I want to share this poem before July melts its way into the history books.  It was begun in July of 2011, and two years later I've added the finishing touches.
     I was sitting in the shade on a hot, dry Sunday in July, trying to write but lulled into listening to the steady drone of my neighbor's saw.  It was a pleasant sound and as I listened I began to consider the differences in the work in which we were both engaged; the different ways we build the things we do; other definitions of work.  The resulting poem follows.

Men at Work

 

The rhythmic buzz of my neighbor's saw

eating through hardwood thick July weeks -

arid days I saturate with ink -

reinforces what I've come to know:

we are both the tools we have chosen

to create our handmade monuments.

He constructs well-crafted additions

to his home while I build line on line,

composing verse on such minutiae

as nighthawks circling my son's yard at

twilight, working on his laboring

illusion that all wings at sunset

belong, no doubt, to myth building bats.

 

 

 

 

 

     Recently, I've noticed a number of spider tents strewn across my lawn in the early morning.  They make me cringe.  I (take your pick) detest...abhor...loathe spiders.  As far as I'm concerned, there are two things to remember about spiders: 1) there is no such thing as a small spider, 2) there is absolutely no reason for spiders to exist on this earth.  I read once that spiders are so numerous that we are never more than 3 feet away from one of them.  Let that sink in and then take a good look around your present location.  I'm beginning to itch.
     So, two spider stories before today's poem.  The first concerns that childhood classic, Charlotte's Web.  One weekend when my daughter was much younger, we stumbled upon the animated version of Charlotte's Web while searching the myriad television stations for something decent to watch.  I had neither read the book nor seen the movie, so when she asked to watch it I agreed, which was no small gesture on my part given my arachnophobia.  (The things we do for our children...)  Anyway, I was actually enjoying the movie when I was taken completely by surprise by (spoiler alert) Charlotte's death.  I had grown quite fond of her and I simply sat there, stunned, with tears in my eyes.  I turned to my daughter and asked, accusingly, why she hadn't warned me of this.  Her reply?
"Dad, you hate spiders."
     To this day, I have not read the book, nor will I, and I will never watch that movie again.
     Second story.  My friend/neighbor works in a prison warehouse.  One summer day in 1985 he came to me carrying a Styrofoam cup and stating he had something he wanted me to see.  He turned the cup so I could see into it.  There was plastic wrap sealing the top of the cup.  Clinging to the wrap was a jet black spider with a red hourglass on its abdomen.  I was looking at a Black Widow Spider, which to my knowledge was not indigenous to Pennsylvania.  Strangely enough, it was at once strikingly beautiful and hideously monstrous.  I asked him where had found it.  He told me it was in a shipment of goods coming from Louisiana. 
     Who knows how many of those things are currently roaming Pennsylvania?

Black Widow

(on First Seeing a Live Black Widow Spider, 8/18/05)

 

 

That this deadliest,

sleek, terrible beauty

should be of one possessed

whose only duty

would seem draining the life from all who pass,

depends on your end of the hourglass.

 

 

Humorous aside:  After reading this poem to and discussing it and other poems with an 11th grade English class, the teacher admitted to me that she thought I was writing about a woman.  Not a bad idea.

 

 

      Today's poem is not the piece I originally wanted to post.  However, after reading my first choice for the hundredth time I found something I did not like.  Such is the life, I suppose.  I'll work on that and offer it at a later date.
     One of my favorite things to do is sit beneath the shady canopy of my large maple tree and read, write, or simply watch and listen.  The following poem came from listening.

 

 

Eavesdropping...

 

...in my yard, I hear fragments

of cardinals calling children home for night;

domino dogs barking along the length

of the alley, one by one dropping word

of some important news; two trains passing

from opposite ends of parallel tracks,

their mournful laments echoing of rain.

Trains always sound like rain,

                                                 and a flurry

of red gathers high in the tall hemlock.

A boy I don't know, walking his black lab,

turns my corner as we feel the first drops.

The kids are home.  The dogs and trains were right.

 

 



     In 1820, English writer Charles Caleb Colton penned the now often quoted (and almost as often misspoken) line "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."  At times, though, I wonder where imitated behavior first appeared; who is imitating whom?
     The following haiku - actually, double haiku - was written in 2012 after my daughter noticed  and compared two seemingly separate behaviors.  The title for the piece was obvious, at least to me.

The Sincerest Form of Flattery

 

Sara notices

birds in a frenzied panic

as rain approaches.

 

They are, she muses,

as people buying bread and

milk before snowstorms.

 



     "Out of the mouths of babes..." as the saying goes.  The following poem was inspired by my 3 year old grandson who, when looking at the quarter moon hanging brightly, said something that could come only from the innocence of children.

Perspective

(for Luke)

 

The last of the light - long faded

- reflected a crescent sky,

when a small voice spoke

that the moon was broke,

and my soul - long lost years jaded

- glimpsed hope in my grandson's why.

 

6/16 - 6/18/2013

 



     Without a doubt, the best and most satisfying part of working in public education is the relationship you form with your students through helping, mentoring and guiding them.  Of course, this does lead to certain moments of sadness when they must be on their way, but the feeling of making a difference in someone's life is worth the bittersweet.
     I believe it was in the autumn of the 2007-2008 school year when I met a freshman student who was trying to find her way in life while dealing with her own specific baggage and demons, as do we all.  We spoke more times than I can count over the next three years: many happy and encouraging moments, some sorrow filled, and yes, a few in anger.  In the end, though, it was worth every minute, as are most journeys.  I promised her a poem as a graduation present, and I kept my word.  The following piece, written in 2010, is the gift I gave her.

The Butterfly Bush

 

Autumn, after having had its way,

passed.  What had been is now echoed was.

I'd prune the butterfly bush because

cold became the color of the day.

 

Knowing what the grasp of winter does

to living things (who, if asked, would say,

"All things equal, I'd prefer to stay..."),

I'd come prepared to excise what was

 

dead or dying; standing in the way

of healthy growth - essential because

I'd seen what clinging to darkness does.

This one would welcome a better day.

 

Enough!  The past is dead; what was, was.

The weary butterfly would not say

no one had encouraged her to stay.

This I could do, and did, just because.

 

 

     "Right from Winter into Summer.  We don't have much of a Spring anymore."  Know who says that?  Just about everyone living in central and northeastern Pennsylvania.  More often than not, it's hard to disagree.  Especially when June 1st feels like any day in July, as it does today.
     This verse is part of a collection of Summer poems from 2006.  Their simple titles came from the day each was written.

Tuesday, 7/11/06

 

Hanging low in the branches of a pine,

a sun the color of tiger lilies -

more a ball of fire than ornament -

foretelling heat, humidity and haze.

The man who walks his beagle each morning

feels he must let me know: "Hot one today,"

while the dog's only concern is something

found in the grass just off the roadway's edge.