Category: Poetry Page 1 of 9

I saw the sower sowing

Horse team and plow

Kicking up tan dust

That furls and curls

Behind them

A daylong task

Of sweat and furrow

While dark clouds

Gather in the west

The pace quickens

Rigging jingles and rubs

On dark horse hair

The farmers’ wrists ache

As plow handles twist and turn

When the work is done

Farmer detaches plow

Drags himself with the team

Back to the barn

And the rains come

And the seeds rest in their damp soil

To begin their germination

I saw all this close and afar

Rhythms and textures of the land.

Tom Stock

I greet you stranger

Do you loaf along as I do?

Do you know your whereabouts?

Scrub trees surround us

It is easy to lose your way.

Do you thirst as much as I?

Why not follow me. I invite you

I know these parts well

We are blessed with this Isle of sweet brooks

Creeks that run clean, cold

And flow swiftly free down to the bay

Come, let’s walk together

In conversation and good will

To wet our tongues

At Sampawams Creek

Not far from here

Where we can rest and slake our thirst

May I tell you a story

To bide our time as we walk?

My mother told me that when she was a young girl

An Indian squaw knocked on her cottage door

Asking if we needed any chairs caned.

Mother invited her in, greatly admiring

The this young girls beauty

Her shiny black hair, her skin, her composure, and grace

The girl carried a basket of rushes

Mother said that no chairs needed repair

Mother wanted her to stay a while

She offered her milk and bread with jam

Mother was transfixed with her, enjoying her company

Though she spoke not a word

After a long time, the girl quietly rose to leave

With a nod of her head and brief eye contact

She left, never to be seen again

Mother waited and hoped for her return

She spoke of this occasion for many years.

first published on line at eratio24.com

tom stock, 2017

Descendent of Chief Wyandanch

Stephen Pharaoh Talkhouse, last of the Montauk Sachems

Often took fifty mile round-trip walks

To carry and deliver letters for .25 cents

From Montauk Village to East Hampton and back

A tall man who used a long walking stick

A whaler, Civil War Soldier, chair caner

Buried on Montauk Mountain

The only native with a memorial marker

In the most familiar photograph

He sat in a chair, long black hair, long face

Holding his long walking stick

A remnant of his small cottage in the woods.

Is a stone foundation on the Paumanok Path

A historic marker near the pit

Marks where he stored his food supply

Tom Stock  – May,  2017

A mushroom in my hand

Cool to the touch

White and fresh

From the forest floor with

Dead leaves and wood pieces

I can photograph it

Collect it

Identify it

Sketch it

It’s right here in front of me

I walked a mile before I found it.

I hold it up to look at the gills

Very delicate

This is real time

Tom Stock

It is hot and it’s dark
I huddle inside a piston chamber
Of an 8 cylinder Cadillac engine
The piston rises, my space diminishes
Just when I think I’ll be crushed
The piston drops
A spark plug explodes gas vapor
A chamber with crushing pressure
Give it gas, step on it
Pedal to the metal
Anger builds
Ready to explode
Into carbon dioxide
Then it starts again

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A frozen stream from
A magnesium rim
Meandered on the ground
From the scorched hulk of a car
In Santa Rosa, California.
Abandoned when a wall of flame
Rushed in and past
They ran to safety
Just in time

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