Stones

Stones

Heavy, smooth, egg shaped

the size of an apple

thrust to the temple

Am I my brother’s keeper?

Five water worn stones

from the Jordan River

one for Goliath

four for his four brothers

Then a woman caught in the very act

angry hands, knuckles white

rough and cragged stones

pieces from the temple

piled up in a heap

He said, “Stop!”

Now this stone

rolled over the opening

to keep Him in and us out

on the third day

God rolled the stone away

Compulsion

Compulsion

                                                Every morning before daybreak

                                                it's the same routine

                                                me driving to work

                                                down the gravel driveway

                                                a slip of cold white smoke

                                                that falls out of the woods

                                                curving along the fog banked creek

                                                to the distant highway

                                                   

                                                The skunk travels his appointed path

                                                down to the black mirror pond

                                                on his way to fetch water

                                                he slips beneath the rail fence

                                                waddles across my drive

                                                on my way to fetch the vapor

                                                we call life

                                                I cross his path

                                                We share the same compulsion

                                                seek to sustain

                                                the same miracle

                                                Life

chicken in the rain

                                                 




                                                   chickens in the rain

                                                 chickens in the rain
                                                 running in a fenced lot

                                                 under a dark sky
                                                 digging in the dirt

                                                 fighting for a piece of corn
                                                 pecking at sparkles

                                                 waiting for the grim farmer
                                                 with the sharp ax

Red Tail Hawk

Red Tail Hawk

                                                      

                                                      He sits like a king

                                                      on the other side of the lake

                                                      on a high limb

                                                      of a leafless sycamore tree

                                                      brown body, white bark

                                                      facing west, gray chest puffed out

                                                      soaking in the warmth

                                                      of the low afternoon sun

I have seen him three times

the first time flying low level

seeking solitude beneath the canopy

dodging tree trunks, hickory and oak

clutching a baby crow

chased by a great flock of wailing black birds

He flew over my head just out of reach

a forlorn look on his face

Another time he was high

in the hot summer sky

gliding on air currents

hunting a mouse or squirrel

then he dove straight down

swished the grass

wings spread, tail flared, talons extended

came up empty handed

One time I saw him fluttering in mid-air

like a flag on a flagpole

held in place by a strong westerly wind

I heard his high whistle

trying to flush a rabbit

or attract a mate

then he rolled left

like a P 51 Mustang

leveled off and flew

out of sight!

Smoke

               Smoke

I wish you were fifty again
and we could go to Ellie’s diner

   before work and we could eat

   breakfast and you could smoke

   two or three cigarettes and drink

   two cups of scalding hot coffee and dip

   your toast wedge into the yellow egg yolk

   We wouldn’t talk about the plans
   for the day

   and the current on-the-job Admin idiocy

   (since we’d left off fire fighting)

   But we’d talk about that fire we had

   on Mooberry Street and laugh about

   John getting stuck in the closet

   and the time Chief Cline

   (the best officer we ever had)

   ran into Plank’s Bier Garten

   through a wall of black smoke  

   to pull the engine crew out

   just before the roof fell in

   I wish you were fifty again

   with the ever present cigarette

   stuck between your fingers

   and a coffee cup in your right hand

   with the neatly trimmed nails

   (not like a working man’s hands, but they were)

   and Ellie’s short order cook

   scraping scrambled eggs and bacon

   off the sizzling grill

   You retired ten years ago

   and quit smoking six years after that

   Now, you’re sixty-five

   and your doctor told you

   you only have thirty-seven percent lung capacity

   and it’s getting worse because of scar tissue

   buildup in the lower lobes

   So he’s got you on eighty milligrams prednisone

   That makes you swell up and gain too much weight

   Over the phone, we plan to get together

   one more time around Christmas

   for Charity Newsies

   for breakfast at Ellie’s

   You tell me, “You probably won’t recognize me.”

   I hang up the telephone

   and wish you were fifty again

   cocky, breathing just fine

   and all those cigarettes

   just waiting to be smoke

Saddle Soap

Saddle Soap

                                           "You have to take care of leather," he said.

                                           "Saddle soap and the right temperature.

                                           Body heat dries it out, cracks it,

                                           breaks it like chicken bones."

                                           His black hands, like leather, pulled at the

                                           plastic armchair.

                                       

                                           "Leather is expensive goods, it lives and breathes.

                                           Not like this vinyl."

                                           He repaired car seats for nearly a half century,

                                           worked with all kinds of fabrics,

                                           replaced one square foot in a Corvette

                                           and it cost fifty-five dollars.

                                           "Take the saddle soap and rub it like this."

                                           His leather hand slid back and forth on the chair arm,

                                           swinging the infusion line.

                                           "Her name was Louise.

                                           I followed her from North Carolina to Ohio.

                                           Married forty-five hears.  She died.

                                           Now it's my torn."