Winter 2017, Bellingham

Never thought
I'd get tired of snow.

I was wrong.
Very wrong.

post Easter reflections

It must be
the day after Easter
I've got a ham
sandwich for lunch

Wherever she goes

Balancing herself on the edge of a step
our granddaughter reaches
to touch the switch. Asking,
"Can I turn off the dark?"

Soon enough she will learn that "we" say,
"Can I turn on the light?"
Cute phrasing will drift and fade as she
is squeezed into social correctness.

Yet I choose to hold hope,
that there will remain within body and breath
an ever-kindling coal nudging her
to turn off the dark, wherever she goes.

                                 

                                   Reading at SpeakEasy 19, Poems of Darkness and Light.
                                        April 8, 2017, Mt. Baker Theater, Bellingham, WA.

Poems of Darkness and Light

Whatcom County poets reading new works at the Mt. Baker Theater on Saturday, April 8:

http://www.mountbakertheatre.com/shows/poems-of-darkness-poems-of-light/

Cryptic Advice

“Remember, Jimmy,

NEVER marry a catholic!”

The joy of a Mother always

ready with cryptic advice.

“Great, Mom.” I keep the rest

of my words in my head.

As if I care about marriage. And, let’s be

honest I have no idea what a catholic is.

But I was ten, maybe eleven, and curious.

So, next trip to Fred’s I wander the aisles.

Produce, dairy, cereal and bread.

Honest. I tried, really hard.

No luck, wasted effort. I was

unable to find a “catholic.”

Try as I might I couldn’t figure out

what color they were.

Continue my way home

Heading north out of Oak Harbor

traffic is squeezing from four lanes to two.

I give way to a logging truck.

Could have pushed and

beat him through the funnel.

But, true to self, I let him go.

Chunky, dark bark surrounds

damp, shiny rings of timber,

glowing with the orange of a perfect setting sun.

I have no clue what grows on Whidbey.

Maybe it came on the ferry from the peninsula.

Seems I should know my trees.

There’s the story of the day the Grandfather I never knew

didn’t come home from working in the woods,

resulting in seventy-five plus years of my Mother

floundering as a rootless soul.

I remember the family buzz

when Uncle Earl, his hard hat catching a glint of sun,

had his picture in National Geographic, The National Geographic,

reaching deep into the wedge of an imposing redwood.

And then that tale of Grandpa S. developing

the process that made Presto-Logs.

He did the work, company got the credit

and the money. Not sure they still make Presto-Logs.

After a few miles the truck

edges to the shoulder.

I pass, make momentary eye contact,

acknowledge the kindness, and continue my way home.

requiem for (too) many

born on the wrong side of town

to the wrong parents

went to the wrong schools, when we went,

took the wrong classes, rarely paid attention,

and never did the dumbass work

hung out with the wrong crowd

people said the Army’d shape us up, nice try,

getting kicked out was easier than getting in

married a few times, cut and ran,

quit bothering with the details

had some shitty jobs, thankfully we

were usually fired before we decided to quit

lost years to bad habits and so-called friends,

only kind of either we ever had

found Jesus, a bunch of times,

some for conscience, others for convenience

had kids we never knew, who were smart enough,

to not waste time getting to know us

stayed out of jail, some of the time

left no property, no money

maybe memories 

we must all leave memories

maybe a few good ones

with someone, somewhere...