TESTIMONIAL

My mother finished high school.

There was a photo of her fellow graduates
   -- Milton Grove School, Class of 1924 --
      three girls in white dresses,seated,
      and behind them, standing,
      four boys, soberly attired
      in unaccustomed suits and ties

It hung on the wall of my parents'
bedroom, testimony to her
first-one-in-her-family achievement.

Twenty-three years later, when I was
about to begin my own venture
into the "realms of academe,"
(a phrase she had learned
from her favorite teacher,
Mr. Becker), she pointed me
to the photograph and recited
the names of her classmates
along with a brief biography
of each, ending with . . .
"and now she . . . and now he . . ."
followed by a description
of their current station in life.

She was especially proud
of Adam, who, she said,
was now living in Japan, employed
as a teacher. The point of her
review was clear to me
and required no further explication.
School, I saw, was my passport
to possibilities undreamed of.

MARY'S CHRISTMAS

I hope you won't take
what I'm going to say
the wrong way,
dear, but now maybe
you'll believe what
I told you months ago.

I know, I know,
they were only sheep herders,
but this morning when I saw
them kneel there on the straw
and stammer out
that they'd heard
a heavenly choir
and said they'd come
to worship the babe
they knew would save
us all, I believed them.

Didn't you?
   

CHRISTMAS WISH LIST

It gets harder every year

No more ties please
or sweaters
I prefer choosing my own fruit
unboxed
Thank you all the same
Same goes for candy
nuts
beverages

My needs are cared for
To conjure up some wants
seems silly and selfish

If I'm not mistaken
gift cards
for peace on earth
are still not available

REALITY CHECK

there is something about
the slop of first winter snow

slush the next morning
the slap dash of cars

ferrying their drivers
to ports of work

that compels reflection
an unwelcome reminder

that beauty is evanescent
every flower fades

each glorious sunset
sinks like a stone

into a sea of darkness
one day's fairy dust

becomes the next day's
sodden slippery slosh
   

EBENEZER SCROOGE, UPDATED

Go ahead. Explain to me how
the story of a child born to
a young woman in a backwater
town two thousand years ago
got transmuted into this orgy
of Black Friday, Cyber Monday,
billion dollar spending spree
to say nothing of obligatory
parties, insipid "Holiday" music
and all the rest of it.

I'm serious. I'd really like
to know, and while you're
at it, tell me why the whole
Santa Claus thing, which
teaches kids that their parents
are big liars, is such a good idea.

Go ahead. Explain.
I'll wait.

HOW TO READ A POEM

Let the poet take you
    by the hand and give
        it a tug, gentle but

firm. Give yourself over.
    Be led. Suspend judgment;
        there will be time enough

later if you want it back.
    When the poet points, look.
        And while you are looking

don't forget to listen. Do not
    use your eyes or your ears.
        The trip will be short one

and may be easily forgotten,
    but not always. The world will not
        be changed. But you might be.
   

THE PLUMBER

He arrives, confident, right on time.
He has tools whose application
I can only guess at. He listens
to my tale of leaking, gurgling
woe. He nods his head, his face
limned with a knowing smile.
My faith in him is boundless.
Surely salvation is at hand.

He begins his work humming.
Two hours later his hums
have ended. I hear him
stomping up the basement stairs.
We've got a real problem here
he says. I think his choice
of pronoun is, at very least,
just a smidge inaccurate.

HANDOUT

The man who stands at the light
at Third and Market holding a sign
that says out of work has been
here every morning for the past

two months. Today I'm the third
car back and this time, for the first
time, I take a dollar bill
and hold it out the window.

The February wind waves it.
He sees and walks quickly toward
me, his tattered coat poor protection
from the cold. He takes it and

wishes me God's blessing. I wonder
why, instead of feeling virtuous
and blessed, I feel embarrassed.
For him, but mostly for me.

TASHA

Mixed Welsh Terrier they told us
at the Humane Society. Which
made us ask ourselves: mixed with
what? Maybe fugitive, we joked.
Open the front door and use your
legs to block her escape or she would
be gone, tearing across the street
as if chased by demons. Trailed,
then reclaimed, she would lick your
hand in gratitude and seem to say
-- well then, what's for supper?
There came the day when she could
not be found. Placards on telephone
poles and trees, ad in the paper,
yielded no response. We hoped
she'd found another family,
one that guarded the front door
with more efficiency than we had.

SELECTIVE MORALITY

But it's one of God's creatures
she tells me, this woman who
defines the unpardonable sin
as cruelty to animals. She
will not set mousetraps.

She will allow me to do
so but thinks less of me
for it. Come summer and,
God help me (for I cannot
help myself), as I see her slap
and dispatch a mosquito.
I give her my best grin:
"But it's one of God's creatures."

JOURNEY

The winter walk home from school
after wrestling practice started
in twilight, ended in darkness.

The long trudge along the steel tracks
made time for thought, sometimes
for dreams and prayers.

Lights from the occasional farmhouse
gave comfort, as did the dogs
who lived there, their barking
at the unseen invader of their territory
a reassurance of order in the universe.

There were nights when moonlight
made the rails ahead gleam
like two straight lines of cold fire
stretching into the distance, the future.

HANGING TREE

Did you ever hear about
the hanging tree? We hadn't.
Come, he said, I'll drive you there.
On the way he told us about
the huge oak standing in
his family's back yard
that had served as gallows
for condemned prisoners.

Taken from the county jail,
made to sit on a horse
standing under the thick
lowest limb, they were jerked
into the air, kicking till
they breathed their last.

The tree, he told us, stood
sixty feet high. We arrived
at the house where he said
he had lived as a boy and
heard stories about the men
who were strung up to die.
He led out back and pointed.

There, he said. We gaped.
Where's the tree? We asked.
Oh, it's been gone for
over a hundred years, he said.
It stood right over there.

I AM NOT A COOK

I am not a cook, not really.
    I use a cookbook and follow it
        slavishly. My idea of creativity

consists of adding an extra
    1/4 teaspoon of paprika
        to the Betty Crocker recipe

for chili. But I do enjoy cutting
    up the vegetables for a stir
        fry. I like the way the knife

slices through a carrot and
    makes a thunk with each slice
        and I feel great when someone,

anyone, at the table
    says: this is pretty good.
        But I am not a cook.

CIVIL (WAR) DISOBEDIENCE

It is said that during America's
Civil War, when Mennonite young men
from Virginia were drafted into
the army, complaints were registered
about them: they were not good soldiers.
One of their officers agreed that such
criticism against them was justified,
but in one respect only.
They were, he said, model soldiers:
well-behaved, respectful of authority.
When ordered to march, they marched.
When ordered to close ranks, they did so.
They kept their rifles oiled and cleaned.
They faced the enemy bravely.
When they heard the command
    -- Ready. Aim. Fire! --
They readied their weapons, they fired.
But, alas, they disobeyed in one regard.
They did not aim.

BETRAYAL

"And as soon as he was come,
he goeth straightway to him, and saith,
Master, master; and kissed him."
    (Mark 14:45)

English ivy embraces
Our backyard oak
It looks like
A mutually beneficial relationship
But it's not
It's a death squeeze
Not all hugs
Not all kisses
Can be trusted

HAMMER MILL

It began with a slow whine
and built to an angry roar.

On this day it might have been Menno Shelly
shoveling the ears of corn on his truck
into the metal jaws that swallowed
then tore apart cobs and kernels,
transforming them into what
was called simply "chop."

It happened daily at the feed mill
where my father worked. Eight years
of age made me old enough to be
there to watch and marvel at men
who lifted and carried hundred pound
feed bags, handing out good-
natured insults to each other, often
shouting them over the ear-blasting
noise of the hammer mill.

More than anything
I wanted to grow up to be one of them.

GOD'S ECONOMY

The mulch pile at the Camp Hill
Recycling Center towers ten feet
above my head. Ground-up limbs,
branches, twigs are here for the taking.
Just bring your buckets and your bags
and haul it away. Scatter it
around your shrubs and trees.

Could it be that nothing, nothing
is ever lost? Could it be that everything
passes on to something else, to be
reformed, transformed? Even you,
even me. Even that butterfly over there,
flirting with the black-eyed Susan.

DRIVING HOME ON SUNDAY NIGHT

From the back seat where I sit
with my sister, I peer through
the windshield at oncoming headlights,
wondering why my parents are so calm.
How could they not know what I know:
that the Rapture is happening,
is taking place this very moment,
as we head home from my grandparents'
house where I had seen with my own
eyes the headlines of the newspaper
left lying on their dining room table:
"Airplanes Plummet to Earth,
Pilots Disappear"; "Flames Devastate
East Coast"; "Tens of Thousands Reported
Missing." Quotations from the Bible
salted the pages: "Two shall be in the field;
the one shall be taken, the other left."
"There will be famines and pestilence and earthquakes."

How am I to know the "newspaper" was
only a religious tract designed to frighten sinners?
So I sit on the edge of the seat,
my questions stuck in my throat,
terror-paralyzed, and see, off to the left,
the airport tower light sweep
its circular path across the landscape,
surely searching for the missing thousands.

BILL MILLER

He came to the feed mill where
my father worked but I could
tell the first time I saw him
he could not possibly be
a farmer. Not with that red
convertible, the hat tipped
at a jaunty angle, the tiparillo
clenched in his teeth. I admired
his loose-limbed climb up
the office steps, his effortless
way of making himself fully present.
He's a salesman, Dad said, and
a good one. Unlike our customers,
he rarely commented on the weather.
He talked baseball and cars,
told mildly off-color jokes.

We were country.
He was city.

I was fifteen.
I considered possibilities.

TRAIN TRAVEL

The railroad track that ran
behind the feed mill
where my father worked
could take me anywhere.
Balancing myself on a rail,
I would walk, staring into
the distance and go to
Philadelphia, New York City,
London, Paris. Along the way
I amazed everyone with my
intellect and charm, always
properly understated, of course.
I overheard beautiful women
whispering to each other: "So
young and yet so deep." I did my best
to hide my smiles. Then, stepping
off, I'd grab the corn mash bucket
and go to feed the chickens.

WHAT NOBODY TELLS YOU

What nobody tells you
when you walk out of the hospital
holding your first-born in your arms
and she is so bundled up against
the January wind that all you can see
is her nose and a grin has
exploded on your face, that you will
spend a significant part of the rest
of your days worrying about her,
even when she is thirty-six and
checking into the hospital for what
she assures you is "minor surgery"
and ends her phone call with
"Relax, Dad, I'll be fine."

THEOLOGY/BIOLOGY

Ask, if you must, the questions that persist:
    How did it all begin?
    Is there life after death?
    Does God exist?

This morning, as I watch a bee
dive deep into a blossom on our
Rose of Sharon shrub, my questions
are far simpler, but no less cosmic:
    How does it know to go there?
    What compels it to do so?
    What would it be like to be a bee?

We live surrounded by glorious mystery.

RAPPROCHMENT ATTEMPT

The terrier who lives next door
does not like me. He considers
my presence in our backyard

a personal affront. Why? I sometimes
ask him from the safety of my side
of the fence. What have I ever

done to merit such fury?
His answer is given in such filthy
vocabulary I choose not to write

it down. Yes, I say to him, it's true
we disagree about foreign
policy, the solution to the national

debt, and the need for tax reform,
but can't we at least
treat each other with civility?

FIX-IT MAN

I call, tell him about my problem.
"There's this floor lamp that . . ."
He says he'll stop by, take a look.

My efforts at remedy have produced
the usual frustration and mild
cursing that accompany my attempts

to repair all things mechanical.
He arrives, analyzes the situation.
"Maybe I should toss it out,"

I say. "Some things aren't fixable."
He turns his face from the lamp,
gives me a wry grin,

makes a few dextrous twists.
"There," he says. "That should do it."
I plan to vote for him for president.

OUTWITTED

My squirrel-guard bird feeder now
belies its name. For years it worked,
the provender safely ensconced inside
a caged circumference with metal
top and bottom. No longer.

Three weeks ago a mother with aspirations
for her offspring brought her brood
of two along the branch. One of them,
the bolder, squeezed its way through,
to be followed at once by the other.
And there they sat, munching their lunch
inside, their presence a deterrent
to any would-be avian diner.

Yes, I can, and occasionally do,
shout, clap my hands to make them scurry.
For all my irritation, I confess my
admiration for their derring-do,
their persistence. I turn my back
and they return, undaunted. The day
will come, of course, when their
increasing bulk will preclude thievery.
Till then, I'll watch and wait
and marvel, accepting defeat with
as much grace as I can muster.

IN DEFENSE OF EMILY DICKISON (as if she needed my help)

"Tell all the truth but tell it slant"
she wrote, one of her best lines
which, some would say is a permission
slip for obfuscation, manipulation,
"tweaking" the fact, political "spin."

No. It is, instead, the invitation
to you, dear reader, to bring yourself
inside the poem, the story,
where you may discover, uncover,
the particular truth you need
to unshackle you or, at very least,
to give your head and heart
a gentle jolt.

THE PARALYTIC'S FRIEND

Some, a few, are born to command.
I was not. And that day when
he insisted we take him to the Healer,
we obeyed like school children.

Part of it was pity. Ever since his fall
had left him dead neck down,
he'd seemed to shrink, mind and body
both. Always before, he captained
us: let's do this, do that,
the four of us, trailing in his wake,
glad to follow. But dead-limbed,
he turned in on himself. We'd come
to visit, he'd barely say a word.

That changed. News had spread
of lepers cleansed, demons rooted out.
He summoned us, his eyes afire
as before, his voice a clarion:
Take Me to Him! We hoisted him,
his sturdy mat resting on our
shoulders. One of us, I can't
remember who, said: The roof?
We laughed. Ridiculous. Impossible.
Let's Go he said. We stared at him.
We thought he'd joined the joke.
His face was set in stone.
Somehow, God knows how, we got him up.
Looking down, we saw and heard it all.

Walking with him home, we wondered
why we would not let us help. The mat,
we knew well enough, was heavy.

I Want to Carry It Myself, he said.

He did.

EDUCATIONAL PSYCHOLOGY

It is 1961. In the class sit (approximately)
40 students. 39 are white.
All of them have matriculated
(a word they recently learned)
at Millersville State Teachers College.
The name of the course is
Educational Psychology.

The professor has just been
asked a question that has
caused him anxiety because,
as is apparent to everyone,
he does not know the answer.
He is becoming increasingly agitated.
He is fully aware that the students
are enjoying his agitation
because they do not like him.
He is not a likable person.

He makes a desperate and phony
attempt at self-deprecating humor:
"Look at me. This question has
got me sweating like a nigg..."
He catches himself before pronouncing
the final syllable. Without looking
at the student, the professor says only
two words -- the name of the student
and "sorry." There is a long and
palpitating silence.

            Fifty years later
it is all that anyone in the room
will remember about the professor
and Educational Psychology.

LEAVING THE GARDEN

And over here at the back
of the house is the little woods
I told you about. Started small,
some ferns and hostas, then got
into the native plant thing:
Virginia bluebells, trillium,
cohosh (blue and black),
even stuck in a service tree,
a spice bush, then discovered
some that were here already:
toadshade, spring beauties, bloodroot.

Now that we're going to move,
I guess I feel a little bit like Adam.
‘Course the Good Book says
he sinned, got kicked out for it.
Still, it musta' hurt.
He'd been put in charge, worked
hard to keep things right, loved
when April came and everything
sprang back to life, greened the brown
ground like that sweet woodruff
over there beneath the oak. Oh well,
he must have thought, while it lasted
it was good. But I wonder if he wondered
about whoever came after . . . would
they care for it, would they love it
half as much as he had?
   

BENIGN DECEIVER

Billy Collins is my inspiration.
He makes it seem so simple:
put this word after that word
which will lead logically
and irrevocably to the next.

The result will be
poetic felicity.

Or in my case,
maybe not.

LIBERTY AND JUSTICE

He - high school senior
I - part-time substitute teacher, seminary student
The time - 1969
The situation - open class discussion: "After Graduation, What Then?"

I'd learned by now they preferred,
insisted upon, "black," not "Negro," not "colored."
When he stood up at the back,
everyone, even the girls in the front row,
stopped talking.

    Here's what. I graduate.
    My number comes up.
    They ship my ass over there,
    gimme a gun so I can kill people
    who never done nuthin' to me.
    They be tryin' to kill me too.
    Ain't right. Ain't right. And not
    a damn thing I can do about it.

He -     high school senior in Chicago
I -     Native of Lancaster County,
    home to Mennonites, Amish, Brethren, Quakers
    who believe and teach their children
    not to take up arms,
    to turn the other cheek,
    whose draft board will readily
    grant them 1-O status,
    "conscientious objector."

He -    has no such option
I -    have, have taken it, and ask:
    so tell me again -- exactly how is this
    liberty and justice for all?

NOT TO DECIDE IS TO DECIDE

"To make," he said and paused, his gaze
turned from the window to my face,

"a long story short, I'm broke."
His shoulders slumped. He spoke

softly, shifted in his chair.
"If you have something you could share . . .?"
He left the question hanging in the air.

All of it could be a lie I knew
well enough, but suppose it all was true?

He got up and walked away.
I saw the day was cool and gray.

A PUNISHMENT TO FIT THE CRIME

I don't remember which of us
started it. But suddenly we were
at it, bashing the slender trunk
of the sapling with softball bats,
reaching up and snapping off its
tender limbs. Finished at last,
exhausted, we fell to the ground
with gleeful grunts. A shadow
loomed over our ten-year-old bodies.
    Come inside. Now

Mrs. Loechner marched us like
prisoners of war into the one-
room school and made the three
of us stand attention at her desk.

    I've written on the board a poem
    you boys will memorize.

Her quiet voice filled the silent room.
Thirty pairs of ears caught every
word. She told us that John Keys,
the donor of the tree would one
day soon appear to hear apology
from these "miscreants"
whose "maliciousness" had trashed
his gift, that "these three" would
recite to him in chorus
the famous poet's verse.

More than half a century has passed.
I have not forgot a word of it.

    I think that I will never see
    a poem as lovely as a tree.

That's just for starters.
Here's the ending.

    Poems are made by fools like me
    But only God can make a tree.

I can recite the whole thing.
Trust me.

THE YOUNG PASTOR DOES HIS FIRST FUNERAL

At the cemetery the ground squished
under our feet. Huddled under umbrellas
the gathered stood shoulder to
shoulder in ranks like a mute choir.

I was new at burying.
I'd met the dead man only once
or twice, knew him only as
a face, a name. He was, I thought
so then, old. I said the words
that were expected, ended with "Amen."

Now what? I thought as silence
dripped. Slowly, breaking ranks,
the mourners turned and frog-stepped
around puddles to their cars.
The widow lingered. Watching her,
I supposed and later was to know, that
grief is mostly standing in the rain.

GARDENER'S FAREWELL

Soon, because we plan to move,
this space I must relinquish,
my vain attempt at Eden on woods edge.
Cohosh (blue and black), spice bush,
native columbine, redbud,
this pleasing (at least to me) combination
of plants I knelt to plant
and those that I did not
will be yielded to another's stewardship.

Will he (or she) take joy
in noting that the trillium has spread
its way into the patch of woodruff
over there? Will she (or he) make daily
kneeling stoop in March to spot the first
emergence of mertensia virginica?

Likely not. The benefit of it was mine.
If it carries onto others well
and good. If not, the memory
of it will bless me on my way.

PERSONAL QUESTION

It has become a joke,
a parody of the touchy-feely,
New Agey kind of question
a prospective employee might be
asked at a job interview:
"What animal best describes who you are?"

What I want to know is why
they never ask interviewees
to name a plant.

Think of the possibilities for interpretation
if you said, for example:

a rose
a redwood tree
a Venus flytrap
a potato

TRILLIUM GRANDIFLORUM

"The plants arise from underground rootstalks
that were gathered and chewed by Indians
for a variety of medicinal purposes."
(The Audubon Society Field Guide
to North American Wildflowers)

And over here at the base
of this hickory tree is where,
to my surprise and giddy delight,
I discovered it. We'd moved in
the previous June so it wasn't
until April that I saw the green
shoot and then, a week later,
a pure white blossom the size
of a baby's hand. That was,
let me count, yes, eleven years ago.

Now look. How many blossoms
do you see?  Six? Yes.
Aren't they magnificent? In another
two weeks they'll start to turn
pink. Oh, I know most people
wonder why I go on and on
about these wildflowers.

Some of you kids are probably
rolling your eyes. Maybe you have
to get to be my age to appreciate
the wonder of it. And yes,
I do go on and on. They say the Indians
used to chew the roots for toothaches.

Over here now, see that purple
flower? It's delphinium tricorne,
spring larkspur. The petals are . . .

MISUNDERSTANDING

We'll remember this she said.
He wondered why and asked.

She smiled and pushed her hair
over her ear, that unconscious gesture

which for some crazy reason had
squeezed his heart the first time he saw

her do it years before. They walked, silent.
The trail through the woods opened

to the view they both enjoyed,
a panorama of the valley below

where a row of sycamores
stood guard over the creek

that snaked across the valley floor.
They stopped there as they so often did.

Why he asked again. When she turned
her face to his, her tears surprised him.

But I thought you were happy
he wanted to say and almost did.

APRIL RAINS

They arrive on schedule

Yes, the ground is soggy
Yes, there's water in the basement
Yes, the ball game was called off

So what?


It's April


At last

April!

THE COURTSHIP OF ROBINS

It's a dance all right
but it's not
a snuggle-up-a-little-closer
kind of dance.

It's more like competition,
a scrappy, chirpy
chase-me-okay-I'll-chase-you
avian ballet.

All of it is prelude to
a tempestuous
wild-and-wicked-flitter-flutter
culmination.

That done
they build
a nest.

JERZY

They called it "the cooler"
which was the refrigerated room
in the dairy where I worked those two
summers. Chicago in the sixties
was the Richard Daley era -- remember
the ‘68 Democratic Conventions? --
and seminary students got a view
of life unavailable to most pastors-
to-be. Jerzy spent his entire day
in the cooler, coat zipped up to his
throat, gloved hands flapping against
thighs for warmth. He liked to talk.

His Polish accent festooned tales
of World War II and how, during
the African campaign, when Kate
Smith visited the troops and sang
"God Bless America," he broke down
and cried like a baby. The summer
help took turns assisting him, grateful
for a respite from the heat
of the packing room, equally
grateful for listening to his chatter.
My first time in, he said so
you gonna be a priest? So then,
you Cathlic, Looteran or Protestant?

I tried to explain and failed.
It didn't matter.

THAT DAY ON THE PLAYGROUND

That day on the playground
when Benny Miller got
knocked to the ground during
a pick-up soccer game we thought
his scream was mostly for laughs.
He did and said lots of things for laughs.

My leg -- it's broke he yelled and when
Skeet Shelly, who had knocked him down
said you're just shittin' us Benny
and grabbed the leg and gave it
a hard twist and Benny's face
turned white we were pretty sure
that if his leg hadn't been broke
before it sure was now.

NON SEQUITUR: A CAUTIONARY TALE

When you are just a kid
and your father tells you
how once, when he was
just a kid himself, an eighth
grader, and he grabbed
the arms of a tyrant teacher
who threatened to thrash him
and you see the smile
on his face and hear the pride
in his voice, you can't help
but fantasize about doing
something like that yourself
and maybe something you say
gives it away, don't be surprised
or dismayed when he tells
you that he doesn't ever want
to hear that you got in trouble
for getting involved in
that kind of nonsense.

WHAT MAKES IT WORK

What makes it work, in nearly
every good poem, is a word or phrase
or even a well-placed pause, that jumps
out and thumps you in the gut or
ignites a spark of recognition
or even lifts, however slightly,
the hair on your scalp.

Unfortunately, this poem
does none of those things.

COFFEE HOUSE POETRY READING

There were eight of us.
All of us wondered,
though none of us said it,
why anyone in his or her
right mind, would want to sit
and pay attention to anything
we had written. But they did
and applauded politely when
we finished. Which was nice.

But all eight of us wished,
though none of us said it,
that they, every man
and woman there, had
sprung to their feet
and cheered and cheered and cheered.

CONTEST CONTINUED

The grey thief who plunders
my backyard bird feeder has returned.
Tail aloft and twitching, he cocks
his head, apprising the new situation.
I've moved the feeder farther out
the branch, strung another baffle
on the cord. I doubt it will succeed.
I am contending with a relentless robber.
His appetite will doubtless prevail against
my latest stratagem.

            Is it time to quit,
to acknowledge, at long last, that,
as in life, there are inevitabilities
we are helpless to resist, like
the slow but certain erosion of our flesh,
the mounting accumulation of loss,
the certainty of grief?
Perhaps. Perhaps.
But if the furry bandit wins again,
maybe I could . . .

GRAVEYARD SHIFT

They call it that, I think I'd read,
because, when they took the dead

who perished from the plague, there
simply were no daylight hours to spare.

They dug the graves at night.
Some work does not require the light

of day, and deeds done in the dark
need not always bear the mark

or bear the smell of putrefaction.
That said, I take most satisfaction

from what I can accomplish in the day.
I wouldn't have it any other way.

ON READING King Leopold's Ghost

There are too many sad stories,
too many tales of loss and lamentation.
Just to tabulate the slaveries,
the slaughters, the intentional starvations,
demands more courage than I desire to summon.

And yet to turn away our faces,
to willfully ignore what history
can teach, is deadly dereliction.

Cruelties unthinkable today were once
accepted norm. We need to know
that we are capable of crimes as vile
as those committed long and short ago.
They happened once and, God forbid,
they could and can recur.

Come, take my hand, and, trembling, we shall
go to see Treblinka, learn about the gulag,
visit Wounded Knee, go deep into the Congo,
to confront the Heart of Darkness.

HARRIET AND IDA

Sometimes, when we visited Grandma,
they would stop by to "have a chat."
They were old, at least I thought so then,
not having yet myself reached double digits.
Sisters, but not twins, they lived
four houses down next to the firehall.
Always dressed identical in black, they moved
with slow but steady steps up the street
to where, on certain Sunday summer
afternoons, we all sat on the porch,
the grownups fanning their faces.

I supposed Harriet was the older. She was
first to say hello and preceded her sister
up the steps. Conversation was polite
and seldom varied: the weather; a review,
usually favorable, of the preacher's
morning sermon; an occasional
recital of a list of aches and pains.
They sat side by side like black birds
on a fence and graciously declined
the inevitable offer of a lemonade.
"Thank you all the same, but we must
be getting on," Harriet would say
and give a nod to Ida. I wondered,
but never dared to ask,
exactly what it was they had to get to.

STORM

Winter days like this one,
cold and dark and blizzard blasted,
turn those of us inside into mute survivors.
Conversation seems somehow silly,
pointless, almost a sacrilege.
The walls that bear the brunt
of wind's assault take on biblical stature:
our refuge and our strength.

Hours pass into deeper darkness.
Sleep is fitful, accompanied by
wind howls, mysterious thumps
   -- a tree limb torn off?
   -- a fence rail hurled against the porch?

When half-hearted morning
comes at last, the gale dies;,
the snow abates and stops.
The bird feeder has disappeared
from the maple branch. Beneath
its accustomed place I see
something feathered, fallen,
a chipping sparrow's corpse.

God will have a busy day today
with tallying of sparrows.
   

WAITING TO SEE THE CARDIOLOGIST

The room is crowded with old people.
Some sit transfixed by the yawpers
on FOX news. Some page listlessly
through months-old magazines, then
toss them back onto the knee-high table.
Other simply sit and stare.
While I, myself no youngster, contemplate
the worries none of us gives voice to.
I imagine standing up and announcing
to this convocation of the frightened:
    My heart's been acting up.
    Are you as scared as I am?
I won't do it, of course.
But I wonder what would happen.