A Poem of Whom Awaits

A Poem of Whom Awaits

In boxes, Ecclesia lie in wait,
Their leather thongs spaghetti together
  As all were one,
Waiting to be given away by volunteers,
  Chaplains on the Way,
On Tremont St, Arlington T, the Common …

Commuting home, my first stop
  A hop on the Green Line,
It lay looped there on the floor with it’s thong,
  It did not look waiting for me,
This … curvy mod cross,
  An art deco church key,
Intrigued me waiting for my ride,
  ‘Ecclesia’ carved in its side

I looked about and finding
  Nowhere convenient,
I hung it on the metal fence
  Dividing the In- from Out- bound tracks,
High enough for its intended to see,
  Then caught the next car up line D

It meant no more to me,
  Although, being acquainted
I’d say hello in latter days
  While waiting on the platform for the T

Twice the muddy river flooded the tunnels,
Twice the station had been cleaned,
  When I left work that last time,
There it still hung, despite three years,
  It never crossed my mind on whom the cross awaits,
If not for you,
  Then perhaps me?

And on twelve more years, in my car,
It swings upon a radio knob,
  It’s cowhide thong a leather fob,
A talisman, itself not great,
  Of whom yet for me still awaits

A Moral Compass

A Moral Compass

On the eternal hike over God’s great green,
A friend and I each took measurement
  Of our direction so far taken, and where we’d yet to go

We each, with separate instruments in hand,
Deduced our bearings did not agree,
  Something dyslexic had crossed our compass’ eyes,

When holding his on the left and mine to the right,
We saw our paths would soon cross, near enough in our sight,
  Yet to swap them opposite,
We’d surely part ways divisively

We agreed, each needle, tempered of sound iron, 
Magnetized the same, was true, yet by degree they disagreed,
  And which was false, we could not see

For who asserts their facts exact?
Bluster and brag prove only bodacious might,
  No single eye can claim true sight

We could have waited, out in that wild park,
Until night had fallen and all gone dark,
  Then to check our bearings by the charting stars

Yet even old Polaris cannot lay claim to a fixed truth,
It spins inconstant ‘round earth’s axis
  By a known degree of a smidge or two,
Thus, what worth does any compass’ have, but to
  Fix friend against friend in rude quarrelsome views?

We returned home by the path we came,
Agreeing both that that way was the same,
  And have since promised, making our amends,
Never to judge upon the path of friends, until
  All has been seen determinedly through,
   All the way on, to its natural end

Nekomata Cats

Nekomata Cats 

When kittens,
They do not know their meows
  Resonate like a baby’s cry,

Yet they learn

In time they do acquire great skill,
Though too often rhyming
  Fish with dish

See,
These three cats write magic poems,
You’ve read their work,
  Time you knew of ’em

One researches things profound,
History and mysteries,
  In old volumes bound

One plucks songs from shamisen strings,
Parsing meter, rhythms,
  Rhyming things

The third sets down these characters,
Distilling people
  Into words

Though Nekomata write of men,
They dictate we bring fish,
  And when

You wonder, why need you know this?
  Well,
It’s supper-time,
  And here’s their dish

Ever you wonder, who owns who?
  ‘Meow,’
Once read this poem, their spells
   On you

Hello, Old Friend

Hello, Old Friend

I was eight in sixty-nine,
A cub scout trip to the reservation,
  All those taxidermy animals in the Nature Museum

The Park Director, a John Denver nature man
Called ‘Safronas,’ (whom we all called ‘Sassafras’)
  Had a wide brimmed ‘Smokey the Bear’ hat 

He told us it was magic, and it was, ‘cause
“If you wear it, put seed on the brim, and sit out quietly there on the rock,
  Birds won’t be scared away no’more”

To prove it, he picked me out of the troop,
(I was raising my hand to ask a question when I ‘volunteered’)
  He sat me on the rock, under the hat

While all the scout kids watched gawk faced, back inside,
I saw them mouthing “Sush!” and “Shut up!” though I couldn’t hear,
  Behind the glass door, in the museum window

Sure enough, nuthatchers, wood peckers, pine sickens,
A whole page of the North American Field Guide swirled over me,
  Landed, pecking seeds off a my head

‘til one shit on my sleeve and I freaked

Thirty five years on, off from work, back in town,
Taking care of my Dad for the week, days open
  While he’s in day care at the Alzheimer’s place 

And I’m back again, the reservation, the museum
Closed, dark, same old stuffed glass eyed critters lookin’ back,
  No sprig of Sassafras, too quiet

I’m used to being here with family, scouts, school groups,
All those no-bodies now more present by their absence,
   Made the day much colder, gray

I sat again upon that rock, lonely, by myself,
When soon I’d acquired a gray-flutter halo,
  Scratching at my scalp, I wasn’t wearing a hat

Holding out my hand,
A squeaky chickadee let on my thumb,
  “Hello, old friend,”

And regretful, I saw I’d done wrong,
The little bird was riled indeed,
  “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten seed”

It’s Like Honor Among Thieves

It’s Like Honor Among Thieves

There came a rapping at my door,
  late this October Saturday,
Much like the many come before,
Which I’d vowed answer, nevermore!

“Hi, Hello, I see you already have a lawn sign in your yard,
 But I thought I’d knock anyway, I’m also running for city council”

It’s true, our lawn had already a sign,
  from a greasy man named Ellinor,
He’d run incumbent, three times or four,
And of whom I knew nothing more

“I was wondering, you’d like to talk,
 About the issues of today?”

Two weeks ago came Ellinor,
Foreboding, knocking at my door,
He said he knew my Father in Law,
   then, lugubrious, 
“I’ll leave you with this large lawn sign,”
That’s all he said, that Ellinor,
He left his sign, said nothing more

“I don’t care much for Ellinor,
 He staked that sign, and nothing more,
 You too could place a sign out there,
   for Ellinor I little care”

We talked of Councilmen in town,
Our mutual churches, town playgrounds,
  his was a short but friendly stay,
On this late October Saturday

After a while he had to go,
I offered sign space twice, you know,
  he bent a curdling ominous lip,
Which, if waxed poetic,
  the ‘mot juste’ simply wouldn’t rhyme

That night storm winds blew the old sign away,
I emailed the new guy, “You’ve got free space”
He wrote back saying that he would,
  but not today,
A week later was election day

I don’t know why he stayed away,
  so what if my lawn sports two signs,
Whose made this arcane un-writ rule?
Honor among thieves, possibly

Guess what became of Ellinor,
  he was re-elected anyway,
Now I’ve not seen him these last two years,
And who’s that knocking at my door?

No no, it can not be,
  Ellinor!