Clutter - Michael James

If I had still in my possession the things I once counted as indispensable to my peace of mind, not inclusive of real estate, it would require half an acre to park them. Cars and motorcycles, trucks and trailers, furniture, lawn mowers, carts and wheelbarrows come to mind as potentially useful albeit inert occupiers of space. And if I were to distribute them around my domicile in such a way as to create an obstacle course from my car to my front door, then I would be doing no less than women in my life have done with their paraphernalia: sewing machines, boxes, bags and  blankets, old clothes, new clothes, shoes, shirts, singlets and shredders, not to mention silverware and glasses stashed in drawers and cupboards for an  event that fails to materialize. Any agility they retain must be honed to a fine skill from having to negotiate a course through their detritus wherever they would wend their ways.

This was especially true of my mother-in-law, God rest her soul. Upon the death of her husband, her oldest girl imagined she would require some extra work, so she volunteered her elderly mother to sort items for sale in her church. The clerical busy-bodies filled the poor lady’s house with their junk and left her amidst the most unmanageable mess I’d ever seen in anyone’s dwelling. In one room where the rather frail old lady used to like to read, there were stacks of books waist high standing around the floor so that one had to behave like a snake to get to her chair. Trays of socks and shoes awaiting pairing lay on the floor in another room beneath tables holding blouses looking for hangers. The poor woman had no idea where to begin; when I saw her she was randomly picking up items and laying them down elsewhere, contributing to the chaos.

I seem to remember that the cure came in the nature of an exculpation: some other church factotum came with a truck and took it all to the dump. It was wonderful to see the old lady clear-eyed after that. Something along those lines I’ve been suggesting to my wife for years, but she doesn’t like to part with things.

Can you imagine a snake unwilling to part with its old skin or an ugly, grey water insect resisting transformation into a brilliant dragonfly? I’ve watched one of those insects crawl out of the water and up a reed where it wrapped its legs around the stalk and appeared to go to sleep. But as I watched, cracks, as in the rapid drying out of an exposed lake bottom, appeared along it abdomen and gradually spread to engulf the entire carapace.

When the creature reawakened, it stepped out of its former shell, inflated in little pulses the flimsy sacks along it back to produce four long wings with which it fanned the air as it held on tightly to the reed, turning around the axis of its perch. Meanwhile it was extending its abdomen into a long, shining blue “tail.” The metamorphosis had lasted forty-five minutes; when it was complete, the animal lay still, a broad-backed solar collector to the sun; then was gone in an iridescent flash and the lightest whir of wings.

I was with my young son at the time, resting on the sandy bank of the river after a hard sail in a strong summer breeze. We were both elated to have witnessed the transformation which glows within us yet as one of our best shared memories. When I speak of stages in our “shuffling off this mortal coil,” that metamorphosis comes to mind, and I wonder at the hesitation people feel in disposing of things they have grown out of. 

A rule of thumb comes to mind: If you haven’t used something for longer than a year, you don’t need it, so get rid of it!  That may be a little draconian, and I refuse to apply it to the tools in my garage, but I have no hesitation in applying the rule to my wife’s bags of materials, sewing aids, “crafting” adjuncts, old clothes and shoes, and whatever else lurks beneath the piles of junk in her bedroom.

                                        ***

Still a Fire Burns - Beverly Koepplin

In the shorter days of November

a fire still burns.

Our sun still glows

with its life-giving light.

A butterfly still sways and dips

and a hummingbird drinks from the last rose.

In the darker days of November,

days made dark out of time,

a fire still burns

to light our way on roads of despair,

to guide us on paths strange and twisted,

and to give us hope when there is little to be had.

In the cooler days of November

a fire still burns

in the deepest part of our hearts,

to keep everything good and true in the light

to keep the righteous out of the dark,

and to keep warm and glowing the spirit of life.

In these days of November

a fire still burns,

to temper the steel in our spines,

to warn our enemies away,

and to burnish the armor we don

to guard our fire and keep it ever burning, ever near.

                                                      ***

YES - John Field

Yes ...

I love the word and hear its long struggle with no

even in the bird’s throat and the budging crocus.

------Brendan Kennelly 

Say yes and the incomprehensible 

Is rendered simple, fabulous.

It may not be the place

but it’s whatever it takes

to straighten out the hairpin curves

in the twisty road that leads us there.

It’s a patch of sunlight on the lawn 

the antlered trees let through, 

afternoons soft and warm

and a night just before dawn

when  you’re wandering around the edge 

of town searching for a place to hang out 

because you’re caught between lovers

or jobs or novels or religions

and there it is: the neon glow 

of a sign in the window 

of Ned’s Chophouse, Bar and Grill: 

WE NEVER CLOSE. 

Whereas NO is a stone word 

famous for the possibilities

it pulverizes. One we can’t play

at making glamorous, like war

and the casket-rattlers 

who make patriotic speeches. 

It’s a life locked in the static

between radio stations,

a three course dinner the size of a dime

we paid a hundred dollars for,

and the blue-streak chatter 

of an hysterical woman  

who alternatively fingers 

the bruise on the back of her neck 

and her broken nose. In front of a cinema

it’s a line that never moves 

and at funerals a Chaucerian fart.

We have all of us thought 

what it would feel like

to discover the fountain of youth,

but the only agelessness is YES.

***  

Mariner Man- Russ Bedord

The real story of

the Mariner Man.

When the albatross came,

he was in the can—

or, more correctly,

nautically said—

he was in the head.

The albatross landed

on the aftmost spar,

different from what 

we’ve heard so far.

While resting there

it dropped some white,

maybe for spite,

and then flew off

into the Southern night.

Emerged from the head,

the Mariner said: 

“My bare foot on

this ugly white blob!

Is that bird now gone?”

To clean it up,

he handed me a mop, 

and cursed this curse:

“I’d wish you worse,”

he said, “but getting married

to a girl back home:

don’t waste any time

on epic poems.”

       ***

Ol' Froggy - Joshua Gramse

Ol' Froggy.

Been mayor since back in... aught eight?  Aught nine?

Long time.

Built the new library.

Christmas turkeys for the poor.

For he's a jolly good fellow.

Or was.

We put ya on our shoulders.

It's a cryin' shame.

Wolverton Atkins Frogmorton Jr.

Handsome gentry.

County blue blood goin' back to general Washington.

Brandy, cigars and a joy buzzer at the Benevolent Brotherhood of Black Bears Lodge.

Kept 'em in stitches at the charity pancake breakfast.

A wink and a grin.

Should've noticed those teeth.

Oh Froggy, how could ya?

Dapper dandy.

But not afraid to get his paws dirty.

He pitched in for sand baggin' the creek back in '11

On his hands and knees in the mud like some four-legged thing.

Do full moons affect creek floods?

You broke our hearts!

Silver tongue sweet talked somebody for state funds.

Glad handed your way around the county seat till they ran the new state route through town.

Business boomed.

People'd hand ya their babies.

All day honorary uncle.

When Emil Watkins ran against ya, he never even had a chance.

Never took nobody with ya on your monthly hunting trips.

That's your business, but ya shared the meat.

Turns out, I guess ya didn't need a gun.

Did we ever even know ya?

All them years, Froggy.

All them cattle and sheep.

A bloody business.

We thought it was bears, or the odd mountain lion.

And here it was you all along.

And us all thinkin' it was safe to walk around at night.

I guess yer Pa, and yer Pa's Pa, and on down the line had done the same.

You pulled the wool over our eyes, or was it shaggy ol' fur?

Now we know what all was makin' all that racket up in the woods.

And add to that dear Mrs. Dooley, Young Miss Grafton, and even Myrtle Dutton the doctor's wife.

And Doc your best Chum.

You rake.

Poor ladies so red faced they might have to move away.

How'd you pull it off so long without folks gettin' wise?

But the granddaddy of 'em all was that great hoodwink.

How many years?

The town coffers and the school fund ain't your personal plunder.

Keeping up that big ol' house and all them fancy clothes.

Got one over on us, sure enough.

Sticky fingered swindler.

Say it ain't so!

You're a lousy thief, a shameless cad and a no account werewolf to boot?

So Ol' Froggy, we're runnin' you out on a rail!  And if you ever come back we'll make a rug outta ya!

Where's Emil Watkins?  He still lookin' for a job?  Hand him a silver candlestick and see if he winces.

                              ***

Crumbs - Lucille Hamilton

I want to think about crumbs.

They become a presence in your older life,

landing - who knows how -

under the nosepiece of your bifocals,

hiding from your awareness

until some more important smudge

calls attention to the need for cleaning.

You don't see people in their forties

ferreting out the hidden residue

of some toasted, tv-watching sandwich.

Suddenly crumbs are ever-present,

and, with age, ever multiplying.

And, not just in spectacles anymore,

but in the multitude of right angles

you, up till now, didn't realize

involve almost every aspect of your life.

Let's think about crumbs in a new way.

Weren't they once part of something bigger?

Aren't they the "remembrance" of madeleines past -

among a whole variety of other possibilities?.

A history of crumbs has yet to be written, 

to my knowledge.

For certain, there will be a paper written one day

to meet some Ph.D requirement.

Maybe then, the purpose for crumbs will be found,

other than to make beds uncomfortable, 

to feed some creature much smaller than human.

Or,

and this is pure insanity,

to leave a trail out of the forest one's lost in.

I mean! 

What is the life expectancy of a crumb?

I will stop now about crumbs, 

hoping that you will give them some consideration, 

hoping that the crumbs I've offered 

are ones of satisfaction. 

and"I will stop now,"

having heard the good advice I've written.

                        ***

Collector for Life - Dave Lewis

A collector for life

 was Fillmore Maxim

He rents storage lockers

and really packs 'em

It will

give you the creeps

All the stuff

that he keeps!

His house is all stuffed 

in each nook and cranny

He has diapers through bloomers 

worn by his Granny

His first dog's first collars

and rabies tags

All the saddles and bridles 

he dressed on his nags

Many albums of photos 

show off his kin

But no names are remembered 

or the years that they're in

Machinery not working

fills a barn and a shed

Seven cars rust away 

in a garage painted red

He has the clothes and the luggage 

of four previous wives

That slipped out the door 

and ran for their lives. 

Magazines and papers 

are heaped-up in piles.

If straightened and measured

they'd run twenty miles

Many jars full of coins 

– especially the cent

Fillmore liked money 

cached and not spent

Maybe some time 

he will need it for rent

Fillmore bought computers

to scan and to copy 

So now besides paper 

he has many a floppy

Obsolete for years

they just fill up more space

And stacks of old computers 

are all over the place

He has a dozen fat TVs 

made before the remote

The antlers of a buck deer

and the skull of a goat

Fillmore planned 

to add a west wing

Shelves and racks 

were the desirable thing

Then fracking started a rumble 

and created a 'quake

The junk fell on Fillmore

pressed him thin as a snake

He is now in the dump 

like a ten layer cake 

Fillmore's ghost is quite happy

by the cumulation of junk

Now a compressed Fillmore 

is a substantial chunk

***

Images in the Rain - Beverly Koepplin

An old woman in a red raincoat, hunched over,

pushing her walker over slick sidewalks.

Undaunted and unhurried, so she goes,

her gait steady in the reality 

of “into each life some rain must fall.”

The sudden appearance of a golden light,

the sky’s notice there is a rainbow coming,

And then you see it, 

slowly evolve and suddenly disappear

like a dream on the edge of waking, 

never sure it was really there.

Drops falling silently 

onto the leaves of the camellia bush,

sliding slowly over each leaf’s surface,

bringing it a glistening shine, 

like emeralds under water

then softly falling off the tip 

to bless the ground below.

Looking out a wet window, 

rain sheeting over glass,

distorted images hovering like shadows 

beyond my knowing.

This rainy world is a magic one 

where things come and go,

and I never see them coming or going,

just  the surprise of movement in stillness.

The sound of moving water, 

a background of soft and soothing rushing.

It does not matter where it goes, 

only that it came to see me.

I will put out the tea and small cakes 

and welcome it to my home,

and together we will spend the day, 

dreaming of the time the sun returns.

                                           ***