It’s hard to believe you’re not here. Seems like yesterday we were laughing at stupid jokes, not taking life too seriously. I found an old picture of you in a box and recalled something you used to say: You’ll always have what’s in your head. Now the trail we blazed through our mountains leads me back to your laughter.
a glissando of chirps from the land of dreams casting spells . . . as bones rattle the forest whispers I rise again a simple reminder to cradle each moment to listen before it’s gone
I’ve taken the highway, that path that leads from here to there, from anywhere to everywhere it seems. Over mountains and valleys, across rivers and streams, I’ve hitched my way through cities and deserts, from ocean to ocean, back home and away again. I’ve stood by the road in the pouring rain, cars rolling by with somewhere to go. Each time I look in a rear-view mirror, mile markers passing by, my thoughts drift back to where I started, when time was on my side.
There is always somewhere to go, something on my mind, even if that something is nothing more than venturing into the unknown. I’ve walked away from pain and into the arms of love, each time the load a little bit larger, the wind a little bit stronger. It seems there is no end in sight; the magic mountains are just out of reach. So, I buy a map at a local gas station, open it up, and to my delight, find it crisscrossed with roads.
a car radio crackles . . . the soles of my shoes with a mind of their own
How have you been? I can’t remember it ever being so quiet around here. The pots and pans don’t clang around in the kitchen as much as they used to and the washing machine is off on a fritz. I do miss our repartee. Oh, what I would pay to hear you stab at me just one more time. A good parry is what I need right now. Nothing too heavy though. You know how we used to argue.
Anyway, here’s a little poem I wrote a rainy day or two ago. I hope you like it.
memories of us… wind chimes in a storm
Do stay in touch. I’ve never been too good with words and I know you must be busy so I’ll just say goodbye for now. Hope you’re doing well.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. just a reminder…you left your footprints in the garden
Sam adjusts his tie and steps off the porch, the light blue feather tucked in his hatband—a gift from a friend. The sidewalk is alive with shoes today. His cane taps along as he sets off to work.
Miranda meets him at the corner, clutching her pink handbag. He greets her with a smile. They chit-chat over old times as they walk together to his office. They discuss plans for dinner and agree to meet after work. He goes inside.
She continues two more blocks to the school crossing, where the guard waves her across with a batch of children. She smiles at the man and offers a thank you.
The man holds up his sign until all are all safely across. Stepping to the curb, he explains to one girl how he had to cross the street all by himself when he was young. The story makes her happy that he is there.
The girl heads into school and her classroom. The teacher calls her name and she responds with a cheerful chirp, “I’m here.” The teacher smiles and puts a gold star in the roster next to her name.
After school lets out, the teacher is busy grading the day’s assignments when the principal stops by. “I had a wonderful day with the class,” she tells him.
He smiles, leaves her to her papers and heads out to the parking lot where he encounters a boy on a bike. The boy is ecstatic about his booming home run at baseball practice this afternoon. The principal gives him a high-five and the boy whizzes off.
Waiting at the light, the boy watches a couple cross the street, he with a cane, she with a pink purse tucked under her arm. The man tips his hat and the boy smiles back, catching a glimpse of what was once his feather.
quiet moon… thank you for taking the time to shine
The wooden stairs are steep, only about ten of them but steep. At the foot is Grandma’s canning pantry complete with carefully sealed Mason jars filled with applesauce, jams, jellies, watermelon pickles, and other preserves. Mostly it’s fruit we picked. I like it when Grandma chooses me to fetch something from the shelves.
To the left is Grandpa’s workbench with an assortment of tools including a bench-grinder, a couple of rock tumblers, and, my favorite, a handheld black light. We use it to view the fluorescent stones and minerals in his rock collection gathered on many trips across North America. Fluorite, calcite, and hyalite all dazzle in its subtle glow. Grandpa weaves stories of adventure in with his descriptions of the rocks.
Behind us is Grandma’s hand-cranked, wringer washing machine; so fancy. I enjoy wringing out the pants and shirts when the wash is finished. Lines hang from the ceiling near the furnace toward the back of the room. She tells me I’m an expert with clothespins.
These days I find myself spending more time in the basement. It’s quality time for me, springtime in my mind.
old songs playing on the radio . . . a pear blossom opens
Wrapped around your finger, like a towel around an agitator. Lost my glasses in the dishwasher looking for you. The blow-dryer went out with a bang and now my hair has powder burns. The dining room light is out and I can’t see what I am eating. Tastes like sawdust anyway.
belching and smoking with a purpose… chimney sweep
The traffic light said GO; smash! The insurance company raised my rates to see if I bleed. All this from a fortune-teller who asked me how I was going to get home. Found my toupee in the lint trap. You never liked it anyway. If only I could borrow enough money to live like a lottery winner, there would be more cheese in the fridge. Our dirty laundry is on the clothesline. When will the cows come home? All I know is if you add detergent, and put quarters in the slot, I’ll spin like a top with bubbles until the laundry mat is closed.
I’m floating in an uncharted region of my mind. There are no faces in the portraits on these walls. Hitchhiked here from the medulla oblongata. Found myself sloshing it up at the pituitary gland. Provisioned further at the hippocampus and hypothalamus before setting off on foot to chase down a neuron, was told it ventured this way from nowhere, destroyed everything. My feet are gone. Where I’m going, I’m gone. But I’ve been there before. Not going again.
poems on padded walls– the orderly barks, Stop! but I refuse to surrender the crayon
for many years I have wandered this earth . . . a maple stands where the journey began
Home. Inside my mind, there remains a place, a face, a helping hand. This place is a haven for my roaming feet. It’s the size of a thought where the door swings wide. It’s a refuge in the face of a rising sea.
Scarlet leaves brush the autumn sky. That’s where I left her, my anchor, my friend, her eyes filled with tears as I let go her hand.
I’m a robin on the wind, just passing by. But there’s always this place to ease my mind. Her arms are around me as I tread the path. Nothing lasts forever but I’ll be home inside as long as the wind in my feathers teases me to fly.
a heron in the marsh grass . . . an old man watches the drift of evening clouds
in the fields where I used to play the world has changed . . . everything seems smaller even blades of grass
What you saw on that empty hillside many decades ago, I’ll never really know because you took that vision with you to your grave. What you made of it though, remains a pleasant memory even if time has not wasted any time in etching it slowly away. The shelves in the gun-room have other people’s stuff on them now. The cobwebs in the attic are new. The rock garden has been ripped out but ants in the yard are still building castles in the sand.
I can remember the creaky sequence of five doors opening and closing through the garage and into the kitchen. A wooden thunk, a spring, a click, a gentle yawn, a clunk. Did you purposely build that into my memories of you? I mean, there you were on the foundation of your dreams raising a home where I could come alive. What I took away from that is nothing less than the stuff of a mythical adventure.
Still, it wasn’t a structure that stood at the center of my universe. It was you. Wood and stone and plaster were no match for your whit, patience, and capacity to love and forgive. What you built beside that little hill can’t be measured with watch or stick. Every year the leaves come falling down. I’m sorry I can’t rake them all but that never really mattered to you, now did it?
dreams conceived beneath the stars have returned to the meadow where life remains a poem on the lips of a child
Once again, 3:00 AM. This computer’s clock has ticked away another two hours of irreplaceable sleep time. My bladder woke me and my treacherous brain denied me a return to slumber. After checking my empty inbox a dozen times and browsing through an idle Facebook feed until ennui set in, I find myself herding words.
morning routine I sweep cobwebs from the ceiling
The doctor tells me sleep is essential for my mental and physical health. Convey that message to my neurons, please. A thousand sheep and still counting. I have enough wool for a wardrobe of sweaters and mittens. So I write about sweaters and mittens.
I have this nagging thought of my cat and my ex who has the cat. I hope they’re happy together but I’d sacrifice a lamb to be reunited with them now. He’s a long-haired kitty and she has curls. My hair is falling out so I shave my head regularly. Oh, what I’d give to run my fingers through hair again. 4:47 AM.
5:32 AM. The A key keeps sticking…aaaaaaaa. Must be trying to tell me something, some great revelation yet to emerge on the page. Perhaps there’s even a shilling in it for me. Then I can buy a decent pillow.
6: 15 AM. Now, it’s come to me. I’m thinking of starting a rebellion. The world is due for a great upheaval. Not one where governments fall or industry is brought to its knees. Sheep keep me awake. I’m thinking we should deport them all to the steppes of Spain or the pastures in the south of France. Let the shepherds count them. They have dogs to help keep track. Yes, a revolution is in order. This is a cause that will put you to sleep. All that baaing has cats and girlfriends swirling through my brain.
If your head is a stockyard like mine, join me in this revolt to silence the lambs. Take a break from your insomnia. Become asleep. Don’t give in to the faces from the past. Armies march on their stomachs. We can march on mutton.
Mom had a poodle named Martini. She did love that dog but may have loved the liquid indulgence even more. I mean, she always pampered that mutt but she could also out-drink a fish. The haircuts, ribbons, bows, and extra olives certainly made for a colorful childhood no matter how you choose to look at it. Anyway, I’m just sitting here right now, idly sipping a memory of the two of them, enjoying a little hair of the dog, and ambivalently wondering if pets are allowed on the furniture in heaven.
moonrise at sunset… shadows of wildflowers in his hand
The eight-year-old boy can’t reach the first branch of the largest of a pair of maples in the front yard so he settles for the lowest branch of the smaller tree. He easily pulls himself up into the first crotch and pauses there, planning his route to the top of his favorite aviary. He knows each branch like the back of his hand, every step, every handhold. He starts to climb, one limb at a time.
As the boy ascends, the branches get smaller and more flexible. He can feel himself now swaying gently in the wind. He can almost (but not quite) poke his head out of the leaves at the top of the tree before he’s forced to stop climbing. Here he tucks a leg into the fork between two branches and settles in. First he senses the breeze gently evaporating the sweat from his climb. Then he feels the sun poking through the few leaves hovering above his wandering eyes. Eventually, the sound of those rustling leaves bleeds into his awareness. All would be silent if it weren’t for the rhythm of the leaves and the chirping of an unseen bird. The boy is where he needs to be. A robin lights on the branch beside him. He wishes he could fly.
The bugle sounds and I rise from bed, thoughts of an early-morning swim drifting through my mind. We gather in the field and the camp-master utters his daily questions. Who wants to stay and do exercises? Who wants to go to the lake? There’s a chill in the air and some can’t fathom getting wet, while others eagerly raise their hands.
The whistle blows and the brave scurry to their cabins to fetch a towel before running down the hill. It’s a badge of honor to be the first one to jump in. Some stand on the docks and dip a toe. The knowing ones cannonball in with a great big splash. I make my way to the diving board, knowing full-well that it’s all relative, the coolness of the air versus the temperature of the water. I bounce, then fly, a perfect arch in my back, arms spread wide like a swan. I pierce the glassy surface. Warmth envelopes me. The morning chill all but forgotten, last night’s dream comes back to me.
Later that evening around the fire, sparks flow up to a starry sky. We sing the camp songs and say our prayers, then head to bed to dream another dream, something for tomorrow’s plunge into the ripples on the lake.
a honeybee sips from a rose in the trellis busy at being what it’s meant to be
A peaceful country road winds its way through the quiet fields and pastures just south of the Mason-Dixon Line here in Maryland. This lazy pathway is not encumbered with bumper-to-bumper traffic, the honking of horns, or the sounds of marching armies. In fact, the only real commotion here is caused by a few red-winged blackbirds flitting about, squabbling over whatever piece of real estate it is they’re hell-bent on plundering next. The occasional tractor chugs by and, every so often, a car. The Doppler Effect seems very noticeable here or so I’ve noticed. I was aimlessly driving my own car down this road when I just had to stop, get out, and listen to the view.
dragonflies stirring . . . imprints of wind on a cloud
The scent of hay, corn, fresh-tilled earth, and cow manure mingle together and saturate the warm summer air. It’s a country thing. As you might guess, there’s a lot that goes into concocting the average bucolic day but I’m just a tourist passing by. What do I know?
A grasshopper jumps out of the tall grass beside the road and lands at my feet. I’m careful not to step on it as I get back into the car and start the engine. The noise shocks the air and the grasshopper wings away. I pull back onto the road, lost in the sound of the waves I’m making, semi-oblivious to my own existence, and overcome with a sudden urge to turn on the radio and listen to some country music.
each bud opens to its first day, a leaf dancing with the sun like a lover
A soft spring sky hovers over the valley. The rain has come and gone. Without a care in the world, she’s skipping through a puddle, her clothes still wet from the downpour. You see, there’s nothing quite like seeing your first rainbow.
From his marrow to his soul, there is only the road, each step he takes, closer than the last to “who knows where?” Not running away from where he’s been, just seeking whatever lies ahead, he’s got to get there as fast as he can, dreams of laying his burden down the moment he’s sure he’s finally arrived.
His shoelace comes untied. Kneeling in the gravel on the side of the road, he looks up to see a stranger walking ahead. He watches the stranger disappear over the next rise, wonders if he will vanish there too.
No rumble of engines, just the buzz of a bee. He watches as it vanishes into a sea of wildflowers. He sees the sun poke through the clouds, considers the best direction to head. Should he follow the stranger or follow the bee?
a spring breeze ripples the meadow . . . his kite hovers for a moment then zigzags through the sky
