Start ‘Em Off Young

I can remember trying to catch

the screen door with my foot

before it would hit the aluminum 

frame and announce it’s having been 

opened and closed one more time.

For some reason, there was a rule 

about comings and goings and 

how many could occur.  Which, by 

the way, was never discussed 

with me.  But don’t cross the line.

“Tommy Medland, if you come in

from outside one more time today

you’ll be stuck inside the house

for the rest of the day.  You’ll not

be allowed to go out anymore.”

With the stalwart innovation of the 

explorers I read of at the age of seven, 

I thought it within the rules laid 

down that if I should need to pee 

that outside is where I should go.

And so, to the tallest of the poplars

I went.  It was the last of four that would 

die and need me to cut it down and

into pieces to burn.  I peed on it and as

the Ackers drove by, I waved to them.

And there was my one flaw.  As still today. 

In the social kindnesses expected and shown,  

with my right hand I did my business; with my 

left I acknowledge our neighbors driving by.  

Who knew they’d call?

Mixed messages.  Everywhere.  Waiting

to confound the logical constructs we

thought we knew.  Adult-speak always changing 

into something we never heard before.  

Neighbors betray us, as we wave.

It’s so treacherous to be so young!

WITH NO CARE

 Sometimes a morning poem emerges from behind the scenes you are seeing just this

moment, but has been simmering from a life; a lifetime.  Such was what I wrote this fine day:

"I give you the end of a golden string, 

Only wind it into a ball: 

It will lead you in at Heavens gate, 

Built in Jerusalems wall." Jerusalem, 

by William Blake

Without a care the deer

sauntered casually across

the backroad and ever so

gently into the woods - like 

through a door that did not

exist and was gone - all gone.

Like what I remember of the

crossing out of mid-life.  It’s

time to trace those steps and

see where I have been - where

we have been.  Pinsky of Dante 

was spot on: 

“Midway on our life's journey, 

I found myself in dark woods, 

the right road lost. To tell

About those woods is hard—so 

tangled and rough…”

Step back out my soul, onto

the road that was yours, before

you did what we must do to

live and survive amid the masses.

Find that golden thread and follow

it back to the ball wound up and

in the center of your you - in

your heart space, and weave the

blanket you will share and some

day leave to warm your wife and sons 

and all they bring into this world - both 

now and when you are gone.  It’s what

we do - we men - when we find our

road - again.  We weave; we wind and weave.

The Dandy-Lion

 

Billions have been

trodden under barefoot

toes, in just my humble

life alone.

Weed, weed decry

the masses of

suburbia.  Jealous

they can spread so

easily on just the wind.

Dandelion, oh the flower

of our youth.  When we were

yet able to forestall the

judgement that a thing could

itself be worthless through and

through.  This herald of glory 

picked by chubby hands. 

While toil we must from 

sun to sun to make a 

simple meager wage to 

tend the need of all our 

days we pass upon here

from cradle to grave.

Sacred flower picked endlessly

by the harbingers of whimsy

and delight.  Might I never lose

my infatuation with your downy

flower and bitter leaves; the purple 

in your stem ever the vein of joy. 

Arise each year, again and again,

and cause the miserable to grumble.

As If In Stone

I love the gentle viscous 

flow of the blueberry ink 

across the page with a 

squirrel tail Sumi brush.

And the staccato, grainy 

feel of the Applewood cinders 

mulled so small for the crow 

quill pen to scratch out words.

But the greatest joy comes from 

writing life with you across the 

wrinkles of our aging skin and in 

the chambers of our hearts.

As if in stone.

As if forever. 

The Taste of Morning

 he Tastes of Morning

A Pewee and a Bunting

just over there, in the high

branches of the neighbor’s

tree - just out of sight.

A sampling of words

going this way and that

down sentences that

may or may not come to be.

A chime in the wind

tinkling and gonging out

notes that lull me into more

birdsong just beyond view.

So many broken threads

line the walls of morning.

Each a possibility of Blake’s

winding ball of Jerusalem.

Perhaps Frost’s road not

taken was one of the many

tastes of morning that assail

us - each a possibility.

I’ll take these all on my

walk, and look for something

on which to dwell, before the

sun rises and I need to look busy.

First Taste

 I want to get 

back to origins. 

To the first taste 

of color on papyrus. 

Back to when berries 

hit the cave walls 

in Lascaux, waiting to

hear the squish of fruit,

the tussle and snort of 

the bison before its 

rusty pigments set. 

How long did they 

soak the walnut husks 

to make the eternal 

ink that covered so 

many scrolls and 

vellum sheaves? 

What sound did the 

words create as 

they were scrolled out 

fresh and new on 

the virgin page? That 

is the un-struck sound 

I want to know and feel. 

True poetry;

true art.

Outset

 From the outset

of the day, there

may have been

another day I would

have wanted if I 

knew how this day

would turn out.

Just sayin’.