Timber
(In memoria to Bobby Keech)
Can you lay a big tree down, Bobby?
Hell yes, and it’ll be as gently
felled as any babe ever laid to cradle.
Can you make it
fall exactly so, Bobby?
You can set your compass to it, friend.
It’ll fall
as
straight
as any
country
road there
be.
Then have a go at it, Bobby,
but let me caution you,
trees are as unpredictable
as any woman on Earth.
Yeah. I’ll be minding that.
. . . j
from the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
Bridges
There is a
powerful, unyielding
force
buried deep
within
Men
that will not
abide
a body of water,
no matter its
depth or rush,
to separate
humanity.
. . . j
from the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
Corrected
A neighbor thanked me for a simple kindness,
restaurant takeout my diet wouldn’t allow.
So off I went, the food still fresh and hot,
to find a someone who needed sustenance
more than i.
He was young, wary, browned, and thin,
as one might expect from stranded youth.
He greeted me with a cautious smile—
measuring me, and what game I played.
I told him my tale as best I could, and mentioned
the restaurant where the meal had been prepared.
He studied me with understanding eyes and
politely corrected my pronunciation,
as he might his grandfather stumbling
over an incoherent rap song line.
He took my offering and traded his thanks.
A grin played his lips, a joggled memory perhaps.
Taken aback, I managed, “Yes, that’s the place,”
and went on my way, never too old to learn.
. . . j
from the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
Ancient Prayer of Trees
Dear Lord,
Most High Creator of
roots
trunks
bark
branches
leaves
and
fruit,
grant me but an inch of loyal dirt,
black and rich with nutrients,
a drop of cooling water,
and the gentle warmth of morning sun.
I’ll share my shade with all who linger,
and cope
(as best I can)
with rope swings,
heart carvings,
(Phil Loves Katie)
hardheaded woodpeckers,
and rickety tree houses.
One more thing:
please, please, oh please
forgive me
for bearing silent witness to
lynchings.
Amen
. . . j
from the Wonderments and Such collection
Apprenticed
I tend my garden
with memories—
Gramma, soft, shuffling,
shawled against early air,
grumbling disapproval,
scolds her reluctant roses.
Later, mimicking a
nodding sentry from
her rocking chair post
upon the porch,
teeth foundering
in a stale glass of water,
mumbles,
“Where is that worthless boy?”
. . . j
from the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
Hot Stuff
Whenever my
ego fluffs up
and
gets in the way
of
humility,
i
remember me
how little i know
of
auto mechanics,
pie crust,
algebra,
and especially
the unfathomable riddle called
Women.
Then things even out
real fast.
. . . j
from the Wonderments and Such collection
Deny It Not
We are of the sea
and of the caves,
though
time
has rinsed us clean
of these dim
memories.
Yet we still need
to splash about,
and explore dark
spaces.
Yes, we have
forgotten whence
we came,
but
our desperate thirst
for water—
our voracious appetite
for meat—
and
our hideous capacity
for violence—
abate not.
. . . j
from the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
Mr. Iffy
When an orchard whispers
“The apples will be ripe in October,”
that is God’s absolute truth
and we may put our trust therein.
But, when a man calls to say
“I'll meet you in an hour,”
that is an estimate,
and we would be wise
not to confuse the two.
. . . j
from the Wonderments and Such collection
A Morgue Experience
There is a most primitive wailing sound—
a stricken keening of utter despair—
a mother’s awful symphony
of savage tongue,
throbbing throat,
and ruined heart.
Identity must be determined.
A son? Handsome youth cut down?
A daughter? Blooming beauty snuffed?
Father, steeped in rage, refuses to go,
preferring to drink himself numb,
and lay blame at a careless God’s doorstep.
There lurks a hidden cavity,
a storage packet of sudden death,
murky beneath dark, wet streets.
An officer of Laws for the Living
escorts Mother down a dim hallway
to a large viewing window where a
teenage boy lies in state under bright lights
and hideous shroud of white sheet.
The blanched face revealed—
Sightless eyes cannot see Mother,
Stopped arms cannot hug Mother,
Silent voice cannot greet Mother,
Sealed lips cannot kiss Mother farewell.
Comes the keening.
. . . j
from the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
School of Hard Knocks
I can insert key to lock,
peel an orange,
squeeze foot to socks—
but
I didn’t earn a
Harvard Law degree,
or Stanford PhD—
I’m not a Rhodes scholar,
or Oxford Fellow—
Cal Tech Engineer,
or win Summa Cum Laude.
Lacking even a house cat’s
portion of common sense,
I’ve had the common professors,
Mr. Mistake
and Ms. Miscalculation,
suffered the lessons learned,
passed the potholes by
and taken my honors with pride
in life's hard knocks.
. . . j
