the pollen of new poems is dusted everywhere

“Beautifully crafted, surprising and beautiful.”“Wondrous from first word to last.”

As I move through my silent solitary day,I hear fresh rhymes— an opulence of opening lines.   New-found metaphors press into my thoughts—Unopened thoughts, as yet unformed, unborn, unpenned,potent in their longing to be writ and heard.   The pollen of new poems is dusted everywhere—
The New York Times Spelling Bee attracts a large following of enthusiastic word lovers who delight in the daily challenge of ferreting out a list of from a seemingly-random array of seven letters. A handful of Bee solvers delights in the challenge of composing poetry, essays, and more with words from the daily game. The pollen of new poems is dusted everywhere compiles a selection of work by one of these “Hive poets” known as “peregrine from the rocky shore.” This volume, the second in a series, presents more than 100 poems that explore our relationship with the natural world, as well as meditations on memory, solitude, and love, including some not previously published.

The pollen of new poems is dusted everywhere | poems by peregrinesoftcover, 6x9 (15x23 cm), 157 pages, October 2024ISBN 979-8-87-543646-8   9798875436468
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Selected poems from The pollen of new poems is dusted everywhere

Going nowhere

A foggy day. I follow the old dirt track,a woods road I know that leads to nowhere,away from everywhere and everything.At the end of nowhere, there’s a pondwhere pliant tamaracks and scarlet sumacspaint self-portraits on the still water.It’s quiet here but never truly silent:Beyond the pall of mist, the plaints of dovesgive voice to pain I’d hoped to leave behind.Within the woods, like distant timpani,woodpeckers drum their muted conversations.Leaves fall on leaves. A pipit calls.I wait and watch. Out from the marshy plantsand reeds, across the pond’s dark patina,two pintails trail plaits of ribboned ripples.Rain begins to fall and hastens dusk.I ought to go, for such had been my plan,but nowhere is my somewhere. I stay and watch.

Season’s end

Across the weeks of summer, across the sun-flecked bay,droning lobster boats would make their weaving wayall day, from dawn until the sun set past the hill.Now, as golden autumn fades to winter chill,lobstermen are hauling their final traps, hillingthem in streaming stacks on salty sterns, first spillingout unwary crabs. In haggling flocks, the gullsdescend, wingtips brushing rolling surf-slicked hulls,hanging in the mist like childhood memories,their lonely laughing cries lost in the evening breeze.High on the cobbled shore, beyond the ragged wrack,against a red-hulled long-wrecked boat, I rest my backto watch the men and boats recede in mist and spray.And so the faded summer is gathered thus away.My season, too, is done; I haul my traps ashore,and hang my hat and stick behind the cottage door.