The Tightrope Walker - John Field

Legend has it that when he was a boy

His bare-feet

Maintained an intimate relationship

With clotheslines and telephone wires.

On the ground he was one of us,

A down-to-earth dad

Who drove his kids to school,

But high in the circus sky

He was the star of the Milky Way,

Our Gracious Lord

And Almighty Father.

Isn’t everything theater?

Scorning safety nets

He’d pretend to take a false step

Lose his duel with gravity

Spank the air with his pole

Then acknowledge our gasps

By regaining his balance

And doffing his hat.

Alas, he earned his silver urn

The hard way

In an unguarded moment

Of joie de vivre

When he clicked his heels

With arduous ease

In a fancy slight-of-foot trick

Mingled his legs with the air

And landed upside down

In the middle of his throng

Of true believers.

Sometimes, however,

Death can be as deceptive

As a happy ending.

Aghast, we watched his soul

Exhale itself out of his mouth

In a cloud of vapor

Which we politely,

Even reverentially

Coughed in for a while

Until the uncertain air,

Gaseous and warm,

Suddenly fashioned itself

Into the steady stable image

Of an angel

Holy ghosted by God and sanctified

By the everlasting church

Of the old rugged cross.

Shining brighter

Than a florescent light bulb,

Our Divination

Doubled up His energy

By absorbing our prayers

Then hovered in mid-air,

One last levitation

For our benefit—what a rapture!

Before He opened His wings

To the sky,

Ascended heavenward

And vanished forever after

In the atmosphere.

Ten years later His congregation

Is one hundred thousand strong

And growing everyday.

Blessings on our critics who claim

That our memories blur with the effort

Of their being remembered,

But they shall not have been there.

Forgive them, Our Very Present Help

In Time of Trouble,

For the insufficiency and misdirection

Of their faith.

Let their sacrilegious incantations

Fall like lightning bolts

On ashes and dark matter

Instead of on You, dear Levitator,

Lover of high places

And all things ridiculously real.

                     
                                               ***

Untaken Advice -Joan Brady

“Get Out...” the others said...

“Get out while you still can...before their gates lock...

and they pull up the drawbridge...”

But already...I could see...their fire had encircled me...

And was...steadily...burning inward...

But that is what they did say...

And then I said, “but in the stories I was told...

there was love in it”...

And I did want to believe that...but then...

Everything they said would happen did happen...

And there was no visible way out left...but up...

So that is how I learned to fly...

And that is the good part....

                                                   ***

Lonely Dog - Russ Bedord

The dog on the bank

calls for its master

whining as if

its master could hear.

For a while satisfied

waiting by the water,

it tests the shallows

once, twice, even more,

each time returning to shore.

Its keening reaches

far across the water.

If the master could hear,

would he do as he did before?

Leave the dog to wait and wonder

what he did to be so lonely?

Why he roams this empty shore?

What it takes to fill this yearning?

What it is he’s yearning for?

What it is that begs for more?

If the master comes again,

leaves again, as before,

would there be a reason

to wonder and whine anymore,

or would it be just like before?

Oh, lonely dog,

pining and whining,

calls to the void, and

wishing for what never was

shows you never knew

what the Master brought,

nor what was left behind.

What the Master meant

never left at all.

The calling in your mind

across the water says:

Here I am and always was,

and shall always ever be.

No longer, dog, need you wonder

what you mean to Me.

No longer need you wander

along an empty shore.

Turn inward to that voice,

and stop this manic pacing—

This was not My gift to you.

I brought you love

you had not known: no reason

to wonder and whine anymore,

or did I leave you just wanting more?

*****

The Dark Slice of the Moon - Beverly Koepplin

Someone has set the moon up very high tonight

where she drifts in and out of the billowing clouds,

like a young girl hiding behind her mother’s skirts

at a grown-up party, shy but wanting to see and to be seen.

Or maybe she is playing hide and seek with her cosmic sisters.

You would think she is being very demurrer tonight

until you see the black slice 

that rides the hem of her pale yellow gown.

Aha, what is she wearing under that charmingly modest dress?

Could that really be a black satin petticoat or a lacy ruffle?

She is not trying to hide it; 

it drifts along under her for the world to see.

If one of the clouds snagged her skirt and tore it away,

Would we see the rest of her bad girl lingerie?

Perhaps a black silk slip 

or a tantalizing corset with beribboned garters.

She is no young girl tonight; she is a teasing yellow harlot

slipping in and out of view, tossing come hither looks 

through the clouds.

Someone has set the moon up very high tonight

so that we may see her in all of her golden glory for one night.

For she has come of age and soon, 

in her fullness, she will slip away

to meet her lover and cast aside her girlish clothes

and melt with the dark of the night to sleep with the stars.

                                                                 ***

Jars of Bits and Pieces - Lucille Hamilton

In the on-going effort to clear and clean my home down to 

the bare bones of necessity, I have put a jar in each room.

They are labelled "Found," because whatever is in them, the

remaining part is either unidentifiable or just still lost, so the 

jar sits where the missing part might have been seen last,

waiting for a reunion of sorts.

We 

are bits and pieces,

jig-saw puzzles, on the surface,

put together,

pieces missing we discover

as we go on,

trying to make our way as a whole.

Of all the descriptions of what it is to be

a woman or a man,

what pieces do you feel you lack or are you missing,

what is the description that was hard for you to choose,

hard for you to become, or even contemplate,

because

somewhere in the evolving years there was some accepted

reason why

that job didn't appeal to you, or quite suit your needs;

or

where you chose to live, or work, or be,

there wasn't that opportunity.

There are so many reasons, aren't there,

and you are being honest with yourself

with your answers.

It's appropriate to keep them in a glass-seeable jar

with a large mouth and lid, easy to take out and deal with

as the occasion arises,

those times when you feel incomplete in your desired self-description.

when you might reach far back for the understanding and compassion

for something you are now criticizing in your ever-emerging self.

                                          ***

Simple Simon - Russ Bedord

Sing a sad song for the Simple Simon

Who finds solace in substitutes.

Sing a spiteful song for the easy high, man

Sought by the junkie Simple Simon.

Sing an angry song for the chemical pieman

Who sells the stuff

That stews the brain

That kills the pain

Of facing the self of Simple Simon.

Sing a vengeful song to the Greedy Simons

Whose privilege relies on easy highs

Of Simons not worth spending a dime on,

Whose son goes to Harvard, daughter to Vassar:

Who knows how to spell antimacassar.

Sing a worried song for the Earnest Simon

Hot on the trail of said chemical pieman,

Who patiently spends untold hours of time in

Wading the slime of petty crime then

Catches and pens the chemical piemen

But never gets close to Greedy Simon,

Safe and secure and social climbing

With congress and clergy at cocktail time and  

who shake heads—oh, my—at the moral climate

                                  *****

A Bird in the Hand - Joan Shepherd

When I was probably 7 or 8 years old, I begged Mother for the job of giving the canary its bath.This was a tricky task with an element of danger for the bird if it escaped.  Mother loved canaries, loved to hear them sing even if they interrupted Helen Trent , the soap opera she listened to. I got the job.

The bird seems a little apprehensive as I carry the cage to  the kitchen table which is protected with old newspapers.One can use an official bird bath, about a 4 inch oval ceramic dish or less sanitary but convenient, a cereal bowl from the cupboard. Filled with lukewarm water, it is placed some distance from the cage. Now comes he tricky part: Slide out the bottom of the cage making sure the bird is either on the swing or clinging desperately to the side. Holding the cage from the top or sides, quickly put the cage over the water dish and breathe a sigh of relief that the bird did not fly away in those seconds when escape was possible.

The bird may act as if he doesn’t know what is happening but then suddenly,  without any modesty, it will jump on the edge or into the bowl, flutter both wings in the  water,  splashing and  ducking their head into the water until satisfied they are clean and wet and maybe offer a short song of thanks. If left alone for a bit, the bathing may be repeated! 

The supervisor of the bird’s bath has not been idle during this procedure.The debris at the bottom of the  cage has been removed, fresh newspaper applied and sprinkled  with clean grit which the bird may later scratch and even eat before the next housecleaning and bath.

Then, the process getting Dicky Bird, as my mother seemed to name each of her canaries, the process is reversed but a little more threatening to an eight year old girl.The cleaned bottom tray has to be inserted into the cage giving a bit more time for the canary to escape. The good thing is that Dicky or Tweety is happy after the bath and looking forward to a treat which will be provided: a dandelion, a piece of lettuce or a slice of apple stuck between the wires of the cage. The bird will be happy as a clam.

Canaries spend a lot of time exploring their homes, even on the floor  where the grit  and newspapers are. If they live long enough, they might learn to read, but these birds are meant to sing their little hearts out for others to hear and enjoy. And when they have eaten enough lettuce or dandelions and sung until their vocal cords become stiff with age, they go to the bottom of the cage, lay down and die. That’s what Dicky Bird did and that’s where I found him and experienced my first contact with death –  unless you count the little turtle, about the size of a silver dollar with a painted palm tree in his shell. It wandered away when taken from his glass aquarium furnished with a few rocks, some fake and real plants, and a mayonnaise jar lid full of water. I assume the turtle died because it never came back for a bath.

                               ***

Sometimes Like Autumn - John Field

What is it about growing old?                                              Sometimes like autumn                      

Ascending toward its final glory,                                     

The star of October’s last picture show.                      

Begins with a gentle Rembrandt glow

Then erupts like ketchup and mustard

Splattered on buns, paint-box colors so hot  

They shoot light off

To make themselves feel comfortable.

Stalled magnificence up there day after day

Until punctual as bad luck a storm sweeps in,

Trees shed their tattered gowns

Like nightclub strippers and the sky’s confetti,

A sight that will open your pores

And make your shoulder blades ache for wings.

But it’s not over yet:

Like soldiers in a defeated army

Left standing after their last salute

A few stubborn leaves crinkled brown

As powder burns

Refuse to come down

Because they can’t decide

Whether or not they’re still alive

And if so what for?

Then lose their grip on even this

And scuttle away on their rusty tips,

Turn epileptic in air

And with a lazy twirl spin silently down

Crazy slow

Without a breeze to blow them,

Cashed in by gravity and finally run to ground.

“This is my life,” you tell yourself,

“What old age is all about,

A drop of blood on a slide of glass

And death like a stone in my shoe.”

Think about it. Take, if you like, all night

In the silence before the siren arrives

Because there will be mornings

When waking up in the same old pajamas

Just isn’t enough----and nights that arrive

Like a coincidence instead of a sure thing.

     

                           ***

Peaches of Summer, Apples of Winter - Beverly Koepplin

Oh, the sweet peaches of summer,

round and full and soft,

dripping nectar, warm and fragrant,

golden and luscious, like the long lazy days.

Ah, the pleasant pears of autumn,

never asking for much attention

yet satisfying in soft unbidden ways,

if sensuously poached in red wine or robed in chocolate.

Oh, the crisp apples of winter,

tart on the tongue, sweet as love in a pie.

white and cold inside like winter days

and holiday red outside, an edible ornament.

Ah, the bliss of berries in the spring,

red and blue and black and pale gold

with as many tastes as there are colors,

and every sweet and tart bite a promise of days to come.

  ***

The Moon and I - Noris Binet

The moon woke me one morning,

she was outside my window

waiting for me to come out

and play with her!

I didn’t know her desires

until I reached the ocean

and there she was, waning down

behind a cloud

waiting to surprise me

but I laughed because I saw her

slowly being covered by a white cloud

on the vast, dark-blue sky.

The sun wasn’t up yet

but because his light shone on her

we could see each other

and then we played

collecting small shells on the beach,

running from the waves,

sinking our feet in the grainy sand.

Suddenly I forgot myself

who I was or how old;

I became the ageless moon

and regained my innocence!

The waves, the ocean, the vast sky

the moon and I…

couldn’t tell who was who

and what was what,

there was only us!

Then the sun arose

and illuminated all of us

and the sky.

                                 ***