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The Gift

The gift, so gently offered, came unexpectedly

And it sent my heart back instantly

To a time before I learned to act predictably

To a naturally awkward situation.

Now my reactions are mere fractions of desire.

Yesterday, I believed it was received

in the spirit that it was given.

But today I doubt, as I sort it out,

if that thought has any merit.

For try as I might, I feel I have no right

To accept it or to hold it, much less share it.

And despite a careful analysis

My mind can find no reason

For this apparent expression of tender affection.

Unless I can find the way

To understand what I have done to earn it,

I know someday that I just may

Have no choice but to return it.

I did a favor for a friend I had known from

high school. Her response was very

touching and took me by surprise. The

next few days while trying to determine the

implications, I wrote this poem.

love is like a sting to the heart

(my heart is in a fix

it’s been swept away

by wave number six)

if you love somebody

let them go

smugly speaks

the new age sage

as if

i should already know.

but how could i ever

give you up . . .

when i’ve never really

had you?

I am a fan of Sting, the rock star. I

consider him one of the great pop poets of

our day.

Mothershift

The alien ships are back again

hovering in the hinterland

streaking through the evening sky,

flashing multicolored laser lights

deep within the piney woods

smashing down crops,

mutilating cattle and

terrorizing the locals.

Grady Willoweit said he woke up

in the middle of the night

and saw a little man with great big eyes

standing at the foot of his bed,

just staring at him

not making a sound.

Alice Nolan says it’s all an omen

of terrible things to come,

but the other folk are all a buzz

over the big announcement they made

at the Chamber of Commerce meeting

last Wednesday, in town.

It seems they’re going to build

a brand new Burger King

right across the street

from the County Court House.

An action that is alien to the earth need

not come from outer space. The truth is in

here. Winter 1993

communion

flesh and blood of Christ

transubstantiated

into a water bagel

and a cup of coffee.

winter ice-glaze

seals my tomb.

two days seem like

forever

waiting for a

resurrection

of the sun.

An ice storm had all but brought the city to a grinding halt. Still I went to work each day so as to not fall behind.

I was alone most of the time, no customers, no visitors. I felt I had insight to Christ’s feelings as they relate to our

efforts (or lack of efforts) to communicate with Him.

BLAST FROM THE PAST

"You’ll either have to turn it down

or turn it off . . .

"There’s no way you can study with

that thing blasting in your ear!"

My age was twelve

in the grade of seven.

The year was sixty

and my hormones and urges

were coming on stronger

than the decade

that would define me,

refine me

and confine me.

And the radio was tuned in

to fourteen-ten.

On a night that was pure November, the air was crackling

with the electric cold static

of a Midwest winter blowin’ in the wind.

But the signal was clear,

Gene "By Golly" had my ear and I was flying high

on a high flying WING.

Mom kept her radio

tuned to "H-I-O"

and listened to the "Pop & Country"

But I was strictly top 40

and I’d be countin’ ‘em down

along with the DJ

every weekend on Saturday.

"Are you about done with your homework,

it’s getting late?"

"It’s time for bed and I’m going to check

your work while you get ready."

history, math

take a bath

"Hi Clyde!"

(when I turn 16 I’m going to take that ride

with all those other

Moms & Pops &

Cats & Kittens

drivin’ past that remote trailer

honkin’ their horns at the guy

spinning the hits from his stacks of wax.)

"School tomorrow, hit the sack

and lights out!"

(‘cept for the one that glows behind the dial)

I smile

stretched out in bed

the speaker at my head

and they got the TV on

in the living room.

They’ll never hear

the tunes and chatter

whisperin’ in my ear till eleven,

when they watch their news.

I could give them the news!

It’s Elvis & his Rhythm

& Dipinto Di Mr. Blue

suede shoes . . .

with pink shoe laces!

. . . . .

"Could you turn that thing down,

or off . . .

I need to talk to you.

The kids need a ride to the game on Friday

and we’re supposed to go out to dinner

with Debbie and Ray."

"I don’t see how you can get anything done

with that thing blasting in your ear.

What is that noise you’re listening to anyway?"

it’s New Reggae Bluegrass

Third Alternative World-beat

Classical Folk Blues

Acoustic Jazz Age music

with N.P.R. news

at the top of the hour

. . . . .

It’s two minutes till

eleven o’clock.

My eyes are heavy,

time to sleepwalk.

The closing theme

begins to play

and off in the distance

I hear the DJ say . . .

"Time to pack

my stacks of wax.

Bye, Bye, Buy Bonds.

Love you, love you madly.

I’ve got to go now,

Got to see a man . . .

about a record."

. . . . .

"What time do we have to be

at the restaurant?

Maybe I could run them over to the stadium

while you finish getting ready.

Then I’ll come back

and honk my horn

just like all those other

Moms & Pops &

Cats & Kittens."

A poem I wrote for a poetry contest

sponsored by a local public radio station.

Lighten Up!