The Elephant

The elephant, the thick-heavy
Wrinkle, shows no movement.  He
Sits in the room like a defendant.
Like boots put in a box, he may
Never walk again.

I’d like to read, or watch TV, but
Everywhere is his—the crushed
Sofa, the love seat.  There’s
No place to be!  Busily,
We make the elephant a pet.

Busily, busily we ignore.  So,
He remains.  Once,
I reach around him.  Twice,
You try to find me and (I know)
There’s almost-absolutely-no-one

There.  The ghost of your shadow
Tells me to not worry the gray beast;
To not even think of mice, or
Make a move that might disrupt
The elephanty-peace.  But

He has no memory of us.  And
We so readily forget: the animal
For whom we step with
Lightest tiptoe tramples us
beneath ENORMOUS feet.

Catch Again

I’m ready.  Toss the ball.
Grounders.  Pop-up.
WATCH OUT
FOR THE BABY!

Whoa!  Nice one!
Good arm!  That
knocked the dust
off my mitt!

Whoops, crazy hop!
Hey, switch sides,
I’ve got sunglasses.
Get your glove up.

You throw what
I throw.  Now I’ll
do a jump catch.
That’s too high!

Dad, watch this…
TRICKED YA!
You didn’t even know
I had a tennis ball.

Suppertime?!  Just
one more—I mean
one of each—grounders,
pop-up, fastball.

Do we have to go in?
Okay.  Hey, Dad?
When can we play
catch again?

Pacifier At Night

You wake in the night and sit there.
You can’t make it better
because you know
you’ve lost it.  You need help, so

you weep and wait.  By and by,
hands fumble through sheets
until they locate the hidden
place it came to rest.

Those same hands find you,
find your face, your
lips…okay, there you go.  Now,
lay your sleepy head on the pillow.

Winter Walk

The silver paths beneath me rise, they brighten and sustain;
and I, with measured stride, rejoin their whited old refrain.

The snows—like fairest company—this night, are come to call
till every stone and every tree are heartened by their fall;

till, luminous, the moon alights the way upon the row;
till I, by soft reflection, make my footprints as I go;

till boots conceal their little spots of white upon the track
and leave their neat impressions on the shiny silver back.

The silver paths beneath me rise; the night is bright as day;
and I, my measured stride release, beneath their drift and sway.

Easy Friends and Hard Won Enemies: A Proverb

Making enemies requires effort.
Slack and rude won’t accomplish it.
These are anticipated and
Not nearly despicable.

You must listen…carefully.
Respond.  Look at whom you
Address.  Give them the benefit
Then give it again.

Play.  Wrestle.  Don’t mention
A good deed you did.  Dress
In honesty.  Delight in Peace.
Expand space.  Build a bridge.

Persist!  The betrayers will arrive.
They will despise, and you will
Be dismissed.  Clenched, their
Face will form a fist.  But

Making friends is a cinch!  Find
One who is equally chafed by
Your enemy.  Together, take aim,
…Steady…Fast you will remain.

Of course, that friend is like honey
That turns bitter in the belly.
A true friend will always be
Your potential hard won enemy.

You Were Given

You were sewed into me, like the initials
Mother fastened to my childhood
sweater.  Even beneath
a pile of scarves and mittens,
the garment remained my own.

You were sealed within—a poking
package wrapped in skin, a growing
tremor, a terrifying wonder—and I was
your living envelope, your
place of origin.

You adorned me, stretched me,
and I was never happier.  But I made
a lonely decision: you would be
given; my arms would scarcely hold
you.  Before then,

we walked among blooming apples:
light green leaves fringed in pink;
discreet and prudent bees; my intentions
never questioned by the lively trees.

I spied a wedding at the pavilion:
bridesmaids and groomsmen smiling,
smoking perfect cigarettes
by the colonnade, pictures to be taken.

I pined to reach and pinch them,  to
stretch their skin and beat them,
to syncopate their laughter
with my wisdom.  But we kept

our cadence and our rhythm, like the rain
that fell as your due date came and went.
You finally appeared—and the rising
river crested—little hidden-to-me girl.

Your charcoal eyes lit and gripped, then left
me wrestling your trace; your vestige
burned where you made the leap
from burdened skies to bent and wild boughs.

Fall arrived.  The park blustered
without you.  Rough oaks hardened
as their bright leaves released.
I bit my lips and tasted flesh torn
by my teeth.  I prayed

for autumn colors to depart
without pity.  I prayed to be like fired
pottery—no cracks, no weakness.
I prayed until an unforeseen reply
rolled toward me,

until an infant cry reached me
and scraped like a broken shard.
There was a sudden flash and strike;
I shuddered and waited
for the rumble that never came

as, somehow, I asked
the baby’s name.  A tiny hand stretched
forth.  The Mother hushed her parcel
and I spread myself over the stroller
like a faded, threadbare canopy.

Some Poems Come By Way Of Sleep And Dreams

Some poems come by way of sleep and
Dreams.  They show up to annoy me
As I usher my daughter to nap time,
As I doze by her side.  Or they arrive
At midnight, when I have no defense.
They wake me suddenly, make me
Lie perfectly still as I strain to decipher

The noise I think I heard.  Fragments and
Lines wander in.  I try to remain
Oblivious.  They speak, but I pretend to
Be asleep.  Like a witness to a drive-by
Shooting, I do not easily come forth.
I know who pulled the trigger, but
The shooter is too close to me,

Is the son of a neighbor, is on the
Sidewalk moving toward the Short-
Stop for chips and a drink—I dreamed it.
I woke up with the gunshot.  Or
So I tell myself.  Go back to sleep,
You don’t want to remember it.
There’s no poet living on this street!

Elegy For My Uncle Steve

Strong, smart, and fun come immediately to mind.  Anyone
who knew you—who knew your big heart and smile—understands.
You would ask, “Well hey, John, what’s been going on with you?”

I would say, “Not much,” and act a bit shy because you had
A certain presence, a confidence.  And I sensed your ability to do
Anything you set your mind to.  You were quick with a joke or a story,

Good ones too.  The kind that made me smile, made me happy
I had an Uncle.  You knew how to do that.  I can hear
Your soft voice: the sound of a Vermonter.  I remember how

You praised Grandma’s cooking and spoke to my Mother with
Respect.  I remember your snores.  I remember how
Your able hands built things that your mind designed.

You welded a giant barbecue, then cooked chicken halves
At picnics.  I liked that.  You were at peace and content with
Your apron, your sauce, and that delicious smoke.  You asked,

With a grateful look in your eye, “Are you ready for another?”
You wanted to give, and to make the most of what life gave.
You had courage and lived for the good of others.

Really, you died twice, but the first time you got another chance.
A miracle, some would say.  Buried alive, then resurrected
From that pile of dirt, pulled back from the very brink.

But this time it is ultimate, complete.  You
Won’t be coming back and I just don’t like it.  No,
I don’t like it very much at all.  I feel very

Unhappy about it, to tell you the truth.  Perhaps,
If you could, you would tell me to not worry, to let you go,
That you are at peace with your Maker.  I want that for you.

But for me, your passing is an enemy that I’m finding
Hard to fight.  I want another handshake, another laugh
With you.  I want you still to be a father, a husband,

A friend who cares and shows it.  So I remind myself:
The love I knew from you came through you, you were the
Uncle Steve God gave me and, my missing you is good news.

(for Stephen A. Kittredge, 1945-2009)

The Color Of Despair

An asthmatic stares at a gray
TV.  It warns of red air quality.
Her bathrobed elbow is welded
to a smokey yellow table.  She

does not raise herself to
the window, does not see
the glad dash of children’s feet
racing to the city’s silver
hydrant or believe in
the sunburnt men
who clench their teeth
and open it.  They

tear the hot black street and
find the broken pipe that,
otherwise, would have sent
a brown mud flow rushing
toward her kitchen sink.

The asthmatic strains to
breathe, but does not reach
past the glowering ashtray
to the white inhaler waiting
beside a glass-half-full of
something clear to drink.

The Enabler’s Lament

If I should ever stand, it is to
Quick back-over bend.
I say I’m fine, but bear the
marks of torture-from-a-friend.

I want to be courageous, but
I melt like snow in May.
I pray to yet be faithful, then
I fade into the fray.

There is no me, no wall, no tree
To climb above the harm.
There is no time when I will
Reach to shut off the alarm.

This god that I still fashion is
A chain of paper dolls.
This love that I imagine
Holds my hand to let me fall.

The Pastor-Beggar

The pastor-beggar drifted
‘cause the way is never clear when
the chips and blows and
glances form an idol out of fear.
He

bobbed along in bluster
till he almost blew away.
The ones they call his demons
said he held a hand
to play. So he

laid down his last dollar, kept
an ace down in a hole, till
the queen of hearts came
steady on and seared him
like a coal. Now his heart is

shreds and tatters and
his heart is filled with ruth where
the teeth of self-
deception gnawed
the corners of the truth…still,

the broken plate of comfort
that once served his precious
wish must, in time, become
a banquet on a fine and
costly dish. And

the pastor will be proven
by the testing of the years
as a beggar who gained
riches; as a king who
reigned with tears.

Motorcycle Memories: One Day The Graceful Rider Caught Me

I remember the asphalt: how it felt when
I colored outside the lines on a bike.
I remember the rowdy night-spot
Where speed got up to pick a fight.
My bright wheels cannot forget
A full-leather form, the turns,
The quick and careless course, or the
Fateful blur on the periphery.
The hardtop hit like hard luck times.

I recall the throttle: a twist and clutch
Made sudden emblems in the road.
It sounded good, but the ditch stood
Close by; the pavement took a toll.
I think of parking lots that demanded
Wheelies: I never did say no to them.
Close calls, falls, spills and crashes—
Some lay it down, but mine were wrecks.
My graceful arc crossed double lines.

Still, I wouldn’t slow the pace. Then
One day the graceful rider caught me.
How he chased! How his engine raced!
He had new tires and tattoos of fire.
His eyes were like mirrors, and
When I looked, I shattered. But
To every piece he whispered;
For each shard he stood and shouted.
His voice could not be unkind.

His hands, like living stone, never tired.
He made pursuit his standard.
I rolled with bent desires, but
He anticipated every deviation. He
Broke my bones, then mended.
He determined my route. I fled
Until he pierced and purchased, until
He caught me with the look of love—
A look that saw a man born blind.

He gripped when my will failed.
He healed my road-rash knees.
He knew my make and model.
He saw parts no one sees. Now,
I listen as gears make changes,
As rubber on roadway moves me,
As I approach new signs and places,
As chain and sprocket go humbly
Beneath me, and narrow roads unwind.

Beautiful Girl

Beautiful girl, you draw me.
I anticipate. My eyes gaze, like
On a starlit night—they
Rise to your skies and remain.

Though I am sometimes stuck
In the city you still appear, still
Come through. I look for you.
You are more than mere light.

So take me tonight, take me
To that country place. Go with
Me to that dark freedom and
Give me your full glory. Let us

Lie close.  Bring a kiss. Capture
My eyes with your bright face.
The stars are at the window;
They are drawn by our embrace.

Jesus Of The Scars by Edward Shillito

If we have never sought, we seek Thee now;
Thine eyes burn through the dark, the only stars;
We must have sight of thorn-pricks on Thy brow;
We must have Thee, O Jesus of the Scars.

The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;
In all the universe we have no place.
Our wounds are hurting us; where is the balm?
Lord Jesus, by Thy Scars we claim Thy grace.

If when the doors are shut, Thou drawest near,
Only reveal those hands, that side of Thine;
We know today what wounds are; have no fear;
Show us Thy Scars; we know the countersign.

The other gods were strong, but Thou wast weak;
They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;
But to our wounds, only God’s wounds can speak,
And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone.

Hot Water

Under house. Crawl
Space. Three days.
Water heater. Anger.

Plastic pipe. C-ment.
Sore back. Stiff neck.
Grave glare.

Eight-year-old. Small
Hands. Unafraid.
Chips in. Questions.

Satisfied. Crawls out.
My face. Turnabout.
Wide grin.

If Home Is Where You Go

If home is where you go; if
It is here you strike accords
Between the sometimes
Angry parties at the table;
If you are able to heed
The bell’s harmonic as
Another round begins,
You stand on solid ground.

If your facades and pulp
Fictions hit the trash bin
By the gate before you
Stump over the step
And through the door;
If home is where you log
The daily lore, your
Feet are on the floor.

If this is where you laugh,
Cry, get surprised, listen,
Touch, desire someone’s eyes,
Believe that they believe
That you are wise, then
You are wise. If you
Think of home as light,
As sanctuary, as air, or as

A beacon in the night that
If, by doom, went out would
Make your knees buckle
And your bones break—
If you would ache, like
A tooth full of decay or
A back after a long day—then
You are a sage and a seer;

You are a lovely footed
Messenger in flight.

The Sugar Shack

The little place in the back is the
sugar shack. Behind that door we
make maple syrup. The floor is dirt.
A hole in the roof lets steam out.
It’s a maple sap-evaporating-house,

like an outdoor kitchen, but you
don’t have to wash your hands. Collect
40 gallons of sap to get one gallon of
syrup. Just boil it and boil it. Dad’s
about to get the fire lit.

He stacks up dry, fast burning sticks
and puts on heat-proof gloves. The
firebox turns roaring red, enough
to singe your hair! He shields himself
and squints when he looks in there.

As sap turns into syrup, Dad
dips a spatula to test it. An
apron on the dipper’s edge says
it is right. He puts a milk can under
the spout and lets the sweet stuff out.

Here. Take this Styrofoam cup.
Dad will let us try it. Mmmm! Can
you smell that? Come on, let’s run!
Slide back the big door! Let’s
go inside and get some!

I Drive On Hard And Hallowed Roads

I drive on hard and hallowed roads
Until the blue sky stoops, until
My radio receives these bright and
Strong November days. They

Transmit Dylan’s boot leg
Release number eight. The
Buzz of amplifiers rises when he
Breathes. “Once,” he says,

“I had a pretty girl, but she did
Me wrong. Now I’m marching to
The city and the road ain’t long.”
I join the sacred melody; I join

Everyone who moves over these
Highways. We drive, and the
Sidewalks are beside us. We sing,
And the signals bend to find us.

My Black Cat by Caleb Eells (age 6)

My cat is black. He likes to
Play with a fish. He’s fast.
He loves to run around the house.
He sleeps with me. I stay awake while
He plays with my feet.
The next night is the same.

There’s A Cockroach On Your Shoulder

There’s a cockroach on your shoulder!
How ever did he get there?
There’s a cockroach on your shoulder,
like he came right out of thin air!

There’s a cockroach on your shoulder!
Jump around and scream like crazy!
There’s a cockroach on your shoulder!
At least he isn’t on the baby!

There’s a cockroach on your shoulder!
Brush him off and mash him quick!
There’s a cockroach on your shoulder!
I think I’m going to be sick.

There’s a cockroach on your shoulder!
He came by to have some supper.
There’s a cockroach on your shoulder!
At least he didn’t bring his brother!