WATER FOR THE PIGS

It was so much easier to dip
the bucket into the muddy stream
than to carry it all the way from
the faucet. So I did. Every time.
Until the afternoon my brother
saw me do it. "Just because they
roll in the mud doesn't mean
they want to drink dirty water,"
he said. Easier, I learned,
isn't necessarily better.

PUZZLE

What I still don't get is where
that "love your enemies, bless
them that curse you, do good
to them that hate you" came
from. Devout Jew that he was,
fond of quoting scripture, he
couldn't cite chapter and verse
for it (and not just because
there were no chapters or verses)
and Ghandi wasn't going to show
up for another nineteen centuries.
It's surprising that anybody even
remembered it and that someone
later wrote it down. It must have
struck his listeners as preposterous,
unthinkable. Which is maybe why
that of the millions who identify
themselves as his followers,
only a figurative handful
attempt to take it seriously.

SCHOOL DAYS

Mostly what I remember isn't what
Mrs. Loechner tried to teach us.
What sticks instead are departures
from the routine, like the day someone
threw a rock at the outhouse, missed,
and hit Danny Rambler's head.
Blood oozed through his fingers
while he tried not to cry. Or when,
one day at recess, Henry Cassel, furious
over a perceived injustice, gathered
several of us boys in a huddle
and vowed a solemn vow to return
on whatever future day the schoolhouse
would be demolished and "help tear
this damn place down." (I'd thought only
grownups were allowed to say damn.)
Then there was the time Dale Shelly,
his face green, was standing up front,
reciting the two times table. He got
as far as "two times four is . . ." then
heaved his breakfast on the kid
sitting at his desk in the front row.
"O Dale," the teacher said.
I don't remember what Dale said.

THE BALL

It can be small and hard,
spherical or oblong.
It might be air-filled.
You may carry it or toss it
or bounce it or kick it
or hit it with a hand-held tool.
Regardless, you must exert
great effort to move it
in a particular direction
while your opponent may strive
with equal expense of energy
to reverse its movement or
at least to arrest its motion.

When you are young, you may
find yourself caring passionately
about its location at certain times,
whether you are actively engaged
in moving it or merely watching
others attempting to do so.

When you get older, it won't
seem quite so important.

HOUSEMATE

The house is quiet this early.
A mouse steps out behind the bookcase,
looks up at me, then slips
around the corner. He has things to do
and must do them.
That much, at least, we have in common.

MISCALCULATION

There was that day she and I
walked in the woods on Mt. Tabor
and came to the place where
the path divided. She or I
(I forget who) began to chant
the Frost lines and the other
joined in which led to
lively, funny debate on
whether he was being serious
or just playful about
that-has-made-all-the-difference.

It was at that moment, I think,
I believed we would always
be together, taking walks
and laughing, or maybe it was
the day we went swimming.

That kind of thing happens
when you are young.

INFORMATION AGE

The book says there are several
possible purposes for communication,
"to inform" being the primary purpose.
Art is different. Its purpose is
to uncover
to discover
to explore
what is unknown and perhaps unknowable.

Take poetry for instance
and, come to think of it, take preaching.
When I listen to a sermon
I don't want to be informed.
I want to be changed.
That can't happen unless
it has happened to the preacher.
I can tell.

REUNION

We used to be friends.

We met again yesterday.
Yes, the years had taken toll
in shifting shape, paler pallor,
gray gradation. No surprise.
What disappointed was what
was gone -- the banter,
the happy insults, the old
ease in each other's company.

We reminisced, of course.
It was expected.

We summarized our decades:
wives, children, jobs.
We stumbled into silence.
One of us saved us
 -- was it him or me? --
by saying we had to be going, had
to catch the plane or something,
sure was great we could get together,
got to do this again, hey, take it easy.
He -- or I -- said, as we used to,
that we would take it anyway
we could get it. We shook hands.

I wanted to weep.
We used to be friends.

PHARAOH'S ARMY, ET AL.

When we came to the water's edge . . .
When we sat in the ICU waiting room . . .
When we learned the levees were breached . . .
When we were told we had to wear a yellow star . . .
When we set out on the Trail of Tears . . .
When we felt the walls shaking . . .
When we heard the baying hounds . . .
When we saw the bombers coming . . .
Then . . .

THE WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY

It really had almost nothing to do
with me. I understood that nearly
from the first. Somehow his wife
had wormed it out of him, our liaisons
I mean. I hated her then for that
but now . . . well, time is healing
salve. Had I been in her place . . .
But that is neither here nor there.

The point is I was terrified. Oh,
not the stoning. I really never
thought that it would come to that.
It was the shame, ruin of everything
I was or hoped to be. My father would,
I knew, turn his back on me. And did.

Try to understand. Try to imagine
being snatched from lover's bed,
clutching cloth to cover your
trembling body, being dragged through
streets, then thrown like trash
before the one they called the rabbi.

I knew what they were up to.
I'd heard how they were out
to get him into trouble. Yes,
they used me as their bait.
Men are very good at that,
using us, I mean.

He knelt down then, acted
like he hadn't heard the charge
they brought against me, hadn't
heard their question put to him.

He fingered figures in the dust.
I wish that I could tell you what he wrote.
I cannot. Then he stood and faced them,
calm as an unfluttered flag.
He spoke and knelt again and wrote.

One by one they went away, eyes downcast,
faces sour and sullen. He rose and looked
me in the face. His eyes were bathed
in light. They spoke to me his sorrow,
not contempt. I wonder to this day
what he felt sorry for: for me, for those
who walked away, for all of us,
himself included? Some say when
he was hanging on the cross he prayed
forgiveness for the very ones who'd
hung him up to die. If so, I'm not surprised.
I'm not surprised at all.

(Published in the current issue - October 2012 - of MESSENGER magazine)

THE RACE

Ready       Set       Go
And she explodes into
the downhill dash to the house,
dark hair lifted from her head
by the breeze of her flight.
One Rule: I must give her the usual
head start commensurate with
a margin appropriate to a four-
year-old racing against
her father of thirty-five.
The distance between us narrows,
her arms and legs pump like pistons.
The finish line -- our driveway --
awaits a winner.  This time
she wins, or thinks she does.
I will let her revel in her victory,
knowing, as she does not, that
no matter who gets there first,
I win every time,
each and every time.

LOVE LOST

Classic, perennial theme
of storytellers, song writers,
poets, movie makers.
Always bittersweet, or, to be more
precise, sweetbitter, due to the usual
pattern of felicity giving
way to its opposite.
Always a crowd-pleaser, inducing,
if not tears, at least a rueful sigh,
a sad shake of the head over
what once was,
what might have been if only . . .

I hereby register complaint.
No, a counterview, a rebuttal.
Love is never lost. By its very nature
love is not loseable. Love accumulates,
infuses, multiplies. How did the ancient
song put it . . . many waters cannot
quench it? Yes. And don't forget
that saint from Tarsus who
insisted that it never ends.

It doesn't, not really.
Think back to your life,
your own "lost loves."
See what I mean?

LESSON PLAN

When you are lost in a city
-- not really lost, of course,
but turned around, confused,
unsure, unable to find
your way . . . okay, lost --
you will go up to strangers,
people you would never
ordinarily give a moment's
notice to, and you will
throw yourself into their
care. You will trust them.

If you have never been lost
in a city, you should.

Go, get yourself to a city.
Get good and lost.
Get lost.
Get good.

SONGS IN THE NIGHT

Perry Como used to croon that when
he was worried and couldn't sleep
he counted his blessings instead
of . . . well, you can guess. 
Good for him, I suppose.
I've tried it. Doesn't work.
Mostly I call up the people
I've known, many of them gone:
childhood friends or schoolmates
who may really be gone or
simply grown old somewhere.
Simon and Garfunkel wanted to know
where Joe DiMaggio had gone, and
maybe Perry Como too, even though
they didn't say so.

How about you, Mrs. Robinson,
or whatever your name is? Who do
you miss who has left and gone away?
Hey Hey Hey?

FAITH RESTORED

I don't remember his name
and not much of his story.
Like many others, he needed money,
in his case enough to fill his gas tank.
When, like many others, he assured me
this was just a loan, not a handout,
I tried not to look irritated.

When, a month later, an envelope
post-marked New Jersey came
a check was inside and photos
of his wife and child. Photos!

GETTYSBURG

Next time you visit go alone.
.
Go there empty-handed
leave the battlefield map in the car
Go there as the sun is setting

Get out and walk

Listen

You may hear faint cries
or even loud ones

    water for Christ's sake water
    God damn this God damned war
    Where are you? Ben? Ben?

All of them in their own way
prayers

Next time you visit --
if you are brave enough --
go alone

A PERSONAL WORD

To those of you who visited my blog and were looking for my usual Wednesday post -- my apologies for no posting.

I do have a pretty good excuse. Last Friday, August 3, I was taken to the Camp Hill Hospital with a diagnosis of pneumonia. After a six day stay (not the most pleasant experience of my life, to say the least), I returned home late this afternoon. It looks as if my recovery will be fairly long and slow. In any case, I plan to return to my regular posting schedule next week. So look for it next Wednesday, August 15.

Ken G.

PRE-MARITAL SESSION

Her voice on the phone was breathy, pitched higher than I remembered from the two Sunday mornings when I met them at the door. And this is my boy friend Tom she had said. His handshake was a bone-crusher, his grin goofy.

    The reason I'm calling, pastor, is we'd like to come and talk to your about our wedding.
Oh, I see.

    You know, I've always had my heart set on a church wedding. You know, in one like yours. Tom -- 
    he's my boy fr. . . my fiancé . . . says he'll go along with it if I really want it.

I see.

    So anyways, we could come this Sunday night. Around seven?

Well, I think that . . .

    It couldn't be until after the football game. Tom's a big, big Redskins fan. He says he has his heart 
   set on having "Hail to the Redskins" for the music when we walk down the aisle.
Yes, well . . .

    So. Sunday night at seven? For our talk?

Yes. I suppose so.  I . . . I think we'll have a number of things we'll need to talk about.

READING THE GREAT GATSBY FIFTY YEARS LATER

Off I go again to the Jazz Age.
This time I will not fall in love
with Daisy. The parties on the lawn
are crasser, the men stupider,
the women shallower than
I remember. I did not and
do not envy you, old sport.
You are even more pathetic
if that is possible. You have
it all wrong, all wrong. You
are too young. Do not succumb
to your death dream. But I see
you hear her laughter and turn
your head. She enters the room
and looks in our direction.
And we are both goners.
Again.

HERSHEY PARK, 1950

Come with me. I have coins
in my pocket and the day is ten o'clock
new and cool. We will dash past
the merry-go-round to the mill

chute and stand in line behind
girls who toss their heads and crack
their gum. We'll hear the dummy
woman's cackling laughter at

the funhouse but will not go in.
We have been forbidden to go in.
At the bumping cars we will stand
next to the measuring post. You

may be just tall enough this year
to reach the pedals and I could
ride with you. For a break we can
stand on the walking bridge and

watch grown-ups toss bread chunks
to the carp as couples glide by
underneath in rented canoes. If we
run out of money, we can still go

to the fence and watch the Comet cars
climb slowly to the top of the track,
see them come almost to a stop,
then plunge down, down.

We'll wonder if, when we are old
enough, we will have the courage
to raise our arms and show off
like those guys sitting in the front car.

WHEN THE BARN BURNED

We drove to watch. We had moved
away when I was seven, the year
before. I had seen mighty men fill
its mow with hay pitch-forked from
wagons. Lodgers lodged there:
pigs, steers. Sheep too, one the buck
that knocked me down or so I was told.
Pigeons chortled from rafters. Rats ran
rampant, one across my shoe once:
I screamed. Oats, wheat, corn sequestered
in burlap stood in rows. Wagons rested
from rollings. I had climbed the barn's
straw bale mountains, had peed in corners.

I stood watching the flames oranging
the night, burning all of it away. All of it.

I was eight.
I was wrong.

ANYTHING WAS POSSIBLE IN 1949

How young must you be to believe that the man who gets out of his black Buick and stands watching you and Danny tossing the baseball     back    and    forth in your front yard and then says as he is leaving you know Connie Mack is always on the lookout for some good ball players might actually be a scout for
the
Philadephia
Athletics?

THE YOUNG PASTOR MEETS REALITY

There were those who did not think
I was wonderful or -- let me be
completely candid -- even competent.

Skeptical at the first, they soon
enough had their suspicions confirmed.
I was, they told themselves, not

at all what they were looking for
in a man of the cloth. My failings
were obvious -- too young, hesitant,

lacking in gravitas, insufficiently
appreciative of their standing,
enthusiastic about the wrong things.

On top of that, my orthodoxy was,
at the very least, questionable.
Besides which, my wife dressed --

how should they put it -- in a manner
not suitable to her station. In
short, they disapproved. I sensed

it, felt it in their averted glances,
knew it not by what they
said as what they didn't say.

I learned what is hard to learn --
that not everyone will love you
the way your mother did.  Not even

good people who sit and listen
to you every week, who greet you
at the door and shake your hand.

FANFARE FOR THE COMMON TOOL

I salute you, tools in this abandoned
shed. You are mute testifiers to arms
and hands that held you, wielded you.

You, ax, who split apart the hearts of trees,
let air in to rings of years of growing, who
once did mighty cleavings, I salute you.

You, scythe, you of the long sweeping
arc of steel slashing, bringing down
stalks of wheat and weeds, I salute you.

You, spade, whose gift was for turning
earth, sliding smoothly underground to free
the deep down brown richness, I salute you.

You, rake, preparer of soils, you who
conquered clumps, transformed them into beds
where seeds could sleep, then stir, I salute you.

You, hammer, pounder of nails, founder
of floors, raiser of walls, hoister of beams,
joiner and fastener and keeper, I salute you.

And you other tools, whose names I do
not know, whose deeds were many
and great, who did what no man or woman

could have done alone, I see you
and acknowledge you. I thank you, praise
you for your work, your works. I salute you. All.

THERE IS A WORD FOR IT

The attack is planned with careful
calculation. It will be sudden, precise.
Sophisticated technology enables
our winged weapons to be dispatched
pilot-less to the exact spot where
the enemy is hiding. War has
become wonderfully tidy, thanks
be to God. Yes, it's true that
occasionally men and women
and children, even babies, will
inadvertently have their bodies
torn apart, their blood and brains
and organs strewn across the ground.
That is most unfortunate. We do
regret it. We prefer, however,
not to dwell on it. In the official
report we will, of course, employ
the appropriate term:
"Collateral Damage."

BOARD GAME WITH KATIE

I knew a little girl who liked
to play Monopoly. She enjoyed
especially the start, when
dice tosses sped her tiny race
car around the board and she would
buy, buy, buy. She'd clap her hands
when someone landed on her property
and announce "you owe me money"
with what seemed to me inordinate delight.

But when her fortunes ebbed,
as frequently they did, when each dice
roll promised mere escape at best,
her enthusiasm for the game began
to wilt. Until, when times turned
truly tough, she'd sweep her arm
across the board, dispatching
cards and cash to jumbled heap.

I saved my lecture
on good sportsmanship
till later.

PASTORAL INTERN

I didn't know much about Catholics,
what they felt, believed, and so on.
So when, on a visit to the hospital,
the woman in the other bed called
me "Father," I was stunned.
But I'm not . . . I stammered. She waved
her hand. I know, she said, but I need
to talk. She did. Told me about her
family. Told me more about her cancer
than I cared to know. Told me when
she'd made her last confession.
Told me she prayed her son would
be a priest, but he'd become
a cop instead. Her eyes brimmed.
And when the pain gets so bad,
she said and paused, and
I think I cannot bear it,
I remember Christ and his suffering
on the cross and that he bore
it all for me. For me.
She closed her eyes and wept.
I reached to touch her hand,
the one that wasn't tube-attached.
She smiled and nodded.
I left the room and wondered
what it meant to be a priest.

LESSON PLAN

"There lives more faith in honest doubt,
believe me, than in half the creeds."
         -- Alfred Lord Tennyson

If by faith you mean certainty --
bedrock, unassailable, absolute,
don't-confuse-me-with-the-facts
conviction of certitude -- then
I suggest you enroll in a class
other than this one.

COMPARISON

According to the cover blurb, he has
written 19 books of poems, and as many

of prose, including fiction, criticism,
and a memoir. He was born, so it said,

in Aruba of a Russian father and Irish
mother. He has, in addition, climbed

Mt. Everest, done research on the Amazon,
and enjoys fly fishing in Montana.

I, on the other hand, grew enough
tomatoes this summer to freeze

5 quarts of spaghetti sauce,
which I made myself.

There was some left over.

THE PIANO

   For Ann
   In Memoriam

They are taking away the piano.
It was hers, not mine.
She made it sing.
I cannot.

Mozart, Beethoven, of course.
We went to see "The Sting."
And she said I want to play Scott Joplin.
And did.

It has stood here in the living room,
mute as a boulder and as heavy.
Could it have spoken
it would have begged me to send it
somewhere, anywhere, so it could
sing again, which is why today
they are taking away the piano.

SPIDER SPIN

My neighbor comes across the street,
gives his usual smile and waves.
I stop, cut the mower's roar.
We chat, ordinary stuff.
In minutes, five, no more, he turns
to go. I see it then . . . a single
silken thread sticking to my sleeve.
I trace it to the other end,
find it fastened to our tree,
white oak, that stands four feet
away. In such short tick of time,
a line was cast, a distance bridged between,
vast by any standard,
an engineering feat that dwarfs,
by contrast, any man-made span.

Just a spider's spin, I think
and brush it off my shirt
with mild annoyance, missing
once again a chance to cheer.

50th REUNION

More than anyone,
I was more pleased to see John,
hadn't seen him since graduation.
He was taller than I remembered,
red hair now softened to something less than fiery.
We greeted, shook hands, skipped the usual
joke about the ravages of years,
but did the common verbal dance:
how good it was to see old friends,
what a shame it was the dozen
who had died. Then I said
what had never dared to say --
how much, back then, I had admired him.
I prefaced it with what we both knew
was true: "you were not an athlete."
His nod and smile, mock-shocked,
coaxed me to continue.
"you stuck with it, practice after practice,
sitting on the bench, game after game.
You were loyal, steadfast, true."
He gave a rueful laugh. "Or maybe
just too dumb to quit," he said.
But I could tell it pleased him.

We talked some more, then someone
came to join us. "Thanks for that," he said,
before our time was up.

WELCOME TO THE BOOKMOBILE

So, your first day on the job.
Enjoying yourself so far?

We see George every other Friday
at this Senior Center stop. You'll see him
feel his way through the door, up the steps.
Legally blind, he asks us to read
the summaries on the boxes -- CDs
of novels we have guessed he might enjoy.

He nods at most, sometimes shakes
his head apologetically, not wanting
to give offense at our poor choices.
He favors intrigue, suspense,
dark deeds done in secret.
His face, conversely, is light full,
blue eyes sightless but bright
as a boy's. His voice, a pleasant
baritone, interrupts itself
with chuckles in almost every
sentence. He knows the follies
of the human heart, especially
his own, and thinks them wonderfully droll.

He should be coming soon; it's almost ten
o'clock. Get ready to be blessed.

NATURE WALK

Do you remember that April day,
a getaway (that's what we used
to call them -- getaways) when
we went for a walk in the woods
near that nature center somewhere
along the Blue Ridge, and I kept
calling your attention to the spice
bushes so often that you finally
said, "I've seen enough spice
bushes to last me for a decade"
-- or something like that -- and
I told you that it wasn't true
that when you've seen
one spice bush you've seen
them all because each one has
its own individual, unique beauty
and that to really appreciate
nature one should be more
aware of the particular
form and feature of each species
and you answered that this
outing would be a lot more
enjoyable if there was a lot less
commentary and a lot more
silence?

JASPER

He greets me at his door as if we
have known each other for years.
I phoned prior to coming.
All I know is what Teresa
told me this morning: his wife died
last year; he's had a rough go of it.
He has coffee ready to pour.

We chat about the dry spell,
the not-much-chance of rain.
He says he's spent the morning
freezing corn, fifteen pints so far.
He is pleased, but tells me
last year was better even though
then he was still taking care of Sara.

It is his way of bringing her
into the conversation where
she stays for the next thirty
minutes. By that time I feel
I have known her for years.

MOTHERING

Right over there, last month,
we came upon a turkey hen
with her five chicks. She
regarded us, rightly so, as
intruders. This wood was world
to her. We were aliens.
She clucked her innocent
brood across the clearing, herded
them into the brush. All but
one obeyed. He wandered well
away from safety, not knowing
where or when to turn.
We moved on, helpless to help,
knowing better than to try.
Half an hour on, we could still
hear the hen's repeated cry:
    Where did you go?
    Where are you now?
    Come here.

GRANDPA DIVULGES THE SECRET OF WISDOM

I'm not going to tell you
about all the dumb
things I did when I was
your age.

They would embarrass you
to hear them even more
than it would embarrass me to
tell them.

People my age are supposed
to be wise and maybe we are,
at least wiser than we used
to be.

Point is: the way we got to
be wise was doing all those dumb
things we aren't going to tell
you about.

PHOTOGRAPH

The day was hot, sultry,
the lawn large,
the mower loud and clunky.
At the corner of the house
I saw her, our pre-school pixie,
leaping through the waving shower
the sprinkler was bestowing on the grass.
I stopped, went inside for the camera.
Coming up behind her,
I clicked and froze
the moment.

        And now,
here in my hand, she stands,
forever holding her bowed head
over the spray, her eyes closed,
the smile on her face beatific,
the tug on my heart
bittersweet.

TURNIPS

Why? my brother asked when I told
him I was growing turnips.
I didn't have an answer.
It occurs to me now that I haven't
eaten a turnip since . . .
truth is I can't remember.
I think I did once,
or maybe twice, years ago.
But here they are in my garden, their
tops a lovely emerald green,
swaying gently to a melody
the wind is apparently playing.

Maybe I grew them because once,
more than half a century ago,
Danny Frey persuaded me to help
him gather turnips in the corn field.
We took some old buckets, went out,
and pulled them up, mottled
purple bulbs clotted with brown
soil we brushed away.
The wind was that nippy late
October wind that presages
icicles. We filled the buckets,
headed for the barn, the warm.
It's a good memory.

I like turnips because their beauty
is both above ground and below,
seldom seen, rarely praised.
I may not eat my turnips.
Who will know?

FANTASY FOOTBALL: 1950'S VERSION*

It was easier, then, to have heroes.
Take, for example, Steve Van Buren,
who lugged the pigskin
(that's how sportswriters wrote
back in the fifties) for the Philadelphia
Eagles. There were no pre or
post game interviews to expose
the ignorance of the
inarticulate. For all I knew
Steve Van Buren was a paragon
of wisdom and virtue. If you
had asked me, I'd have told
you he was, of course he was.

I never saw him play. It never
occurred to me to ask my father
to take me to a game. I do not
recall ever seeing a photograph
of Steve Van Buren. But when
the radio announcer screamed
that he was dashing down the side
line like he had a Roman candle
on his tail, I could see it as
truly as if I had a seat
on the fifty yard line. If you
had asked me: what, exactly, is
a Roman candle? I would have told
you I had no idea.

*Some time after writing this poem, I learned that Mr. Van Buren is a resident at the retirement community where my brother lives. We visited him and I gave him a copy of the poem. He thanked me and told me he liked what I had written.

DINAH'S DARING DIP

Old dogs, even the ones
with a generous dousing from
the Labrador Retriever gene pool,
are not likely, on a cold, early
April hike in the woods, to hurl
themselves into a lake like some
impetuous puppy. At least you
wouldn't think so. Not with
the kind of arthritic bones
the vet diagnosed on the last visit.

Age compensates with Wisdom.
It's as true for canines as for
their owners. Wisdom and Caution.

Which was what we tried to explain
to Dinah when, post-plunge,
she emerged, shook herself,
looked at us and laughed.
Or at least seemed to.

STORY TIME -- II

Trip Trap
    Trip Trap
        Trip Trap

It's the three Billy Goats Gruff
trotting once again
over that plank bridge
that is roof to the home
of that wicked, wicked troll.

And it is my father's voice
roaring once again:
"Who's that trip-trapping
across my bridge?"

And it is one of the three
Billys who answer:
"It is I, the first
Billy Goat Gruff" (or the second
or the third).

And it is I, the four-year-old
who, shivering with dread and
delight, sits perched on my father's
lap on the big chair next
to the front door.

And thirty years later,
that four-year-old is the father,
telling to his daughter,
the once-again tale of
goats gruff and
wicked, wicked troll.

STORY TIME -- I

My mother taught me to love stories
by telling me stories. In them
she played a starring role, like

the time the gypsies came and pitched
their tents in a nearby field
and she, at home alone with her

younger sisters, gathered them, like
a hen tucking her chicks under
her wings,and herded them all

to an upstairs closet where they
sat in shivery silence till their
parents came home. She said

they laughed when she
tried to tell them, through tears
of relief, how afraid she had been.

I thought they should have praised
her for being so brave, so clever.
I think she thought so too.

FREEDOM FIGHTERS

Little David
    play on your harp
        on your harp
        on your harp
Little David
    play on your harp
Allelu


Little Rosa
    sit on your bus
        on your bus
        on your bus
Little Rosa
    sit on your bus
Allelu

WHAT THE LIBRARIAN TOLD THE THIRD GRADERS*

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]

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.

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.

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.