River of My  Life - Beverly Koepplin

I live my life in a river that will carry me to my end.

I have from the day I emerged, wet and wailing,

from my mother’s womb 

and slipped into the river’s welcoming current.

So easily I went from one water life to another, 

it felt like coming home.

Each day at the end of the day’s travels, 

I look back to see how far the river has carried me, 

the rocks I have crossed,

and I am gladdened to see how far I have safely come

and saddened to see how much closer I am to the end.

Sometimes someone joins me in my river’s journey,

and we move along together, 

sometimes touching, sometimes not.

Sometimes they see something shiny in another flow, 

slip out of my stream,

and I never see them again, 

just a shadow floating away then fading.

Sometimes they go past me, 

traveling faster than I can,

and I watch them go, 

helpless to stop them, 

and their end comes too soon.

Those are the times I would cry 

but I have nothing to dry my tears on;

my whole world is water, ever moving on, 

and my tears just fall into the wet.

Sometimes, most often, I drift alone, not happy but content

to watch the banks go by, 

to wonder how long this river will carry me.

Sometimes I bump against the rocks yet move on, battered and bruised.

At the end of those days, I give my thanks 

to the gracious water gods.

Sometimes I wish 

that there was always someone with me.

When the river water is cold and dark, 

I yearn to feel warm solid flesh.

I want to have someone carry me to land, 

to walk the rest of this journey with me,

our steps in rhythm, 

until we can no longer see the river and I am home again.

***

Then and Now- John Field

Decades ago the only thing 

that seemed strange to me was me. 

Once when a lesson plan went bad                                                                                                              

I ratcheted up my students’ attention span a notch

by hopping on my desk and cocking an ear,

as if listening to something hovering overhead,

a spaceship perhaps,  

and you never heard such a silence

until finally somebody laughed and said, 

Aw, Mr. Field, stop jiving us. Crazy shit like that 

and never the same stunt twice.

Back then my idea of a nature hike

was taking a midnight stroll in North Beach

searching for a dealer who’d sell me a lid. 

But let me tell you straight as a plum-line

the way it is now: 

the thought of sliding around high 

in San Francisco’s wind and fog gives me a chill.

These days I don’t want much to happen:

mornings unfolding themselves 

like sheets with all their wrinkles ironed out,

followed by afternoons 

staggered by the grace of it all: 

trees with pretty leaves on them

towering above the green brocade of my garden,

and nights when the moon shines brighter

than God on one of his better days.

Years so uneventful my diary writes itself 

without any help from my pen. 

Now here comes the funny part: 

yesterday I took a walk in the park 

and crossed paths with a stranger 

who was playing a game 

with an electronic glow in the palm of his hand,  

hard evidence he was unaware 

of the wind’s great dance in the leaves. 

Perhaps you thought I was reaching back 

for words like wind and leaves

to tell you something beautiful.

Christ, there are moments when all of us

have no idea what that means.

 

***        

Always in Costume - Russ Bedord

Thank God it doesn't snow here, but it gets pretty cold. When it rains, however, only the most brave, or most foolish, of us show up. I don't know exactly why we come here every day. We sit, talk a little, and watch all the activity in the town square—especially at noon. 

We have a nice vantage point. The square is large and open, and we set up our chairs in front of the fire station. The fire chief had complained that we would hold up the fire engines. They have to be fast, always barreling through the garage doors openings. We may be slow, because of our age and various infirmities, but have never slowed them down. We move out of the way. 

The same guys sit in the same places every time. Most of us are veterans who tell war stories to each other that cannot be shared with civilians who wouldn't understand.

This one guy, Lars, just sits there seemingly alert, listening, and observing but never says anything. If this was a Hollywood movie about war, he would be the big strong, silent farm boy who never talks, then performs a fantastic act of heroism that saves the day. Irving, another regular who was old, fat, and barely mobile, didn't say much either. When he did, it was a wry comment that showed he was aware, even though it looked like he was out of it.

Everyone has stories to tell, over and over, but mostly we just sit. Some stories are difficult to believe. Not that impossible deeds are described, but if the fear and desperation felt in those awful situations isn't recalled, the story is probably a lie. Nevertheless, lying company is welcome. Maybe the camaraderie we once experienced in military units carries over to this group. Maybe it isn't tolerance we feel, but a bond. 

Most of the time, we people-watch. The front of the fire station is shaded in the morning, but warms up in the sun noon time and later. On the square and side streets are restaurants and coffee shops that generate a lot of foot traffic. And in front of the shops to our left a hot dog vendor sets up for lunch. His little stand does a lot of business.

Every day, like clockwork, this lady buys a hot dog, then crosses the square on a diagonal. Where she's going, nobody knows, although it's been discussed many times. (If we knew where, we couldn't talk about it any more.) In warm weather, she's usually dressed in a blouse and skirt, and wears conservative flat shoes. She must work at one of the nearby businesses and probably has an apartment on the other side of the square. That's where she might eat the dog. Her pace is steady—maybe placid, like waves against a shore.

One of the guys who comes everyday wearing military fatigues is called Anthony. His last name ended in elli or something. If necessary, I'll ask him. In a Hollywood movie, he'd be the flippant wise guy with an accent from someplace like the Bronx. His stories are hard to believe. They seem to be saying: “Look at me.” “Look at me.”

One day, somebody noticed that Anthony's chair was empty. “Where is Anthony?” I asked. Irving pointed toward the hot dog vendor and there he was. He seemed to be hiding behind the lady. Sure enough, when she walked across the square, Anthony walked close behind her—too close. She didn't notice him at first, but then obviously became aware. You could see that from the way her movements suddenly became stiff. She, at first, maintained a steady pace, then sped up. So did Anthony. You could see by the increased rigidity of her body that she heard the threat behind her.  Before they disappeared from view, where she might be more vulnerable, she stopped, turned around and faced the threat.

You could see from Anthony's doubled up posture that he was laughing, and from her aggressive posture that she was angry at his joke. Then she faced away and marched along her usual route out of sight..

Anthony was still laughing when he returned to his chair. “Did you see that? Did you see that? he said. “That was so funny!” 

“Not to her,” Irving commented.

This is why we suspect that Anthony's stories of personal heroism are false. He doesn't seem to care about other people's feelings.

                                            ***

Shadow Fields - Joshua Gramse

What is it

Out there In the landscape, waters and sky we know 

That after long-shadowed dusk 

When darkness blankets the land 

Becomes alien, unknown

What is it 

Outside the circle of light 

From our hearthfire 

Out in the blackness 

When the new moon doesn't show her face 

And the stars are faint

What makes us bar the door 

Should something brush against it 

Close the shutters To save our minds the shock 

Should something come out of the deep black 

And stare at us through the pane

What makes us gather 

At the heart of home 

Away from cold outer walls 

Faces toward the light 

Our modest blaze 

A homespun sun 

For creatures of the day 

In a house encircled 

By pitch, unyielding shadow

What is it 

That thin cry 

Out there in the night 

The snapping of twigs 

A shuffling in the shadow fields 

A creeping dread In what had been a sunny pasture 

Only hours before

What is it 

Out around us 

In the impenetrable murk 

That sea of the unknown 

Winding round our little pool of light 

So many unseen threats 

We stitch together 

We've always done so 

When we are powerless

It is Composite things 

We stitch together 

The shadow folk, horned and hooved 

The hags under the trees with eyes like cats 

The ebon-boned long-fingered reavers 

Dead-hearted, bloodless 

Grasping out like thin bare trees 

The owl man high in a tree 

With rat in craw, ever watching 

And more and more

Or perhaps it is evil men 

Blade wielders, 

stranglers 

Faceless and bent to cold mayhem 

Or the simple bare-fanged wolf 

Unstoppable devourer 

Etched in ancient memory 

We stitch, we stitch 

And keep them at bay with the circle we cast 

From our hearthfire 

As though light would melt them

And we stitch again 

A luminous net electric Stretch it over the land 

Visible from above the benighted world 

Chasing out shadows Pulling them back like dark curtains 

Bound in a gridwork imposed 

But always black beyond 

Surrounded by true dark

But we've forgotten 

In harrowed aversion 

To the true dark 

A hallowed promise 

From our remote beginning 

Primordial

When night's black wings 

A mother's touch 

Feathers soft and warm 

Shielded us, hid us, helped us 

To rest or wander 

And wonder 

Amid wakeful things nocturnal 

Rising with the moon 

Silvered and blued 

A living world 

Under the blanket of shadow 

As alive as we 

In night's cradle

       ***

The Coziness of Love- Lucille Hamilton

Winter and suddenly awakened

 to the nights cold and damp

by some dream's noisy sound.

I must have tossed of the warm blanket's comfort

and am now awake

and reading

Hafiz

How could the world, with all its anguish

not realize

the love that is inherent in everything?

There is a good reason why "things"

are cold and damp

Go back to your dreams 

and be grateful

The noise of bangs and thumps

is just the garbage being collected

at this early morning's hour

      

                    ***

Lenny, Genevieve and Me - JRB

“In the midnight light of ‘Lenny’s 

’76 All-Nite’ filling station,

all things happen…”

 - Anonymous

Genevieve is my cat. My veterinarian said she was too fat. 

“She needed to move around more…”

And…even though I told him how small my apartment was…all 

he would say was… “well figure it out…how much is she eating?”

And when I told him…he said…“well it isn’t all that much,” so he 

sold me a puppy-size comfort-harness that fit her just right…

and a leash…

And that was how I started to take her out on walks with me…because I love Genevieve…and I wanted to do the right thing by her…and that was how I met Lenny.

*

Genevieve…she was pretty okay about learning to do the leash thing… I think that was because she had always been 

an indoor cat…

But the world outside…it wasn’t ready for Genevieve…or...

at least it wasn’t ready for me walking her the way I was…

That wasn’t a thing humans and cats were supposed to 

do together…and some unpleasant things happened…

So I started taking her out at night…usually around 

midnight…give or take fifteen minutes or so…

It’s a quiet neighborhood I live in…

families mostly...folks are home…

plenty of streetlight…

(though I do take a flashlight with me…just to be sure)…

And very quickly...Genevieve and me...we established this routine 

where we would walk together down about five blocks…straight line…

Down to the local filling station and back… and that was good for both of us

because…at this point on the road…the bladder doesn’t work so well…and because 

The filling station was open twenty-four hours…so I could always 

count on it having a clean Ladies Room available…

with no key needed.

*

Now the way it all happened was...one night...as I was passing the 

lighted office where the all-night attendant sits…I heard this 

man’s voice calling out to me…“mighty fine cat you have there…” 

And Genevieve…she looked very interested...and then she started to pull me over to the office where there was this 

tall skinny guy in tight jeans...leaning up against the side of the doorframe…watching us...

He had a patch over his right eye…was clean-shaven with slicked back black hair (dark for his age)…and when he stepped forward…he stood straight…and he smiled…and I could see… 

his teeth were white and nice…

And I could tell he was a true gentleman...(Genevieve always did 

have good taste)…and he invited me in to have a cup of coffee with 

him…and talk a little…and I did...and that is how it started….

*

Every night now…when Genevieve and I walk together…we stop…and we say hello to Lenny…and he has fresh coffee ready…and we...all three of us... we sit together…and Lenny and I…

we talk for a while. We enjoy talking...

I remember...first thing he told me was that his name was Lenny (short for Leonardo)... and that he owned the station...and that he hires people to work for him during the day… but then…come nighttime...he takes over. 

“Always did like working nights…” he said…

And then he told me about how he was seventy-eight years old…and how he had these health things going on with him…and I told him about how I was seventy-four…and how...also... I had these health things going on with me...

And then we talked about the easy stuff…and then about 

much harder things…like prison…and hospitals…and 

time in the rain…and the ways we have to keep us sane…

And that is how it has been for a long time now…and the Veterinarian… he says…that Genevieve is looking “quite trim” these days…and he can see that I am taking very…very…very...good care of her.

                                      ***

Open Arms - Beverly Koepplin

I hold you with arms so wide open

that I feel the emptiness ache in me;

like a second heartbeat, it is always there.

I watch you come and go, and I never say

“When will you stay with me?”

My chains are velvet; they do not hurt.

I count as lucky the days you hold me.

On the days that you don’t, I cry

but only inside where no one sees my tears.

If I hold you so loosely, so freely,

how will I know when you are gone?

Will my arms someday just fold?

Like broken battered wings, will they just collapse

from the weight of trying to fly

from nothing into nothing with nothing?

So, just go, while my wings are still spread.

Then you won’t have to see me

crippled and grounded by the pain of love lost.

                            ***

Guilt Trip - John Field

You can keep your cornfields, silos,                                           

Autographed bibles and gooseberry jam.                                    

Bye-bye frozen road kill and frost-bitten toes.                          

I wanted cocktails named after movie stars,

Surfboards and sun-cured girls far too young for me  

Trailing wakes of dangerous possibilities.       

Time to git it in my soul.

Finally! My Hollywood-nurtured fantasies

Were ready to take off  

Like a flock of migratory birds heading west 

Because everywhere else wasn’t there anymore.

“Let’s break to the basics,“ my mother declared

As she blocked the front door.

“You’ll never learn a single thing in California

They’ll ever pay you for.”

To which I replied:

“Adios Dad and the collection of serious junk 

You bought to have and look swell 

On your shelves, 

A jumble of expensive tools, gears and pulleys, 

Chains and bags of shiny stainless steel nails

You’ve only used once and that as a last resort. 

It’s 1955, for goodness sake! 

When are you going to unpack 

The black market sugar, 

Coffee and canned sardines 

Mom stashed in the attic during World War II?”

Vaguely aware of the fact 

That my heart had a crack in it 

Which made it easy to empty 

But impossible to fill,

I jingled my car keys,

Hopped behind the wheel

Of the brand new Chevy Bel Air  

My father bought for me 

And headed for LA

Without a good thought in my head,

Halfway there before I started the engine. 

                                     ***

Anger - Russ Bedord

“Whose angry? I'm not angry!” he said when his partner suggested that he might be angry.“I'm not angry! I'm just upset at the injustice of it all! That's what I have—a sense of justice. Besides, it would take a steel spine to not get angry at the way things are going.”

“And how are things going?”

“To hell in a handbag!”

“I have never figured out what that meant.”

“It means that things are going to hell!”

“What's going to hell?”

“Everything. This country. Jobs. The election. I hope it eventually straightens out.”

“Straightens out? Where is it crooked?”

Everything is crooked. Politicians. Business. The government. It's getting so you can't get anything done right unless you please the right people—and that sometimes takes money. Mostly you have to please some petty bureaucrat.”

“I'm trying to understand. We have to depend on the government, but we can't depend on the government because it's become too bureaucratic? Then who or what can we depend on?”

“Nobody” then after a few moments of silence, “Faith. You can depend on faith.”

“Faith in what?”

“Faith that things will get better.”

“What if they don't get better? What if things get worse? Faith in what, then?”

“Faith in God.”

“You suggest that God is in charge, but if things are going to hell, then God is not responsible.”

“Do I need to remind you about the Devil? The Devil is responsible for evil.”

“Who is this devil?”

“Evil. The devil represents evil.”

This was difficult to understand. “Where did the devil come from?”

“From God. The Devil came from God.”

“So God, the all good, created the evil Devil?”

“Yes, that's what the good book says.”

“It says everything and anything, so it can't be anything else but good. But good is responsible for evil? Isn't that a contradiction?”“It's not for us mere mortals to understand.”

“But don't we operate on what we understand?”

“You don't understand anything. Hello—haven't you been listening? I'm not angry. I'm just upset at the injustice of it all!”

 

                                                       ***