The People Of 4200 Shenandoah Avenue

The People of 4200 Shenandoah Avenue are
above average-not an ordinary lot. We buy a
home on the street, unaware that we’re surrounded by
the finest names in neighbors on a city block;

turns out these folks are cut from first rate stock.
There’s Walt and Rhonda (and Buttercup, their
golden retriever). Their welcome is ever ready
to extend. At Thanksgiving we’re like old friends.

James and Mary also reside up at the end. Each fall,
they throw a creepy Halloween costume party.
Their front porch is decorated with elaborate pumpkin
carvings. One year we go as Velma and Shaggy.

Lynn lives across the street. She keenly keeps an
eye on things. On weekends, she sells homemade
barbecue ribs and spaghetti. She drives a great big
car and always shows up for the block party.

One day, Liz and Jay (with their dog Barney) move into
town from Cincinnati. They are as non-generic as
neighbors get. They never miss a chance to be good
to us. They are self-abasing, funny, and direct.

Kevin and Stephene are godly; they live next door.
Their black lab is Schaeffer, he’s outrageous.
They, however, are mature and caring. Like
food additives, they are agents that stabilize us.

Tim and Kristen, Steve and Alisa all live together
(with Hank the terrier). They’re the new next door
neighbors when Kevin and Stephene depart. Whenever
we make treats, we invite them over to take part.

There’s Brandon and Afua, Sean and Kris, an
Irish priest named Patrick, another Patrick with
his Juliette, and Lillian and Pastor Brad who
buy what once was Walt and Rhonda’s pad.

Arriving from Holland, it’s Ralph and Alied. Later,
we meet South Africans Andrew and Justine. Though
Pat and Jess, who used to live below us in a duplex,
are now gone, their names remain bright and strong.

By each of these names we come to know a kindly
touch, like lovers hands that gently hold our faces.
These people give their hearts to us and make this place
a city block where neighbors names are graces.

I Wonder If I Lost My Life Today

I wonder if I lost my life today. I mean,
it’s not clear how, exactly, that looks on me.
Was something actually removed or am I
shrinking; like emerging, smaller, from a dryer?

Perhaps I’m just more compact- dense
at the end of the day. The feeling is akin to
squeezing. A lot of juice and pulp runs out,
mixes into someone else’s tonic. I am dehydrated.

I keep opening another Dasani and every single
bottle is spilling on me. My tongue is literally
crunchy, but my clothing, it could be said, just
walked home in the rain.

I think I’ll strip and put this outfit
in the dryer. After dinner, I’ll try it on and
if it still fits I guess it would be safe to assume that
I shrank, at least a little bit.

There’s A Sugar House In Our Backyard

There’s a sugar house in our backyard.
If you don’t know about that, it’s just a
large shack where you make maple syrup.
The floor is dirt and there’s a hole in the roof
where the steam can get out. Evaporating sap is
what that shack’s about.

It’s a little like an outdoor kitchen, except that
you don’t have to wash your hands to cook with
this stove and pan. To make one gallon of
syrup you have to boil up to 40 gallons of sap.
Dad went to fill the pan and get it lit. Let’s
go out in a bit.

I’m going to take my math homework out
there and sit on the front bench-seat of an
old Chrysler Dad set up on a couple of blocks.
You should come too. Dad will help me
if I have any questions about my
Trigonometry.

He’ll be feeding the fire with fast burning
slab wood, shielding himself with an asbestos
gloved hand. When he opens the glowing
doors of the firebox the hairs on his arm will
get singed. Sometimes the flames will
give him a small twinge.

When it’s nearly ready, Dad will peer intently
through steam at the dipper he uses to see if
the syrup is ready to eat. He’ll look for an “apron”
to form on the dipper’s edge. Then he’ll place a
big old milk can under a spout. As much as is sweet
he will let run out.

Here, take this Styrofoam cup. He’ll let us
try some when he draws it off. Can you
smell that? Look at all the steam coming from the roof.
Wind’s out of the South tonight; I hope it freezes.
If it stays warm the sap won’t run. Let’s
go in and get some!

The Best Thing About Seeing Old Friends

The best thing about seeing old friends is
they sometimes now live in a cool city, like
Atlanta, near a really entertaining and
educational attraction, such as the Aquarium.
And they sometimes have been successful
and now own a beautiful home with a guest
bedroom suite with its own bathroom. And
there is another room for your children!
And they sometimes treat you to lunch at
the Varsity and then even buy your tickets
to enter the Aquarium. That part is awesome!
And another best thing about old friends is
they sit and listen while you tell them what you
are interested in. And it turns out to be some
of the same things that you are listening to
them tell that they are interested in. And (right
about at this point) you realize that these
really are your old best friends. Then you eat
grilled tender steaks with them and you decide
there are many best things about seeing
your old friends. And while you’re chewing
and sitting and listening and being
listened to you recognize the surprising
sensation you never expect to be feeling
this side of heaven. And you know that your
old friends are the best thing about seeing them.

When I Get Home

When I get home I’ll recognize
more peace than impatience,
more engagement than apathy,
more resolve than dissonance.

When I get home I’ll realize
more than flat frustration,
more than mundane doubt,
more than plain deception.

When I get home I’ll rehumanize-
more laughs, more surprise,
more touch, more desire,
more time among the wise.

I am home and I receive a prize-
more than a box can hold,
more than paper will enfold,
more than common places can provide.

Answered Prayer

“Answered prayer,” she said, “You are an
answer.” Billiard balls dance behind plate glass.
Cue sticks aim, wave, conduct our conversation.
Like oversized batons they signal us to begin.

Friendly strangers, we lay out the makings for a
tapestry-words, expressions. We weave
answers and questions. A weft thread
beneath the warp rises to the pattern.

With longing each one eyes the other standing
there. Each looks for a close weave, for a
familiar image to appear amidst the intricacies,
beneath the lighted Corner Pocket sign.

Our eager, wanton prayers fly quickly, brightly like
a tight rack of balls at the break. Like many
lavish threads, they emerge from below,
pressing against each other to form a whole.

There Are Three More Words

There are three more words I meant to say
last night while standing in the parking lot
with you. I summoned all the courage
gods, but struggled just to hold your gaze.

They showed up, but I was a bit dazed. You
held my hand, held me in love, until even
I began to love me. Bright acceptance lit your
eyes. I tried to clear my head with a shake.

I wished for someone on high to shake a
measure of determination on me from a fine silver
shaker. Instead, ordinary earthly compliments fell
plainly, drolly, from my unseasoned lips.

I wanted to make good by laying my feelings
bare. I know you will never spurn me for saying,
“I love you.” Still, for fear of false beginnings or
stumbling at the start I resolved to hold back those three;

other words will have to do for now.
When I broke that awkward silence I sounded
dissonant and dowright colloquial. My heart
raced, but wouldn’t budge from that parking space.

Struck Out On Winter Walk

Struck out on winter walk
to inform the silent snow of
the dominion of my boots
over any rugged row.

The languid lowly neighborhood
had called it and crawled in
to dodge the clamorous kick
of my strident size twelve din.

Discerning in my steps
a walk of bold endeavor,
the road involved my boots
in appeal that was quite clever.

“How far shall you go,”
it inquired of them.
“Will you know when you’re there.”
“Will you go back again?”

“You traipse ‘neath the stars,
and the man in the moon.”
“Can you step quick and light?”
“Will you dance to their tune?”

“There is something more
than your small minded plod.”
“Tis with truth and beauty
we all must be shod.”

That ragged rut enlightened them
with further wise divulgence
and urged them to advise me
of the same for my endorsement.

And many times I’ve walked that road
now, since I found my stride.
And just as many times that road
has put up with my pride.

Yet it has never failed to show me
whether night or day
that walking under heaven’s lights
I stroll the milky way.

Making Friends and Enemies

1. Enemies

Making enemies requires some serious
effort. It’s not enough to be slack and rude,
that’s not truly despicable. People expect
poor treatment, will even make a plea for it.

Try doing what you say you’ll do.
Think about another. Listen carefully.
Respond when someone speaks. Look
at people when you speak to them.

Be playful. Give people gifts and
don’t tell anyone about a good deed
you did. Be honest. Make space.
Show interest in anything. Keep secrets.

Persist! Your enemies will soon be there.
They will hate you, but you might never know
for you will simply be dismissed. You must
look closely at their face, not their fists.

2. Friends

Piece of cake! Find someone who hates
the same someone you hate. Voila!
As long as you both agree to keep on
hating them, you will remain fast friends.

Grandfather Clock

Tick tock
old clock
stood, back when,
in my grandparent’s den.
An extra grandfather in their house,
no mouse.

Kept time
just fine.
Each sunday night
grandpa wound it tight-
key turning coil spring for pendulum
to swing.

That day
gone away.
Grandpa’s key
passes down to me.
My hand winds for clicks and chimes,
old times.

Clock sound
big, round.
Resonant DONG!
Vibration resounding long.
Every hour grandfather awakes
to speak.