When enough time has passed
that wrinkles creasing cheeks
When eyes blur
and hide thoughts
that fill passing time
When misheard questions
answers that surprise.
We smile and know
that we are in the presence
How easy it is to go about our daily tasks
with eyes cast down.
Nose to the grindstone!
Shoulder to the wheel!
Slogging away at assigned work,
never noticing that winter’s cold breath has faded.
The magic of spring awaits.
That tune she played: it caught my ear.
So sweet, so lovely! I listened as my body
reflected the beat, the drive of the bellows
and her fingers fleet on the keys.
Entranced, I did not think to capture with my phone
the notes and rhythms as they floated to my ears.
Alas! I will never hear that tune the same again.
at least two.
Three or four are fine,
and more, well, we don’t
turn away any contribution.
Jam is always better
when the making is shared.
Banjo, mandolin, guitar.
We need the rhythm, the unique flavors
of their strings and wood bodies.
One bass will do.
Or two if two will.
Always an autoharp. and sometimes
a harmonica or spoons or bones.
“Good enough for old time!” my friend John would say.
The trombone? He plays good rhythm
and toots discreetly towards the floor
reveling in our shared music-making.
Sometimes a clogger dances,
providing rhythm and joy with her feet and, later,
a story about a musical trip to Dublin during The Troubles,
complete with a whispered bomb threat
at a pub where her dancing ensured safety.
Did I mention the tunes?
Old time, from West Virginia, North Carolina and Kentucky.
And sometimes not-so-old-time
from Chicago or Nashville or Quebec.
Their names remind us of stories:
Greasy Coat, Abe’s Retreat, Sadie at the Back Door,
Soldier’s Joy, Pays de Haut, Arkansas Traveler,
Cat Scratching A Pear Tree in Grandma’s Backyard.
I might have made up that last one
long ago when I could not remember
the tune I really wanted to start.
“Dear hearts and gentle people”
A note found on the path.
I pick it up and hold it close
The one who wrote: what more would he have said
If time was on his side and he were not now dead?
The hearts to whom he spoke,
Gentle, so he said. Perhaps his mother? Sisters?
Or imagined caring friends?
The title of the poem is from a note written on a scrap of paper and found in Stephen Foster’s wallet at the time of his death in 1864.
Dear AJ! I miss your jarring call
Of “HEALP! HEALP!”, as if you were in thrall
To a fox endangering your brood.
I still lament the morning when I woke
To hear a “WHUMP!” outside the cabin door,
And then a silence and yet “WHUMP!” again.
I pushed the curtain back, peered through the pane
To see you stalking ’round my minivan
Suspicious of the rival you perceived.
You halted, froze that rival with your glare
Then backed away, raised up, and beat your wings
Propelling claws ahead to rip and tear.
Bearing the brunt of your attack
My car door groaned as claws scratched paint.
A trail of blood streaked redly ‘cross the door.
An adjuster called to hear the claim
That a peacock had caused damage to my car,
Looked closely, said “That’s BLOOD!”, and paid the bill.
Most swoon at peacock tails, and snap their shots,
But I recall a special, brilliant bird
Whose antics still bring laughter to my friends.
With purple blush your round and perfect skin
Glows in the morning sun because within
Your leaves there lies a secret: better health!
My mother always told me “Eat it now!”
But within I made a secret vow:
“Nevermore a bite of this I’ll take!”
Ah, cabbage! Share your beauty with my need!
Allow me to transform you and to feed
A dozen wanderers passing by the way.
For you inspire in me a deep desire
For purple sauerkraut: my heart’s a-fire!
If you were mine, I’d cook you on the spot.