Borrowing and lending

 Sources

Growing up in

a village not big 

enough for an inc.,

a mere 1500 souls

until summer when

the city folks arrived,

my family and another

with the IGA store,

fresh produce,

can prices marked

with a black grease pencil,

and an honest to god 

butcher counter.

No ATM’s then,

so we were sometimes 

a bank for the locals,

let them borrow five bucks 

until payday.

I lent a hand everywhere

in that store,

and my folks said I should

work with the butcher,

learn to cut and chop and grind,

so I could pay my way

without borrowing 

when college time arrived,

but I couldn’t embrace the blood.

Instead, I shared my food skills 

making potato salads and

baked beans and cole slaw,

sometimes a mixed vegetable dish.

Served me well as an adult,

growing gardens, canning, freezing,

drying, no blood involved.

Somehow got through college.

Don’t owe anyone anything now.

Well, there’s the mortgage, and 

the car payment, but 

I’m still cooking just fine.

Exit

 Sitting

When one can not

find an exit in the fog,

one might pause,

sit a bit in meditation,

in quiet contemplation,

to discover a singularity,

the present moment’s clarity,

or maybe just because.

To survive the fog,

one must be willing,

like a blind dog,

trusting itself, running

headlong into the mist,

accepting whatever comes,

including this,

the brilliant phosphorescence

of a new way to see the world.

To escape the pea soup

of not knowing,

one could make room for everything,

the invisible, the showing,

joy, grief, 

misery, relief.

As a spider weaving a web,

starting from nothing,

grasping the difference

between action

and accomplishment.

My hometown

 Homegrown 

I was born In Milwaukee, Wis,

but, brother let me tell you this,

every piece of growth I’d make

was fostered near Okauchee Lake.

There were elm trees then,

before the disease,

and for the first ten years,

it was a life of peace and ease.

They still do fish fry

on Friday nights,

make Old Fashioned’s,

dim the lights,

but now it’s not perch,

mostly frozen cod,

too many potato choices,

and yes, by God,

they also serve- and this 

should be against the law,

healthy salads instead of

that creamy cole slaw.

Sundays were church and a picnic,

folks needing a breather,

but no picnics during the winter,

and sometimes, not the church part either.

The elm trees are gone now,

but even so,

there are others we planted before

we knew the elms would go.

No one talked about social issues,

I guess for that time it was all right,

racism was not yet a topic, 

the neighbors were, of course, all white.

We were worried about the Russkies,

some built shelters underground,

but as far as I know,

no Red Scare was ever found.

We had other things to fear,

like polio and iron lungs and braces,

or the drunken dentist or smoking doctor,

mumbling, blowing smoke into our faces.

The lake had its mysteries,

ate a person or two every year,

but we all learned to swim early on,

so we had nothing to fear.

That lake was everything to us,

source of fun and food,

a place of joyful recreation,

nothing about it that wasn’t greater than good.

For my first ten years there,

it was all smiles, never a frown.

To this day, decades on, I remain grateful

for Okauchee, my hometown.

Ode to a comrade in words

 Fits the Bill

He’s no less than the prince of Eddy,

rose-colored compliments ever ready,

a true king of kindness, every time,

brings joy and love, come rain or shine.

If this was Yelp, he’d be five star rated,

no fellow poet more appreciated,

every comment a definitive treat,

sincere, witty, appropriate and sweet.

Colors

 Lilacs

There was a hardy row of bushes 

behind my boyhood home,

annually filled with scented lilacs,

whose colors varied from year to year.

Likely something to do with the pH 

or the changeable Wisconsin weather.

I mostly liked the light purple ones,

would cut a few for a tall glass

on the yellow formica kitchen table, 

so when my blue-veined, fragile mother 

came home from being on her feet

at our IGA grocery store,

she might smile at the gesture.

Inspired by another poet

 Here Shall My Heart Find its Haven  of Calm

Dear Friend,

I find myself thinking,

of you, me, us.

It’s a lovely, gentle thought,

leaves me with a smile.

I don’t always expect nuance from myself, 

yet once in a while, it just pops out, 

most often in a poem, 

frequently inspired by another person, 

their writing or speaking.

Someone like you.

Sometimes, when there is a strong breeze, 

it blows right through the hole in me 

that was formed by my own

unmet dreams and expectations.

Not so when I think of you.

As busy as I know you to be,

I’ll only take a minute,

just to tell you to a certainty

that the world I know is

better because you’re in it.

(Title taken from a line in “June Sunset”, by Sarojini Naidu)

Boredom

 Nothing Isn’t Boring

The hummingbird we named Rubio 

    nervously guards his feeder,

as the tuxedo cat who came to us as Max

    eats his own food way too quickly,

and, you know, I can’t imagine what I would do

     with a Mega Millions jackpot.

The current pope, Francis, seems like a nice guy.

     I bet he secretly practices the tango.

Whatever became of Fran, 

     after Kukla and Ollie passed?

I enjoy sitting in the dark with strangers, 

     watching a foreign film, thinking,

so much time available to 

     enjoy the company of oneself.