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