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Category: Lenox

POEM: Yoda was usually wrong, but not always

Yoda was usually wrong, but not always

In that one bit of Empire
he chastises Luke for not
staying in the present,
for not keeping his mind
on where he is,
what he is doing.

And look,
Yoda missed a Sith lord
working in an office
down the hall,
and he gave the
green light
to training Vader,

but on this one
he was right.
(Tell your sister.)
So was the Buddha,
who said pretty much
the same thing
with better syntax.

But it sure ain’t easy
to Be Here Now,
as the t-shirts say.
Especially when you’d
rather be somewhere else,
somewhere
very specifically
else.

In fact I can
point to it on a map.
To the town,
to the street,
even,
if I had my way,
to the specific floor
of the specific building.

I do try,
really I do,
to enjoy where I am.
The people,
the fun things,
the battles won,
or at least fought.

It’s just that
the map I own
has had the same X
marked on it since
I was six years old,

and I have reached
what even a charitable
observer
would have to call
the later innings,

and so the pull,
which has always
been strong,
is becoming
unbearable.

Like the guy said,
though,
do or do not,
there is no try.
Get busy living
or get busy dying.
Hey, I’m walking here.

/ / /

26 October 2026
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: Stone Angel

Stone Angel

I looked past the stone angel
to the open front door,
saw the back of a recliner
in the living room beyond.
The vice grip of longing:
a little house for us in Lenox,
a cat, a dog, a yard
full of flowers for pollinators.
We’re sipping tea on an autumn morning,
reading our books and chatting.
I don’t even know if that’s what I want.
Not this.
Not this.
Not this.

/ / /

20 August 2025
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: Rivers

Rivers

Reading about Paris.
Listening to Boston.
Thinking of Lenox.

I should be present.
Be where I am.
The Rivanna is not the Seine,
but then the Seine is not the Rivanna.

The Housatonic, the Charles,
these rivers of the imagination.
Where are they, really?

Do they flow even now
through this summer night?

/ / /

4 August 2025
Charlottesville VA

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POEM: Known/Unknown

Known/Unknown

There’s a photo of the filing cabinet
on the front of the filing cabinet.
We listened, on the way to the cemetery,
to a big band play the songs of other big bands.
Everything is sincerely flattering.
This is where I’m from but I can’t prove it.
I’m not in any of the pictures.
Now though, Shawnee at The Bookstore
knows my name, knows my face.
At this point, it’s just her and the undertaker.
That feels like it means something.

/ / /

10 June 2025
Charlottesville VA
(but set in Lenox, MA)

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POEM: Calls

Calls

On the weekends my grandma made her calls.
She called the daughters and the nieces
and, in earlier years, the brothers or their wives.
She collected the latest news and gossip,
spreading it from call to call like a
carefully coifed version of the internet.
The calls were strong thread, knitting together
a small and far-flung family that had once
shared Sunday dinners in Lenox, and birthdays,
and holidays, but now mostly shared cards.
The women she used to call
are now grandmothers themselves,
and they talk on the weekends still.
I make my calls, too, to my sons
and my sister, and to cousins and aunts,
and to the found family I’ve gathered
during this strange life.
“One of these days,” my first therapist said,
“you’ll have to let go of Lenox.”
Maybe, but not today.

/ / /

30 July 2023
Charlottesville VA

This is poem 9 in a new series, 50 Days Till 50 Years. I’m writing a poem a day between now and my 50th birthday. I’m going to try to focus on memories of my past, and the people who inhabited it.

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POEM: Marge

Marge

My “lunch lady” voice is, to some degree, channeling her.
Other than FDR, and Burgess Meredith as the Penguin,
she was the only person I ever saw using a cigarette holder.
I remember her with a perm, with deep crinkles around her eyes,
and with oversized glasses on a chain around her neck.
(Uncle Jack would be in the next room,
monitoring the local first responders on his scanner.
In his younger days he’d wake the kids when the fire bell rang,
and they’d all rush off in pajamas and jackets to see the fire.)
She was a housekeeper at a swanky resort
in the swanky town our non-swanky family called home.
And that’s it, really. She worked and married (twice)
and raised kids and had thoughts and feelings and dreams,
but to me she’s a brief series of half-remembered sketches,
as I will be someday to people I can’t yet imagine meeting.

/ / /

29 July 2023
Charlottesville VA

This is poem 8 in a new series, 50 Days Till 50 Years. I’m writing a poem a day between now and my 50th birthday. I’m going to try to focus on memories of my past, and the people who inhabited it.

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A hopeful haibun

My hiking shoes punch into the crusted snow. I’m not hiking, just walking across the landscape of what might be my next stop. The barn is empty. The education center is empty. The bathrooms are open. The lights are on in the welcome center, but the sign in the window has been flipped to CLOSED. No matter. I want to get the lay of this land and I don’t need to talk to anyone to do it. At the end of the plowed path are two hopeful solar panels, pointing up through the clouds. An act of faith. A sign tells me to watch for beavers. I don’t see any.

spiked soles
pull the ground up
through the snow

/ / /

25 January 2022
Latham NY

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POEM: sapling

sapling

standing under a streetlight
reading Baudelaire in its glow
while a movie downloads in my pocket

the marble steps of the library
shine with recent rain
44° on the last night of the year

to my right the hotel
where my mom learned to swim
now an old folks home

to my left the old pharmacy
above which I learned
what family meant and didn’t

the last time I came home
was the first time it felt foreign
as if I’d misplaced my memories

this time they’ve come charging back
leaping from my brain
to my heart to my gut

I browse the little bookstore
walk past the boutiques that were
the homes of family friends

I imagine myself living here
making a home where
all hope had been lost

my hands are getting cold
but it’s worth it to stand here
reading poetry, soaking it all in

you’ve got to let go of Lenox
a therapist said years ago
I’ve tried, half-heartedly

after forty new homes
and a year in a van
is it wrong to wish for roots?

I’ll plant the tree myself
let the rain do the rest
till my feet feel firm on the ground

/ / /

31 December 2021
Lenox MA

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POEM: Oasis

Oasis

It’s such a cliché even Looney Tunes covered it:
the desperate man in the desert, crawling toward water.
In the cartoon he usually dives into the pond
to find only sand where he sought salvation.
Me, I’ll be driving a minivan to the water’s edge,
and I’m fairly certain it’s actually there. At least
as certain as we can be of anything in these times.
At some point you have to ask yourself why you move.
What possible promise could await over the horizon?
Does forty degrees of longitude matter that much?
I’ll be the judge of that, says the little voice in my head.
I don’t trust that voice any further than I could throw it,
which is no distance at all if past is any kind of prologue.
“Go east, middle-aged man” doesn’t have the same ring to it
as the other, more famous phrase, but what the hell.
YOLO and whatnot. The tank is full, the nose is pointed
toward the rising sun. I have nothing to lose but my chains.
And probably some engine parts I can’t identify.
Save me a spot on the dunes.

/ / /

Jason Crane
25 October 2020
Tucson, AZ

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