The Moon

 

Did you hear the moon last night?

Hushed light on rising

Silver sibilance

Behind the clouds

In a first quarter

Pianissimo

 

Did you hear the moon last night?

Fulsome waterfall of light

Pouring down to light the streets

Casting faint shadows

But a great fortissimo of glow.

 

Did you hear the moon last night?

Silent as the breath

Of a sleeping babe

Gone dark with the turning away

In a shadow from our earth.

 

A STRANGE LAND

 

This is a strange land

And I am a stranger

To all that is here.

Shapes come and go,

Silent

With sibilant footsteps.

all is milky white,

No clues to where I am.

Sometimes a gentled thought

Comes to me

And I walk with it a while,

Slowly and slowly.

It gestures in deep silence.

I follow it up to

the low rising hills

of early autumnal grace

That lift me as I climb

 this part of the world.

I pass thru a gate

And lie down in a deep pasture

With golden wallflowers

Red clover and

Frothy white yarrow

Wild pink roses and

Blood red prairie lily

To sleep and sleep and sleep,

Forever grateful.

Asleep (for my wife Merry, who has cancer)

 

asleep

in a room

without a ceiling

a waterfall of light

pours down from the moon

cascades coldly across my feet

 

asleep

in a room

without windows

stars peer in

where glass might have been

silver light caresses my eyes

 

asleep

in a room

without walls

fireflies wander in erratically

silent, lambent

drawing in the humid night

and settle on my open palms

 

asleep

in a room

without a floor

night creatures ascend

invade my bed

crickets and worms

tap on my forehead

 

asleep

in room

without you

and all that was before

is no more

This is the summer garden

Carrots

Radishes

Beets

 The colors come and go

Tomatoes

Zucchini

Broccoli

 And breezes delight, to and fro

Cukes

Beans

Peas

 Vines and pods and fruit

Row on row on row

Sweet potatoes

Brussel sprouts

          Lettuces

 A feast of leaf and seed and root

Spinach

          Romaine

Chard

 pans and cutlery

          garlic and olive oil

                    basil and fresh ground pepper

await

This Evening

Out back on 

The patio this evening 

A pint of fragrant stout 

 and a book of poetry by my elbow 

Crickets rasp sweetly somewhere 

Heat of the day gone soft 

The hammock beckons 

Over the trees a fingernail sliver 

Of new moon hangs 

In the far distance 

A freight train blows 

That lonesome horn 

Cardinal sings a measure 

 Of honeyed notes 

Monarch butterfly

Regal in orange and black 

 Wanders in the flowers here there 

And pauses at the milkweed. 

High in the black walnut 

A squirrel scolds. 

Cottonwood leaves in the middle distance 

Rustle in a petulant breeze. 

Then The air is still 

As if the soil was breathing 

And we all stopped to listen

A family dinner 

 Mom simmers sauce on the stove

 For the spaghetti. 

Hamburger, cans of tomato 

A bay leaf, a spoonful of oregano 

A sprinkle of garlic salt.

 One hand stirring, 

Using the pressure cooker: It’s our largest pot. 

And then opens cans of green beans to go with.

 This is dinner. 

 The table is set for eight around the Formica. 

Flatware, pink melamine plates, plastic drink cups 

A pitcher of milk from nonfat instant dry

 May I have more spaghetti please? 

Dessert is fruit cocktail 

Spooned into small glass dishes 

And each of us wishes for the single cherry 

 That graces each can. 

Please pass the milk. 

 Dad will have instant decaf after 

With saccharine In a stained pink coffee cup. 

And Mom, from where she sits, 

Will preside over the table, 

Guide the conversation, 

And watch the sunset 

 All at the same time.

A Prayer

There are so many needs in this room

This place of waiting

Winter, and we’re all in gray

Or navy

Or black

Colors of mourning

One is here for x-rays

Another for a blood draw

Here is a walker that glides on wheels and tennis balls

Steered steadily by gnarled hands

And there a cane

One lady clutches her husband’s arm

As he steers her through the doorway

They pass me as they exit

Murmuring to each other

I’ve brought my bride of fifteen years here

To start cancer screening

I swallow hard as her name is called

And whisper

Lord, have mercy

But you know better than I ever will

Still

Lord, have mercy

Amen

 

For Caleb

 He hands me a book

Will you read this to me, Papa?

I settle on the couch

And he curls up beside me

Blond hair resting against my arm

Blue eyes looking up

In anticipation

So, I read quietly to my grandson

A simple child’s story

But for this soon-to-be five-year-old

This is the world

A book

The couch

Papa

Reading

Would that moments like this

Stretched out and out

For the joy of simple things

West

1963

Dad said no to re-up and
Retired from the Army
Retired his rank.
Retired his uniform and brass.
Twenty-one and out.

We stacked suitcases and tent
Bedding and ice chest and everything else
On top of a sky-blue Rambler station wagon,
Tarped and tied
Packed the eight of us
Dad, Mom, three boys, three girls
Dad driving, driving
Mom riding shotgun

And then
West
It was June

Driving days were long long long
But we found things to do
I wrote down the names of states
From dozens of different license plates
And when trucks passed
I’d jerk my skinny arm up and down
Hoping for a honk honk
And laughing when they did

Dad drove, right hand draped
On top of the steering wheel
His other arm resting on the left door
Sunburned.

Once we blew a tire
And Dad fitted the spare
While we boys hunted in the tall sere weeds
For the hub cap
Mom passed out car games
Palm sized puzzles
Toys
Or snacks
When we got restless
John kept track of our adventures
Diary of The Blue Streak
Which must have been someone else’s car

Mom taught the girls how to use a single dime
For all four to use one pay toilet
We boys didn’t have that issue
Being stand up kinda guys

Broad fields rolled by
Endless rolling pastures
Some still green but
Turning to amber
Endless fences of barbed wire
Cattle behind
Mountains grew in the distance
And roadkill jack rabbits
Caught my eye

Binghampton NY
The Corn Palace
Mt. Rushmore
Yellowstone
The Grand Canyon
Salt Lake City
Los Angeles
4800 miles

In a sky-blue Rambler

Milking Time at Uncle Jack's

 

I rise at 5:30, light just burnishing the horizon

Uncle Jack is calling

Time to get up!

Its milking time on a 100-acre farm

And already warming in Central California

In the big valley

Yawning, stretching

I pull on jeans, a tee, rubber boots

In the damp pasture the cows are lying in the grass

And I prod a few with a hand to the haunch

Some rise on their own

seeing the others already headed

To the corral by the milking barn

They know the way and all that’s left for me

Is to bring up a freshened heifer who balks at the gate, wide eyed

Inside, the stalls are filling

As one after another finds her place

Head into the stanchion

Uncle Jack has the milking machines ready

And one at a time he hooks them up

As I wash udders clean

And the first milk

Warm still

Flows into the milker, up to the pipes

Over to the big stainless-steel tank

I get the cow chow

And one at a time each gets a ration

At Jack’s direction, some more, some less

One string at a time, in a particular order that

Jack keeps straight in his head

Elsie, Mergatroid, Brownie, Valentine

No numbers on the girls, just names

Until we’ve completed four, maybe five strings

The heifer is last

Into a stanchion alone

Where she is locked in

Waiting for the breeder

Week after week we do this

But somehow this 14-year-old isn’t bored

Doesn’t tire of it

And the cows head back to the pasture

Ambling slowly, udders now flaccid

Tails chasing flies

A face in the clouds, Square Lake

Retirement

the back porch faces the lilacs

and the maple
 

an IPA in a frosty glass

in my hand
 

the wren sings from the drop line

a cascade of sweet notes

a measure or two
 

down the street a mower hums

the neighbors’ radio pulses with country western

somewhere distant, a chainsaw revs and is silent
 

the lawn before me

freshly mowed and fragrant
 

a butterfly lands on a yellow snapdragon

and is gone
 

above, the sky is deliriously blue behind the green maple leaves

high cirrus, pale and empty, drifts westward
 

my mouth full of bitter hops

there’s a good book on the table next to me
 

and the afternoon

stretches out ahead

like a sunburned prairie

Wide Wide Land

this place of memories

is a wide wide land

where we become children

again

and things I see

are known only to me.

where once

I ran across vast meadows

and held your hand.

 

I sing songs

that now only I can hear.

the past is gray now

cloudy, fading, falling

and I reach for a memory

as if it would bear me up

in this wide wide land.

The Maple, Again

 

four sparrows take a dust bath

where the old maple used to stand

it graced our summer with shade

and fall with a riot of colors

winters it stood barren

bereft

until the hope of spring

brought green buds

and leaves

and shade again

but now the sparrows linger

where our maple stood

only to fall to rot

toppled by the wind

leaving a place

that the sparrows remember

A survivor, shopping

he totters forward

leaning on the grocery cart

hair as white as moonlight

his face wrinkled with some tragedy

I think

his hands, knobby with arthritis

a white knuckled grip on the cart

he pauses in the rows

and rows

and rows

of abundance

selects a package of coffee beans.

as he stretches his hand forward

I see it

a ghostly string of tattooed numbers

on his forearm

I wonder

how he can carry

 the weight of memories

of a place so inhumane

then I turn away

looking down at my own arms

and find a sleeve

to wipe my eyes

Bedtime Poem

Bedtime poem

Cat curled close

On the blanket

Rain slips softly

From  eaves to gutter

To down spout

The darkness is complete

To the lawn

Where annelida awaken

Cat crowds me

Now against my thigh

Now across my lap

A poem or two for good

Dreams awaken as the

Pillow calls out

Spin out the night

In the wonder of dreams

Of places that seem normal

Behind my eyelids

But curious puzzling

With the dawn

And in the morning

Cat stretches yawns looks at me

The door

Me

The door

And the air at the window

Smells like worms

IN DREAMS

I reach for her in the night

knowing she is curled into dreams

softly breathing

I know she’s there

Still, I reach into her dream

she comes back to the threshold

long enough to say

love you

A hand holding mine, warmly

and the night breathes softly

through this phase of the moon

The Sewing Basket

 

Mom had a sewing basket

she’d pull out of an evening

with a pile of mending

and while the tv murmured

she sat by a bright lamp and

pulled needle and thread

through

a torn shirt pocket

a hem falling down from a skirt

or hang  a button back on jeans

she was like that with the family

when children bickered

she set things aright

pull the threads tight

that kept us a family

when Dad was upset

we’d hear the quiet conversation

a murmur through the thin bedroom door

she’d put a button on the discontent

pull us back together, a family

she’s gone now

gone to be with Jesus

I have a sewing basket too

and mending to do

time and again with my wife

I learned it from Mom

patiently pull the threads

snip the loose ones

patch the holes

and carry on

another painting...commissioned by my daughter

one of my paintings....yellowbluepurple