The wind and you played in my hair, +++You lambent in the moon,
The night arranged as by design, +++Mysteriously boon.
Afresh the breeze and warm our hands, +++So lately introduced,
Traced so gently new found lands, +++From tyranny aloosed.
While all around with fire and bang +++Our freedom was proclaimed,
A nation’s liberty was meant, +++To us, two hearts unchained.
(1982)
As we reflect on our nation’s past, I’m reminded of a bit of personal history. Some 38 years ago, a couple of crazy kids snuck up to the roof of the Calhoun Beach Club in Minneapolis to watch fireworks.
They didn’t quite realize it yet, but they were falling in love. Like our country, they were not perfect. But, like our country, they had tasted the mercy of Jesus and dreamed of a more perfect union.
Wafting comes the mower’s comforting hum,
Assuring all is just as it should be.
Our gates and fences all are rightly plumb,
We celebrate our capability.
New curbs and gutters sluice away wild rain,
Alarms and locks protect our doors from breach,
Our lives arranged to minimize our pain,
Designed to keep us safely out of reach.
But wreaking roots upheave the sidewalk path,
And worms devour our precious woolen thread,
The black and red mold creep into our bath,
Insomnia disturbs our peace in bed.
Despite our engineering and our math,
Our paradise is something less instead.
(2016)
Today was almost perfect in our little suburb. The spring sun was shining, the flowering trees were peaking, it was not too hot and not too cool. The night before, the moon was still almost full and it was splendid.
This afternoon few cars were out in the streets. Homeowners were gardening and mowing and washing their windows. Couples were out walking their dogs. When you met a neighbor you nodded and smiled.
Yet all was not well.
When you met that neighbor you veered several feet away so as not to breathe any air they may have exhaled from their lungs. There were no close or extended conversations. Some walkers are wearing face masks.
You see so many people in the neighborhood because their schools and businesses are closed. We are home bound and quarantined.
There is a plague in the land.
So much of what filled our time just four weeks ago is now unavailable. It’s been unlike any Lenten period in my lifetime. We have given up, albeit involuntarily, all gatherings for entertainment, sports, parties, dining, drinking or carousing. I’m unsure if I’m any wiser or if my heart is any softer for it.
I didn’t have anything like our current pandemic in mind when I wrote this a few years ago. But I thought of it today on my walk.
A simple story that I yearned to tell,
Just two, a boy and orange butterfly,
Enchanted by the lavish summer flush
Of lark and lilac, hollyhock and thrush. +++He did not really know just why he wept.
At first it seemed a game of innocence
To chase the dainty kite around the yard.
Its random flight impossible to track,
Just as it drew in range it fluttered back. +++He laughed as if this day would never end.
In time the butterfly would come to rest
Upon the sweet and fragrant purple bloom.
The boy would seize at last that prize he sought,
But saw at once he’d ruined what he had caught. +++Tears dropped upon an orange, broken wing.
You brought, dear friend, all this to life on film,
The first production of your long career.
Quite primitive, for sure, it was, and raw.
We were not ones to dwell on any flaw. +++For we were making art and we were glad.
We ventured forth for beauty, truth and love.
We vowed we’d float the Mississippi’s length.
We’d plumb our nation’s soul and sing its song.
We were so young and casual and strong. +++And confident our time was all our own.
But life’s vicissitudes drew us apart.
There’d be no sequel to our maiden work.
We’d never float that river on a raft,
Nor join to sharpen one another’s craft. +++No use to wonder now what might have been.
For time has caught up with your mind too soon.
The wings on which you soared are broken now.
Your free and fancy flight has turned to stone.
You’ve gone and left us lonesome and alone. +++Too late I realized just why I wept.
NOTES: In 1968, my friend and classmate Gene Marksbury played his new album for me, Bookends by Simon and Garfunkel. The duo’s album Sounds of Silence had been my very first record purchase a couple of years earlier. I was already a fan.
There had always been heartache, poignancy and disappointment in their music, but this new album took it further. It seemed to cover the whole span of life. Youth and young love, breakdowns of relationships, and — finally — the losses that come with old age.
The album ended with the admonition that has haunted me ever since:
Time it was, and what a time it was, it was A time of innocence. A time of confidences Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph Preserve your memories; They’re all that’s left you.
I have a photograph from that era long ago:
From left to right: Gene Marksbury, me, and Clyde Smith
The shot shows us as we prepared for a camping trip on the banks of the Missouri River a few miles from our home. Gene is the one on the left and our friend Clyde Smith is on the right holding the rifle. Years before, we were members of the same slot car racing club and spent a lot of time together. In the insanity of adolescence, we had once tried to hold our own 24-hour Le Mans slot car race.
But by time of this photo we were all probably about 16 or 17, and primed for more challenging adventures. It was also about this time that Clyde somehow got access to a movie camera. He was already a talented photographer and he was eager to make a movie.
I had written a very short story for an English class and he decided that this would be the basis for his first film. The story was about a boy chasing a butterfly, catching it and then instantly regretting that he had damaged it beyond repair. I had called the story “End of a Monarchy.”
It was the most basic of plots, but Clyde recruited a younger friend to be the star and somehow wrangled an unfortunate butterfly to play the supporting role. And, to his credit, Clyde made it happen. It was shot on primitive, grainy, 8mm film, but when he was finished, he had himself a movie.
I was delighted, of course.
After high school graduation, Clyde and I came very close to going to the same college. We dreamed big about a future of artistic collaboration. But I received a scholarship from a different school with an offer I couldn’t refuse, and we went our separate directions.
I emerged from college a few years later armed with a B.A in philosophy and classics, and no serious plan for the future. What followed was a checkered career. Bouncing from fry cook to restaurant manager to salesman to journalist to copy writer to creative director … most of the time earning a living to support my family and my poetry habit.
Gene’s life took a circuitous route, but he ended up teaching college back in our hometown for a few years. He now owns a winery and operates a tasting room in nearby Glasgow, MO, overlooking the Missouri River. His Bushwhacker Bend Norton Dry Red is pretty tasty.
Clyde and I had not seen each other for decades. But three years ago my wife and I were in Los Angeles and I made a point of reconnecting with him. We spend a delightful lunch with him and had a wonderful time making up for lost time. We reminisced for more than two hours, and he reminded me of details about our youthful escapades that I had forgotten.
I did notice that Clyde repeated a couple of stories during the course of our conversation but didn’t think too much of it.
After we returned home, Clyde and I exchanged a few messages. But he soon stopped replying and I got busy. Sometime later I realized I hadn’t heard from him for quite some time. I remembered his seemingly insignificant forgetfulness during out lunch and began to worry.
Late last year I went to his Facebook page and my fears were confirmed. From information posted there, I learned that Clyde was suffering from Alzheimer’s and had declined rapidly. He was already in the later stages and had reached the point where his wife was no longer able to care for him at home and keep him safe.
Since then she has been able to move him into a care facility that specializes in such patients, but she reports that he no longer recognizes her, their daughter, their dog, or anyone elseIn 1968, my friend and classmate Gene Marksbury played his new album for me, Bookends by Simon and Garfunkel. The duo’s album Sounds of Silence had been my very first record purchase a couple of years earlier. I was already a fan.
There had always been heartache, poignancy and disappointment in their music, but this new album took it further. It seemed to cover the whole span of life. Youth and young love, breakdowns of relationships, and — finally — the losses that come with old age.
The album ended with the admonition that has haunted me ever since:
Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence. A time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories; They’re all that’s left you.
I have a photograph from that era long ago:.
I lost my mother to dementia many years ago, and this news about my friend has dredged up all sorts of grief and regret. I’ve been thinking of all the questions I wish I could have asked my mother when she still was able to answer.
I’ve been wishing that Clyde and I had stayed in closer touch since we left our Missouri hometown. I’ve been wishing we had had the opportunity to work together again.
I’ve been thinking of my past, my family, my friends, trying to preserve as many many memories as I possibly can.
I’ve been repeating Paul Simon’s lyrics in my head and wondering, when you lose your memories, what do you have left?
September’s sun has come and gone +++And now the fall is here.
October’s blaze adorns the lawn, +++The swan song of the year.
The bonfires of my autumns past +++Burn cool as I recall
The hayride loves that failed to last +++Beyond the end of fall.
Out on the gridiron battlefield, +++Where so much toil was paid,
Where cheers and chants once loudly pealed, +++Now flags and glory fade.
Our friends and kinsmen now are few. +++Our lovers are all gone.
All those we thought would see us through +++Cannot be counted on.
When we were young we loved the fall. +++We loved the leaves aglow.
Knew always we’d have one more fall. +++Those days, what did we know?
(2018)
When I wrote this one last year, I had no idea how prophetic it would be. In the past 12 months, I’ve learned of the deaths of my sister-in-law, and a college dormmate. And just recently, I discovered that the high school buddy I shared more experiences with than any other has entered an Alzheimer’s nursing home.
He was a man who knew the worth of tools. How having just the right one for the job Was worth a lot, but clearly not as much As knowing what to do with ones you had, And what to do with tools he surely knew.
When just a boy on a Missouri farm, He started hanging round the blacksmith shop Whenever he could catch a ride to town. Old Henry Ford’s new-fangled auto car Had sparked a need for handy fix-it men. He joined the revolution, then and there, Brought by the horseless carriage on the land, And learned mechanics on a Model T. He mastered use of wrenches and of pliers, Learned lessons he would use for decades hence.
To make it through the Great Depression’s dearth He took whatever labor he could find. He hoed bean rows and stripped bluegrass by hand, With just the simplest tools to do the job. His daily wage back then was just a buck, But any honest work beat none at all. To earn his daily bread he tilled the soil Just like his male ancestors all before.
But he saw tools of farming changing too, With tractors putting horses out of work. He gambled on a combine harvester That reaped and threshed and winnowed all at once. Then hiring out his cutting-edge machine, He saved enough to buy his own small farm, And one by one he added to his tools.
In time he sold the farm and moved to town To try his hand in the commercial world. Still very much a Ford man in his heart, He bought a dealership of farm machines— The boldest speculation of his life. But business wasn’t really his strong suit, And when it failed, he carried on with tools.
He built a practice fixing implements — Hay balers, corn pickers, tractors — all repaired Right where they’d broken down out in the field. And farmers round about began to say, “If Ray can’t make her run she can’t be fixed.”
When he was well past sixty years of age He got a crazy notion in his head— He’d always dreamed of having his own shop— So he measured out the plan in the back yard. And there he built the thing all by himself With salvaged lumber gotten almost free. Of course, it looked just like a barn. Because, well, that’s only thing that he’d built before. But he knew well enough the tools required. Beneath his hammer, nails sunk into boards With just two strokes, or maybe three. His singing handsaw made the sawdust fly. His level, plane and plumb line kept all true. Out of a worthless demolition pile He fashioned form where there was none before. His barn still stands though many years have passed. With paint and care could stand for many more. It needs someone with tools to care again.
And when his wife of more than fifty years Grew absent minded and began to fail, He looked in vain for tools to fix her with. Installed a cook-stove, gas-line, shut-off valve When she began to start forgetting things, Like if she’d turned the burners on or off. Nowhere on all his cluttered workshop shelves Was there a tool to fix her slipping mind. The final years he’d visit every day Ensuring that she ate her rest home meal. The only tool of any use a spoon. In time, the spoon was of no use as well.
My work today requires different tools. I toil in neither soil nor wood nor stone. Instead of grease my hands are stained with ink. I polish common syllables to rhyme. I calibrate my words to find a song, Fine tuning—like a carburetor—lines, To make them run not either rich nor lean, To purr and roar without the gassy fumes, Obscuring sense and choking with the smoke.
My father’s tools lie idle on the bench. The workman will not use them anymore. With all the craftsmanship I can bestow, I carry on instead with tools I know.
(2019)
I’ve been reading a lot of Robert Frost this year. He was a modern master of blank verse and all of that exposure is bound to have some influence on me. I can only hope some of the music rubs off on me.
Back in May, I took a stab at blank verse and it seemed to work out okay. So here is another in the same vein.
The workman in this poem is my father. I am living proof that mechanical aptitude is not hereditary.
When May bursts forth all moisture and mirth,
And birds bestir while you are still abed,
With everything bent on fostering birth,
And balmy blossoms like a banquet spread
Call to the wanderer weary and wan, “Close your eyes and breathe and remember nights When you lay upon the redolent lawn, And took your bashful taste of love’s delights.”
For though that time is but a glimmer now,
And keenness of the night is now subdued,
A fragrant echo still awakes somehow,
And stirs again a near forgotten mood.
One kiss with wonder could the world endow.
In one embrace you found all you pursued.
(2017)
NOTES: I couldn’t let the month slip away without posting this May-inspired poem.
Love when you are young and young love at any age share a common quality. My favorite month of May reminds me of that.
When I was very young and in love for the first time, I ran across a short little Robert Browning poem called Summum Bonum, which spoke to me quite vividly at the time. Many years and many miles later, I discovered — thankfully — that you did not have to be young to fall in love again.
There just may be a whisper of an echo from that poem in here.
That bleak season the cold creek ceased to run,
Grey weeds withered beside the roadside ditch,
Flat leaden clouds obscured a sullen sun,
Winds lashed ice-lacquered leaves without a twitch.
Field stalks bowed down to winter’s weary weight,
The world conspired to pile pang upon pang,
Even the crusted snow cried, “Much too late!”
Caged by a skeleton hedge, no bird sang.
That bleak season love went the way of leaves,
Good green seeming, but poised to take the fall,
First frost stunned then assailed by windy thieves,
Some futile few sought stubborn to forestall
The impending end ’til a fell gust cleaves
Asunder with only a scrawny squall.
(2017)
Notes: This endless winter has reminded me of the poem above, written not too long ago, but inspired by events in another time, in another life.
Ah, when to the heart of man ++Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things, ++To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end ++Of a love or a season?
The comfort I can offer is only this: Love, like spring will surely bloom again.
Afternoon in late September
Shows us signs we both can follow,
Shadows where there were no shadows
Days before, encroach on meadows,
Turning brittle brown and yellow.
Six o’clock’s a dying ember
Causing grown men to remember
Another fall’s disturbing echo.
When, unnoticed, fell the first leaves,
Yellow elm leave tired of sunshine?
Who suspected seeing such ease
When the first chill stunned the green vine?
Is embarrassment the reason
Sumac’s crimson hides its poison?
When was foliage last so supine?
Rainy night in mid-October
Brings the icy confirmation —
Twigs encased in shiny coffins
Clenched in cold that never softens.
Even daylight’s ministration
Alters no repose so sober
As the sleep of mid-October,
Sleep of spreading desolation.
(1979)
Notes: Took a walk this evening and it finally felt cold for the first time. Cold enough to pull this old poem out, dust it off, and trot it out again.
Written years ago and far away, when I lived in a much different climate. My Puget Sound friends and neighbors might find it hard to relate to an autumn that leaves twigs encased in icy coffins, but my friends back in Minnesota understand all too well.
I recall one Halloween when my son and I set out at dusk to trick or treat in Minneapolis. We made our way about two blocks as it began to snow hard, then harder. We almost didn’t make it back home as we trudged through calf-deep drifts.
Autumn has its beauty. “Every leaf is a flower,” is a beautiful sentiment.
But the fall is also one of God’s great metaphors. And that makes it poignant, even as it is achingly beautiful.
“We’ll sell no wine before its time,” we’re told.
The fat and famous spokesman made it clear,
Each vintage has its period of gold.
(You must assess the pressing and the year.)
So, likewise, for each vintage comes a time
The point past which there’s no return at all.
Decay and oxidation work their crime,
And turn your sweetest nectar into gall.
So come, my dear, what are we waiting for?
Our cellar holds a few more bottles still.
Pick one and brush away the dust before
Time turns its contents back to must — time will.
Cast off our caution and our clothes and pour,
And drink with joy until we’ve had our fill.
(2016)
Photo courtesy of TripAdvisor
NOTES: The shorter days and fainter light of September are stirring all sorts of poignant feelings. Something about this time of year makes me want to haul this old poem out of the cellar one more time.
I’m old enough to remember when Orson Welles employed his considerable talent to pitch some middle-of-the-road wine back in the late 1970s. He had been a celebrated actor, who had co-written, directed, and starred in Citizen Kane, what many still consider the best film ever made.
But he was difficult to work with, and had trouble raising money for his projects. So he turned to advertising to pay the bills. His Paul Masson spots where he declared, “We will sell no wine before its time,” are classic examples of great advertising.
Paul Masson sales reportedly rose by 33% while that campaign ran.
Poetic Champions 