Whenever I put the phone down
To go walking,
To work the soil,
To garden,

Or ride some river road
Beneath trees,
Feel the breeze...

I realize with Frost
That nothing gold can stay,
That the witching light of screens
Takes fleeting gold away.

“Haunted Houses” (1858)
All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table, than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star,
An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o’er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,–

So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

The stalling plane fell,
A toy, yawing back on its tail,
Tilting left and down
And down.

The boy’s dad at the stick,
Frozen,
Face immobile,
Almost careless as they fell;
He, his mother, and his father,
And a stranger, next to him,
Tumbling above Montana
Prairie hills surging
Nearer
And nearer.

The stranger clenched the boy;
The tail dragger impacted a rising knoll.
The engine clanged and broke,
Dirt enveloped the shattered cabin.

Silence smothered cacophony.

Conscious of being dragged
Through a **** in the fuselage
Out into open air,
The boy saw little,
Couldn't make out the stranger's face.

His mother came through the side of the plane
A Cesarean section, reversed,
The boy's hope reborn
At the emergence of his mother.

She appeared dazed,
He thought, unruffled,
Dusty with a smearing of bright red lipstick
Stretching up from the corner of her mouth
To the edges of her right ear.

The boy knew it must be blood.

His father lay,
Crumpled oddly,
Head twisted between
Stick and dashboard;
Right arm somehow
Lolling through the fuselage.

Blood smeared the arm, the head.
Everything still,
Motion slow...
Echoes.

The stranger moved on hands and knees,
Inspected the boy
His mother,
Pulled them away
From wreckage,
Surveyed the scene.

Turning then to the man
Twisted and still,
Grotesque within the shell,
The stranger gazed.

Gasping,  the boy jolted.
Saw,
Thought he saw,
His father’s hand ****,
Move up and backward to his face.

The boy heard,
Thought he heard,
His father sigh.

Fear surging
The son,
Caught in a wave,
Realized his first response,
Horror,
A sense of ******* returning,
Having glimpsed,
If only for a few seconds,
Freedom.

I sit eyes closed at the top of the wood
Desiring action, but in a dream,
Hooked head and feet immobile:
Near sleep of age, incapable to eat.

Necessity finds the highest trees....
Branches shake in sun-beaten ire;
No advantage find I in the moving air
While earth's face beckons me to fall.

Clenching now, claws deep in bark,
Creation's masterpieces find decay
Of foot and feather, come from dust,
This Creature must return to clay.

Vision strong still seeks resolve
As Earth below me still revolves,
Inward focus, resolute, admits
Tearing heads is now a chore.

Death's wind, inevitable, a chilling fact:
Who kills to live through victims' lives,
Though early arguments remain intact,
At twilight's call, they still must die.

From the West the same Sun sees me;
Only I have changed, and have grown thin,
And though my heart's set upon its path,
I've lost the strength to fly again.

of the grandfathers (sigh)
sitting on benches (nigh),
at rest in a world on the fly
watching people going by,

remembering the scurrying
headlong youthful hurrying;
the doglike head-aching worrying.

content with wistful contrition,
reminded that waiting is a position
all who live must see in fruition.

Will be the poet, I,
unafraid to laugh,
unafraid to cry,
unafraid to live,
unafraid to die.

Will be the poet, I.

The questions exist:
Whether lock down in this space
Preserves the life or just saves face?;
Why quarantine locks healthy up
While hellions riot and disrupt?

She's 92 and all alone
Stuck inside a nursing home
"No visitors," the Guvner said,
And fear became the COVID dread.

"Bring out your bodies!"
"Bring out the dead!"

She walks a bit from bed to door,
Must wear a mask, if nothing more.

Alone, she rests, though it's a chore
To see faceless helpers on her floor.
Her handlers? Gowned, masked, and visored
As if she's the one who's virus scoured.

"How will I speak my 3000 words a day?"
My mother asked on the phone today.
"Speak now to me," I edged words in,
And listened to my Mom, cooped in.

If COVID doesn't **** her, empty hallways might;
She tries to speak to anyone who passes nigh,
But they are in a hurry to cancel someone's light,
And so the nights and days go crawling by.

"Bring out your bodies!"
"Bring out the dead!"

HI

JUST
came from hair shop.
Toe man is to come tomorrow.
Diane has an appt  for 1:30 tomorrow
so hopefully we can meet outside.
Happy Birthday Sue and Anniversary , etc,
Your card will be late.

Beautiful day today after the rain,  
Did you get enough rain?

Lunch  is here,
Hope you are all well.

McGee is on.

love Mom

Four months
Memory of unfettered times slipping

COVID-19
Plot or wet market accident, world plague

George Floyd
The fuse that lit the yearnings... and burnings

Protests
The righteous and unrighteous, weeping and burning

Rioting
Usurpation of the call to justice for terrorists

ANTIFA
The irony of the name is not misunderstood

Masks
Those damnable masks....

FaceBook
Blue Book for civil incivility

Statuary
Easy targets for cowardly mobs

News Media
Pick your poison; take your sides; everybody lies

Citizens
To fly the flag or to burn it?

Police
To protect and to serve; to spit upon and to abuse

Politicians
Demagogues gone wild

Jesus
"I have told you these things, so that in Me you may have peace. In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:33, NIV)

"Write two poems," I said.

My students left the room.

Some frittered the week away,
No idea how to start,
What to say....

Others found a way to play,
Rolling phrases
Making hay,
Coding words in lines
Testing assonance,
Alliteration,
Anthropomorphization:
A door, a pen, and clouds...
Always clouds.

"Write one that rhymes," I'd said,
And so the rhymers vied,
Stretched morphemes until dead,
Finding words I thought had died,
Bruised themselves with rhythm,
Metered anapests and dactyls,
Resorted to trochees and iambs
And smiled as if inventing fractals,
My little lambs.

"Write free verse; break all rules!" I said,
And though they tried,
No ee cummings Jesus resurrected,
No William Carlos Williams rose
To eat plums beside white chickens,
And no apologies.

Still, when all was finished,
Notes came in,
A treasured, precious few
Wrote to say they'd found
Appreciation for words
Arranged intentionally,
For power of images,
For realization of the value
Found in working words.

Who is he,
The man in the sweaty tee-shirt,
Standing in the center
While cars **** round
The roundabout?

He holds a digging tool,
Remains of weeds clinging.
He waves at a city parks truck
Rounding on its way
To the main building.

I know him.
We taught together once.
His doctorate in ministry:
Servant lives and how to lead them;
Mine in words and letters,
And how to read them.

I wonder as I drive away:
The tenuous lives we lead;
No predicting whether next year
I'll be learning with students
Or pulling weeds on a highway.

Vicissitudes of Life...

A week or so
After the funeral,
The interment of ashes,
The settling of accounts,
The realization of continuing sighs,
We helped Mom empty
Things you left behind.

Shirts and pants,
Jackets, shoes,
The quiet, worn things
Left by a man who
Said little,
Worked hard,
Saved earnings,
Lived generously.

At the bottom of your dresser drawer,
Lay wool socks, leather gloves
We kids had given you
Father's days, Christmases,
(Never birthdays),
You'd put away for some other day....

I remember your telling me,
"I don't need anything!"
And maybe you didn't....
But we did.
You gave us everything,
Including your life
In the end.

Our feeble gifts
Lie waiting
For feet and hands
That that have gone away.

First hunting trip in years
Wondering if I have the stamina,
The fortitude to stay in a cabin,
To hunt in the cold,
To find my way in unknown woods...
To use an outhouse.

I have grown accustomed to amenities:
A steady furnace, heated water,
Television, books, phone,
Internet, WiFi, Cable,
A garage,
You.

For a weekend
I decided to try myself,
To test resolve,
To see if there might still remain
A little hardiness.

The long drive took us out of range
Of television,
Most radio,
Cell coverage,
Running tap water,
Toilets with flush handles,
My bidet.

Gas light, wood fire
Illuminated and warmed
Dimly, slowly.
My bed frosted until midnight.

At 1:00 my bladder sent the signal;
I arose, donned boots and coat,
Forayed to the shack outback.

Wind rushing in the tall trees,
Snow crunching beneath me,
Ice on the door,
Dark of night,
Dread without,
Within.

In minutes, business done.
Outside, breeze soughing,
Sighing in tree tops.

Singing ice stopped me
Beneath the stars:
Siren song of resonating ice,
Ice-glazed lake's expansive song
Filling me with wonder.

Cold, I could not linger,
Walked back
To hunker in blankets,
Old and wool,
As the ice-song lingered.

Some would burn the home
To end the vipers lurking in the walls;
Take no care for ruining their shelter,
Panicking and distraught, destroying helter-skelter.

Some would attempt to live in peace
While the lurker steals their sleep.
Thinking vipers are just natural things,
Allowing them to rule their lives like kings.

Some would study the serpents to know
Where they hide; where they go...
Then **** them when they leave their lair,
And plug the villains' holes.

These are the days that try our souls.
There have been others similar,
Time out of minds ago.

Take heart.
Lift up your heads.
The One who saved the multitudes is there
To take our dread.

Take courage.
Lift up your arms.
The One is with us through all harm.

Take peace.
Rest in the thought that life
Or death in Him will please.

Take comfort now, for later.
In life, in death,
He is our Savior.

David felt the emptiness
Of his bowl,
The House,
His kitchen sink,
Felt the weary settling in.

On the table
After the dish and fork,
His Bible, worn,
Lay open:
"I will never leave you,
Nor forsake you."
The pages, marked and stained,
Seemed dry
In the after-dinner hour.

Echoes in the house tonight:
His bare feet skiffering the floor,
The water running in the sink,
The creaking bed and rustling sheets,
The refrigerator sighing below,
Echoing into the bedroom
Through the empty hall.

Her side,
His side,
The old rules of halves:
Yours/Mine...
Empty now
Either side his.
Yet shuffling to the far side
By the window,
He let himself in,
Slid his tired weight
Between sheets.

Once in,
Let his leg,
His foot reach over
to the emptiness
Of cold sheets
And a flatness
Lonely for her indentation.

Arising sleepless
He wandered out,
First to the toilet and sink,
Then to the kitchen for a drink,
Then to the window,
Then the door,
And out into the yard.

The lowland bog alive:
Spring peepers chorusing,
A nighthawk veering air,
Crickets cheering to stay warm,
Beside, before, and all around,
The night was filled with sound.

"Where have you taken her?"
His eyes searched the stars,
Silent in their astral lofts.
"Where have you gone?"

Chill of night - Mid-eastern spring,
Night air pungent - earth and rain
His woman gone - this lonely man
Hopes for rest - perhaps a dream:
Of them together - balmy weather.

Five rivers, horror-full
Through Hades flow:
Acheron, full of sorrow, endless woe,
Cocytus, howls as lamentation and regret,
Phlegethon - smoke and molten fire, ever hot,
Lethe - black waters of oblivion,
Styx - bitterest of all, flows full of hate.

The boatman Kharon,
Psychopomp, deliverer of souls,
Navigates Acheron and Styx,
Plucking his coins
From passengers' eyes
(No one is alive),
Then lets them find
Their appointed ways
To bliss or dread.

Odysseus alone
Braved Phlegethon
To speak with wise Tiresius;
Tossed his sacrificial goat
Into the flowing fire,
Heard the Ancient's voice,
Then fled in terror.

Old men stumbling,
Old women wading,
Descending into waters black.

River's force draws
Once steady Time
Into Lethe's murky flow.

Cares fall away,
Worry holds no more...
All swept from sensate shore.

Ever pulling,
Relentless River Lethe
Drowns even sweet relief.

Nana tells stories;
Papa reads books;
Mommy cooks me dinner;
Daddy makes me toast,
And we all joy together!

4-22-2020

We become old men
And old women, and

We look back wistfully, and
We look forward hopefully, and

We wonder....

The station master arrived a little after five,
Set about his morning schedule,
Turned on the lights,
Put the coffee on,
Checked the restrooms,
Picked up the paper at the curb,
Waited for the old town clock
To chime six bells
From the tower carillon.
He set his pocket watch with care,
Then stepped outside to check the station clock
Standing on the red brick apron of the station.

The 6:10 arrived a little early,
Offloaded mail and Billy Johnson,
Home from college and heading to the farm.
He looked tired from two days' travel
Coming on the rails.

At 6:14, the train pulled out,
On the station master's wave.

A few seconds early,
But not so much
As to bring concern
Until a man rode up to ask
Where was the train?

"It's come and gone at 6:14,"
The station master said,
"You've arrived too late."

"That cannot be," the stranger said,
"My time piece says it's only 6:11."

The station master scratched his head,
"I set my clock according to the bell
That rings at 6:00 each morning in the town.
It's accuracy is beyond compare."

The traveler's face began to crack
Into a crooked smile.
"I think I have an inkling
Of the problem here," he said.

"My uncle's the town mayor.
Just yesterday he said
He sets the bells by the station's clock.
I set my pocket watch three days ago
Back in the city where I live,
And it's three minutes slow
Compared to yours."

'Tis time for contemplation;
Painful humor in the situation,
The 6:14 in early locomotion,
Three minutes bought for meditation
On the need for calibration.

Have you ever done enjoyable work,
But toward supper time,  
After a long, long day,
A satisfaction sets in,
Almost a fullness,
A readiness to stop for the day...

I know this feeling.
I understand Robert Frost's poem,
"After Apple Picking."

I loved haying on the ranch,
But after 14 hours' roaring up and down
Long alfalfa fields,
I was content,
Ready to shut down for the day,
Ready to climb down from the old John Deere,
Ready to walk, dusty, to the old truck
Waiting in growing darkness.

I recall listening for sounds of night coming on:
Crickets rasping against the cooling day,
Nighthawks' screeching, veering for insects,
Soul-mourning cries of coyotes,
All teamed against the ghosts of day:
Tractor's roaring echo in my ears,
Thumping memory of lurching over clods,
Dust clogging my itching eyes and throat....

The old tractor, too, was content
Sitting silently,
Cooling in the twilight.

Out of paper? Need a trowel?
Use a bidet and dry with a towel.

No way to clean? No toilet paper?
Bidet your stuff into a vapor.

When TP hoarders make you pray,
Answer those prayers with a cool bidet.

My new bidet is a real treat;
I spray the mess right off my seat.

My bidet arrived at the very last hour;
The TP’s gone, but my **** loves to shower.

While friends miss paper and complain,
My bidet cleans me like the rain.

When paper’s gone and you’re a mess,
Think “bidet” for cleanliness.
When water cleans you, life is fine,
So join me on the bidet line.

of temptation.
We are enticed,
Seduced, and
Trapped.

The Going In
Is easy,
While Going Out
Is difficult.

The farther  
We slide,
Less likely
Our retreat.

When a thing
Is "Free,"
The product
Is "Thee."

I
Write
To Remember...
Or
To Forget...
Or
Both.

"You can't hear me!" she whispered,
And I just turned my head.
Sometimes it's better not to hear....
Depends on what's been said.

I know I irritate her;
(I irritate myself).
Hearing aids are waiting
On some hearing doctor's shelf.

While we go on debating,
Because I'm in no hurry,
I sit here contemplating....
Sometimes it's better not to worry.

At the things I heard that peeved me,
Before I tune the wide world out;
Honey, if you really want to catch me,
You're gonna have to shout.

To Death:
Drought
or
Floods.

Left the house this morning before six;
Stopped to photograph the hoarfrost
Beneath the street lights glowing thick...
White, silver, black before it all was lost.

The headlights caught a snow-like fall,
Frost slanting north before a southern breeze,
And I was all alone in wonderland to see it all;
I turned inside a splendor-dome of trees.

The camera tried to focus, battling light and dark;
No sun to give some depth against the night.
I felt my fingers growing numb and left the park,
Hoping at least one snapshot would look right.

The morning breeze then stirred, "Enough!"
Revealing golden warmth, arrived the sun;
Shivering trees their silver jackets sloughed,
And I, to work because the day'd begun.

Kissed Faith good-bye,
Stepped into the night,
Met a man on his way
To the Forest.

Faith behind him,
Uncertainty before,
Wavering on his way,
Brown faltered on.

Such a cloud of witnesses
As to keep him from this path!
But then they met him,
One by one,
Catechist and Minister,
Deacon and Elder,
Murmuring and gibbering;
Wise fools wending their way
To meet him
In a clearing, deep.

Pink ribbons falling,
Snake-head pointing
Feet now stumbling,
Then running before
In a wind of curses.

Firelight red,
Congregants cowled, silent,
Save the voice of Faith,
The near-initiate.

"Faith, Faith!
Look to Heaven!"
Resist the wicked one."

Woods silent;
Devil, fiends, fire ... gone.
Only Goodman Brown
To stagger home.

Ironic morning sight:
Smiling faces of Salem town,
'Gainst downward gazing
Goodman Brown.

While the world
And I
Mourn Kobe's passing,
On nearly the same day
Jihadists invaded villages...
West Africa,
Burkina Faso,
Alamou.

Villagers ordered out
Into the open areas
Gunned down,
Slashed,
Murdered.

An attendance question opens,
"What happened in the world?'

Kobe Bryant is gone.
Private helicopter crashed.
The world is on its head.

We hang our heads
In mourning.

Jacque's turn:
"My village was
Attacked Saturday.
Forty people killed.
My wife and children...
There.
The people are fleeing
To the capitol,
Ouagadouga."

[Awkward, this revelation.
How will I ever justify
A week of Edgar Allan Poe?]

We bow to pray.

Frost thickens at dawn,
Rumbling salt truck rattles by
Before snow's assault.

Skin turns numb plastic
Five minutes exposed to air
Fifty degree wind chill

No bird chirps nor flies;
Young ash borers freeze and die;
Cold saves old ash trees.

Beneath frozen mud
Spring peepers sleep winter's death
Waiting the spring thaw.

Eskimo, my wife,
Dressed in down, coiffed now in fur,
Radiant in snow.

When a boy, I knew
No greater love than the hunt
Through deep snow for hares.

North winds fierce bring cold,
Drive me gasping to shelter.
Exhilaration!

No one sleeps outside
With impunity for long;
It's January.

Her fantasy now?
The "polar plunge" with her friends...
And our friendship ends.

Cataclysm of cataclysms,
The End of ends,
The death of Death,
To hell with Hell.

The Devil and his minions,
The Dead outside the Fold,
Subsumed in Fire,
Truth consuming liars.

Outside the flames,
The Great Relief,
Absence of Pain,
Forgotten Grief.

Cosmos free of all that's fey,
Night consumed by glorious day.

The Holy Spirit took Him to the wind and sand,
Left Him alone in dry air
To meet the Devil.
Forty days He fasted,
Must have prayed,
Alone.

The Devil knew just where to find Him,
Rolled up in a whirlwind,
Did he?
Or slithered he up,
Wind in his face,
The Serpent, from behind?

The conversation followed,
Enough to raise my hair,
"I've been given total dominion
Of earth and sky down here.
The glory is all mine."

"Unlimited my power
Within the earthly plane,
And all of it you'll have,
If you but praise my name."

The Devil said his piece,
Then waited,
Plotting Jesus' pain
For invading his dominion
For bringing Glory down.
He proffered ease of life
And Earth's opinion,
The greatest things he owned
To tempt the Chosen One:
A monstrous devil's game...
Risk every earthly thing
For the Knee of the Almighty.

Jesus spoke:
"Satan, get behind.
Worship only God, your Lord,
Serve no one but Him."

So Satan took the two of them
To the top of the temple spire,
"Fall free from here,
Let angels catch;
Subsume human desire!"

Jesus answered quickly,
"You shall not tempt your Lord."

And so the Devil left Him,
The Tempter's power, blown.

And so began
The Savior's journey
Toward a humble Cross,
The Gate Post to our Home.

For a year or possibly more,
Decompression begins:
Purging electricity, electronics.
Fall away, Internet, Oh!
No more cellular,
**** the television set,
Except, perhaps, a radio,
Lest I totally forget....

Hello, paper,
Hello, books,
Come off the shelves;
Lose those ***** looks,
Warm again before my eyes,
Feel the press of my writing stick.

Thoreau, the fakir,
Left the social order
Just a year,
Though just how far
He really went
Remains foggily unclear,
And the fact that he returned
Suggests that Nature
Left him feeling burned.

So, like a diver,
Rising from the deep,
I'd take a while to meditate,
To let the busyness-es go
And put electric dreams to sleep.

Hello Poetry!
I have decided to keep
My poems here.
Rather a few be read
Than keep the lot
Penned up waiting in a sales ring
With no buyers,
Starvation coming....

Children, fresh as bib lettuce,
Green and tender,
Stand before me in my rocking chair,
Pearled new teeth,
Wisping hair, golden, brown,
Embarking up a stair way
That I am going down.

"Papa, can we go out to play?"
I look out the window
To see the kind of day
Before I say,
"Would you like to take a walk?"

As she emerged from years of abuse,
Became aware of the ******* he'd placed,
She knew it was time to go,
Filed the papers,
Moved in with a friend,
Tried to see another end.

Love does not die easily;
Her heart yearned
Some better way,
But ends must come
When there's nothing left to say.

She left everything to him;
He'd forced his will in choosing every piece:
Furniture, fixings, knife and fork,
Appliances, decor, automobiles....
She wanted none of it anymore.

Love does find a way
To die, though the dying may be slow.

"It's good we didn't have any children,"
His mother said. "We didn't muddy up
Our pure Norwegian blood line."

Love finds a way to die.

We trudge the fetid jungle,
Thinking our green way
Must be an overgrown trail.

Dampness pervades our clothing,
Soddens our shoes,
Drips from leafy branches,
Fails to cool us in the tropic heat.

We ascend gingerly,
Hoping for cooler air,
Realizing the immensity of time,
Of memory moving on ahead.

Shrieking birds unseen
Foretell dooms imagined:
Snake and lizard fangs,
Feral creatures' claws and teeth,
Unseen traps waiting to inflict
Sudden deaths or slow.

Silence arrests us,
As we stumble to a cliff,
Gasping for air,
Longing for coolness,
Stopped in our breath as we see....

Climbing the ranges ahead of us,
Above, and arching up and down,
The great dragon's crenelated back
Undulating over the mountain ridges,
Disappearing into the past.

This, the generation
Of the Trampling Bull,
The trodding of the Crop,
The headlong raging run,
With never any stop.

Having pulled the stakes,
Dragging tethers;
Pawing unchecked,
Throwing clods above his withers;

Fence posts falling,
The corners cave.

Town boys chase him
With sticks,
Unable to check or to drive
His rampant run,
O'er suffering fields.

Where are the men
Who'll come to force him,
Bellowing,
Back into civility?

Where are the men?

A good day
For worm travel...
And bird feasting.

I am dressed gray,
Walking in clouds.

Vapors cool
Fog my vision,
Slow my journey
Through moods of contemplation.

Yet, there's Life here,
If I can slow
My splashing rush
To let the dampness sprout.

I met a girl named Winter,
Skin as white as snow,
Heart as sharp as splinters
Iced and cold.

I met a girl named Autumn
Suffering on the brink;
Dying embers made her glum,
and made my passion sink.

Summer was a girl I met
Just a little after spring
And though we danced,
Twas just a little fling.

When e'er I think of Spring,
Her fitful temper flares....
She promised everything,
Then flitted off somewhere....

"I'm done with seasons,"
Then I said, "Elsewhere will I look."
And so I sought a little song
And found one in a book.

Her looks so fair; her words so sweet -
Our voices found full harmony;
My happiness has been complete;
My heart has found its Melody.

Rolling power:
      Churning waves
      Grinding shells,
      Prolific evidence of life & death
      Rising from salt depths,
Epic revelations from below.

Evidence of end games:
     Shells, drilled, scarred, scored
     By beaks of tendrilled monsters;
     Occupants devoured,
****** through ravaged carapaces.

Fecund progeny:
    Tiny messages, these shells...
    Evidencing life,
    Echoing death,
Generations grinding down and down.

My tanned bare feet,
    Track tide-lined shells,
     Seek forensic evidence and beauty,
     Follow ribbons of shells
Cast empty from the pounding sea.

I remember 35
Like it was 25 years ago.

I had hair then.
Was in my eighth year of teaching.
Had four children at home,
A dog.
A cat.

Unbounded energy,
Exuberance,
Passion,
Conviction

Stress fed my bones,
Canceled my fears,
"Work harder
Before the night falls!"

Night is falling.
Sixty is nearly here.
I am nearly gone,
And yet you linger,
A soul standing in periphery.

35.
What is the point of living
If the past cannot be left,
And the present stand still
To let us dress each other's wounds,
Forgive our others' sins,
Let us, limping as we are,
Move toward the center,
Again to begin?

The groomed dog lies
Clean upon my sofa,
Resting,
His reward.

Resisted he
The urge to flee
Or bite the handler
While the groomer
Plied over the sopping ****,
Clipped the carpet-ripping nails,
Coiffed and primped him
Head to tail.

Waking,
He nuzzles me
With a brown-eyed stare,
Sidling close to my old brown chair.

This canine friend,
Just a dog in mien,
Communicates his needs,
Comforts me in loneliness,
Amuses me with dog-face grin,
Reads and responds
To the state that I'm in.

Received a letter via
Our snow-covered mail box
Just a hundred steps from my front door.

Rather than the quick work of electrons,
My mother's friend
Had carefully penned
Her thoughts.

Two tight pages
In black ink:
Questions about life,
The kids and grand kids,
Whether we were getting rest,
And how was the snow?

Paper and ink
Envelope tucked,
Cancelled stamp,
Delivered after a thousand mile ride,
Lies on my desk,
Proof of my mother's love.

Mainly, she was concerned
That we were finding time to live,

And were we still thinking about her?

It's June, 1967.
Nature, still lying through
Parsley green teeth,
Breathes the last of spring,
Hints early summer warmth,
Pre-July's cicada whine,
August's heat and wind.

Crops, still tender green
Quiver beneath a humid sky,
Under a glowing sun.

Bicycles amuse our early lust
To soar untraveled ground,
Entering lazy summer's ennui,
We scan a hawk riding drafts
On the edge of our hill.

Dust, drifting up the graveled road,
Five miles below us,
Piques our interest,
Causes the dog to raise his head.
He ***** an ear
Toward a sound we cannot hear.

We hear gravel slapping rocker panels
Before the traveler's roof rises into view,
Catch our breath as the engine slows,
Start running for the house.

A stranger's arrived,
A traveling salesman,
Better than an aunt
Only stopping in for tea
And woman talk.

Dad keeps his welding helmet down,
Repairing broken things.
The hired man inhales his cigarette,
Acts disinterested.

My memories linger on the past....

Salesmen brought the latest farming gadgets:
Additives for fuel and oil,
Battery life extenders,
Grain elevators and fencing tools,
Produce and livestock products,
Lightning rods and roofing,
Chrome-edged cultivator shovels,
Insurance for everything:
Fire, water, wind, hail.

Pitches came without exception:

"Top o' the morning! Looks like you're busy.
Don't want to take your time."

"Looks like you could use some welding rod,
And I have something new for you to try."

"Have you used chromium additive in you livestock salt?
Guaranteed to put on weight and protect from bovine
Tuberculosis!"

"Say, have you heard about the effectiveness of a new
Insecticide called DDT? I've got a sample gallon here
For you to try. Works better than Malathion!"

Dad, eventually intrigued, began the slow dance
Of dickering, haggling over this thing or that.
Most salesmen, closing in for a ****,
Hadn't grappled with my father.

At noon, deals still in the air,
My mother called the men,
And we all trudged in to wash,
Waiting in line at the tub,
Scrubbing with powdered Tide
To remove the grime and grease,
Drying on the darkening towel,
Finding a seat at the table.

The salesmen expected the meal
As though it were their right,
A standing invitation:
Stop in at noon,
Make your pitch,
Sit at table,
Close the deal after.

We boys sat and listened
To man talk.
Eyes wide, we marveled
At gadgets,
Wondered at Dad's parleying,
Winced at the deals he drove,
Commiserated with squirming salesmen
Surely made destitute by Dad's hard bargaining.

In retrospect,
I know the game was played
On two sides,
That the battery additives
Bought for five dollars a packet,
Even with the two Dad finagled free,
Cost about five dollars for everything,
Returned forty-five and change
To the smirking, full-bellied salesman
Who left a cloud of dust on his way
To supper a few miles down the road.

I came exhausted
Out of the blistering gray,
Lungs choking dust,
Tongue parched,
Body swollen with heat.

Your cool gardens saved me.
Basked I in the tender greens of spring;
Nurtured, I lingered in the shade all summer;
Warmed, I stayed near your embers in autumn.
I would not leave the blazing logs in winter.

Dry and desperate my early plight.
Parched and stumbling,
Clogged by dust,
I found your water;
Drank and bathed,
Found solace in body and mind,
Found time to rest, to heal.

I wonder at the restlessness
Howling outside your gates.

Bryce impressed me with its "hoodoos,"
And we stood on a trail in the heated air,
Wondering how far
To venture into the depths below.

Zion's slotted canyon walls towered over us,
Cooled us in their shade,
Marveled us with seeping rocks,
Clinging lichens, plants in flower,
Tendrils hanging on the wet stone.
We left before a storm.

"Grand" is too quiet, too sparse, too short.
I stood on the precipice,
Miles and miles and miles in view,
Reds and tans and whites,
Clouds hanging virga.
My tears signaled gasping awe.

A woman dressed in black,
Shadow-hidden,
Deep woods at her back....

I caught her image
In the yellow headlights
Just for an instant.

My wheels rolled by
While my imagination
Slid to a stop with her.

Why was she there
On a lonely road
In freezing rain and cold?

A mile up the road I slowed,
Turned around to answer
Nagging questions.

At the point where she had stood
Remained a half burned stump
Five feet tall, a broken scar face-high.

I smiled at my imagination...
Nearly stumbled on a shoe:
Black, high heel sunk to the hilt.

A thousand miles west of me
She lies in a nursing home bed,
Oxygen and medications
Prolonging the end of a well-lived life.

This night, the weariness settles around me,
A grim comfort promising sleep,
If only I may close my eyes in surrender....
As if my staying awake somehow sustains her.

Eldest of her sons,
Sometimes wise,
Sometimes wiseacre,
Sometimes a visioning prophet,
Sometimes a fumbler in the dark,
I am empty of words tonight.

What wisdom have I now
When wisdom's called for?
Decisions to be made, and naught to say:
I'd give my kingdom for the wisest way.

Oh, I have prayed,
Have pleaded with the skies....
I suffer in the silent darkness.
Knowing Mother's youth and strength are spent;
Time's inexorable turning pulls her in,
Body nearly gone, reason razor thin
Tell me her fight's a battle Time will win.

But now, while the hovering remains,
The wretched anguish overhangs my soul,
And memories of Mother, young and strong,
Tireless and loving, industrious, filled with song,
Make poignant my pre-mourning hours.