Gone Too Soon

Just to the left of love and longing,
that’s where you’ll find
the path to the rainbow bridge,
and, if you cross over,
cast an oblique glance to your right,
you might catch a glimpse of
kitty heaven.
I’ve been given that direction
in a dream,
perhaps better than any map,
though I have yet to spy our Roxie,
who left us all too soon.
I plan to keep looking,
accepting sadness for little while,
holding fast to hope.

A Texting Poem

EZ


Hearing from you,
no matter the item,
way better for me
than LQTM.
Whatever your thoughts,
share them with me,
in person, by text,
2G2BT.
Can’t say it in person,
I beg you, be mine,
too hard to say it
out loud, but 459.
We’ll share our plans,
see what we’ll see,
maybe some fun,
perhaps BTD.
I’m signing off now,
lest I get sappy,
but keep it in mind,
DWBH.

Just Beneath

Just Beneath Our Busy Lives


wondrous things await,
lesser ones as well,
visible to the open eye, the willing heart,
not hiding at all, if we choose.
Just beneath that stop for groceries,
a chance to make someone’s day,
to thank that clerk, mention their name,
grateful for their work, letting them know.
Just beneath that amber light,
a chance to slow, to pause,
making it a smile moment,
letting go the held breath, the tension,
every moment a choice.
Just beneath that daily chore,
a chance to notice large small things,
that shining plate, sparkling floor,
the dust-free shelf, your happy child.
Just beneath that illness,
a chance to heal, to rest,
to think about what’s coming,
in this life and the next,
a chance to choose to be here now,
present moment, wonderful moment.

Moonshine

There are no elm trees
on Elm Avenue anymore,
but so many grew
to the sky’s lower shelf
when I was a boy, yet new,
in awe of everything.
The lake was a wonder,
a playground without toys,
and, oh, the hours we spent,
and, oh, the heartfelt joys.
The farms were near,
their barns inviting,
the smells as intoxicating
as moonshine.
The woods called out,
come roam and hide,
treasures to be found,
meandering trails to follow,
no clue to the other side.
The sky was like a book,
its pictures ever-changing,
and we, the authors, the ones
whose visions made the tales,
endings ever rearranging.
The nights were filled with sounds,
owls and crickets and kids,
the elm tree canopy along our road
a full moon peeking through,
but mostly we were hid,
free to be, free to be.
What’s it like now, I wonder,
for the children in that home
my family built along the shore?
There are no elm trees
on Elm Avenue anymore.

Matchbooks

Gathered together,
like our family at Thanksgiving,
recalling memories, telling stories,
each a moment in our shared lives.
There must be more than a thousand,
too many really to count,
pretending to be snowflakes,
every one distinct from the other.
The shiny ones call for attention,
their embossed lettering leaping out,
not dimming the significance of
their plainer cousins, but screaming
mightily for attention.
The calmer models,
with no special filigree,
just the facts, ma’am,
of no less significance to us.
We kept them for a reason,
some times simply for an address,
a telephone number,
a note written on the inside cover,
almost never for their created purpose,
seldom to provide fire.
We’ll keep them for awhile,
even play with them, spread on
the dining room table,
remembering the times, the places,
a bit wistful, a little laughter, feeling older.
Eventually, probably when we move,
we’ll toss them, not without an argument,
but a box of matchbooks
just makes no sense in
a moving van, moving on.

Mother

If my mother had lived,
she’d be 92 today,
and who could know how
she’d see the world..
If my mother had lived,
would she be in awe,
or, like the most of us,
take what we have for granted?
If my mother had lived,
she’d have seen so many
wondrous things, like
trips to the moon and
a vaccine for polio, like
electric cars and
a black man as president, like
Dick Tracy fantasies become
Steve Jobs realities, like
Valium and artificial hearts,
both of which might have
helped her live.
But my mother did not live,
and she missed so many
other things, like
her son in Marine dress blues, and
her son beneath a college mortar board , and
her son so beautifully married, and
her son at peace in a lovely life.
Of course, she also missed
too many needless wars, and
too many hungry souls, and
too much thoughtless avarice, and
too much not being done about it all.
I am sorry that she missed it all,
even the bad, even the worst.
I am sorry, Dr, Seuss, but
I can’t smile because it happened.
It did not happen long enough.

The Chores of Childhood

It was a small town, a village really,
and everybody had their special roles.
There were six churches and with them,
six types of leaders, one called priest,
another two were pastors, three more
by name and function, ministers.
Not large enough for multiple choice,
but populated aplenty to require each service,
we had one drug counter, one hardware store,
a small post office, an eight-lane bowling alley,
Sal the barber, and the IGA grocery,
owned and run by my family.
There were also tradesmen scattered about,
working from their homes and trucks,
plumbers and electricians and such.
Also scattered throughout the streets,
most of which ended at the lake shore,
were thirty or more taverns, but
that’s a story unto itself.

I worked in that grocery, performing
most tasks, like checking and bagging,
stocking and delivery, sweeping and dusting,
marking prices on cans with black grease pencils.
I steered clear of the meat counter, though,
never trusting those knife-wielding butchers,
unable to stomach the blood, the smells.
When the summer folks arrived, mostly
rich people who did not cook,
I learned to make potato salads and cole slaw
and baked beans, a vegetarian in the making.
The wealthy did not shop, calling in their orders,
and it was for me to take them their bags of goods.
Sometimes, I broke an egg or twelve along the way,
but they never tipped, so it did not bother me much.
It always amazed me that these people
with so much gave so little.

My work did not end at that store.
A sickly mother, an often absent father,
a large yard, and the usual requirements of living
all gave me chores in slew-size.
I can’t recall if I complained back then,
but I’m grateful for it now, that work experience.
It taught how to cook, to clean, to care.
It taught me the silliness of “someone oughta”.
It gave me strength when my mother’s
sickness turned to death.
It gave me order when my father stayed absent.
It provided the way to responsibility.
It provided me with broad shoulders.
It gave meaning to that lesson about
Saint Francis of Assisi, where he was asked
while raking the garden what he would do
if he knew he would die that afternoon, and
he said he would finish raking the garden.