Arnold Greenberg


Jack Nessen, “Simmer”


In this darkness before dawn,

I cannot see the pond,

or the world,

but my reflection in the window,


like a ghost,

is all I see

when I look up from this chair

and take another breath

and feel my beating heart

swelling that I am here in this silence,

waking to another dawn

another day,

another chance to love

the light

coming through my window

from far away.

And sitting here,

with a lamp nearby

bringing me the light I need

to write these words,

I take a sip of coffee,

then looking up

see me sitting in the window

hovering above the pond,

smiling at myself

lifting my cup.

Arnold Greenberg
Arnold Greenberg, his cabin.

Thoughts on a Sunny Morning

On this sunny morning,

looking at this pristine pond—

clouds floating on its surface,

the blue sky shining on the water,

the air quiet after yesterday’s wild howling—

and sitting here in my glowing room,

remembering the news I saw last night

of wild fires burning miles of forests,

hundreds of houses swallowed by the flames,

while neighbors stand together

holding in their arms what they can,

their dogs and cats beside them,

and I close my eyes and look away.

I think about this pond, so clean and pure,

not like the dirty rivers or dying lakes

where dead fish float.

I think about the mountains being raped

for coal and smoke stacks

spitting soot and fumes.

I think about the storms and rising seas

and what will happen as the days get hotter

and the land is parched and nothing grows.

I think about my children and theirs

and the billions who will breathe the humid air,

and I remember how it was when I was young,

and could swim in ponds like this

and play without a care.

The party’s over,” someone said last night

before the commercial break

and now,

as I sit here in my chair,

watching the morning move across the pond,

I ache.

Pat Butler, "Between Seasons"
Pat Butler, “Between Seasons”

Thinking of Thoreau

I wonder what Thoreau would say

if he were sitting with me by this pond.

Would he say–

let this be your Walden,

let the silence be sweet madrigals

in the quiet air?

And would he say

travel wide and far

sitting in your chair.

Let each day be another destination.

Love where you are.

And I wonder would he smile at me

when there’s nothing more to say,

then look out at the pond,


before he walks away?


Arnold Greenberg lives in Blue Hill, Maine in a tiny pentagon shaped cabin in the woods overlooking a trout pond where he writes every day beginning at 4 AM. He has written six novels and three collections of poetry. He has not published widely but hopes to.

One thought on “Arnold Greenberg”


    While I was kissing you,
    far away, a bomb came through the roof
    where a family was eating soup,
    splashed blood against the walls,
    along with bowls and spoons and bones
    and splintered chairs,
    and I was holding you beneath me,
    while men and women ran down streets
    away from fire, flying bricks and glass
    and you were moaning,
    reaching for my hair
    and couldn’t hear the screams rising
    through smoke and ash
    while sirens shrieked,
    and I was loving you,
    our clothes thrown in wild abandon
    \while cries of madness came
    from where a door once stood
    and when we writhed in passion’s wake,
    no one moved on the kitchen floor,
    no one said goodbye.

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