built into me, or maybe it is just built into life.
That as much as I work at it, knowing better, it happens – again.
But your voice, your laugh, without words, comes reassuring.
That was always there and I know it will always be there.
Why do I worry so, I don’t know – it has to do with preciousness.
When things precious are found and one honors them for some time,
There is this idea of perfection attached that one wishes not to lose.
When this little bit of magic happens – the thoughts begin,
And behind some of those thoughts comes the worries.
When the thinker knows that the worries should never be.
As I go on with my life, our life, our lives; this cycle will continue.
I have now conceded to it, but knowing me, I know I can also put it away,
So in time my worries will become less as I see history repeating.
Written on this 10th day of August 2011, with in mind the many partings and reunions of my sailor days, and all those sailors and wives that worried so much, as they surely still do, and it, unfortunately – must go on. Oh for peace and tranquility.
The Tapestried Chair by Marion Menna
They brought it here by boat
unnoticed under quilts and carpet bags
across the ocean from the old country.
They carted it through city streets
loaded with books and cooking pots,
not only what they needed but what
they could not bear to leave behind.
There were five flights of stairs
and she was five months pregnant.
She sat in the chair erect and swollen,
regal as the queen of Romania,
with her hair piled high upon her head,
as two strong young men carried
her upwards to a cold-water flat,
lower East side, Manhattan, 1902.
The chair sat for years in a corner,
its deep burgundy background fading
in the new world's sunlit parlor.
Sarah, my mother, born four months later
under the feather quilt in the big bed,
sometimes traced its patterns with her finger,
ingraining in her body's memory
scenes from her parents' youth.
Dark green forests where children
in wooden shoes and embroidered caps
searched for mushrooms and berries,
men tending the fields and the lambs,
women, aproned and kerchiefed,
swept dirt floors and stirred
with a big wooden paddle
golden corn meal in an iron pot.
The father peels an apple round and round,
one long curling strip of apple skin,
which he lays on the stove, sizzling
and fragrant, while the mother lights
the candles, covers her eyes and sings the prayer.
Later she says kaddish for her youngest,
the child who died of diphtheria.
The children learn English and move away.
The chair is sold with the quilts and the pots,
a faded lady's writing chair with tapestried
back and seat. What a miracle to have found it,
its embroidered memories intact.
In physics, the Law of Conservation states that energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred.
Ode to Wind Turbines by Janis Russel
When I first saw a crop
of wind turbines, in fields
once remote and inhospitable,
I compared them to prayer.
Grouped serenely together
on the windiest of hillsides,
fifteen of these simple machines
can power three thousand homes.
Peaceful yet vigorous.
Imagine a T Rex
fluid as a gazelle.
Alone-each turbine possesses
the pristine, reverent beauty
of a ballerina chastely
poised en point.
Ensembled-like a formation
of geese, they transform adversity
into energy of liberating balance.
their presence lingers in the mind
like the brightly jeweled notes
of a Chopin nocturne
or the chords of a favorite hymn.
Prince Christan Sound, Greenland by Sharon Whitehill
We shelter from freezing winds
in sun-warmed nooks on the deck.
Indoors, the crew ladles hot Dutch pea soup
hunked with ham into bowls.
To starboard, mountains march past
like a row of stout children
with waterfalls pinned to their jackets.
Their mountain neighbors, faces blackened
with gneiss, torsos girdled in mist,
wear witches' hats on their peaks
as if hoping to frighten the children away.
As we watch icebergs calve
I think of the cow made of ice
in Norse myth who nourished
primeval Ymir with her milk.
The calves birthed today
are blue and translucent
as premature babies
who cannot survive.
The ice sheet, whitened
with bubbles of air in July,
deepens to aquamarine in December.
Eons ago, glacial behemoths
sheered mountainsides slick;
now, as the icecap retreats,
its dirty fingers reach out,
grope the slopes, seeking water-
a panorama reflected, reversed,
in the blue-green glass mirror
of Prince Christian Sound.
Where one glacial digit
dips down to the strait,
the ship pauses and rotates.
Each revolution's a vista unveiled.
Only the clicking of cameras,
the chunk-chunk of idling engines.
Breathless and stilled,
we are seized by what Jack London
called the "white silence":
time suspended in a caesura
of one billion years.