Harvesters

Arrived today
Somehow they know
When the husks
Split open on the pecans.

My man plants his booted foot
On one end of a springy slat
Lifts up the other end and
Three times he lets it go.
Wham! Wham! Wham!

The shinny black demons fly
Cawing their irritation at a feast
Interrupted.

Circling, calling raucously they
Descend again
Signaling their defiance
At the warning whams.

We go out
Sacrificing gorgeous autumn days to
Shake the trees and
Gather up the nuts,
Not conceding
All the delicious pecans to
The harvesters.

Cerita M. Hewett
November 2001
(revised 2014)

No More

Behind the Alojamiento.
In the daytime, mostly hidden,
An owl sat in a leafy tree,
Only eyes, a foot, and half a body visible,
We looked for him in the light,
As we walked by there each day,
And listened for him at night,
As we lay suspended between awake and asleep.
Once in a while we would hear
A soft ooo- ooo- ooo-
Or a muted rustle of
Wings in flight.

Then one day we saw him no more,
Heard him no more,
Yet our heads turn as we pass his perch,
Hoping for one more sighting.
Still we listen for his call in the twilight hours,
Just a mirage remains,
Just an echo in our brains,
Only a gentle, pleasant, lingering memory!

Cerita M. Hewett
September 4, 2010

Captured by a Campfire

(for Sharon & Gordon)

Everyone else went inside
To shower, snack, and visit.
I wanted to go too,
But the dying coals of the fire
Held me captive, motionless,
Quietly staring into its depths,
Watching embers glow,

Flash, and die into white ash.
Remembering, savoring, storing it up.
Gordon called from the balcony,
“Are you ok?”
“Yes,” I replied and sat longer
Drinking in the quiet,
Inhaling the aroma of smoke and pines,
Until there was no more warmth
For my hands and face,
No glow,
Then at last I was released.

Cerita M. Hewett
February 2015

Advice to Young Sculptors

Clay dough is for
Poking,
                                                      Pounding,
                                                               Pinching,
                                                                        Mashing,
                                                                                 Rolling,
                                                                                          Squeezing,
                                                                                 Stamping,
                                                                        Shaping,
                                                               Carving,
                                                      Cutting,
                                    But not for eating!

Cerita M. Hewett
(revised 2014)

Boy on the Bus

On our way home from church Sunday,
         We caught bulging bus Twelve,
         Laden down with teaching materials
         We stood in the aisle,
         Wobbled side to side,
         Back and forth,
         Hung on to the bar and each other,
         As this dragon careened around corners,
         Bounced in and out of rough places,
         Leaped pot holes,
         Jolted to stops,
         Gobbled up and belched forth people.

         Suddenly in accented English a voice called,
         “Sit!”
         I looked around as
         A boy about eleven stood,
         Showing his gleaming young white teeth
         In a broad smile,
         He gave me his seat.

         I smiled too,
         Thanked him in my best accented Spanish,
         And gratefully sat.

Recipient of a junior angel’s kindness!

Cerita M. Hewett
May 17, 2009

Grapes

With school out,
We sat on the wooden back steps
Sucking out the sweet green middles of the deep blue grapes,
Spitting the seeds into the lawn.

The warm September afternoon soaked into our lithe bodies.
We joked about the day,
Talked about the substitute teacher,
And discussed who was running for president.

I was at that moment thirteen years of age,
Physically mature,
Complete in my own mind,
All knowing.

You asked, “So, who would you vote for?”
Knowing you were listening, not judging.
I shared unabashedly, “I like Ike.
Since he really knows war,
He will work for peace.”

Two women sharing grapes and the day,
Somehow I didn’t notice then that
You were thirty years older than I,
That we were mother and daughter.

Cerita M. Hewett

Masterpiece

Rake lines now covered the infield
Like a newly harrowed farm field,
Lights glared down over
Empty,
Un-run base paths and
Silent benches stood at attention.

Ten-thirty p.m.
The evening breeze kicked up a bit of powder
Near third base
Wafting it into left field.
My cooled face no longer
Dripped sweat.

Lakeview park was closed,
But I stood on the top bleacher
Savoring the victory
Looking out over a deserted
Brown and green
Masterpiece.

Cerita M. Hewett
(revised 2014)

Serenity

Sometimes when I am troubled
I wander through the photo albums of my mind
To places of peace and love.

I lie near the pine of our old backyard,
In the tall early morning grass,
Just after dew tears have dried,
Watching mountains of marshmallow clouds drift by.

I sit on the deck of an Idaho cabin,
Where I gaze at magnificent pines,
And observe busy chipmunks,
As they open brown seeds for lunch

I watch the flames of a campfire
Melt from dancing yellow and orange,
To a red, red glow, and
Slowly expire into flickering black embers and white ash.

I rock a baby,
Feel a soft cheek against my neck,
The pressure of dainty feet upon my leg,
A tiny hand curling round my little finger.

I perch in the sheltering rocks of a windy beach,
See the white caps forming at sea,
Watch Roger playing with the children on the shore,
Smell the salt and hear the gulls.

I gaze from a schoolroom window,
At the oaks and pecans of the woods,
Listening to the murmur of children,
Busy with reading, writing, and painting.

I stroll the temple grounds,
Pull grass spears from among the flowers beside the walk,
Sit looking up towards its towers,
Sense the trumpet’s soundless plea for peace

Remembering through each scene,
Knowing how I have been understood and loved,
Feeling the Spirit wash my heart in a quiet hush,
Then, in the stillness, the calmness,
the silence, comes serenity.

Cerita M. Hewett
July 12, 2009
(revised 2014)

Confession

Today, for lunch, I ate a Klondike.
Yes, the luxurious ice cream bar,
The one that is covered with chocolate,
The one that melts in your mouth
With the taste of cream, sugar, and, Uh-huh, chocolate.

It cost me two hundred and fifty calories,
Which I needed to work off on my bike,
Walking the trails in our forest,
Or shooting endless hoops in the hot summer air.

Once we each devoured three Klondikes
On the fifteen minute drive from town to the cabin.
I didn’t feel too good in my stomach
That time, but I was cooler.

Maybe it is the long
Hot summer of Texas
That compels one to such excesses,
Looking for chilly, refreshing food.

Still today, the memory of its smoothness,
Coolness,
Richness. . .
Was a magnificent way
To refrigerate a hot summer day.

Cerita M. Hewett
August 24, 2015

Gaurdians

The dogs in our neighborhood
Take very seriously their jobs.
Perhaps it is because there seems
To be so few of them in Guayaquil.

                  We rarely see them in the daytime,
                  And only hear them as we lie in bed,
                  On nights when our minds are over active,
                  Wishing for the sweet refreshment of sound sleep.
                  Then it seems the chorus begins.

                  Woof, woof!
                  Oooo, oooo!
                  Arf, arf, arf!
                  Rrrrr, rrrr!
                  Owoo, Owoo, Owoo!
                  Close and distant they holler.

                  I wonder, “Are they talking to each other?
                  Is a rat running across their patio?
                  Perhaps a cat slurks along the top of a nearby wall?
                  Has a well known thief entered the garden?
                  Is some old dog ill?
                  Has there been a death in the community?
                  Did their retirement fund collapse?
                  Or are they debating some compelling political question?”

                  At last their conversation ceases.
                  Perhaps the danger passes,
                  Possibly their pain or sorrow is soothed,
                  Perchance a truce or concession comes to pass.
                  At last night-quiet peace reigns supreme once more.

                  We remain awake, alas awake,
                  Quiet, yet awake,
                  Musing over all the possibilities.

Cerita M. Hewett
April 29, 2009
(revised 2014)

PineyWoodsPoet

a winding walk in the woods

poetry