Hereunder

Unfinished

Gentle visitors, we have been pen-shamed by one of the poor Relations on account of our infrequent posts.  To quiet this braying, we offer this blank verse based on our current reality.

Unfinished

I’ve become quite close with some large appliance,
Now that work has begun down in the basement.

Water heater went cold when it lost its pilot.
The dryer required a connection and vent.
The drain for the furnace flowed out on the slab.

All of those years, when the place was unfinished,
I barely took notice: a space for our junk,
Spent rugs and odd items, old tables and chairs.

I see it all now through the skeleton frame;
Every room that will be when the walls go up,
And the new floors go down, and the doors get hung.

And I'm watchful for signs, like a light gone dark,
Or one weakly blinking; a sound that’s not right,
Or no sound at all; any thing out of sort.

Outside it’s turned frigid and the days are short.
Let’s hope it’s all finished before it’s all done.

Our Else

I seen it as it looked,

The little lamp in that doll house,

Hanging over the dining room table,

White globes glowing yellow.

 

After--we sat on the log by the side of the road,

Our faces burning, red with humiliation.

Why did she shoo us out of the yard

Just as the doll house was opened?

Just because.

 

But I seen the little lamp.

 

(Inspired by Katherine Mansfield's story, "The Doll's House," 1922)

 

 

 

 

For My Daughter

You are searching for honest hearts,

Keeping the rules,

But aware that some break them.

"What are boys to me?" you ask yourself.

It is still Spring--there is time enough.

Sleep is Overrated

Sleep is over-rated -- 
I read it in the news:
“High Achievers Need Less Rest,”
‘Cause when you snooze you lose.

Give me days without an end,
And hours without number,
I’ll beat the one who takes his time
And squanders it on slumber.

Doers keep their lantern lit,
Alert and wide awake;
Dozers pop the lazy boy
And have a nap to take.

 

Hire the gal who takes 8 hours,
And makes ‘em 24.
Fire the guy who takes a break,
Then, breaks into a snore.

So, go you idle dreamers,
And get your precious sleep;
I’ll labor for Insomnia,
And count her endless sheep.

Easter, West St. Catherine

 

Good Friday morning flying in, arriving 10:18.
The phone assumes a woman’s voice: “Next left, St. Catherine.”

St. Catherine runs from east to west– begins at Mary Street,
Then rambles maybe nineteen blocks before it comes to rest.

Past Queen Anne homes and mini-marts and gentry on a stroll;
A breakfast spot, two liquor stores, some people pushing carts.

Our weekend lodge is burnt-clay brick, laid down in '94;
Mounting several stories high and several courses thick.

An august boxer in the yard defends his bounded place;
But, when our host invites us in, the boxer sheds his guard.

We saunter up to Central Park, entree to St. James Court:
The Romanesque and Châteauesque compete 'til day is dark.

St. Louis Bertrand meets St. Cate where Sixth Street makes a cross:
He strikes a graying, gothic stance and calls us to our prayer.

But, we head toward St. Joseph's Home, where old folks take their rest,
And Little Sisters vigil-keep with Mother Church in Rome.

The ancient elders shuffle up on walkers, some on canes,
And prepare to meet their maker and take their holy sup.

On Easter day, the sun is poor; the plumbing’s given out;
We shuttle through the rain to use the privy housed next door.

But, there’s Pascha bread and sauerkraut; a ham that’s brined and smoked;
Kielbasa fashioned link by link, and foreign extra stout.

At dusk, the many guests are brought to play a game of chance:
Grandma rolls the hottest dice, but nephew takes the pot.

On Monday morn, our bags are filled and boarding passes got,
We leave St. Catherine as she was, across Old Louisville.

Recovered Verse

Gentle visitors, your humble Contributor recently caught up with an old friend, and this conversation prompted a search for a bit of verse written upon the occasion of his marriage, more than twenty years ago.  Said verse was discovered in an ancient MS-DOS file, created at a time when file-naming required such brevity as to be almost inscrtbl.

In any case, this old friend, being a true Irishman, was not so young when he married.  Simple math would indicate that he is now no younger than the not-so-young then, and yet he remains ever youthful.  Memory does not serve whether his now-white beard was so white then.  Without further ado...

The Well-Groomed Beard

Upon his beard, he swore, Good John,
The Lord would take him 'fore he'd wed;
And so his whiskers grew well awn
(Not so the wispers on his head).

But, lo, the Love he'd thought foresworn
Did take him by the beard instead;
And though this bristle be unshorn,
She's plucked it for the marriage bed.

Auto-Epitaph

Gentle visitors, today is the Feast of All Souls, marked, in some cultures as the Day of the Dead.  Perhaps as a result, it is also "Plan Your Own Epitaph Day".  In honor of this day, your humble Contributor has undertaken the following first draft.

Here lie the remains of the man Remainder:
Pray the Divine Judge not render attainder.
For, while he was sinful and vain here on earth,
Yet, by his odd count'nance gave others great mirth.
Thus, may he be judged with tender attention;
Of his folly and faults, let none make mention. 

Aquaphobia

The phosphorescent plankton glows blue with the rise of each wave,

Then falls dark with a crash.

At night, from the shore, the ocean seems safe,

Its extent unseen, unknown, uncontemplated

Like when I was young,

Riding in my grandparents' car at night

Over the dreaded high-level bridge that skirts the great gray lake--

"Where is the lake at night?" I asked.

"It goes away," responded my grandmother.

And it satisfied me to know only that.

Nightime Walk With Dog

Springtime breeze along the pathway,
Tethered pet before me strides.
Low-watt lamps in upper stories,
Sashes lifted full to half;
Air flows through the fine-mesh screenholds,
Filter moths and untoward things;
Billowed sheers resolve to lapping,
Soon the clockwise switches turn.
Nighttime breeze along the pathway,
Tethered pet behind me pants.

A Prayer Before Bed

Lord, grant us, in Your mercy,
The great gift of blessed sleep.
Let the grackle make no racket,
And the warbler make no peep.

Let the darkness enter gently,
And the daylight vanish West.
Let the dew and dreams descend, and
Give us all a blessed rest.