Hickory Nut-Picking (Hocking Hills, Ohio)

We’ll go hickory nut picking the first frost, I know.
And again, I know, I won’t want to go.
When it’s just too cold to get out of bed
Under white woolen blankets striped yellow and red,
With pillows piled under and over my head.
But we’ll go down to the country, we will.
And there we’ll find the best hickory nuts still.
So small, and so little meat to eat;
So hard to open for so little treat.
But I’ll take my grocery sack to fill,
And I'll pretend I’m happy, I will.
‘Cause this is their favorite time of year
When the frost is on and the sky is clear.
Haven’t been to the country since I don’t know when.
And I’ll not go hickory nut-picking again.
But on frosty mornings, bright and clear,
When blankets are pulled up tight and near,
I’ll dream of sacks full, and Grandma and Grandpa, 
At this hickory nut-picking time of year.

Times That Try

These days shall be remembered, not for what
Are the errors of our generation, but for
The lies of the few who held high office in
Times of greed, fear, and utter desperation.
That we were so deceived, and did not
Try all means to demand justice in the face of vaunted
Men’s unjust treatment of the powerless, our 
Souls cry out to our children for redemption.

Happily Ever After

I think of you when sunlight
Bursts through the clouds after a storm.
I think of you when stars in the night sky
Whirlpool around the North Star.
I look for your beauty in each waking instance,
Afraid I’ll miss one passing glance.
 
I must stay, but while you’re away,
I’ll search for the essence of you.
I walk in dark woods and mark
The gentle beating of your heart
In the trickling of a forgotten creek and the
Creak-creaking of Redwoods in the wind.
 
Time heals the wounds of love’s fire and
Steals the blooms in the gardens of desire.
Maybe I’ll stay awhile in my gardens – still,
Without a word, you drop me to my knees,
And comfort me with sweet memories of our
Once Upon a Time.
 
Love is not ended just because you’re not here.
My blessings overflow with love to share.
Your blessings of grace bring tidings of love;
Love that prepares me for living.
You gave me a life, one to be lived  
Happily ever after.

 

View from the wagon - July, 1858

"We take turns walking," is Pa's rule,
"Unless a body is ill." meaning dead.
I like to look out the back of the wagon
To where we’ve been, and never again.

Knowing where I’ve been feels better
Than not knowing where I’m going.
The sun bakes the distant grasses so
I can see a rainbow of hills in the glow.

“It looks hot,” Ma will say, 
“I believe we’ve come fifteen miles today.”
And, I can see every one of them here
Out back till the grasses disappear.

I walk in the tracks of the wagon wheels
That bend the grass down smooth.
And I turn to look every now and then 
To where we’ve been, and never again.

One to go

From blue sky morning in to darkness This dust will never settle. It chokes the souls of those of us Who watch in disbelief, and hope - One still stands. Cracked and broken against A blue sky mixing with smoke. Maybe it's not as bad as it looks. One is down with dust all around - One to go. Note: September 11, 2001. This short poem is about the 102 minutes between when the South Tower of the World Trade Center collapsed and when the North Tower collapsed.

Hospice (Sarah, 2014 – 2020)

The cold won't creep to touch her here
Safe and warm in her little room.
He keeps the wood fire burning near.
"For you," he whispers, "my dear."

What book will she choose for him to read?

He knows. The blue one on the shelf.

The story of a giant's one good deed
That to a poor child's fortune leads.

She'll jump when they fall at the giant's feet.
And cower under covers when he roars.
Then laugh when they trick him to his seat.
And she'll cry with the giant in defeat.

Her smile, in sleep, brings forth his tears
As for an hour her pain subsides.
Another kiss, to wrest the fear,
"For you," he whispers again, "my dear."

Once upon a time

And we lived happily ever after,
After the divorce.
When we finally had time for each other,
We couldn’t stand one another.

The lesson learned in leaving is
The same it’s always been.
Frost said there’s always something to be sorry for.
We should have said ‘I’m sorry’ more.

It was only a matter of time.
When we were young, it flew so slowly.
But time stopped when we were left alone
Familiar strangers, almost unknown.
 
We live happily ever after, now,
As we've found our other true loves.
But what might have been, first love of mine,
Once upon a time?

Walking home (Grandview Heights, Ohio, circa 1973)

Pick apples from branches that overhang the walk.
Stop and talk with neighbors I meet along the way.
These I suppose I’d miss, were I a boy today
Walking home.
 
From school, down alleys and streets, or
Through yards and yards without fences.
My choices taught what independence is.
But today’s child has fewer choices.
 
There’s danger in strangers and many more fences.
Mom to drop off now –  mom to pick up,
Because lurkers are lurking and mom won’t be shirking
Her duty to protect us from us.
 
Where is that boy, picking apples down streets,
Down alleys, through yards, with an independent mind,
Who comes through the door today after
Walking home?

Notes:

I used to walk to the High School on Saturday mornings in September and October for the after-Friday-night-football game practice.

On one of the streets, Glendale, there was a yard with a green apple tree in it. Many branches, loaded down with apples, would hang over the chain-link fence. I could reach up while walking along and grab 2 or 3 apples to eat on the way, or put in my gym bag for later. Those were delicious green apples, becoming yellow apples as they ripened further (and out of reach) later in the season.

I drove by that yard with my son in June 2006 and showed him where the apple tree used to be. There was another tree there. but not an apple tree.

We used to walk everywhere in Grandview. I walked to and from kindergarten, grade school, Jr. High, and High School. I walked to my baseball games, Dairy Queen, and Grandma's house.

There were no fences in the backyards on Mulford Road when I was young, so we played football from yard to yard. Now there are fences in most backyards. The alleys between each street were our thoroughfares on our Stingrays.

When I visit Grandview, German Village, and Columbus from California, I like to walk the streets like I used to. I tell friends here in California that I'm visiting the land of laundry chutes and basements. 

How I met your mother (June 1980, Shasta County, CA)

The sign said Fresh Rabbit - $6.
She was skinning the rabbits out back,
And throwing the fur into a fire.
“We just eat ‘em,” She looked
Back to see if I was listening,
“We don’t wear ‘em, goodness sake.”
 
At ten weeks old, I learned,
They are tender and don’t need
To cook all day in a crock pot.
“Tastes a lot like chicken if you cook ‘em
With Stove-top stuffing,” she
Offered, “All white meat, too.”
 
She held another by the hind legs,
And hatcheted off the head into
The pile of heads in the grass.
“Here now,” she held out the quivering carcass
To me, “Cut just below the foot
And pull the fur and skin down and off the neck.”
 
It was too slippery to grab the skin.
So I used her vice grips
To pull the skin off easy.
“You can skin a chicken that way too,” she looked
Back to see if I was listening, 
“We don’t eat chicken skin anymore, anyway.”
 
I washed the entrails out with the hose.
She held another by the hind legs,
And hatcheted off the head into
The pile of heads in the grass.
“This will go faster now with your help,” she smiled,
“Then we’ll go do something fun.”

We went bowling.
And, that’s how I met your mother.

When Fall is Frozen Over

I was reading some old facebook posts of friends and one line in a post caught my eye. My friend had written in early November about a trip to Old Man's Cave in Ohio - a popular place to visit. He wrote that he was thinking of going back "when fall is frozen over." So, I wrote the following poem.

When fall is frozen over and
The moon is slivered shut
When the tree is trimmed and ready
To gather presents underfoot
It's then I like to sit with you
In silence by the hearth
And reminisce about old friends
From whom we are apart
No visit from St. Nicholas
Or carol sung on high
Can warm my heart as surely as
Your words from time gone by
"It always snows for Christmas"
Still I laugh and don't believe, but
Fall is frozen over and
The moon is slivered shut

Choir Boy

I sang only to sing
Any chance I could get.
In two different churches;
Two different beliefs, yet
Both, making the same
Joyful noise unto God
All the world

He’s a choir boy, they’d tease.
And I couldn’t argue that.
So, I took it as a compliment
And I made a joyful noise.
I found a different way,
And it helps me still today in
All the world

Goat Run Honey Fork Road

I visit Union Furnace, New Plymouth Cemetery, and Tick Ridge Cemetery in Starr Township, Ohio, where my grandfather was born and raised. There is a road that has interested me near Union Furnace. Goat Run Honey Fork Road. 

I found the house where Grandpa Joe was born using a 1908 photo of his family in front of the house when he was eight-years-old. (Grandpa Joe on the left)

An old man was sitting on the porch swing when I pulled into the drive. His son came over to see who is this guy who is talking to the old man. When I showed them the photograph, they asked if I wanted to see the inside and backyard. It was dark inside and the warped flooring was evidence of the century-old house. I imagined my grandfather squirrel hunting in the woods or gathering hickory nuts up the hill after the first frost.
They said to come back anytime. Here's my poem about the experience.

Goat Run Honey Fork Road

I got lost on Goat Run Honey Fork Road
And stopped in Union Furnace to find my way.
His routine denied complexity
As I interrupted his simplicity.

He watches the world from his porch swing
At the intersection that is the town.
I showed him the yellowed photograph, fading hard,
Of my grandfather, eight years old, in his yard.

The house is unchanged and, save for the trees,
The porch sets the same after one hundred years.
The walls need painting, and warped floors, waxed with grime,
Make a slanting walk falling me back in time.

Out back is lush-green with deep woods encroaching,
Attacking and devouring the man-made glade.
I searched the defending rock wall for a stone;
A remembrance of this time alone.

I leave him to resume his porch swing duties,

And thanking me for interrupting his day.

He says, “Come again when you’re down this way!”

If I find Goat Run Honey Fork Road again, I may.

So Hard to Leave

Why must it be so hard to leave?
You know I'm ready. You know I'm done.
Lingering, burdening, day by day,
With ills and bills my daughter pays.
Why test now that I believe?
 
Can there be more that I must do?
Perhaps forgotten or left undone?
I've been daughter, mother, lover, friend.
I ask, what more? And, to what end?
Is there more than my faith in You?
 
Why must it be so hard to leave,
When babies join You now?
I'm sorry for my selfish mood.
I'm usually really very good.
Still, why must it be so hard to leave?

When I'm 80 years old

When I’m eighty years old
Let me still be happy remembering 
I've sat on the Champs-Elysées sipping wine
And drunk Guinness in Brú na Bóinne.
 
When I’m eighty years old
Let me still take comfort that 
I’ve a home to come home to that’s mine
And garden tomatoes fat from the vine.
 
When I’m eighty years old
Let me still share the love 
I’ve nurtured and cherished in kind
With friends like you and this family of mine.

Lilacs

Lilacs out the kitchen window
Dance in the breeze with a fragrance of home;
The last spring smell suggesting summer,
Subtle, hinting at wonders to come.
 
Climbing in the lilac tree is
His exploration of colors and strife.
Darkest green leaves drink in the light,
In harmony with verdant life.
 
Storm purple, the petals so small
Fall off the ends of branches like snow,
To be gathered by small hands and shared
As wondrous delights only he and I know.
 
Now, a faded memory to a boy grown old.
Still, a summer scent, or a dusting of snow brings
Lilacs out the kitchen window to mind, 
And the seasons, the years, become spring.

Porch Swing

The squeak and then squeaking of unoiled squeaks
Reminds me of porch swing days of my youth.
I miss worn faded swing cushions on muggy buggy days;
Ice cream leaking on toes and swinging away.
 
Couldn’t hide from the world; I’d spend most the day
Swinging 'lone watching cloud actors in a sky play.
On the porch again, grandma to wipe up the leaks
Between squeak and then squeaking of unoiled squeaks.

Here's Grandma Dorothy on her squeaky Porch Swing.

Surprise Me

Do caterpillars know
That someday they’ll rise
To the heavens above?
Or, is it a surprise?

Some people know
That someday they’ll rise
To the heavens above.
But, I’ll be surprised.

Sorrowful Mother

South to Bucyrus he saw a sign
One-half mile – Sorrowful Mother Shrine.
He did not stop, preferring to imagine what
His Sorrowful Mother Shrine might be.
 
Whose mother knows not sorrow
Of disappointment and lives undone?
Of nights awake, waiting alone
Beside an uncaring, unringing phone?
 
A lone stalk of corn standing tall, unbended
Is his Sorrowful Mother Shrine imagined.
Passing field after field, uncountable stalks
Surround graves at Evangelical Pietist Church.
 
Without sorrow can joy be as full?
Will Mother stand as tall and unbending?
He imagines so – then stops along the road to eat
Where the corn is ripe and the melon sweet.

She Flies

She flies in her dreams. What does it mean?
Is it a glimpse of what’s to be?
Or longing to be free?
Free from life’s travails in the hours before dawn.
She flies in her dreams and wakes up withdrawn.

He never dreams. What does it mean?
Is he blind to what will be?
Or, perhaps he’s already free.
Free from life’s travails in the hours before dawn. 
She flies in her dreams and he wakes with a yawn.

Love Lost

The hill where we shared a sled so long ago,
Is dusty and bare, with just a vain comb-over of weeds 
Here and there pretending to be grass.

You held me tight through the finish line, though
There was no racing but my heart.
The flakes of snow on your cheeks sparkled
As bright as the smile in your eyes.

What can I say to an angel?
How do I thank the sunshine?

My heart in my throat left a bittersweet love
That I've not tasted since that cold December morning

Looking into the eyes of an angel.

This hill is my refuge from what might have been.

As the moon rises into the throat of the night,
And stars sparkle on the cheeks of the heavens,
I smile and promise I'll one day visit your grave.

Now, for my angel to hear again,
I say the words I could not say then.
I love you

Friends and Acquaintances

Acquaintances I’ve met on planes are not
Unlike shadows of clouds that pass under me.
There but for a moment, then forgot.
But all the same in their odd familiarity.
 
Friends at home and friends away are not
Unlike songs I sing to me.
Here for eternity, never forgot. 
And all different in their joyful peculiarity.

Gardens of Desire

He pretends to listen and then turns away;
Turns away to continue his day.
He no longer cares if she knows she's not loved.
There was love once ... maybe twice.
 
A persistent ringing in his ears
From incessant chit-chat through the years;
The echoes of her oblivion foment
A deluge of denial and missed love.
 
Too late for him to escape, save to
His gardens where, except for
The ringing in his ears, it is quiet.
Peaceful, and finally, finally quiet.
 
It's much too late for her tears to
Cultivate a love for whom
The weeds of pity have overgrown
The gardens of desire he tends alone.

His Family Vacation Remembered (August, 1966, Age 9)

A fence leans westward in the wind
As though cursing the beating from the sea.
What keeps the fence from falling down
On this narrow cape to Provincetown?
 
He finds shells, bleached white from the sun,
Gathered at the feet of weathered posts.
Shells that cower under relentless blows
Of a beating sand that stings his toes.
 
He watches his parents through the fence.
Beaten and battered, his mother still stands.
She cowers and curses all men, and then 
His father grabs her and beats her again.

Merry Christmas

I could fill my days writing what nobody reads.
I could fill my days giving what nobody needs.
But, you deserve more than Hallmark card greetings;
More than just online gifts with no meaning.
So, let me write only what needs to be said;
I pray - Wrap with love
All our gifts from above.

Merry Christmas 

I Will

I will remember what you have forgotten
I will do what you can no longer
I will lead when you must follow
I will love you as you have loved me
I will stand when you must lie down
I will be brave when you are afraid
I will comfort you when you are in pain
I will love you as you have loved me
I will be here when you are away
I will find you when you are lost
I will catch you when you fall
I will love you as you have loved me

I will