They’ll Never Ask Me

I’d love the chance, but it will never happen. Probably a good thing. If I was asked, I’d chicken out and rattle on with those overused praises. Spreading sunny futures throughout the room.

But in a daydream, I get to be honest and say what I want. To say something different, maybe make someone think.

I walk to the podium after the inflated introduction, let the applause drift. I clear my throat, hoping to discern the mic level. I say an obligatory thanks and then I let them have it. I tell them what I really think.

Let’s begin by realizing that you are not the greatest generation. Few of you will likely fulfill your hopes and aspirations. The world’s problems and selfish desires will wear you down to lives of blasé survival.

You will not solve all the problems that our generation hands to you. You will vacillate between cluelessness and overwhelming fear.

Remember that you are the generation who follows the societal declaration that everybody needs a degree. So we made it easy, dumbing down the curriculum until you can’t tell the athletes from the academics.

I pause for a breath and look into the audience. Instead of crying mothers and bored fathers, I notice murmuring. Whispers that lead to stirring. Administrators confer in the back and finally some brave soul shouts my damnation. Demanding that “someone” stop this.

How quickly I go from celebrity to target, the problem.

Before I can resume my address, the president places a hand on my shoulder, pulling me back, and leans into the mic.

“Thank you, sir, for those challenging and inspiring words. I am certain your hope was to join us in honoring this class and supporting our school. We will now move forward to the ceremony of conferring the degrees for this class.”

And once the problem has been identified and blame assigned, a sense of calm is interpreted as resolution. The ceremony, and all of life, returns to status quo, thank God.

Of course, take care and do not invoke that deity’s name at an official gathering in a public institution.

August Evening

sitting next to Connie
old, hard, wooden stadium benches
red paint, chipped, gouged and peeling
she puts on her sweater
I put on my sweatshirt

band plays hits of some artist
we know little of and care less for
overbearing 80's synthesizer
annoys me
she doesn't seem to notice or care

beyond the stage I watch carnival rides
loop, spin and race into the evening
colored lights intensify
sky drifts to darkness

near full moon glows above the trees
growing smaller as it brightens
yellow to orange to almost white

we come to the fair almost every year
it's something we do
we learned this spring she has cancer
treatment, fear, hope shadow our days

we talk a bit, decide to leave
i am ready, but hesitate
how many more times we will go to the fair

merit award 2007 Sue C. Boynton Poetry Contest

It’s Not Easy Being Four, for Nevaeh (& her Grandma)

It’s not easy being four
When you go to grandma’s
With all those big people
Talking and laughing

It’s not easy being four
When your brother and cousin
Yell “Go away!”
Because you’re too little

It’s not easy being four
When you aren’t the only girl
Or the littlest one
Since your baby cousin was born

It’s not easy being four
When grandpa tells you to
“Pay attention” and “Slow down”
And “Listen” again

It’s not easy being four
When you try to keep up
But trip again, or knock something over
Because you’re still growing into yourself

It’s not easy being four
When you have something to say
But everyone is busy
And no one listens

It’s not easy being four
But when you sit on the couch
And grandma reads you a story
It’s kinda nice

They speak of angels

They speak of angels,
Blinding lights and
Silver wings aflutter,
Not quite flesh
They seem to hover

Protecting our offspring,
And the aged we ignore,
Shepherding believers
As well the doubting score

A dance without music
Of magic and mystery
A child’s dream
And hope in senility

But not disappear

Before you decide
To stroll down memory lane
You might want to consider
What lies behind

Like that patch of decaying grass,
By the river on the other side of the dike,
Where things unspeakable
And unforgettable evolved

You may find it has a power
That you had overlooked,
Or fear that became rage that begat confusion
Which dwindled to a whisper

But did not disappear

Everyone does

pilgrim, poet, prophet
i'd like to think
i have something to say
or, at least, somewhere to go

i'd like to think
a lot of things
about one’s worldly significance
especially related to me

yes, me
big surprise
another aging person
fearing an empty end

keep your head above water
don't follow the crowd
it all makes sense
but you forget too soon

everyone does
you'll get your turn
i'd tell you to get ready
but there’s really no way

breath after breath
step follows step
dust again dust
and i'll soon be no more

She found her peace

Sitting by the window, she’d seen it all. Rain, in its near unending forms, could come at any time in Oregon. The annual dusting of snow could produce a bitter blizzard, just once or twice a decade. Without warning, fog was an early morning surprise as it drifted over the ground. Those dismal gray days replicated for weeks on end. But there was an occasional bright sunny summer day too. In the evenings, the moon shined bright as it danced through its phases, creating its own calendar. She knew her place and found her peace in sitting and watching in silence.