POETRY

OCTOBER 31.1993

HALLOWEEN SNOW

SNOW CAPPED PUMPKIN

SITS

LIKE A MASKED HALLOWEEN KID

A WHITE SCARF PULLED DOWN

AROUND HIS EYES AND NOSE

HIS CANDIED COLORED MOUTH OPEN

IN WIDE SUPRISE

DECEMBER 16,1995

A FISHING LINE MEMORY

WE WENT FISHING AT FLATROCK

MY COUSIN RICK, MY BROTHER GORDON, DAD,AND ME

IN THE EARLY FIFTIES,OVER FOURTY YEARS AGO

MY DAD HELPED EACH OF US ACROSS STEPPING STONES, I REMEMBER HIS REACHING HAND HELD FIRM

THERE WAS ALWAYS ALCOHOL.

I RECALL IF I DID NOT CATCH A FISH I FELT GOD WAS PUNISHING ME, AND IF OTHERS CAUGHT FISH, HE LIKED THEM BETTER THAN HE LIKED ME.

ONCE I CAUGHT A HUGE CATFISH AND FELT SO PROUD. WALKING ALONG THE ELLWOOD NEW CASTLE ROAD GOING HOME ,LITTLE, I HELD THE BIG CATFISH HIGH.

ANCIENT NAMES AND DATES WERE CARVED AND CHISLED INTO THE CONQUENESSING SANDSTONE. WE WONDERED WHO AND THOUGHT OF THE DAY WHEN WE WOULD ETCH OUR NAMES.

ANXIOUS WE WERE TO FISH, TO HAVE OUR LINES IN, TO WAIT. BUT MY GREATEST FEAR WAS SNAGS. A LINE HOOKED IN THE NEAR SHALLOWS OR THE LITTLE FARTHER DEPTHS.

AND WITH THE SNAG THE BROKEN LINE. I COULD NOT TIE A FISHERMAN'S KNOT LIKE MY DAD SO FAST AND SIMPLE HIS ANGER CAME. THE WORDS DUMMY,SLOW,STUPID,A SLAP SURFACED.

I NEVER LEARNED TO TIE A FISHERMAN'S KNOT. MY KNOTS WERE AWKWARD THIN LINES, NERVOUSLY TWISTED AND TURNED THICK; THE KIND THAT NEVER CATCH FISH.

DECEMBER APPLES

ON ANCHORTOWN ROAD
YELLOW DELICIOUS APPLES
CLING TO DARK BRANCHES
SOME BRIGHT AND GOLD
OTHERS SPOTTED BROWN
ODDLY HANGING
IN THE SHORTENING DAYS
LONG PAST THE EQUINOX
CLOSER TO THE WINTER SOLISTICE
THESE DEFORMED ORBS
LONG PAST APPLE RIPE
SEEM TO SAY
BY DAY AND NIGHT
FROST AND SUN
"WE FALL LIKE APPLE STARS
AND LIE BRUISED AND OPEN UPON THE GROUND"
THESE GOLDEN ORBS LONG PAST THE FARMER'S HAND
CLING
LIKE MY MOTHERS ARTHRITIC AGED HANDS TO MINE.

1957
STEADY SUMMER 8 TO 4 SHIFT AT CALGON
AND AFTER WORK A BLUEBERRY POPSYCLE
FOR HIS DAUGHTER GROWING UP
SHE CRIED DAILY FOR THE SUMMER POPSYCLES
AND MY UNCLE BOB WAS FAITHFUL.
1995
SUFFERING THROUGH YEARS OF HIV
AND NOW FULL BLOWN AIDS
TO PAINFUL TO SIT,TO LIE
TO WEAK TO EAT,TO DRINK
MY UNCLE HELD POPSYCLES TO HER LIPS
DRY,BROKEN SORES,CRACKED,LIKE THIN LINES.
EVERYDAY FATIHFUL, BLUEBERRY SWEETNESS
HE HELD TO HER LIPS, AND NOW HE CRIED.
JANUARY,1999
CLEANING THE BASEMENT REFRIGERATOR
MY UNCLE FOUND  FLAT WOODEN POPSYCLES STICKS.
SAVED SPLINTERS OF MEMORY HE COULD NOT LET GO.
HE BURNED THEM OUT BACK TODAY.
HE DID NOT TELL HIS WIFE
OF THIS COLD BLUEBERRY MEMORY
THAT STINGS AND BURNS.

written in early winter 1967 on the tracks below Moltrup Steel

"A  LONGING"

LAST NIGHT I WALKED ALONE ALONG THE RIVER TRACKS

WITH MANY THOUGHTS ABOUT A WORLD THAT WOULD NOT LAST

OF HILLSIDES GREEN

NOW COATED BLACK

OF STARS THAT SPARKLED LAST NIGHT

ARE NOT BACK

AND GRAY CLOUDS LIE BENEATH THE SKY

THE GOLDEN MOON WILL NOT RISE

AND SOUNDS OF THE MURMURING STREAM

NO LONGER HEARD OVER ROCKS UNSEEN

AND WHISPERING WIND

THAT RUSHES THROUGH GRASS

NOT EVER SHALL I REGAIN THE PAST.

Written in summer of 1978, a very sad time in my life.

"Lilacs"

The abandon Erie Railroad line in Washingtonville, Ohio, sits waiting,

rails rust brown with ties and tracks overgrown and untrampled.

For over a decade, no trains

Lilac bushes grow on the nothern of the railroad section.

One beautiful night the lilacs will come white and blue

and fall

heavy with rain, dew, the stars, and scented time

and touch the waitng steel rails.

HOMEPAGE