poem

The Well

Years ago I stopped by a well

on my way to a place forgotten

as easily as a poem read in eighth grade.

.

A perfect circle of stones one

laid on top of the other, opposing

contours in snug agreement on

the matter of forgetting which

came first or last. Peering

over the edge amazed at

the depth, the sound of

my breath swallowed up,

leaving me gasping

for cool air rising

from the silver coin

of light at the bottom.

The still pool of my reflection,

wavering image gone still,

floating on water

welled up from vault rock.

A perfect resting place, a

lifetime of good water receding

now before my eyes, exposing

stones wet with the memory

of breath and reflection,

carried away to the place

where water flows and waits

to quench my thirst.

poem

Figure Forty

One second, the time it takes

to inhale and exhale a breath,

held for a beat then released.

Not the breath of a lover

or worried mother

breathing in fractions of a second,

held for one long moment

at the touch of fingers tips

or a ringing phone, released

with a cry in the night.

60 an hour, let’s say, breath

upon breath upon breath beginning with

that first one exhaled with a scream,

an eternity passing before the next;

enough drama for one day.

I’ve done the math. 86,400 a day,

sun up to sun down around

the clock, long days drifting on

currents of breath, lazy eddies spinning

off here and there, galaxies receding

away only to bob to the surface down

stream, a Doppler trick of memory.

Days on end approaching like the

mailman taking time to squint at a

number or chat with the codger

at the end of the block. Or like a

tracked fastball thrown in a late inning,

stitching registered only

after you hear the smack of the

ball in the glove, only after the

thought: full count.

Have I got my figures right?

3650 days to a decade, a

calculation done in the head, a

quick tap to wedge a zero into place at

the end of a year of days, time

pressed between bookends, ten thin

texts stand at attention, spines out,

proclaiming eras; “The Sixties”, Disco,

Reagan, Me. Abandoned station platforms

viewed through frosted glass, receding

to pinpoints of light that blink off

finally, forgotten in the steady snare

beat keeping time on rails that drift

toward each other, bent on collision

far up the track. Check my work, I’ve

never been good at math: 14,600 days

is a long time to wander in the desert

looking for the Promised Land. Better

use the bathroom before setting

out. Now for some multiplication:

350,000 hours or 21,024,000

minutes; I don’t trust the calculator

any farther than I can throw it. Let’s

get back on firmer ground; seconds

and breathing. One second, the time

it takes to inhale and exhale a

breath, held for a beat then

released. A lovers breath promising

an era of seconds, sixty every

minute, in lost time on a slow

mail train to the Promised Land,

bent on collision again and

again far up the track.

poem

August Garden

She kept secrets in March

while birds spilled the beans

and frogs egged each other on

to reveal hearts hatched

swollen and glistening.

She never cared for the

shallow attention of the

cultivator churning stillness

into cake dashed and

glazed with her frozen

smile. She made offerings to

birds. They begged standing on

broken crust and schemed future

robberies under cover of the

chaos of creepers and vines that

grew at a ridiculous rate shown in

science class on brittle film threading

through a ratcheting projector.

She drank in great gulps, head

thrown back, spilling water

that soaked through layers

and overflowed down

the length of her to pool

around her feet then vaporize on the

hottest days into a soft dream

edges erased, colors receding

with the setting sun into a paste

thick enough to spread on a slab of

tomato sliced right off the vine. She was

always glad to see me, rooted, staked and

bound there, unable to lose herself

in a crowd or at a party, command

the center of the room and laugh into

her glass or walk the rows covered over

with broad leaves that hid a world that

scuttled and mated and ate and died.

She was always attractive, reflecting

the chemistry of light shed

from the greasy smear of an Impressionists

pallet.

poem

Early Bird Special

We used to joke about the

Early Bird Special

but here we are alight on

the perch of a cheap

meal, wing to wing and beak to

beak with migrants and

those less imprinted, year round

chirpers of trash talk.

Fat Mourning Doves plop near the

buffet, seconds, thirds

and forths, taking their good sweet

time while Blue Jays preach

sermons on rough and

tumble and order drinks all

around, sticking the

Wren with the tab. “King of All

Birds, my ass” they squawk.

The joint goes quiet as a

church on Friday night

as Tufted Titmouse times two

exchange words then a

twenty with the maitre' d

who can't seem to find

their silly name on his list.

“What's that she's eating?

It looks so good”. Finch cuisine,

I remind you, keeps

you up at night. In the end

we share a suet,

fly home to an early bed.

November 23, 2011

poem

Woodcock

Adapted for eating elsewhere your

beak a piccolo waiting for

a cue while chickadees, jays and

cardinals improvise and take

their solos.

Story

The Great Holiday Catastrophe

Three Stultifying, Trifling and Unimaginably Pusillanimous Officials (S.T.U.P.O.’s) sat around a big round, glossy table. A large calendar lay in front of them.

The Secretary of Dates frowned. The Minister of Snacks licked powdered sugar from her fingers. The Vice President of Riddles said “What do you get when you cross a boa constrictor with tomatoes?”

No one knew the answer.

“A bottle of ketchup that squeezes itself,” he said.

The other officials rolled their eyes. “We have no time for riddles or constrictors or condiments. Can’t you see there is something terribly, horribly wrong with this calendar?”

They took a long look.

January, February and March made them faint. April, May and June gave them hives. July, August and September made them sob like wet babies. October, November and December set their teeth chattering like castanets.

There were too many holidays.

There were too many celebrations and parties. There was too much laughing and singing. There was too much gift giving and gift getting. There were too many school vacations.

They passed a law called the Accrued Combined Holiday Oversight Omnibus (A.C.H.O.O.) Act. The old holidays were replaced by just a few, strange new ones. The Secretary, Vice President and Minister were pleased.

But things started to go wrong. Things went very, very wrong.

Teachers R Rodents Day (formally Groundhog Day and National Teachers Day) fell on June 14^th. Everyone waited patiently that morning for Mrs. Erleen Runchbottom, fourth grade teacher at Loonbinder Elementary School in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, to emerge from the Teachers Lounge. The hallway was filled with parents, teachers, students, television crews and lights. Mr. McFlibbish, Principal of Loonbinder, stood smiling for the cameras. At exactly 7:27 a.m., Mrs. Runchbottom opened the door to the lounge and peeked outside. The startled woman blinked her small, wet eyes, spotted McFlibbish and slammed the door.

“SIX MORE WEEKS OF SCHOOL!” shouted happy parents. Students and teachers cried.

June 29^th became Foolish Hearts Day (formally Valentines Day and April Fools Day). Jimmy Jimcracks' mother smiled as she opened a big heart-shaped box wrapped in red foil. It was a gift from Jimmy. Jimmy ducked for cover as the box exploded, covering Mrs. Jimcrack with gooey chocolate and sticky caramel. Jimmys' father opened his gift very, very slowly. It was just a can of shaving cream. He thanked Jimmy but kept looking over his shoulder, nervously.

That night, that Jimcracks tucked Jimmy into his bed. Mrs. Jimcracks hair was still stiff with salt water taffy. Mr. Jimcracks' face was dyed bright blue.

“Good night, Jimmy,” said they said. They wore strange smiles on their faces.

Jimmy started to say goodnight but stopped. He felt something cool and slinky crawling up his leg.

Pops and Rockets Day (formally Independence Day and Fathers Day) fell on October 17^th. The day began at the crack of dawn in Whipglooder, West Virginia with a big Dads-On-Parade Extravaganza. Main Street was clogged with wandering, bewildered dads. They shuffled along in pajamas and slippers. They spilled coffee and idly scratched. The Whipglooder High School marching band followed close behind, cymbals crashing and trombones blaring.

Later, after the Spicy Deviled Egg Salad and S’mores Eating Contest, jittery dads dodged bottle rockets during the Television Remote and Runaway Recliner Relay. The day ended with the Whipglooder Ladies Auxiliary Glee Club serenading the few dads still standing (to the tune of The Star Spangled Banner):

On say can you see

My old man’s knobby knees?

What so proudly we hail,

His fat belly so pale!

Turkey Treater Day (formally Halloween and Thanksgiving) fell on August 29^th. Wally Knicknacker and his little sister Katrina prepared for Tricks or Treats. Wally was dressed as a pilgrim. Katrina, as a witch. Their costumes looked exactly the same, except Wally shouldered a musket and Katrina, a broom.

Wally and Katrina went door to door. They saw goblins that gobbled. Elaborate Jack-O-Turkeys glowed on front porches. A kind looking grandmother handed out treats from a cornucopia full of spiders, bats, toads and newts.

When they got home, they emptied their sacks on the living room floor. Katrina sorted through the pile of mashed potatoes and gravy, molded gelatin salad and glazed yams with marshmallows. Wally hurried off to a costume party. He didn’t want to miss bobbing for mincemeat pie.

December 24^th was no longer Christmas Eve. It was now Fling Grandma and Grandpa Day (formally National Aviation Day and National Grandparents Day). There wasn’t a reindeer in sight that night, only soaring elderly people.

With his six children, 27 grandchildren and 11 great-grand children looking on, Grandpa Bill Bleanerpoot catapulted from a giant rubber band high into the sky above Haversack, Florida. He looked spectacular soaring above the palmetto trees in dark wraparound shades, flowered shirt, Bermuda shorts, black socks and sandals.

Grandma Philmona Fetterloam of Red Gumms, Minnesota, blasted from a circus cannon in galoshes, plastic scarf and overcoat. She skidded to a soft landing in the salad bar at the Red Gumms Jumbo Buffet, just in time for the Early Bird special.

In Brainfreeze, Massachusetts, Bing Kiltkanuuver, an old white bearded gentleman dressed in a red union suit, crashed onto someone’s roof. He became wedged in the chimney and had to be rescued by the B.F.D.

Hunka-Hunka Auld Lang Syne Day (formally Elvis’s Birthday and New Years Eve was celebrated on July 30^th. Roger and Vonda Ray Van Ribblemilch gyrated wildly in their family room. Portly Roger and plump Vonda Ray were dressed in glittering, tight fitting jumpsuits. Roger tossed scarves to Vonda Ray. She shouted, “Go cat, go! Go cat, go!”

The twins, Reenie and Rudie, wore matching pompadour wigs and blue suede shoes. They sat in front of the television eating cheeseburgers, waiting for the big Fried Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwich to drop in Times Square.

At the stroke of midnight the sandwich fell in a dazzling burst of laser light. The Van Ribblemilch family, everyone watching on television, and the one million people in Times Square, all wearing identical jumpsuits, curled their lips into sneers and sang “Hound Dog”. Their singing set off a sonic boom. When they got to the part about never catching a rabbit, the jumpsuits burst. It took days to clean up the mess.

The three S.T.U.P.O.s sat around their big, round, glossy table. A mountain of angry mail lay in front of them.

The Secretary of Dates frowned. The Minister of Snacks finished her bag of Cheese Mumblers. The Vice President of Riddles said “What do you get when you cross the Mississippi with a talking pig?”

No one knew the answer.

“A night in Dubuque with a conversation hog”, he said.

The Secretary of Dates and the Minister of Snacks rolled their eyes and shook their fists. “We have no time for hams, riddles or rivers. Everyone is very, very angry!

They passed a new law called the Overturned Odious Proclamation (O.O.P.’s) Act. All the old holidays were restored. The strange new ones were gone forever. The Secretary, Vice President and Minister were pleased.

Everyone was pleased. Well, almost everyone. It was Christmas Eve again, right on schedule. Santa Claus was at his last stop in Brainfreeze, Massachusetts. He was just getting ready to slide down the chimney when he stopped. He put a hand to his ear and listened. He heard a low, whistling sound. Something big was closing fast from above . . .

The End

poem

Letter In the Mail

Hauling water from

the creek, cutting

slab ice from the lake,

rending oil from a

whale, tapping keys

that strike the platen,

watching the hills

shed light for shadow,

committing to

memory every

line in her face,

drawn in quick sketch on

a secret page,

waiting days for the

letter written

over hours on

milk white paper

stitched with lines that hide

a message in

between wrought, penned words.

October 27, 2011