Good Night PyeongChang

Good Night PyeongChang

Plant your bulbs and seeds and things,
Next to dream of what shall rise in Spring

Heavy gray eyelids, pumped up
By the natch of noradrenaline
  I am in the zone at
Two thirty in the morning,
I watch Sweden concede in the seventh end,
  They were just tired, no need to go ten,
Quarter to 3am, Korea conquers Japan
With one more 1-0-1-0-1 to their 0-1-0-1-0,
  Brush by with an extra whisker

Tired, so tired, I dream of sleeping,
  On expanding sheets of glacial ice,
Giant boulders flying,
  Knock-a-block

I don’t know when I awoke to the sky blue of
  Late February, 2018, blinding sun and bizarrely warm day,
Rumbles of mountains bowling, distant, granite,
  Beyond the sky’s horizon

Good night PyeongChang,
  ‘til Olympic glaciers run again,
I will plant my bulbs and seeds and things,
  Next to dream of what shall rise in Spring

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JM6vp4r_hvM

At Valentine’s Office

At Valentine’s Office

I lay the pink roses I bought,
  For her, but not for her,
On the window sill by the coat rack,
  Thinking, though without water,
They might still enjoy the afternoon sun,
  Perhaps their last

“Did you buy those flowers for her?”
  That’s a question no man answers directly,
So she asked again
  “Can I look at them?”

“Alright, but don’t parade them about,
   I need them kept a secret”
   
She picked up the bouquet as one would a baby,
  A a kitten, firmly, but adoring,
Cradling, nuzzling, smiling,
  Her fingers at their swaddling

I warned her kindly
“Don’t tear the wrapping,
  I need all intact tonight”

“They’re beginning to open,” she beamed,
“They feel warm from the window,
  And the scent!”

Then and there, the Office Girl,
  She could have been the Christmas Mary,
Holding that babe more special
  Than all the world,
Which, after a sigh, she placed
  Back on the sill, in that golden shaft of light,
As only a young woman endearing of
  A mans love for another can do

   

Why the Bishop Loves Sundays

Why the Bishop Loves Sundays

It’s Sunday!
  Can I get a Amen?
You can do better than that,
  C’mon, Amen!

I love football,
I mean I love football

When I was a child,
  My Father worked six days a week,
Saturdays too,
  And on Sunday, if there was a game,
He’d watch football

I’d watch with him

Now you couldn’t talk during football,
Except at commercials or
  Between plays,
But Sundays, football,
That was our time, that was my time
  To spend with my Father

So this Sunday we have this gospel,
Here’s this Jesus, just walkin’ around Galilee,
  “La dee-da…”
And he sees these men fishing in a boat,
So he says “Hey, follow me!”
  And just like that they quit their boats and go after him,
Why did they go?
  Next, a little while later, he comes across two more,
Fixing their nets with their Dad,
And them too, right there and then,
  They quit their nets and they go after him,
Who does that?

Would you?

Now, I don’t know about you,
But I loved spending
  Sundays with my Father,
And if I had the chance, yeah,
I’d quit my job too, just to spend
  One more Sunday with my Father

It’s Sunday!
  Can I get a Amen?
You can do better than that,
  C’mon, Amen!

I love football,
I mean I love football

When I was a child,
  My Father worked six days a week,
Saturdays too,
  And on Sunday, if there was a game,
He’d watch football,
  I’d watch with him

Now you couldn’t talk during football,
Except at commercials or
  Between plays,
But Sundays, football,
That was our time, that was my time
  To spend with my Father

So this Sunday we have this gospel,
Here’s this Jesus, just walkin’ around Galilee,
  “La dee-da…”
And he sees these men fishing in a boat,
So he says “Hey, follow me!”
  And just like that they quit their boats and go after him,
Why did they go?
  Next, a little while later, he comes across two more,
Fixing their nets with their Dad,
And them too, right there and then,
  They quit their nets and they go after him,
Who does that?

Would you?

Now, I don’t know about you,
But I loved spending
  Sundays with my Father,
And if I had the chance, yeah,
I’d quit my job too, just to spend
  One more Sunday with my Father

Lark and the Moon Whistle

Lark and the Moon Whistle

I scraped at white edged driveway ice
  With my heavy shovel blade,
Late upon an afternoon hour
  Near the close of cold today

Dusted with powder snow and tossed sand,
  The drive lay bare before the dusk,
Dry white with winter ice salt,
  Evaporated, leaving a salt residue calculus
Upon the drive to seem it too was snow,
  And aglow by the light of an unseen moon

When on a barkless branch of the old oak,
  On a limb faded dry and white as bone,
Began a horned lark to sing,
  Warm coloratura tones

In conversation with, of all things, the horizon’s rising moon!
  Who feckless, face-full, and antipodal the setting sun,
Rose with pursed lips, as if to mime, returning in kind,
  Its recitatives to the bird

Which I could not hear,
  I could hear the lark, oh yes, though (I am sure)
Moon whistles cannot sound the black vacuum of space,
  Nor could any lark song ever greet those cratered ears

Yet all the same,
  From lark to moon
    From moon to I
      Then I to lark

Our song round tripped its course once more,
  And we were home again

After Epiphany

After Epiphany

After Epiphany,
Your ornaments I pick off
  By their thin hooks one by one,
Fingering each delicate heirloom,
Hanging several on one pinky,
  Then I place them in their boxes,
Some in ice tray like partitions,
Some I rewrap in their twenty year old
  Bounty towels,

Next, from the floor under you
I pick up my new Christmas socks,
  Shaking your fallen needles to the floor,
Between your branches, with a loom shuttle hand
I unstring your lights, my other hand
  Holding their loops kindy with the wires natural coil

Epiphaney, has come,
Epiphaney, has gone,
  It took its time,
Now we move on

We named you Fred,
We loved you Fred
  Now out you go
Before you’re dead,
  And anyway
The DPW stops collecting trees
  Before MLK day

Outside, I stand you by the curbside
In the high piled snow plow snow,
  You look as if you’d always grown there,
Vibrant, lively, without care,
  But for what your fallen needles give away 

And the next morning,
In lieu of our usual alarm clock, comes
  The buzz of the DPW chipper,
“Bow-woa woa woa-
  Buh-whazzit!”

Good bye Fred,
And when we arise,
  Hello empty sunny space in the living room

Sledding

Sledding

Climbing up old Prospect hill,
How high is enough for a winter thrill?
In bootsteps others made before,
With a sled I bought at the local thrift store

Some cardboard boxes left about,
Which poor kids used for sleds, no doubt,
They’ve packed the new snow very well,
The better to run down the hill

Here are the rusty streaks from yesterday,
From where I first launched down the way,
Now cleaned and waxed its runners will
No longer leave marks parallel

I grasp my sled in either hand,
And set it down while behind I stand,
Then pushing off I lay on top
On a downhill rushing belly-wop

Quick steering ‘round moguls
  and skitching on ice,
Speeding face first from the high hilltop,
I pray I still have all of my teeth
When I come to a stop beneath

Where those kids have made a large ice bump
Which they thought would make a fun jump,
  But Oof!
It sends me soaring high in the air,
  I’m flying off my sled!
And land butt first on the hard polished ice,
  But I don’t care

Life’s too short to linger in pain,
  I’m going down that hill -
    Again!

White Out

White Out

There’s a certain joyful feeling,
  Walking out with you in snow,
Without the traffic on the road
  We yield only when winds blow,

With a shawl over your head,
  And my old hunting cap on mine,
We witness gray snow covered worlds,
  While dusty snows a spin and swirl

There’s a minty winter freshness
  Breathing air that’s below froze,
Which eventually bites into blue
  Leather gloved fingers and our toes

Except for the one hand we
  Keep held with each other,
And our kissing lips that meet
  In our defiance of the cold

“Had enough?”
“Yeah, let’s go in and just watch the rest on the news”