Alliterative Mock-Quiche

a mini version made in a springform pan
a mini version made in a springform pan

Add barley flakes to boiling broth and cover.
Simmer — standing by to stir — for a quarter-hour.
Prepare a pie plate with some oil
then flatten the flakes to form a crust.
Add cod and kale (cooked ahead)
then whisk ricotta, water, and eggs.
Season with salt and a smidge of pepper.
Pour this potion atop the crust
so it fills all fissures ‘mongst flake and leaf.
Place the pie in a pre-heated oven:
four-twenty-five for fifteen minutes
three-fifty for a further hour.
Let it alone to lose some heat
then slide slices off spatula with a knife
(’twill keep the cod from coming off the grain).
Nutritious? Yes. Tasty? No.
Truthfully told, it’s bland.
But fair fare will suffice for now —
with a chaser of chocolate cookie.

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NEBISKAT [DÖGG]

small water maker

not possessive
not personified

a being that is
a being that does

unseen
unknown

whose handiwork
appears at dawn

recognized
by the Abenaki

We just call it dew.

©2014 JS Graustein
Meredith, New Hampshire USA

click to see full size on Flickr
click to see full size on Flickr

RAIN [REGN]

The sky turned black and we were stuck behind
a three-mile line of cars. I’d tried to find
a back way home from Megan’s Boston doc
but didn’t figure in the five o’clock
non-weekender just wanting to get home
to Essex County, Mass (I’d hoped to roam
its Whittier spaces). Rain began to pelt
the car as Haverhill came in view. We felt
quite nervous when we couldn’t see if there
were two or four lanes ‘cross the bridge over
the Merrimack. Our wipers set on max
could not keep up. We followed tracks
of a one-ton truck until it led us through
a flooded patch of Main Street. Thus we knew
we had to park and let the deluge pass.
We turned uphill and looked for treeless grass
to park beside. Rain-Bound. No debate:
John Greenleaf Whittier’s farm would have to wait.

©2014 JS Graustein
Haverhill, Massachusetts USA

Click to read SNOW-BOUND at Google Books.
Click to read SNOW-BOUND at Google Books.

DISSONANCE [MIS-HLJÓMUR]

Today

on Lake Winnepesauke

in Gold Country

local children play

my daughter plays

a band concert

on the MS Mount Washington—

in the high school theatre—

their introductory performance;

her farewell performance;

I am [not] there.

©2014 JS Graustein
Meredith, New Hampshire USA

Recorders, played with gusto.
Recorders, played with gusto.

SUNSET [SÓLSETUR]

After Michigan’s miles       marked with graves
and Ohio’s highways       hindered by cones,
I landed some lodging       in a lakeside town.
I planned to unpack       and plop on the bed.
But I went to the window       to watch the traffic
and noticed — through noise       and nuisant wires —
sweet-light from the sun      setting over the lake.
Driven, I dashed       down to the lobby
where a man marked       a map to the beach
on Presque Isle (the piece       of peace where my son
waded and watched       the waves last year).
I revved along roads,     racing the sun.
I lost. But the last       liquid red
shone on the shingle.     The shore glowed.
The wave-rhythm washed       away the roar
of a day spent driving       and dodging pot-holes.
The sand massaged       the soles of my feet.
I paced. I took pictures.       My pulse    slowed.
No matter that I missed       the moment of setting.
The fade was fantastic:       a finish worth
extending my trek.     Two days to go —
impossible made possible       by peaceful Lake Erie.

©2014 JS Graustein
Erie, Pennsylvania USA

an oceanesque sunset on Lake Erie
an oceanesque sunset on Lake Erie

CLOUD [SKÝ]

I left home on a journey today: a road trip to visit family in Michigan. I expected my usual travel-adrenaline, the thrill of away. Instead I found dread at crossing the bridge that spans the Connecticut River and signifies the end of New Hampshire. To distract myself, I listened to the journey of Simon Armitage on the car stereo, the narrator’s voice like thunder through the mist on the Pennine Way. Similarly in Vermont, I wound along hairpin curves in cloud so thick I could barely see the hood of my car. Armitage dodged bulls in the fields he crossed; I dodged a family of Canada Geese [a mated pair plus five yellow-green goslings] as they attempted to cross I-90. And like Armitage, I lost my way. But only once. And only because I trusted (rather than overruled) technology. I’m halfway there; tomorrow the reunion begins, and hopefully with it joy. But for now, for tonight, I’ll sleep covered by the same bank of grey that reaches across New York, across Vermont, and blankets my Meredith meadow.

subaru crawls through cloud,
lines and signs all but invisible—
scenic overlook

©2014 JS Graustein
Rochester, New York USA

leaving home under a cloud
leaving home under a cloud

GREEN [GRÆNN]

My world turned green this week—a welcome change.
The winter’s white, while beautiful, had left
behind the brown of empty branches, mud
and rotten leaves. Two days ago, this green
enticed a woodchuck off his sunning-rock
to graze fresh grass behind my house. The deer
now come three times a day to fatten up
(their ribs are showing through their shedding coats).
I even saw a fox emerge to hunt
for rodents scurrying beneath the thatch
that’s pierced by fiddleheads and horsetails. Birch
and Quaking Aspen trees were first to leaf.
The other trees have buds about to break.
This green has sound as well as sight—at night
my wetland rings with courting frogs so loud
I hear their songs through walls and window glass.
But after half a year of silent nights,
this verdant lullaby is what I need.

©2014 JS Graustein
Meredith, New Hampshire USA

My meadow, lush on a May evening.
My meadow, lush on a May evening.