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A Dark Cold Sunny Day

28 degrees, but bright and sunny, a sky so clearly blue its nearly dark. I can almost see deep space out there behind it. Funny how such crystal pure and brilliant light allows me even darkness there to find it.

INTRODUCTION

Hardwood

77 Poems

INTRODUCTION

Self-published poetry has a bad reputation. For good reason. Most of it is vanity. Someone got the notion that he could write and, since he enjoys reading poetry, decided to publish a book so he could tell his friends that his name is in print. Hardwood is not of that variety. Regrettably, many of these poems would not sit well with some of todays most established poets, either because they are too simple or not experimental enough. There is nothing wrong with complexity and nothing wrong with experimenting. I think youll find a bit of both in these poems. But youll also find the traditional elements of poetry that have made it one of historys most endeared treasures. Gary B. Fitzgerald calls himself a Taoist nature poet. The description fits. His simplicity-by-design philosophy is a testament to the hard work he has put into writing these verses. In his own words, Its easy to use difficult words to describe simple things, much harder to address the difficult things with simple words. If I could point out one clear strength of Gary B. Fitzgerald, it would be his connection to human consciousness. In these poems there are elements of science, history, pathos, philosophy, spirituality, humor, and nature. I think if William Blake were writing poetry in the 21st century it might look like some of these poems. Whatever else you might make of Hardwood, you should just enjoy it. These poems, like the great I Am itself, just are. They exist. Fitzgerald again: I guess you could say that the purpose of my poetry is the same as that of an apple tree. It just is. It grows because it must. If someone comes along and picks an apple and enjoys it, so much the better. Yes, so much the better. Gary B. Fitzgerald and I would like to offer you a few apples. Savor the ones you like and share the rest with a friend. Allen Taylor, Editor
Copyright by Gary B. Fitzgerald All Rights Reserved. http://www.world-class-poetry.com http://www.worldclasspoetryblog.com

Hardwood

77 Poems

Disclosure: The links throughout this chapbook are affiliate links. I testify by the strength of my name and reputation that they are good links and free of any malware or dangerous elements. All links pointing to World Class Poetry websites are associated with properties owned by Allen Taylor, editor of this chapbook. Hardwood is brought to you by mutual agreement between Gary B. Fitzgerald and Allen Taylor, dba World Class Poetry.

Copyright by Gary B. Fitzgerald All Rights Reserved.

http://www.world-class-poetry.com http://www.worldclasspoetryblog.com

Hardwood

77 Poems

A Dark Cold Sunny Day

28 degrees, but bright and sunny, a sky so clearly blue its nearly dark. I can almost see deep space out there behind it. Funny how such crystal pure and brilliant light allows me even darkness there to find it.

http://adjix.com/ahx6

Copyright by Gary B. Fitzgerald All Rights Reserved.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

Clock, be damned, again invades the feathered meadows of my rest, dissuades the need and all required to live my life as meant, to wake when rested. So I rise again, interrupt my dreaming and undertake the effort to possess another dollar. For that alone is all thats left of our civil living's meaning: how much is made, how much is spent. I don't remember where purpose went but now I scarce recall her.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

Evolution
(Intelligent Design)

Overwhelming diversity, constant multiplicity, extending still complexity, an existential mystery. Yet the polarizing entities are questioning reality: an accident of Being or a Being's creativity? Inexplicable Cosmology, quantum relativity, omnipotent Holy monarchy or irrelevant necessity? A frog jumps and ripples ring the pond. A leaf floats up and down upon it.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

Such disdain have we for Nature for it destroys with such abandon; the striking snake and dead-eyed shark, marauding wolf and mountain lion, those who kill without decision. So good that we, the pinnacle, the apex chosen, divinely made and special, are so much better than are they since we can murder without purpose and they but for some good reason.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

History is a parchment, events the ink upon it, memory but a clumsy splash of water.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

Natchez National Cemetery

Thin sticks of white stone standing like soldiers in columns and rows across a hundred horizontal green acres. A wide plain of vertical markers spread as far as the eye can see, like first snow on fallow fields, bright and cold. The ranks stand together at attention, once all so different, now all the same, each like the other but for the cut of a name, the date of a death and a birth, stabbed like the swords of the fallen in the heart of the earth. All so alone. All so dead. Ironic, my brother, the soldier, here standing and sleeping as well. So different than any and better than most, sang in the choir and prayed to the Host, crossed himself twice for the Holy Ghost, now immortalized here so exactly by a pale, rectangular rock post, like all of the others but for the cut of a name. Also alone and so dead.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

The Valley

Young men out hunting stand high on a mountain ledge, survey the valley below. How many days, what direction go to cross it? Across the valley old men sit on ledges, looking down, remembering the valley below. How many days and for what purpose did we cross it?

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Hardwood

77 Poems

How reconcile this paradox, this Creator who loves creation, with the brutality and blood that makes it turn, the endless flow of life, forms granted their existence by the eating of each other, the bewildered, starving young still awaiting their dead mother? How resolve this lack of compassion, this cruelly designed summation by the One who loves us all, those lost to fire and fang and flood or blown from nests in storms? We will reason, for we are human, and create our fine Religion which our reason then deforms.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

Regret

Ive lived my life so reckless wild and paid the cost for such, though mostly borrowed from those I loved who for their trouble paid too much. When I fell I asked for help back up, this they never failed to do. So many times I needed help and they to my rescue always came. It's not that I was a demanding child. I lived far away and free. I tried to never burden them, remembered to call, sent them letters often. I tried never to cause them shame. It's just that I was never there when it was they who needed me.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

Animals

When I worked at the zoo I noticed how some animals would fight to escape, tearing and scratching at chain link or stone, desperate to find freedom some way. Others were perfectly happy to be fed every day.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

Counting

I remember those young summer evenings when we used to count stars, lying on our backs on the hill. Never got too far. Made it to a hundred or so and gave up. Who had time to count a million more? These days I just count my troubles, and dollars and deaths and years. Sometimes I count the friends Ive got left. Never get too far.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

For You Not Yet

As I write, right now, your mother is the size of a pea. She will grow and be born and not hear of me. You at this time do not even exist and only by luck and grace will you be if your mother survives and gets married. But I write not for your mother or even right now. Now knows nothing of me. Now knows not what I do. I write for tomorrow, for they not yet here. I have written for you.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

Moths

We dance around the flame despite the heat. Singed wings just bring us back to then repeat, the challenge of the dare we make to God. We live in the dark of night and without shame are attracted to the light, but the fire we accuse as we blame our being lost on the very path weve trod.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

YI

Deep. Blue. A drifting uncountable school of silver hue floats by. In the darker depths something fast and hidden moves. An explosion of flashing tense and fly. The fish were gone.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

No Answers in Green

My troubles overwhelm me. I am diminished, not sure what to do and everyone I could have asked is gone. Just past that white fence this warm November afternoon in that green field a white horse grazes, stands brightly against the background woods of trees still green. No answers in white. No answers in green. Just past that last wave at sunset in that blue field a black whale rises and spouts, dark against the choppy distance of seas. No answers in blue. No answers in black. Then comes the loss of the day, the sun goes away, colors turn to shades of gray. No answers in gray.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

No Answers in Green (Continued)

The moon rises and the white horse shines like silver. The moon rises and black waves reflect spun gold. No answers in silver. No answers in gold.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

So thats it. The best introduction to Gary B. Fitzgeralds Hardwood that I have. If you found these poems enjoyable and would like to experience the full 77 poems that make up this book of verse then Id like to invite you to make a purchase at Amazon.coms online bookstore. Just click this link: http://adjix.com/ahx6 You wont regret it.

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Hardwood

77 Poems

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SOFTWOOD
Seventy-eight Poems

Gary B. Fitzgerald

Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

INTRODUCTION

Gary B. Fitzgerald is a self-avowed Taoist nature poet. But he is just as likely to write from a deistic or natural scientist perspective. I think youll find the poems in Softwood to be a rather solid variety. These poems often communicate lifes complexities in simple terms. For that reason, many of todays leading establishment voices might disregard them. Id ask you not to do so for these poems speak realistically and romantically about some of lifes most pressing, and perplexing, issues. Be it biological science, space, history, philosophy, spirituality, humor, nature, or people, in Garys hands the subject of the poem is its purpose and its always clear as day. He says himself, Its easy to use difficult words to describe simple things, much harder to address the difficult things with simple words. Whatever else you might make of Softwood, make yourself enjoy it. These poems, like the great I Am itself, just are. They exist. In Fitzgeralds own words again: I guess you could say that the purpose of my poetry is the same as that of an apple tree. It just is. It grows because it must. If someone comes along and picks an apple and enjoys it, so much the better. I agree. Gary B. Fitzgerald and I would like to offer you a handful of apples. Savor the ones you like and share the rest with a friend. Allen Taylor, Editor

Copyright by Gary B. Fitzgerald All Rights Reserved.

http://www.world-class-poetry.com http://www.worldclasspoetryblog.com

Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

Disclosure: The links throughout this chapbook are affiliate links. I testify by the strength of my name and reputation that they are good links and free of any malware or dangerous elements. All links pointing to World Class Poetry websites are associated with properties owned by Allen Taylor, editor of this chapbook. Softwood is brought to you by mutual agreement between Gary B. Fitzgerald and Allen Taylor, dba World Class Poetry.

Copyright by Gary B. Fitzgerald All Rights Reserved.

http://www.world-class-poetry.com http://www.worldclasspoetryblog.com

Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

Hope in Winter

Months of windy cold and rain became a crystal blue surprise on Christmas day. Clear now, and warming, the prodigal sun wakes the yaupons and the live oaks and the pines, granting each a slightly brighter flush of green. They stretch and vainly pose in the unexpected light, impudently dare the soon returning gray with how their freshened colors shine. Rocking in the breeze they seem almost like children at play on the beach in summertime.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

Lascaux

The mystery of the early dark, the secret of the caves, altar to the fear of not surviving. What purpose these tinted beasts, these invisible creatures seen only in the fire light of the spirit and imagination? A token to the animal gods, tithe to the hunt? A prayer to the bear for good luck? I dont think so, no. These beasts were painted with the pigments of gratitude and wonder, the suppression of hunger with the colors of guilt and regret, after dinner.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

Mockingbird

I see God's hand in amber clouds with golden rays above blue seas, in black stripes on orange fur. I see his plan in flowering trees, in mockingbirds and honey bees, in every desperate cur. Call me crazywell, they do, but I see His thoughts in cobras, too. I see His will in crocodiles. They see God in human beings and Satan in the wild, but I see the Devil in you and me and in every human child. The roots of Poison Ivy always grow new vines. I see that mockingbird on the fence over there just winked his eye at me.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

Life is too hard, I said to my wife. Something is always screwed up. If the cow isn't down or the pasture half drowned then someone we loved lost their life or another board fell down to nail up. Life is too much, I said through the door. Doesn't seem like you ever can win. If the pump didn't stop or the bugs eat the crop, then a loved one is with us no more or the damned roof is leaking again.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

People

People, people, people, people, people, birds, people, people, people, people, people, deer, people, people, people, people, people, trees, people, people, people, people, people, land, people, people, people, people, people, people people Earth. So many people. So many dead.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

Bodies

Like little paper boats made by children to float and shoot peas or B-Bs at, throw rocks or even firecrackers at, assaulting their miniature armada specifically designed to be bombarded and attacked, blown to little bits when deployed. And those forsaken, tiny paper ships not sunk outright en route will, at least, be battered and destroyed by the finish. Such are the currents of life, I know, but why these little boats?

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

I Don't Have A Son

I don't have a son. Ive never been a father. But if I had, they said, Id have been a good one. But I was a son once, young, and had a good father, too, with whom no wasted time was ever spent. But if I had a son Id tell him the truth, which my father never did that life goes fast by. You wont believe it when you're twenty, but at fifty you'll wonder where he went.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

Up Late

Up late, once a blessing, up an hour past bedtime, almost eight for Walt Disney on color TV. Up late, once a habit, up all night long cramming or closing down the bar. Up late, once in terror, up on a roof with a shotgun waiting for the thieves to return. Up late, once an effort, up for my job, finishing a report, burning midnight oil. Up late, once a pleasure, up til sunrise after a night of drink, laughter and poetry. Up late, once no measure, up in Heaven's height, a night of loving and sharing and life. Up late, work tomorrow, up an hour past bedtime, almost eight.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

Irish

My familys been gone from Ireland for at least two hundred years. Many generations in America, many pioneers. Many who worked hard for every buck. But the only Irish left in me is my name and a poem, a fear of ghosts and some damned sorry luck.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

Combat Veteran

You, my friend, saw Viet Nam, the jungle, felt the merciless rain of war, the soaking, soggy violence and blood. And you, you fought in Baghdad, the desert, felt the pitiless heat of war and dreamed of rain and mud. But both of you knew the terror of anger, hate and fear. My father flew the airplanes that dropped the heartless bombs. My grandfather and his grandfather fought with swords and guns. No, I've never been to war or killed to save my life, but I also know the terror of anger, hate and fear.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

Spirals

A penchant for spirals, I think, in creation. I see them everywhere: the invisible, slim chain of the DNA, the immense swing beyond sight of the Milky Way, the twist of a snail, a particles trail the spider webs delicate bend. But also a fondness to test, it seems, our determination to persist through closing night and survive another day, a propensity to measure how we fare against the cyclones roar and the curl of a wave, the coil of a cobras tail. So we follow the circles of our lives which begin so wide to become so thin, turn in the vortex of this spinning whim, rounding ever closer to the core and the bite at the spiral's end.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

Ask any fresh new family out here in their brand new country home, four bedrooms on an acre, custom built just for them. They are the modern and genteel, on the web, Ipods, cell phones, brand new cars. Ask them about all these wars, about these violent, bloodthirsty hordes who have crossed our history and lands with genocide and death, invaded and murdered and conquered, how almost every nation now defined was carved by a nation of invaders. Ask them about that. Not me, theyd say we are civilized middle class, good schools, big TV, SUV, politically correct and morals uncompromised. We are innocent of such crimes. And what shock would come to them in learning of the slaughter their invasion has produced, the families sundered, the infants crushed, the great communities reduced as the bulldozers blundered through tree and brush, the instant death and flight of the survivors into the diaspora of roadkill.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

The Past

Such shocking news these days But more shocking even to realize that its always been that way. Since the first stick hit a persons head, the first rock killed a person dead. Stray dogs killed a boy today. It was on all the channels. Used to be leopards and bears. A man was shot with a .44 today. It was on all the channels. Used to be swords and spears.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

Four Short Ones

YesI can write in the dark. I grew up in the dark.

Things die. That's the whole damned problem, isn't it?

Who knows what it means? The only thing that really matters is does it?

What does it mean? Things die in the dark.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

Hysteresis

Such a narrow dead-band of understanding between the rise in frequency and power and its eventual decline. The world is a mosaic picture pixellated on the screen of the mind. The pixels dim and over time the tiny tiles fall one by one, the image blurs, the clarity goes down. So glib we were then, quoting Homer and Hemingway, referencing Blake or Yeats or the Bible. The wisdom of the dead. But only in that narrow bandwidth between never having heard of them before and forgetting what they said.

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Copyright by Gary B. Fitzgerald All Rights Reserved.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

And that concludes this introduction to Softwood by Gary B. Fitzgerald. I hope you found these poems enjoyable. If so then I encourage you to purchase the full book of seventy-eight poems by clicking this link: http://adjix.com/agr5

Copyright by Gary B. Fitzgerald All Rights Reserved.

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Softwood

Seventy-Eight Poems

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