When you read a good book
like the one I finished yesterday
time evaporates so there are
no yesterdays to mourn
no tomorrows to dread
or maybe time liquidizes
and you slip through years
decades even centuries like
a sleek trout through
the riffles of Falling Spring
so come on over here
to the shelves and pick out
something that will take
you to places you've never been
and times you've never lived in
You have five minutes
*[Published in the current issue of FRIENDS JOURNAL]
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
UPON REFLECTION
Upon reflection, that clever
reply I made to Mervin
at the meeting when he asked
if I realized what we might
be letting ourselves in for
wasn't really all that clever.
Even though it got a laugh.
Mostly it was just . . . snotty.
reply I made to Mervin
at the meeting when he asked
if I realized what we might
be letting ourselves in for
wasn't really all that clever.
Even though it got a laugh.
Mostly it was just . . . snotty.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
WHAT I REMEMBER MOST ABOUT THE GREAT GILDERSLEEVE
What I remember most
about The Great Gildersleeve,
which came on at eight thirty
on Wednesday nights, was
how we would sit around
the radio in the living room.
It stood as tall as I was
and was the Bringer of afternoon
tales of romance and heartbreak
for my mother while she ironed
(her favorite was The Second Mrs. Burton)
and for me baseball, Tom Mix,
and The Lone Ranger.
But in the evenings all four
of us would gather for laughter,
my sister and I sprawled
on the floor, Dad on
one chair, Mother on the other,
crocheting yet another section
of the fancy tablecloth for
the dining room table.
Baby Snooks, Tuesday nights,
was my favorite. Dad loved
Gildy, the water commissioner
whose best intentions always
landed him in the kind
of trouble Dad found hilarious.
Maybe I remember those moments
because his face, so often
sad, was, for an hour
transformed into something
happy, into delight.
It told me that happiness
was . . . well . . . possible.
about The Great Gildersleeve,
which came on at eight thirty
on Wednesday nights, was
how we would sit around
the radio in the living room.
It stood as tall as I was
and was the Bringer of afternoon
tales of romance and heartbreak
for my mother while she ironed
(her favorite was The Second Mrs. Burton)
and for me baseball, Tom Mix,
and The Lone Ranger.
But in the evenings all four
of us would gather for laughter,
my sister and I sprawled
on the floor, Dad on
one chair, Mother on the other,
crocheting yet another section
of the fancy tablecloth for
the dining room table.
Baby Snooks, Tuesday nights,
was my favorite. Dad loved
Gildy, the water commissioner
whose best intentions always
landed him in the kind
of trouble Dad found hilarious.
Maybe I remember those moments
because his face, so often
sad, was, for an hour
transformed into something
happy, into delight.
It told me that happiness
was . . . well . . . possible.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
RECOVERY
I salute you, body,
steadfast, dependable,
too rarely praised or thanked
or even acknowledged.
How many breaths have you breathed?
How many steps have you stepped?
I cannot count, have not, till
lately, thought to.
You weaken, stumble at stairs.
I pay attention, am tempted
to complain. I have been
ungenerous, ungrateful.
Mea culpa.
I salute you, body.
steadfast, dependable,
too rarely praised or thanked
or even acknowledged.
How many breaths have you breathed?
How many steps have you stepped?
I cannot count, have not, till
lately, thought to.
You weaken, stumble at stairs.
I pay attention, am tempted
to complain. I have been
ungenerous, ungrateful.
Mea culpa.
I salute you, body.
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