The Boy, The Gift, and the Old Woman

Once there was a boy who possessed a most precious gift. It had been given to him on the day he was born which was longer ago than he could remember and, since no one quite knew what to make of it, the gift became forgotten for a time.

One day the boy’s mother announced that it was high time the boy learned to pick up his own things. She marched him down the hallway, planted him squarely in the middle of his room, and warned him that he’d best not escape until the job was finished.

All day the boy cleaned. He cleaned and cleaned until he came across a most peculiar box hidden under the upper left corner of his bed. Although it was a rather long stretch, the boy managed to wrap his fingers around the box and carefully slide it out for a better look.

It was a rather odd sort of thing with strange markings and a lid that seemed to be more for keeping things out than for keeping them in. Perplexed, the boy studied the box until he felt his mother's foot tapping impatiently from behind. Knowing he had better get back to work, the boy reached both hands high into the air and positioned the box firmly on a rather overcrowded bookshelf. It was clear the box would have to wait.

Years passed and the boy grew older. Sometimes, when he had nothing better to do, the boy would catch sight of the box and take it down for a closer look. As he did, the boy began to notice that there was something about the gift that made him happy. Although the lid was fastened much too tightly for his clumsy hands to open, he loved to hold the box and imagine what was inside. As time went by, the boy found himself looking for it whenever something particularly unpleasant happened.

For the most part the boy kept the gift well hidden. He wasn’t sure if anyone would understand why it made him feel the way it did. But there was something deep within the boy's heart that made him want to share the gift. He even found himself leaving it out from time to time just in case someone should happen by. Those who saw the box often commented on its curious markings; but no one seemed to take the time to look at it carefully. And so the boy began to wonder if the gift might be just another worthless trinket, like his mother's tangled mass of costume jewelry that seemed to fascinate his younger sister. Perhaps the gift was the same kind of thing: a curiosity, a diversion.

One night an old woman knocked at his door. She had heard about the box from a friend. A collector of sorts, she asked if the boy would consider letting her take a closer look. The boy studied the woman carefully for several minutes before deciding to go and get the box. When he returned he offered it silently to the weathered hands of the old woman. After what seemed an eternity, the old woman looked up and, staring directly into the boy's two most anxious eyes, asked something no one had ever asked before.

"May I possibly look inside?" she inquired.

The question startled the boy. Part of him wondered if its contents could possibly be as wonderful as his imagination had made them. He feared disappointment and didn't know if he wanted to take that risk. But he also knew how long he had been waiting for such a time as this. Perhaps she could help him open the box and understand the value of what he had been given. With a nod of his head the boy agreed.

The woman placed a hand over the boy’s fingers and gently helped him release the lid. As she did, a white light that had been hidden for a very long time filled the doorway and spilled out into the darkness of the night sky. It was then that the boy saw something he had never seen before. Straightening his shoulders, the boy leaned over and looked inside the box, studying its contents with quiet intensity. As he did a warm light reflected in his eyes like fire.

At last the old woman broke the silence.

“This is indeed a rare gift,” she whispered.

The boy looked up, a bit startled. He had forgotten that he was not alone.

“It is,” he nodded softly.

He was glad she had come to see the box. The old woman looked deep into the boy’s eyes and smiled knowingly. Somewhere a streetlight flickered in the distance.

Sensing it was time to go, the old woman stepped out of the doorway and into the darkness. As she neared the pavement,  the voice of a young child caught her from behind.  Startled, she turned and looked back into the doorway.  There, surrounded by a most glorious light, stood the boy, the gift, and a very young girl reaching high on tiptoes. The boy lowered the box and the little wide-eyed girl looked inside. As he did, a warm smile broke across the old woman’s face.

"That will do," she nodded as she turned quietly and walked toward the distant light.

Yes, that will do.

Autumn Leaves

Autmum Leaves

September came and went without notice.

No leaves fell, just a blur of red and gold

Caught between the fading greens of summer.

October flew, never heard the sound of

Anxious wings or saw the arrow moving south,

Exacting form against steel, brooding skies. 

November blew in and weathered canes long

Bare of rose bent hip-heavy, the dying 

Leaves a mosaic of rust and black, trembling

Like an aging hand waiting for water.

Now in December, I see the ash tree;

I hear the north wind; I touch your cold hand

As one tired leaf succumbs to winter's death,

The tree unchanged by autumn's final breath. 

Sleep Over

The first time we stayed awake
until we caught the dawn, you
whispered me past limp friends who
didn't last the night. I swore
when I thought your loud front door
betrayed our plan. My mistake.

We laughed, walked past tall palm trees
that touched morning sky then turned
right. I followed you and learned
your secret place, a tired log
caught in a cliff. We sat agog,
felt the wonder of a soft breeze--

Four skinny legs dangling free,
daring God to save us from harm.
We talked until the sun grew warm
and our dreams gave way to hunger.
Now, I see we were much younger
then than I supposed. Age can be

Like that. The old log is long gone.
A new house took its place. The view
from the window is still nice, but
no breezes blow there and the cliff--
Just a safe patchwork of cement.

Fire in California

circa 2008

In the night, death came swiftly to our son,
his wife and unborn child. Some say arson
by cowards who escaped under a blaze
of dark sky, who always find means and ways
to send hate wrapped safely in raw Nature.
Such talk, I admit, has a strange allure.
I wash my hands and ask why set fire
to the dreams of one family or cry, "liar!"
when all you wanted is to fill the hole
in your heart, quench the fire in your soul?

No. It's a fluke, an accident, the chance
meeting of flint and steel. Ashes still dance
in the night air. I weep in vain for peace
and wonder when this aching heart will cease.

Sheri Lynnn

There was a girl named Sheri Lynn
Who rode her bike to Oregon.
She rode up hills in rain and ice
And never saw the same thing twice.

Some hills were golden, some were brown,
And some were made of junk from town,
For Sheri's eyes were so precise
She never saw the same thing twice.

When rain or sleet fell from the sky
She never stopped to question why,
But always took her own advice
To never see the same thing twice.

Along the road, her body tight,
She peddled steady day and night
And always knew this would suffice.
She never saw the same thing twice.

And with her eyes fixed on the road
Her fingers tight, her shoulders bowed,
She never looked from side to side,
And that's the way she lived and died.

Morning Adventure

At sunrise, bare feet wet with dew,
I crossed my garden path to tend beans.
Too early for bugs I thought and leaning to
Clear a weed before the heat of day
Missed a moth out on morning adventure.
The familiar fizz buzzed by my dozing brain
And eager to forget the fading flick,
Failed to see what beckoned.
The sparkle must have seemed
A chandelier quivering in morning light,
Shielding the single shadow that lied
In wait. No rest for he who in still of night
Worked the ancient ritual knowing at dawn
The innocent glimmer of midnight art might
Blind his eager prey.

Composed at Dawn

Seminary at 6:00a.m. 

Religiously they begin the morning rite,
In hooded procession, slouching past with sighs.
As glass doors close in on a dying night,

The daily devotional begins. With silent cries,
Cloistered away, they wait like bread for leaven.
Slowly, the Sun begins again its gentle rise--

The dam breaks, voices flood the foyer at seven,
Bodies spill forth, genuflecting in the light.
Doughnut crumbs sprinkle down: Manna from Heaven.

Recess

Rolling down a hill of fresh cut watermelon
rinds and dodge ball on the blacktop that burned
your feet if you went without shoes, blue bells
cockle shells shouting as the unturned
rope sings california oranges fifty cents a pack
and skinned faces stop to straighten limp curls
jimmy's in a fight with johnny and jack
is throwing green apricots at the girls
again, hopscotch freeze tag you're it you're out
of your knick-knack paddy-wack give the dog a whirl
little two little three little indians, four

And then there were none. except for a boy
with a leg that was too short an a girl
everyone called Kraut.

At the Ocean

At the ocean one fine day,
A little girl was heard to say,
'Build a castle, Mommy dear,
Make it big and make it here."
Her footprints marked the very spot,
Wet and safe, or so I thought.

I took her pail and bent my knee
And dug and dumped 'til half past three.
At first my hands were out of touch,
My vision dull, I'd aged too much;
But as I molded sand like clay
It seemed my work had turned to play.

As architect with grand design,
I forged a moat to keep it mine,
While little hands, unnoticed now,
Felt play had turned to work somehow.
The breakers beckoned, she was lost
To carefree dance where currents crossed.

The little daughter twirled with glee
As mother, resting on one knee,
Made a drawbridge out of trash
And never heard the breaker crash
That filled the moat with sea and salt
Then slunk away, as if at fault.

And when this mother called that name,
Her castle finished, no one came.
And no one danced or twirled with glee
And no one smiled except the sea.

To Robert Frost

At night I flick the lamp to see once more
my own soul laid bare with words. The desire
to know you, to see as not before how
that unfetid need pulsed in you like fire.
Always burning, yearning to consummate,
consume, and bare the fruit that fell untouched
behind your stony wall. It was not hate
that broke your heart and took you, couched
in loss and dark, to that desert place where
one lone flower cut by calloused hands left
a tear that wet a larger garden. There

the word formed you, healed you when bereft. 

Dimly I lie awake and wonder still 

Was yours a gift to rob, to warm, or chill?

How to Say Good-Bye

How do you say goodbye to a house?
You pack your things,
close the doors,
place the key in another's hand,
walk away and never go back.

It's their house now,
you sold, they bought.
the windows, the blinds,
the carpet stains in the bedroom,
everything.

The best way to say goodbye is
pack your things,
close your door,
and never go back,
never go back, never

go back.

The Turning of the Tide

The Turning of the Tide

It is not the raging storm
or over-reaching sea,
wild and uncontrolled,
that breaks this tree,

Or the sudden, frenzied force
of a blind fault, jolting
like an untrained horse,
that tears these roots.

It is not the rain that falls
unchecked, the flood that broods
in still of night, that
weakens this wood,

Or ravages of earth that
leave this scar on my heart.
They were never there.
No, nothing apart

From the slow, steady pull of
sea against sand--that dark
Eternal sadness
etching its mark
at the turning
of the tide.

Untitled

Your life is a photo album
filled with camera hungry smiles,
a pile of disheveled costumes
lying in a heap on your bedroom floor,
a burst of sunlight
on an otherwise cloudy day.



The night you entered my darkened room,
encircled in Love, I knew you had found
your one true Friend. Later you wandered;
but the curiosity that broke my bank
could not break that bond--
only the seeds of discontent
tossed in the whirlwind,
the scent of poppies dancing,
and the promise of Oz
couched in an emerald glow.

Now, as shadows fall across my bed
I reflect on other seeds.
Years have dimmed
the passion of that night;
but the love that formed you
has enlarged and deepened with time.
Two makes three and the circle expands.

In Dark Wood--A Fragment

In darkening wood I watched alone,
your body swaying to the rhythm
of a fetal memory, unearthed and
pulsing like the warm beat of a radio
turned way too low.

The Pause the Refreshes

Whoever called it men-o-pause,
There's nothing male about it.
I made a list of alternates,
And think it's time to tout it:

Chickwithclaws, latebecause,
Damegonelame, notthesame,
Ladywait, itstoolate,
Femmewithflaws, girlthatwas.
Bitchwithbite, shutthelight,
Bellabawl, shehitthewall.
Nowshethaws . . . (please, no applause).

Whoever called it menopause,
There's nothing male about it.
Up, women, let us vote for change
Since we can't live without it.