Some of life’s experiences leave you feeling like a flopping fish sucking air in a dry river bed.
SUCKING AIR
By some dark power she
damned the stream,
made all the fishes flop
on their sides on the rocks,
sucking air, just
long enough.
Break the log jam. Pray for rain. Breathe deeply. And swim.
How does one put into words the fragility, beauty, and precious nature of life? The more words we use, maybe, the closer we get–adjective upon adjective. Or, perhaps, only a poem, with the fewest words, but bursting with meaning and imagery, can do the job. Even then, words might not be capable at all, and we must yield to an embrace, a kiss, a memory, a lullaby. My poem Grail is an attempt to encapsulate life, or at least a bit of it. I hope you enjoy.
GRAIL
Even
a cracked and empty eggshell
evokes awe for new life.
The infant, you cradle,
as if a spark,
ephemeral,
of something infinite,
or divine.
Hold her, tight
and careful,
while she is yours
to hold.
She will bury you,
someday,
with roses and tears,
and tell your story:
you will inspire,
still, from the crypt.
First cry, first tear.
First laugh and first kiss.
Sips from the holy grail.
I went to bed early one evening, overcome by fatigue, stress, over-stimulation, and worry. But I could not sleep for all the ambient sounds that my ears so perfectly picked out. Instead of sleeping, I scrawled out this poem. Was it really sleep that I needed? Or did I need the ability in the moment to find joy and wonder in all that surrounded me? Did the ear plugs help or hinder my state of being? Let me know what you think.
FINDING SLEEP
Bulbous beetle sees
my nightstand light
and bounces his exoskeleton
against the vertical trampoline
of the window screen,
bounces three times,
his lace wings rasping like
sheets of stiff cellophane;
he can’t enter into my room
to reach the light he longs for,
and we both are the better for it.
Incorporeal sounds sail through—
a filly whinnying over his weaning,
a puppy straining and yapping
at her collar and leash,
our cat defending her kittens
against the neighbor’s surly tom,
children screaming delightedly
as they run at night in the grass,
only to bicker over turns
on the round trampoline—
they all drift in
to settle upon me
like a New England Bible
on a dying man’s chest.
Orange plugs twisted into my ears
dull it all, stop even
the crooning of the crickets
and the breeze’s inviting whisper.
I know this has happened to you. You feel that something beautiful, something desirable, something blissful, is so close you can feel its presence, almost touch it. Yet it lies a universe away, the mystery behind the gloaming. Nearly yours, it slips through your fingers before you can take hold. Or, it may be someone: someone you wish you could love, someone you wish could love you, someone to touch. This poem explores that real but elusive sense, that longing.
TO TOUCH THE MOON
I cannot touch
the Moon.
For all her beauty,
her seductiveness,
for all her wisdom,
her distracted discernment,
she moves just
out of reach.
For all her cool warmth,
her illuminating glow,
for all her coy kindness,
her constant variability,
she glides just
beyond my reach.
For all my ardor,
my real gratitude,
for all my scheming plans,
my considered, burgeoning love,
I cannot touch
the Moon.
This scene from 2013 is in the town of Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania, is the most idyllic I have ever seen. “I want to live here,” I whispered to myself again and again as I looked over the tall corn toward the farmhouse and barn. “This is where I want to be.” Have you had this experience of seeing your dream home, your dream town, and sighing loudly but forlornly with love and satisfaction? Boy did I fall hard for this place. I didn’t want to leave. But my wife and children were in Utah; my parents and several siblings were in Utah; my job (and my income) was in Utah. So I went back to Utah, not unhappily, but leaving a part of me behind in Amish country. My poem Susquehanna braids a dialogue between intimate partners with a description of place. Do you sympathize with or relate to one person over the other? Or are they both unrealistic, even extreme? Do you have the courage to pursue your dreams in spite of opposing voices? (I hope I do, but I’m not sure.)
SUSQUEHANNA
I could live here,
he dreamed,
gazing
from a ridge-top
road
And what would you do
Mr. Lawyer? It would
ruin the place—and you—to dive
into their divorces
at the far-off
river meandering
in graceful curves
and mangled hands
and rat poisoned livestock.
Still, I could
live here: right there:
on that farm:
see
the red barn, tilting?
where the feet
of mountains meet,
a reflecting ribbon,
shining silver
beneath a bright
sky,
I could right it,
help it stand straight
again.
You and whose budget?
Not yours, surely,
and not mine!
And what would you do
with a farm, anyway?
flanked in leafy
darkening green
You couldn’t fix
a door knob
let alone
a bailing wagon.
transforming
to iridescent gold
under the alchemy
You don’t know your rye
from your barley or oats
or triticale wheat.
You,
a farmer!
of the slowly setting
sun.
I could live here:
me: right here.
One of my favorite books is The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith. I read with delight the entire series of 15 books (I can’t wait to read #16). Wonderful, sweet-and-sour characters, with goodness abounding and mysteries to solve. On a day off I wandered to the public library grounds and settled in on a park bench to read. A homeless woman, living on the grounds, approached me, interrupted my reading, and made a request. This poem tells the story. What would you have done?
STUFF
“Excuse me,
sir,” I heard,
but the slanting sun shone in my eyes,
and I could not see at first.
“Will you
be here for a few minutes?”
Here being my bench
on the public library grounds, a bench
made of steel slats curved
and painted green. “It’s so hot
and I’m very thirsty: would you
watch my stuff
while I get a refill?”
Stuff: two sleeping bags
neatly covering egg-carton foam
with plastic underneath, all tucked
into a corner room formed
by intersecting retaining
walls. “Sure,” I mumbled,
closing the book
I had been reading, fancifully,
about African ladies,
ladies who were detectives
and teachers of typing,
ladies who made an effort
to help, and who lied
only when necessary to prop up
their men, men who were good
and who worked hard but
who needed some propping up
now and again
by smart and guileless women.
“Thank you.
I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She shuffled away, hugging
two gallon-size mugs smashed
against unencumbered breasts.
Brittle yellow hair, sagging skin,
and an absence of teeth told
some of her story.
Watch her stuff. Stuff:
box stamped “This End Up”
with cups of dried noodles
in it; tube of toothpaste,
toothbrush, deodorant stick,
neatly arranged on the bed;
metal folding chair;
extra blankets, folded; winter coat.
I wondered what I would do
if someone took an unwarranted
interest in her stuff—like
a bicycle policeman;
a wizened tramp pushing
his own things
in a borrowed shopping cart;
a dog off its leash—
and I couldn’t say: Umm,
excuse me . . . that’s . . . not your stuff?
I hoped she would
come back soon, and turned
my eyes again to the stories
of good women and men
who helped each other
with troubles large and small
the best they knew how.
The woman returned
with her mugs refilled,
and with a friend,
a friend who waved her arms
wildly, bending and turning
at the waist, swinging her arms
up and around and down,
over her head, between her legs,
and I stood up to find another bench
on which to read.
“Thank you, sir,”
the stuff’s owner called
after.
I contemplate. Everything. I don’t mean to; I just do. I notice my abundance and my scarcity. I think about my gifts and talents, and worry about my abyssal weaknesses. I ponder my joy and my sadness, my human connections and my loneliness. I try not to allow meditation to slip into obsession, or depression. And my observations are not just about me. I thrill at the beauties of nature. The world, and life, are simply filled with mystery and unfathomableness and beauty and suffering that beg to be studied, to be understood. So I contemplate. This poem contemplates a quiet evening alone.
AN EVENING
A fish fillet simmers
in basil and salted lemon juice.
The baked potato steams
with butter and sour cream gobs.
Three cobs of corn.
Absence of conversation.
Fingers fumble with chords,
picking awkward patterns.
Crooning “Blackbird.”
Absence of applause.
On the big bed,
looking at paintings
on the walls.
How does one write a poem about domestic violence without slipping into shallow prose, or, more importantly, without trivializing a horrifying trauma. As a municipal attorney, I have helped hold DV perpetrators accountable for 23 years. I have spoken with the women, seen their fear, heard their terror. I have seen the photographs of bruises, heard the sobbing screams in 911 recordings, and watched the abused tremble on the witness stand. I have watched the “bad guys” smirk and win acquittals from ignorant or misogynist juries. How I admire the courage victims have to become survivors, to stand tall and to say “Never again!” I wrote this poem for victims of domestic violence, though the poem is by no means a celebration or victory song. The poem attempts to express both the horror and the hope of someone caught, for now, in the twisted power and control dynamics of domestic violence. To all of them, I say: have courage; have hope.
COLOR ME
blue—royal
blue—navy
purple almost to black
witness
Van Gogh starry nights:
beautiful
but
not here
where pale skin
should be
red lightning bolts
in white orb
two weeks
maybe three
until
I can pretend
it did not happen
no one knows
dark pigments
you paint on pale canvass
private studio
still life model undressed
would you plied
with greens and yellows,
orange and sky-blue
pinpoint pupils
in a Saint-Rémy sky
I sang for years with an excellent 200-voice choir, the Salt Lake Choral Artists. My last concerts were sung in St. Ambrose Catholic church in Salt Lake City, Utah. Beautiful scenes in stained glass stretched floor to ceiling along both side walls. The concert-goers sat in hard oaken pews, pleasing us with loud applause. Once we performed selections from Leonard Bernstein’s “Mass,” a modern and moving work. “Sing God a new song,” we sang. After the concert, I noticed a stooped, white-haired man sitting in the back row, tears in his eyes. I said hello, and he thanked me for the music. I imagined some of his life’s emotions, and wrote this poem before leaving the church.
DEO SONG
He had sung his lifetime,
raised his voice to the Lord altissimus,
lifted his broken wholeness to Kyrie in excelsis,
Qui tollis pecata mundi,
weeping to the precise glide of the white baton.
He partakes, now, from the back row,
his back twisted, head bowed—
still the tears.
Translation of the Latin:
Deo: God
Altissimus: The highest
Kyrie in excelsis: Lord on high
Qui tollis pecata mundi: Who took upon himself the sins of the world
The week I moved out I began singing again with the Salt Lake Choral Artists, a 200-voice audition community choir. I needed the music. Music to soothe my anxiety and sadness at being separated after 25 years of marriage. At times waves of sadness crashed over me, ground me into the gravel of life. I needed the music. Our Christmas and holiday repertoire included some of the most moving melodies I had ever heard. In one rehearsal the director shouted at me, “Everybody is singing here!” I nodded, but my throat was choked up and tears stung my eyes. I needed this music. Still, the long drive “home” after rehearsal on dark, freezing winter nights, terminating at my construction zone apartment, mattress on the floor, wardrobe in my duffel, the thermostat set at 50, brought the waves crashing again, the music notwithstanding. This poem attempts to describe that difficult time.
SEPARATION
The cold brings it on,
and the darkness.
The long drive dredges it
up, even after
the singing, after
three hours of wonderful
singing, the long winter drive
to a place that wasn’t home,
where I shivered in my bed
and thought of the woman
that used to be mine.
Riding my bicycle home from work the other day I noticed an American Robin standing proud and tall in the midst of deluging lawn sprinklers. He knew where to be to pluck juicy earthworms from the saturated turf. And he knew how to keep cool in the 100-degree heat. What caught my attention most was his bearing of obvious satisfaction, his beak lifted slightly, contemplating his idyllic surroundings. I couldn’t help putting pen to paper.
MR. ROBIN
Mr. Robin
stands tall
beak above the plane
eyes gleaming
in thick lawn sprinkler
mist, knowing
he is in the right place at the right time
The Western Kingbird is one of my favorite birds. It is unremarkable in size, color, song, or other characteristics enjoyed by more glamorous birds. Its only coloration is a slight yellow-green on the breast. But I love to watch the Kingbird’s frenetically acrobatic flight as it catches insects on the wing. And I love listening to them from where they sit perched on the top of fence posts and power poles, singing an indecipherable electronica, devoid of tune but fascinating nonetheless. Every morning when I leave for work, and every evening upon my returning home, a little Kingbird calls to me with a friendly whistle. Today he let me take this picture as he perched on my wall with a grasshopper in his beak. Enthralled with my new friend, to whose whistles I always offer my own greeting of “Hello little Kingbird,” I wrote this poem.
KINGBIRD
You are always
there, in that same spot,
on the top
of the fence post,
little Kingbird.
You twitter
at me, so I will
look to you,
find you, again
in that place,
tidy Kingbird.
You catch
and hold my gaze, then
twitch and twitter,
yellow Kingbird.
A quick hop,
an acrobatic
flap after
an airborne bug,
quick little Kingbird.
And you wing away
with a twitter
and a whistle
until tomorrow,
friendly Kingbird.
“Such a cute couple!” “They are so good together!” I have heard these and other phrases so often about couples, young and old. But what does it take to make a perfect match? “Opposites attract,” says the cliche, though I’m not sure I believe it. It is that we admire in our partners what we lack, or do we feel more comfortable with someone similar to us in personality and demeanor? In this poem I explore two sides of a relationship that differ and yet complement. I admit to tending more toward the second half of each couplet, though the poem is not (necessarily) autobiographical. What are your opinions about what makes the perfect match? Let me know by leaving your comment!
A PERFECT MATCH
impulsive
deliberate
spontaneous
self-conscious
hopeful
fearful
self-possessed
over-shoulder-watching
free-thinking
conforming
curious
contemplative
ebullient
restrained
giggling
steady now
disciplined
falling off the wagon
fun-loving
nose to the grindstone
inclined toward cheerfulness
tending to be sad
star-gazing
spot-scrubbing
bibber
tee-totaler
go to hell
I’m sorry
let’s go!
we’re late
bratwurst
sauerkraut
pedal to the floor
foot on the break
effusive
reserved:
beautifully broken
secretly afraid:
a perfect match
Warning: this poem is satirical, even cynical. No soothing pleasantries here. Rather, I presume to introspect on behalf of humankind. And I don’t like what I see. As advanced as our species has become, with global economic networks, far-reaching social and humanitarian programs, abundant universities, and quotidian scientific breakthroughs, yet, I fear, we remain too shallow, too self-absorbed, too small-minded. A ranting soliloquy I overheard at the gym (I know, not necessarily the epicenter of human achievement) caused me to reflect on the nature of humankind, and “inspired” me to write this poem to encapsulate this cracked jewel of human behavior. Please forgive the profanity: it’s a quotation. The number in the title–2020–does not reference a calendar year, but hints at the notion of perspective. I, for one, will try to be a little smarter, a little kinder, a little more outward in my thinking and behavior. Join me in the effort to be just a notch better today, for the sake of the species.
2020 HUMANKIND
The thing I hate about this gym is, you
know, that on Sundays it closes at 3.
3!!
I mean, what kind of a shitty policy is that?
It’s Sunday afternoon, you know, and I’ve slept all day,
and now I wanna go to the gym. I wanna
get pumped, you know? Pumped up!
Boom!
But can I go to the gym?
NO! I’m fucked, man!
You know what I mean?
God damn!
What is wrong with these people?
Rarely do I write religious poems, thinking myself unequal to the sacred task. Today, however, during a contemplative moment, images of our Lord suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane, pushed upon my mind, through my fingertips, to form this poem. I feel that I don’t know Jesus well, but I do believe that I understand something of his purpose for us, that is, to create us anew in his image, through his Atonement, into beings of light, goodness, kindness, empathy, understanding, generosity, forgiveness, and truth. He whispers to us every moment of every day, helping us to change, oh so imperceptibly, incrementally, to become more like him. His end is our eternal happiness.
IN THE GARDEN
drops of blood,
crimson, thick,
fall, to spatter
on the rocks,
the sand, the soil,
running on the exposed roots
of an ancient olive tree,
purple roots
in the darkness,
choked whispers and sobs
hovering
over
Thanksgiving Point Ashton Gardens by Roger Baker
Sitting in the airport half a day to catch a one-hour flight to visit my sister in Arizona, I took opportunity to watch the people around me, sitting, walking, milling, guarding their things–and to wonder about their lives. Such diversity, and such beauty in that diversity! People appear so different from one another, and are in fact different in many ways, but yet are fundamentally the same, each dreaming, each wanting love, each working to make their life good, each going somewhere. This poem sketches some of my observations of people during those hours in the Salt Lake International airport.
GATE C-18, SLX
Flight attendant,
a former stewardess,
bounces by in high heels,
face drawn tight,
weary of being stared at,
undressed.
Grandma texts busily
with one finger,
novel in her lap.
Her man yawns
to his magazine.
A mop of gray hair
on this squinting,
tongue-chewing man
intent
on his Apple laptop.
Four young women
gab, quite happily,
but not so loud
that I can hear
what they say,
legs criss-crossed
with charging chords.
Newspapers
still exist.
“I’m proud
to be an American”
ring tone.
Veteran ball cap,
gray beard, fingers
home-made whole-grain
cookies
in a Ziploc bag,
picks at his teeth
with his pinky.
Beneath her sleeveless
tie-dye house dress,
colored swirling tattoos
run up her arms,
across her breasts.
Clip-clop running
in boot heels.
Late!
Late!
Ear rings, nose rings,
gauges, bars;
dress shoes, pumps,
cowboy boots;
argyles, nylons, bare feet.
Breasts,
pushed up
past her collar bones.
Most stare
contentedly at nothing.
One man writes
a poem,
sipping
at his Coke,
munching
from his bag of extra
fancy roasted mixed nuts
from Costco.
Little girl dressed
in pink
plays games
on a plugged-in
pink laptop.
Pilot father flies
his giggling boy,
soaring, diving,
banking
to delighted sputtering.
Thunderstorm.
Lightning.
Heavy bouncing hail.
Wind.
Now snow and ice.
Our airplane diverted
to Boise.
Announcements,
with attempts at humor.
Polite laughter.
The tension grows.
I watch
the mop’s bags
while he wanders
off to pee.
Then he watches
mine.
We board . . . at last.
I chose to spend my birthday (52) at the Thanksgiving Point Ashton Gardens in Lehi, Utah. Just me and the trees and flowers. Peaceful. Beautiful. No demands. I snapped dozens of photographs just because I could and I wanted to and the flowers were so pretty. At Monet Lake, covered with water lilies, huge koi lazily swam. A quarter bought me a handful of fish pellets, which I casually threw into the dark water. The water suddenly roiled with a sucking, slurping mass of colorful fish. I laughed, and I wrote this poem on my garden map.
FEEDING KOI
slimy slurping throng
benignly greedy
hot roiling mass
till the food is gone
droning gliders
splotchy bright
purposing only for pellets
This poem, ostensibly about a dandelion flower gone to seed, is not about a dandelion flower at all. Rather, the poem explores the fragility of life and relationships. The slightest events can lead to enormous changes of circumstances. So take care to avoid unnecessary upsets. But when upsets inevitably appear, do your best to choose to go with the flow. After all, the scattered seeds will birth new beauty.
FRAGILITY
This dandelion
head I carry cupped
in one hand’s lee
against a zephyr’s whimsy:
perfect symmetry of sphere,
nucleus sprouting spokes
sporting inverted umbrella wisps.
The slightest
stumble, or unfortunate exhalation
scatters dismemberment
and loss, gracefully,
a floating meditation,
without thought
of sadness or complaint.
Wandering the streets of Philadelphia one rainy night, I asked a couple exiting their historic brick home where I could find a good place to eat. They recommended a few restaurants, warning me which were BYOB. Being both naive and a non-drinker, I hesitated, “Um . . . BYOB?” “Bring your own beer,” they chuckled. I found City Tavern where the Founding Fathers debated the principles of liberty while smoking and sipping madeira, and ordered Martha Washington’s chicken pot pie. My tummy warm and full (and my wallet drained), I set off through the cold drizzle to my hotel. Steam snaked eerily up from the holes in the sewer manhole lids. The wet air was growing more frigid. I stepped round a cobbled corner into a narrow alley and came upon a man lying in a fetal ball on a sewer manhole lid, soaking up what little heat he could from the sewer vapors, sheltered from the rain by wilted cardboard. This short poem remembers him.
SLEEPING ON A SEWER MANHOLE
A cold rain in April.
Glistening cobblestones.
Steam rising from the sewer through a cratered manhole lid.
A brother curled up, rolling restlessly, capturing wet warmth under his blankets
under an evening rain.
What difference will $1 make to the poor, the homeless? None. I’m not talking about the professional panhandler, who can make a good enough living. I’m talking about the humble poor, who really need help, but who often don’t ask. I gave such a woman $1 once, knowing guiltily that my contribution did nothing to help her solve her problems. I only hope that my attempt at kindness made a difference in her heart. She sat rocking, nursing her pains, at a bus stop on Broad Street in Philadelphia. Back in my warm hotel room, this is what I wrote.
WOMAN AT A BROAD STREET BUS STOP
She rocked on a Broad Street bench
rubbing a leg through blue and green blankets.
Tears quietly cut her brown face.
Liquid eyes shone
upon each oblivious observer, pleaded
unheard for spontaneous compassion.
No cup or turned over hat called for
a casually cast coin.
“Could you use a dollar?” I ventured.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered. “I need to buy medicine.
I have such pain.”
She rubbed and she wept.
She asked for nothing.
What use is a lousy dollar! What use
are a hundred lousy dollars!
And she asked for nothing.
“God bless you, sir,” she cried
as she rocked and rubbed her aches through her blankets.
She asked for nothing.
I spent hours in the evenings walking the streets of Philadelphia while there on business. Around City Hall and the Masonic Temple, both architectural masterpieces. Along Benjamin Franklin Boulevard toward the Museum of Art, with its steps made famous by Rocky Balboa. On the banks of the dirty Schuykill River. By the famous LOVE sculpture. Down Walnut, Chestnut, and Market Streets in the historic quarter. In many places I saw homeless people, in desperate condition, sleeping mid-day in parks wrapped in dirty sleeping bags and blankets, crouched in cardboard shelters under the South Street bridge. One wizened man with wild beard and hair squatted with his back against a Wachovia bank wall, holding out his empty coffee cup for coins, staring blankly at the multitudinous passing feet, but seeing nothing. In my hotel, haunted by these images, I wrote this poem.
WACHOVIA MAN
Only the cup and knee-knobs
of crossed legs showed themselves
to the thousands of preoccupied pedestrians.
He sat tucked tidily
into a Wachovia wall,
out of the way.
The cardboard cup held 3 pennies
and a ring of dried coffee stain.
“It’s cold today,” I said and stopped,
68 smug cents now
in the cup of the blue-capped man.
His gap-tooth smile jumped from a thick grey beard,
and two clear eyes saw into mine:
Thank you. Yes,
it is a cold day.
Many years ago whilst ambling happily through Central Park in New York City, my gambol’s attention was diverted by an old woman sitting silent and still on a weathered park bench. A woman without a home. A woman without a family. A woman without belonging. Homeless. I felt overwhelming emotions: sadness, pity, regret, helplessness, compassion. I wished for her happiness. I had no idea what to do or say. I did and said nothing. Even today, I don’t know what questions to ask about homelessness, let alone what the answers are. This poem is about that encounter, about the woman on the park bench, but also about me, about you, about the human identity and experience. My next several poems will feature my few experiences with the homeless, our brothers and sisters, humans that have been written off.
WOMAN ON A PARK BENCH
She sits
on a park bench—
rusting iron, splintered wood—
tattered hat askew on unkempt gray-streaked hair;
cotton and wool dripping threads;
too-big shoes cold against bare feet.
She sits,
hunched and silent and still;
a tiny, unnoticed atoll spotting a vast, smeary world;
a universe within.
Once there were dreams and smiles at dreaming the dreams.
But they wilted and died,
the struggle ending long ago,
yielding to forces that depleted, that destroyed,
that said:
You are nothing;
You don’t matter;
No one cares.
And so it is.
And so she sits:
finished looking for life;
not waiting for death.
She lives because she does not die.
Mt. Timponogos by Roger Baker
Shame is society’s largest lie, telling us we are bad or broken for making mistakes, committing sins, having weaknesses. Shame cripples individuals, families, communities, and countries. I felt ashamed of myself for most of my life, feeling deeply defective, unworthy, at fault, but not knowing why. Then I learned the difference between shame (i.e., I am bad for doing that thing) and embarrassment (i.e., I feel bad for doing that thing). I no longer feel ashamed of who I am.
I thank Brene Brown for her work to understand shame and to help people develop resilience to shame. I celebrate people who have the courage to tell their stories of feeling shame, and who have compassion for themselves and empathy for others. I dedicate this post and this poem to my darling mother, to my sweet sisters, to my lovely daughters, and to my dear friend Liddy on the other side of the world, all of whom I love and admire and appreciate. Let shame have no place in your mind and heart.
NO! TO SHAME
Many voices
in this world
will tell you
to feel
your shame:
you will.
Satan
and his stupid slaves
will whisper,
will scream
to believe in
your shame:
you will.
Listen,
though,
to my voice
above all:
You are good!
You are whole!
I will roar it
from my rooftop:
You are light!
You are love!
I will shout it
from my lighthouse:
You are virtue!
You are truth!
I will bellow it,
loud,
above the million hissing lies:
You are worthy!
You are pure!
I will say it and say it
again, and again,
time upon time,
till this world knows
what I know,
till I have banished
shame
from you,
for shame
has no place in you,
no quarter,
no nook,
no space,
no place.
Shame is ugliness
to your beauty.
Shame is filth
to your purity.
Shame is stench
to your flower’s bloom.
Shame is a leprosy
to your exquisiteness.
Shame is cold, gray ash
to the fusion heat of the stars
living in you.
So
quash the lying voices,
quell the insipid whispers.
So
send shame to its devil’s hatchery,
suck it to the center of
a massive black hole.
Listen to my voice
above all.
May 9, 2016
As a boy I collected butterflies. I hunted them, killed them, and mounted them in an impressive display case. I knew their names, their habitats, their habits. Over 100 species. Unhappily, worms destroyed my entire collection. I see now that my youthful intention had been to capture the butterflies’ beautiful essence. I have outgrown my need to capture butterflies. I am content to view them alive and free, awed by their living beauty.
Working in the yard one day I watched my son Brian, then 9 (now 26), chasing a butterfly with a homemade pillowcase net. “I caught it!” he exclaimed. I held my breath as he peered into the net to examine his prize. He soon released the butterfly to live another day. A smile of wonder lingered on his face. I breathed a relieved sigh to see him possess the maturity I had lacked at his age. I had taught him to love beauty. And he had learned. Learned to love beauty without needing to clutch at it, control it, kill it, and mount it on a board, only to lose it in the process. He had learned a Life Ethic. Here is the poem I wrote about that occasion. (Happy birthday Brian.)
LIFE ETHIC
“I caught it! I caught it!” cried the boy
over my weed-whacker whir
after waving his pole-clamped pillowcase
across the sky.
Two wide eyes and a victory smile
raced to the porch where
two trembling hands
coaxed the delicate creature
through the screened bug-box door.
A bundle of awe,
the boy sat still and stared
at this astonishing bringing-together
of color and form,
at this life.
Father watched from the garden rows,
remembering his own youth’s hunt
for small, helpless prey,
whose fate was to rot
with a pin through the thorax,
and a tag with a name and a date.
But the magical fluttering rainbows had faded
fast behind their showcase.
“Nice catch, son,” father admired
with a pat and a ruffle.
“What are you going to do with him?”
“Well, I think I’ll watch him for a while, and
then I’ll let him go.”
Good boy, father sighed, as
a boy released his heart’s hold and
a captive rainbow again
graced the sky.
(I took the above photo of a Milbert’s Tortoise Shell in 2007 on the banks of Duck Lake in the high Uinta Mountains of Utah.)
![IMG-20160430-WA0002[1]](https://rabbitlaneutah.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/img-20160430-wa00021.jpg)
Photo by Liddy Mills
My friend Elizabeth found an injured bird yesterday, a European Starling, and took it in. Many people think of Starlings as junk birds. I know of farmers who pay boys to kill as many as they can. But Elizabeth took it in. She fed it, watered it, and wrapped it in cloth. Elizabeth named it Songbird. She sang to Songbird, and, as she sang, Songbird fluffed its feathers and watched her. She placed Songbird on a bed of straw, but the bird kept trying to come to her as she sang. “I held him as he took his last breath,” Elizabeth sadly recounted. “I hope he understood that some of us humans care.” She buried Songbird in the yard today, on the Sabbath. “Songbird deserved a burial,” she said. Elizabeth’s caring heart touched mine, and I wrote this poem, near midnight.
SONGBIRD
I crashed
and lay crumpled
in your townhouse yard.
You scooped me up
and sang to me
a song.
“Hello Songbird.”
You cradled me in a cloth
and stroked my feathered head.
Sing to me
a song.
You watered me
and laid me in a bed of straw.
Sing to me
a song.
You kept the cats
away.
Sing to me
a song.
You cried when I died,
and you buried me
in your townhouse yard.
You sang to me
a song.
For another story about trying to save an injured bird, see Chapter 37: Of Caterpillars and Birds at my blog page Rabbit Lane: Memoir.
My friend Carl gave me a place to stay during the crisis. “You will help me out if you stay here for awhile,” he offered. To keep the burglars and vandals away, he said. I could stay for free; no rent. It was his great-grandfather’s house, which Carl had bought generations later as an investment property, a rental. It certainly was an investment: the previous renters, in additional to not paying rent, had trashed the house on their way out: food and candle wax flung on the walls, holes punched in the bedroom doors, and animal feces ground into the carpets. Carl painted and carpeted a bedroom for me to live in, and retiled a bathroom. That’s where I lived, my mattress on the floor, my wardrobe in a duffel. I helped Carl–a little–work on the rest of the house. I spackled holes in walls, painted ceilings, and pulled baseboards and staples to prepare for new carpet. Carl saved me. He gave me a place to stay. He gave me a reason to live. Carl gave me hope and friendship.
PREPPING FOR NEW CARPET
Staples
in rows
in the floorboards;
tufts of pink
from rolls of ripped-out padding
caught beneath.
Bang ‘em in or pull ‘em out:
you can’t sweep with ‘em there.
Some are rusted
from spilled bear
and untrained dogs
that left dark
offenses on the wood.
Pound ‘em in or yank ‘em out—
don’t matter which:
new pad, new carpet: covers
everythin’: like nothin’ never happened.
Pull, pull and yank;
yank and pull—pull,
with pliers.
Sweep the room
clean.
Photo by Liddy Mills
I live in an apartment now. My children come to visit. Mostly I am alone. But I have books, music, poetry, crock-pot dinners . . . and a hot tub. My children and I sit in the roiling 110-degree water even when the ambient air is 20 degrees F, and the steam has condensed in frozen icicles hanging from the hot tub railing. We talk about life, their soccer goals and rugby tries, sore muscles, ornery pimples, church dances, dates and the prom, stubborn cowlicks and bad haircuts, good books, good movies, hopes and dreams. We flex our biceps and splash steaming water at each other and laugh. Sometimes after work I soak alone, watch the steam rise, and write a poem.
NO DIVING
in the hot tub
three feet deep
no diving sign in the tile
ice clings to the chrome railing
steam, and contemplations,
billowing, billowing
Photo by Liddy Mills
I sat recently with a mug of scalding water in one hand and a tea bag in the other, dipping the bag repeatedly in the water, watching the water darken as the herbs steeped. Mmm. How aromatic was that chamomile (“cidreira” in Portuguese). I looked forward to sipping that sweet brew! The process of boiling the water and steeping the tea–of transforming crushed, dried herbs into a delicious, soothing beverage–caused me to ponder the processes of life and transformation. I thought about how we are similar to crushed, dried herbs–the dust of the earth, if you will–and about how, through life’s challenges and choices, we can transform our character, our soul, into something better and more pleasing. I contemplated God’s purposes in sending us to this mortal sphere, giving us rules and guidelines for our success, and nurturing us quietly every arduous step of the way. Please enjoy my poem “Cup of Tea” about this process of becoming.
CUP OF TEA
The Maker holds me
by a string, steeps
and dips me in the scald
until I become
the water
and the water becomes
me, stirred and stirred
with small cubes of sweetness
and drops of smoothing cream,
to be held in warming palms,
to be smelled and sipped
and savored.
A snowy Rabbit Lane
In arid Utah we are grateful for snows that persist through March, April, and sometimes even into May. I remember a May 1993 snowstorm that dropped a full three feet of new snow on the streets and yards of Salt Lake City, the year after I returned from being a Fulbright Scholar in Portugal to live with my grandmother, Dora. These Spring snows add high-mountain snow pack that continues to slowly percolate thousands of feet through fractured bedrock, into valley aluvia, recharging the aquifers that allow us to turn the desert into a rose. So, even though I post this poem at the end of March, it is still snow season in Utah. I hope you enjoy the poem.
SNOW
Sky lets down her snow
in slow and heavy flakes
all the long day
as if the world, everywhere,
has never known but snow:
slow and easy, flakes
perching undetected
in my thinning hair,
granting shy moist cool
kisses on the bulb
of my nose, on my soft
sagging cheeks, crystals resting
on lashes looking up
to a distant gentle font.
Wind does not dare to blow.
All parents have had the experience of children wandering into their room late at night, afraid or disoriented, and asking, “Can I sleep with you?” Rather than be angry or annoyed, we merely laid out the spare quilts, sewn by the children’s grandmothers. And we all fell asleep again. Waking early for work, I tip-toed over and around my sleeping children. Home in the evening, their quilts lay on the floor like the discarded skins of pupaed caterpillars taken flight. I hope you enjoy my poem memorializing that recollection.
THREE QUILTS
Three quilts lie in a corner of my room,
folded, again, neatly, again;
three queen-size quilts
sewn and tied by gifting grandmothers
who rest under blanketing memory,
leaving to me these warm tokens.
From night-sleep stupor,
I hear distantly the click of a switch, and a flush,
an apologetic knocking, and a whispered “Dad,”
more like the hiss of heavy breathing than a name.
In my knowing, I find the corners
of a folded quilt and toss it out its full length
upon the floor, by the bed, where there’s room.
I could order them back to their beds, but
there seems to always be room.
In the obscurity of my morning,
I have sense enough
to step gingerly over and around
the boys, asleep in their quilted cocoons;
my boys, rising each day
with a deep life-breath yawn and
a stretching of slumber-stiff limbs,
flying from their crumpled quilts,
like the discarded skins of metamorphosis, with
only air and sky ahead.
I have always believed that a state of bliss in this mortal life is possible, achievable. Perhaps not perpetual bliss, but certainly repeated blissful moments. I’m not talking about happiness, enjoyment, pleasure, or even joy. But bliss: a state of utter contentment and peace. I have been challenged in this ideal by those who I most hoped would believe along with me. Admittedly, bliss does not describe my normal state of being, or anyone’s, perhaps. In this poem, however, I declare the possibility of bliss and my determined intention to pursue bliss until I find bliss. I hope that you believe in bliss.
BLISS
You told me one day what
you believed bliss to be:
a sham, a ruse, a vanity,
a thing we chase
from dawn till dusk,
and dream dark dreams about,
and never find and never will.
But I am loath to think it
so. I will look
from my head to the long horizon.
I will search
every path and non-path.
For bliss exists and is mine to be,
not to capture but to free.
Then, I will beckon and waive
and say “come!” and “be with me!”
In that morning we will
walk every path and non-path,
touch every icy mountain peak,
warm to every ray the sun sends,
drink in raindrops and waterfalls,
and touch sea and sky and moon and skin.
On an evening we shall die
and know the soil and the seed,
and give life to grass and flower
and fruit of the tree.
We will see.
(Photo by Elizabeth Mills)
Having lived twice in Brazil (including the occasion of my birth), I have come to adore Brazilian music. Though Brazil boasts many greats, like folk artist Dorival Caymmi and bossa nova pioneer Carlos Antonio Jobim, my favorite Brazilian vocalist is Ceumar. This lovely woman’s lovely name means Sky and Sea. Smitten by her silky, perfect voice, and inspired by her versatile repertoire, I wrote her this poem.
CEUMAR
Ceumar:
where ocean touches sky,
blue on blue,
often tender, assuaging,
at times roiling and violent
and black,
where the boundary
always is unclear,
where always I hear
music: of earth, of water,
of heaven.
I messaged this poem to Ceumar through Facebook, and she responded with grace and appreciation.
My favorite of all Ceumar’s songs is “Jabuticaba Madura”, which she composed herself and sings solo while playing acoustic guitar. (You can watch her on You Tube.) In the song, Ceumar compares the small, brown Jabuticaba fruit to a lover’s eyes. Here is my rough translation of the lyrics. (I apologize for the loss of nuance and rhyme.)
Ripe Jabuticaba fruit,
not yet fallen underfoot,
hovers shining in the tree,
giving me the desire
to know what it is.
Thus are your eyes.
Who can resist
discovering their dark secret.
Let me be that woman.
Let me climb up to you.
Let me choose you.
Let me taste your sweetness.
Let me lose myself in you.
Blackberry, plum, guava,
mango, breadfruit:
none can compare.
Let me give you a small, dark piece
of the fruit of my heart.
In her music, Ceumar combines quintessential Brazilian sounds and rhythms with the instruments and styles of their European and African roots, including the clarinet, mandolin, accordion, and violin. Her repertoire avoids shallow pop in favor of mature, deep, moving, and fun music and lyrics. In my opinion, Ceumar is a genius of Brazilian folk and popular music and culture. And her voice is nothing short of heavenly.
Stansbury Mountain Range, Tooele County, Utah
During a quiet moment I found myself contemplating the nature of miracles. A miracle is often defined as a phenomenon that cannot be explained by the known laws of nature, and often carries a religious or spiritual aspect. To me, a miracle is anything truly joyous and beautiful, like love, acceptance, natural beauty, a smile. These miracles raise our countenance above the cruelty and disappointment of our mortal existence.
Inspired by my daughter, Erin (23), I keep a daily miracle journal. At the end of each day, sitting bedside, I search the day for miracles and jot them down. Hyrum’s cello recital. Hannah’s painting. Brian’s blog post. Laura’s straight As. Erin’s love. Caleb’s 15 points in a basketball game. John’s V6 bouldering problem. Smiles. Kindness. Laughter. Sunsets. Waves crashing on sand. Birds and butterflies. A peaceful sleep. Forgiveness.
I wrote this poem to convey, through images, what a miracle is to me. I encourage you to examine your life for the miracles that are surely there, every day. Seek them, and you will find them, and be transformed by them.
MIRACLE
the small
the hidden
the barely seen
what brings joy
what stretches
what teaches
a brush with the senses
an immersion
a whisper
relief
healing
denouement
my desire to forgive
my yearning to touch another
my love
your forgiveness
your reaching toward
your love
a butterfly’s artwork wings
a bird’s song
a giggling brook
fog hovering pink under sunrise
antlers, alert, twisting above brush
owl’s soundless flight
your whisper
your touch
unconditional
Over the years I have made a habit of picking up nails, screws, bolts, and other sharp metal bits from the streets and gutters as I walk during my lunch break. I like to think that if I pick up this one nail, I will save someone the trouble of a punctured car tire. I hope that, in turn, the driver is spared the cascade of negative emotions that might otherwise radiate out into his world. None the wiser for being saved this trouble, I hope that the driver will be more inclined toward kindness and gentleness. The pictured jar is full of the nails and screws I have picked up on my walks. I am filling a second jar.
As an assistant scoutmaster for a Boy Scout National Jamboree troop, both in 2013 and 2017, my Council contingent leader, Craig, gave me and the other scoutmasters a Jamboree medallion. He challenged us to carry it in out pocket every day to remind us of the Scout Slogan: Do a Good Turn Daily. Putting the coin in my pocket each morning starts the challenge. Feeling the coin in my pocket all day long is my constant reminder to be kind. Retiring it at night gives me the opportunity for reflection upon my deeds and the state of my heart. Even if it was just a smile, I have done my good turn. I resolutely believe that a simple smile, or a picked up nail, can improve our world. I hope you enjoy this poem. Pick up a nail today.
I PICKED UP A NAIL
I picked up a nail
from the street I walked upon,
and changed the world:
a tire will remain inflated;
a vehicle will stay true to its course;
a curse will remain unuttered;
a hand will find restraint;
a smile will grace one’s face;
a prayer, at day’s end, will still ascend;
a heart will incline to humble gratitude;
a child will feel the gentleness of a father’s forehead kiss;
a child will hear the soft tones of a mother’s good-night wish.
I always pick up nails
from the streets I walk upon.
Me at the 2013 Jamboree.
Prayer Rock by Laura Baker
Prayer has never come easy for me. I avoid it, put it off, wander in my thoughts, cut it short. Yet, I pray every day, because I have been told to, all my life. It’s what I should do, they said. I also pray because I want to believe that someone is listening and caring and responding. But really I pray because I cannot deny a subtle, loving presence that abides and sustains when I am prayerful. Prayerful through formal kneeling prayers as well as daily mindfulness.
For a family activity, we had each child choose a special rock from our faux riverbed, a rock to paint. Laura (now 20) painted this rock when she was a young girl. She gave it to me: a present for dad. I keep it on my nightstand where I see it every morning and every night. I call it my prayer rock. I reminds me to bend my knee and bow my head, in humility, in gratitude, in desperate supplication, in recognition of the divine.
I offer to you two short poems on prayer. Fitful, imperfect, but sincere prayer.
YES, I PRAY
Do you pray morning and night? they asked.
I wondered, Do I?
I pray all the day long.
My life is a prayer.
Living is a prayer–
a sacred expression of dreams, frustrations, loves, and straining efforts;
a reaching out to the One who can reveal the mysteries hidden deep within;
a cry of faith and despair, of struggle and the hope of victory;
an ever truer reconciliation of heaven and earth.
Yes, I pray.
ENDURING
Father–
I am here, and
I am listening.
Elizabeth recently sent to me a special crucifix, carved from olive wood, that she called her holding cross. Anne, wife of Father Chris, had gifted the cross to Elizabeth during a difficult period of Elizabeth’s life. “For when there are no words,” Anne had said. Elizabeth kept her holding cross close day and night, grasping it as she slept, toting it in her purse, carrying it as she walked along the beach, feeling it in her pocket. Knowing that I, too, was passing through a challenging time of loss and loneliness, Elizabeth gifted her cross to me. She sacrificed something holy and dear to her so that I might find comfort in the cross, as had she. How I appreciate her gift, which arrived the day after Christmas.
Since receiving Elizabeth’s holding cross, now my holding cross, I have often sat in contemplation of its features, simple and beautiful. I have thought of the wounds of Christ, the pain he suffered on our behalf, the love he beams to each of us, the dreadful certainty of his death, and the certain hope of his resurrection. Though often a trying exercise, I labor to trust in him to mentor me in each moment, to show me the ways of patience and generosity, to coach me at kindness and compassion. Turning the holding cross over and over in my fingers, staring at it in my palms, the words of this poem began to flow and form. It is my hope that this poem inspires hope within all who read it.
A CROSS TO HOLD
These two arms, outstretched,
fit the curving
space between my fingers
as I caress, hold tight, caress.
Those hands, two,
at the end
brought tears, and blood,
that I make my own
through kindness.
The head inclines
to me, to all
the world, the masses.
I wonder at the mystery,
joy in the simplicity.
The feet: his feet: my feet:
wandering purposefully through
time and tide;
standing firm through all;
footprints to follow.
Olive wood glistening
from the oils and sweat
of your hands, of my hands,
from lips’ kisses;
polished with beeswax,
scented with lemon oil:
smooth; soft;
shining.
Hope,
in my hands,
holding.
In August 2015 I took Hannah (9) to the shore of the Great Salt Lake. We stepped onto the dry salt-crusted sand, rough and hard on our bare feet. The water seemed miles away. As we walked toward the enormous salt water lake, the fine sand became progressively more moist and soft, yielding to our feet with small wet depressions. A calm day, the water reflected the sky. Coming to the edge of the glistening water, we ventured in, walking a hundred yards out but barely wading up to our ankles. Walking a path parallel to us was a tall, slender woman in a pastel red dress. As Hannah and I played in the sand and water, my mind wandered momentarily into imagination about the beautiful woman. This poem finds its genesis in the moments before catching myself in my fantasy and pulling myself back to reality. Having come to my senses, I still felt a twinge of longing after she had gone.
A VISIT TO SALTAIR
You stepped out,
ahead of me,
onto the sand,
hard and salt-crusted,
a pastel-red floral dress
draped from bare shoulders
to delicate ankles,
the water still half-a-mile
distant, it seemed,
and I ventured, nearby.
You delighted
in the softening sand,
scrunching your toes and turning
slow pirouettes in the lake
breeze, uninhibited.
You lifted the hem above
your knees to wade and frolic
in water, shallow still
for a hundred yards or more,
lapping at your legs.
A low sand bar separated us.
“Did you know
the Great Salt Lake
is 25% salt? The oceans
are only 5%. Nothing lives
in this lake. Except
tiny brine shrimp, trillions of them,
harmless little creatures
swimming with frilled gills,
some orange, some yellow, some rusty red.
See? They’re all around us.”
I wanted to say all this,
and more.
As you turned back
toward land, my heart filled
with shameless longing.
I wanted to splash
my clumsy feet in the water
with your long slender feet,
hold your salt-white hand,
listen to you talk about your dreams
for the future, release
your pastel red dress,
make gentle love on the sand—
if you wanted me—
and come back and back to this place,
forever.
But you are half the distance
to the parking lot,
looking small, smaller,
pastel red fading,
and while the glow yet lingers,
you are too soon
nowhere.
The name Saltair references a lakeside resort that reached its heyday in the early 20th century. My grandmother Dora told me of taking the train to Saltair with her friends to enjoy a day in the buoyant water. Fire ravaged the resort, and only one meager building remains to remind of the resort’s former glory. Few visit anymore, except those who want to walk out onto the salty sand to wade into the shallow water.
I watched a battered Tiger Swallowtail fly awkwardly from flower to flower, clinging precariously from its remaining feet, its tails cracked and broken. How sad, I thought, that this usually stunning butterfly has lost its beauty. Only later did it occur to me that the swallowtail had lost nothing of real beauty. It lived on, though battered by storms, by would-be predators. What it had lost in glamour it had gained in strength and nobility. And it still commanded the air. It still indulged in the sweetness of life. This poem celebrates the swallowtail.
FLY
Today you limp
on air:
wings faded,
edges serrated,
tails broken off.
Still, flowers
beckon
you to push awkwardly on,
to cling with three barbed feet.
Uncurl your coil
to taste the sweetness
of the flowers
today.
Sitting on the shore of Bear Lake watching my boy scout troop, including my own sons, swimming and canoeing, I grew contemplative about the nature of water and the currents of my life. The boys laughed and squealed as they frolicked in the cold lake. They were clearly enjoying scout camp at Bear Lake Aquatics Base.
The scene caused me to remember my own scouting days canoeing down the rapids of the Delaware River, across the lakes of New York’s Adirondack mountains, and over placid colonial New Jersey canals fishing for catfish. This poem began to take shape as I continued to watch the water and happy boys so clearly enjoying it. Good for you, I thought.
The river of my life continues to flow, with strange twists and turns, and not a few eddies and submerged snags. But I paddle on.
IN MY VEINS
This water does not seem to move,
rather sleeps contentedly,
still, glistening the yellow sun.
Trees on each bank reach
skyward and riverward,
into air and water.
This river slumbers except
where my canoe prow tickles
up a wake and green sides
send slow ripples
that lazily lap the banks.
I do no injury.
If I slow my canoe, if
I drop my paddle and stop,
leave no trace,
I see:
the boat still advances
in quiet current
past the bank-bound trees.
The river does not sleep,
I see:
it creeps forward
inexorably, taking me
from whence to where,
from then to what will be.
I am part of the river.
My childhood passed a stone
upstream, a green-speckled hegemon
lording from the bank,
aged with orange and black lichens.
The river’s mouth, yawning to the eternal
ocean, will swallow me some day, draw me
into swirl and flow forever.
Here, today, the river is
the liquid in my veins.
I seek neither headwaters nor sea:
they were and will be, and always are.
Here is where I am.
Kingfisher knows this,
watching me from arching bow.
Great Blue Heron knows this,
winging downstream
to a place where I am not
yet. River knows this, too,
expiring in oceans even
while birthing from melting snows.
The river is always
awake, every part of it:
River knows.
Rock knows.
Tree knows.
Only,
I am slow to see.
Sky knows.
Earth knows.
Wind knows and whispers
to me across the water.
Only,
I am slow to hear.
Wandering and sand and rock trails of southern Utah’s desert gems, I have often wondered about the ancient peoples who made the inhospitable terrain their home, and have admired the dedicated labor that were required to survive. Snow Canyon state park, near St. George Utah, and Valley of Fire state park in northern Nevada, are two of my favorite places. The beauty of each place–carved by wind, rain, sand, and flood–causes me to marvel at indigenous ingenuity, persistence, and stamina. This poem imagines the efforts of one young American Indian woman preparing a meager meal for her family. The meal is much more than food. The meal is her life’s sacrifice.
CONSECRATION
Kernels of corn
on the metate:
yellow and red,
shriveled and dry,
hard, nearly,
as the grinding stones.
Fingers grasp the mano:
cracked skin and cracked nails
press and roll
to crack and crush
the corn, grind it
to meal, to be
mixed with water,
salt, and sage,
baked in small cakes
on searing rocks.
New corn kernels
on the metate
under the weighty stone.
Mix the meal again, with drops
of sweat, tears dripped
from her chin.
Stoke the coals.
Cook and consume
your consecration.
(Previously published in Panorama and Utah Sings, publications of the Utah State Poetry Society.)
This photograph shows my daughter Hannah, with her mother, in her pretend “Indian kitchen” in Valley of Fire state park.
Upon moving to our New Jersey home in 1971, my father spent a Saturday eradicating huge vines and stands of poison ivy from our trees and yard. He wore gloves, long pants, and a long-sleeved shirt, but the poison ivy dust and oils pierced his clothing and infiltrated his lungs. His reward for his effort was several days in the hospital with severe rashes and swelling. I learned vicariously the power of poison ivy.
I rarely encounter poison ivy in arid Utah. But I discovered lush poison ivy growth in Negro Bill Canyon, named after William Granstaff, an African-American who settled near Moab, Utah in 1877.
A 4.5-mile BLM trail follows a stream up the narrow canyon to Morning Glory Bridge, with a stunning 243-foot span. The stream gurgles out from cracks in the sandstone cliff behind the bridge.
This is a favorite hike of mine for trickling water, vividly-colored wildflowers, aromatic sage, and dense greenery set against towering patina-stained red rock cliffs, and eleven stream crossings.
And poison ivy is everywhere. The characteristic shining green in these Negro Bill Canyon photographs is yielding to the reds and yellows of fall. Beautiful, to be sure, but don’t touch.
As part of the 2013 National Boy Scout Jamboree, my troop of 36 boys gave a day of service in Hawks Nest state park, West Virginia. We cleared and improved park trails under dense hardwood canopies and abundant poison ivy bushes, grape vines, and ripe-fruited raspberry and blackberry bushes.
After being away from eastern forests for so long, I thrilled to be walking through the forest again, and was even glad to see the poison ivy, thus prompting this poem. Can you guess why I described poison ivy as being faithful or a friend? Leave a comment if you have an idea.
HAWKS NEST
Hello, poison ivy, my faithful friend.
I have missed your glistening green.
My respect is rooted in recollection.
Vines—wild grape—thick
as a strong man’s arm,
chuckle at gravity,
entwine in tulip poplar tops.
Red oak leaves
large as elephants ears
shade me.
At a recent Thanksgiving Day after-dinner gathering of my extended family, my father expressed his tender feelings for my mother. With tears in his eyes and voice tight with emotion, he told of gazing at her as she lay sleeping one morning, the suns rays streaming through the window, and feeling that he loved her with all his heart. That is as it should be, I thought, and wrote this poem.
MORNING
Warm sun in winter
hurtles white-capped
peaks and rushes through
wide windows
to halt and hover
over a head of tousled white
hair, aged, peaceful
upon her pillow.
During a separation some years ago, I often wondered if life were worth living. I was not suicidal, but I lacked a desire to live. Lying in my bed in the dark of night, I would whisper to the ceiling, to the universe, Give me a reason to live. Of course, there are many reasons to go on living in spite of our physical, emotional, and spiritual suffering. Listing them is an easy exercise. But in suffering’s crucible these reasons can be hard to discern, let alone appreciate. In this poem I identify a few reasons that just merely hoping for gave me an ounce of strength to go on living and caring, to arise with each new day, during a lonely and unhappy time.
SING TO ME
Give
me a reason
to live.
Smile at me softly.
Sing me a melody.
Touch your lips to mine.
Receive my song.
Condescend.
Give
me a reason
to live.
(I took the above photograph of a Milbert’s Tortoise Shell in September 2015 at Butterfly Lake in Utah’s High Uinta Mountains.)
Some of us wait silently to be loved, wait expectantly for our needs to be met. Others of us demand to be loved with stomping feet and a sharp tongue. The fortunate among us have learned to express their needs in ways that the listener understands, respects, and responds. We are all different in how we approach life and love, yet we all want and deserve love. My hope is that, rather than waiting for love or demanding love, we will learn to seek love in healthy, positive ways. Beyond this, my prayer is that we will first offer love and kindness to others, thus inviting love and kindness to come back to us.
This poem personalizes one seemingly ill-fated approach to finding love. What do you think the poem’s speaker could have done differently? Should the speaker have done anything differently? Was the speaker’s approach unreasonable? Consider posting your answer in the comment section below.
I WAITED FOR YOU
I waited for you:
Waited for you to come to me.
But you did not.
I waited for you
Like the crimson clouds after the tired sun drops behind the mountains.
When you came to me at last,
I had faded and gone.
I waited for you:
Waited for you to touch me.
But you did not.
I waited for you
Like a dry, dusty leaf under a charcoal sky when the soothing rain won’t fall.
When you reached for me at last,
I had withered and gone.
I waited for you:
Waited for you to smile at me.
But you did not.
I waited for you
Like a famished infant yearning to suck from her mother’s ripe, fragrant breast.
When you smiled at me at last,
I had drifted and gone.
On summer evenings as the desert heat dissipated, we would open all the windows in the house to let in the fresh, cool air. As I sat on the porch, or weeded in the garden, or fed the hens, the sounds of Erin’s violin would pour gently from her window, hovering above the quiet countryside. Her music was like the smell of perfume from a Purple Robe Locust, or the flash of blue from a Western Bluebird, or the taste of ripe mango. I haven’t heard Erin play her violin for several years due to her being away at university and missionary service. But I can still hear the music in my memory and feel the soothing sensation of my mind and body loosening their many knots. I miss her playing. I miss her. This poem brings Erin and her music back to me.
VIOLIN
Notes dance through the window:
cheerful young notes
tip-toeing prettily upon the air,
swirling soft, slow pirouettes above
Fall sunset’s deep-green grass;
a blanketing balm
come to rest upon
a tired brow,
a twitching muscle,
an anxious heart.
Youthful hand and hopeful heart
send the bow searching the strings,
like a songbird upon the breeze,
like a breeze along the tree branch,
like tree roots through the earth.
Cleanse me.
Lift me.
Bring me through.
More than any other child, Caleb’s bicycle tires always seems to go flat. I would patch an inner tube one hour and have it be flat the next. Those awful three-pronged “goat-head” stickers were his bane. Caleb was too young to patch his own inner tubes, so he was constantly asking me to do so. “Dad,” he would ask, “can you fix my bike?” I grew weary of his frequent requests, and often put him off. Each time I avoided the task, however, I could see the disappointment in his eyes and hear it in his voice: “OK, Dad.” I would come around eventually, but my delinquency deprived him of many days of happy riding. When I began to realize what I was doing to him, and to our father-son relationship, I started patching his tires more quickly, began to teach him to patch his own tires, and wrote this poem as a reminder to myself to exercise patience and love with my children. (Note: each stanza diminishes by one line in length, symbolizing Caleb’s diminished faith in his father.)
NOT TODAY
On Saturday Caleb said, “Hey, Dad!
I ran over a sticker,
and my bike tire’s flat,
so I can’t ride my bike.
Can you patch it for me today?”
Dad sighed and then replied,
“Not today, son, can’t you see?
I’ve far too much work to do.
Maybe tomorrow.”
And Caleb said, “Thanks, Dad.”
On Sunday Caleb said, “Hey, Dad!
My tire’s still flat,
so I can’t ride my bike.
Can you fix it for me today, please?”
Dad sighed and then replied,
“Not today, son, don’t you know?
On the Sabbath day I cannot do such work.
Tomorrow would be a much better day.”
And Caleb said, “Thanks, Dad.”
On Monday Caleb said, “Hey, Dad.
I still can’t ride my bike at all.
Please, can you fix it, maybe, today?”
Dad sighed and then replied,
“Not today, son, I’m all tuckered out;
I’ve worked so hard all day.
Maybe tomorrow, or next week, sometime.”
And Caleb said, “OK, Dad.”
On Tuesday Caleb said, “Hey, Dad.
I’d really like to ride my bike.
Could you help me, sometime, fix my tire?”
Dad sighed and then replied,
“Goodness gracious, son, how you pester me so.
I told you I’d do it sometime. Not today.”
And Caleb said, “OK, Dad.”
On Wednesday Caleb said, “Hey, Dad.
Today’s probably not a good day, huh?”
Dad sighed and then replied,
“I’m afraid you are right, son, not today.
Today is definitely not a good day.”
And Caleb said, “OK Dad.”
On Thursday Caleb said, “Hey, Dad.
Do you think, maybe, tomorrow?”
Dad sighed and then replied,
“Sure thing, son—maybe tomorrow.”
And Caleb said, “OK, Dad.”
On Friday Caleb said, “Hey, Dad.
Tomorrow’s Saturday, right?”
Dad replied, “Last time I checked.”
And Caleb said, “OK.”
On Saturday Caleb said, “Hey, Dad.”
And Dad replied, “Hey, Son.”
And Caleb walked away.
I listened, straining to understand, as the young man struggled through a severe speech impediment to deliver his brief address from the pulpit. Sitting in my regular church pew, I admired his courage. Would I have the courage, I wondered, to face a congregation and speak, knowing that I could not speak clearly? The strength of his conviction carried through even if the words of his message were garbled. Later, staring at the night ceiling, I imagined him reciting Psalm 23, feeling his vale of sorrow, and taking comfort in his strength, his comforter, his shepherd. And I imagined the response of the rapt congregation. Then I wrote Psalm 23 as he may have recited it, not in derision, but out of utmost respect for the strength of his courage and conviction.
VALES AND SHADOWS
Tha Laws ma shepr;
Ishl nawan.
He make me to ladan
in grin pasht:
He led besa sti was.
He sto mso:
He lead me in pa righchne
foris nem sek.
Yeah, though wa valla
shada de
I feena evil:
for Thar wivme;
Tha ra an tha staff
they comfme.
Tha prepa taba fome
in prence ma enmy;
Tha noin ma hea voil;
ma cup runova.
Shu good mercy
fo me all day mlife;
and I dwell nouseof Law
fever.
(loud clappings . . . happy smile . . . weepings)
Fall. It has come early. I bask in cool breezes, comforting after Summer’s heat, but knowing, also, that Winter will too soon chase its way in. This mountain between Middle Canyon and Pine Canyon in the Oquirrh range of the Rockies sports the yellow leaves of Quaking Aspen trees, the reds of Gambel Oaks, and the evergreen Junipers, Pines, and Spruces. I snapped this picture from the roof of City Hall, knowing I might need forgiveness after failing to ask permission–I just couldn’t resist. Note the white “T” plastered on the mountain, for Tooele (too-i’-la) high school.
FALL
Fall has become
in my advancing years
a sweet season
sending forth
a settling sense
of things slowing down
preparing to rest
under white blankets
that warm and moisten
against year’s end.
Nights are cool
and days are sunny and cool.
Rows of dry corn
sheaves rasp each other
in the evening air.
Geese wave
a noisy farewell
overhead on their way away.
Greens melt
to candy yellows and reds
smelling earthy sweet
drifting down to become
the richness in the soil
where sleeping segos and tapertips
wait for Spring.
Several years ago I joined an expedition of older boy scouts, including my son, Brian, for a winter campout between the Christmas and New Year holidays. At the top of Settlement Canyon, we spread insulating straw over the snow-covered tent sites, then shoveled out a foot of snow around the edge of the tents so we could sink the steel tent stakes in the hard ground. I grew restless after eating my tin-foil dinner and visiting with the others for an hour or so, and set off for a winter walk. Though the sun had long set, the moon and stars shown through the leafless Gambel Oaks and Mountain Maples to reflect brightly on the white snow. The utter beauty of my surroundings suddenly washed over me transcendently. Later in the night, in my tent, bundled up against near zero-degree weather, I turned on my headlamp and scratched out this poem.
BROWN OAK LEAF
A brown oak leaf
dangles from a stray gossamer string,
spinning like a winter whirligig,
reaching down to her sisters,
intercepted in her journey
to the resting place of all deciduous foliate life.
The cool air caresses the brown oak leaf
with the sweet fragrance of powder-green sage
and the sweet fragrance of the fallen-leaf loam
that rests, decomposing,
yielding to the hard earth
its fertile essence
to bless Spring’s
purple taper tip onion,
elegant sego lily, and
infant leafy-green canopy.
The dry leaf’s mother oak,
dressed in velvety orange-green lichens,
clings with tangled roots,
like the tentacles of ten octopi,
sinking their tendril tips into the high stream bank.
She joins her bare branches
to a thousand denuded tree tops,
waving randomly like
the up-stretched arms of
so many entranced worshippers
flexing toward their god.
(“Brown Oak Leaf” was previously published in the Summer 2007 edition of Avocet: A Journal of Nature Poems.)
I sometimes walk the neighborhoods near city hall during the lunch hour, trying to calm my mind from the troubles of the office. On one such walk I beheld, on the ground, a beautiful maple leaf in the process of transforming from Summer’s green to Fall’s crimson hues. I regarded her as the quintessence of natural beauty, and could not resist both scooping her up and writing this poem.
MAPLE LEAF
A leaf,
a many-pointed Maple,
demanded
that I look down
and see her,
her splashes of swirling colors,
laying with feigned humility
on a bed of matted elms,
paper-bag-brown.
She lay unspeaking,
satisfied to be admired,
to not be drab,
satisfied that I was tempted
to stoop and handle her,
satisfied with my sighs.
I could not walk away
and not take her with me.
(I did not have a camera with me as I walked, but the maple leaf pictured above is an acceptable substitute, found during a walk in Ophir Canyon.)
Rabbit Lane 