Watching Woman with Dog

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stock photo

~

I don’t know if she is walking 

the dog or if the dog is walking her,

but by the time they get to 

the bench by the mailbox,

she looks ready for a break.

She sits down heavily, 

takes a breath, 

throws her head and shoulders back,

closes her eyes and basks in 

the September sunlight.

Meanwhile the black lab 

circles the bench

tangling its leash 

around her legs,

before going behind her

and doing its doggy business.

The woman sighs, 

rises, untangles herself,

and harvests the dog poop 

into a blue plastic bag.

The dog, delighted, 

I’m guessing, that she’s up,

rolls over happily 

on the yellow grass,

kicking its four feet into the air.

Then they go on their way, 

the woman half-pulling 

half-pulled by her black beast, 

leash in one hand, 

bag of shit in the other.

I don’t own a dog, 

but I know the feeling…

~

In the Dark Woods

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~

Sometimes, thanks to luck or Grace or the stars’ 

alignment, as you trudge through the dark woods

of life, defeated by the demons which

have scared and scarred you, stumbling over roots, 

clambering up crags, whacking your way through 

the pucker brush, slapping at blackflies, lost,

angry, afraid—you come to a clearing. 

Breezes blow away the bugs and sunbeams 

light a path of pine needles to a log

cabin and a porch and a rocking chair 

facing a blue bay dotted with islands,

and you sit and breathe the salt air, rocking,

loosening, loosing yourself in the light

dancing on the water, breathing, gazing,

feeling enfolded by you don’t know what

or for how long, until the journey calls.

Then, for a while at least, the trail is smooth.

Views get wider, demons get smaller.

You’re grateful to be on the road once more.

~

 

 

I’m Coming Back as a Tree

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I don’t have to come back as a Redwood, but I wouldn’t say no.

+

Because I’m old enough that middle-aged women

offer their seats on the bus, I am, quite naturally I think,

spending more time these days pondering my death,

and I’ve decided (because of course I have control over such things)

that when I die, I’m coming back as a tree,

my toes probing the dark humus, my body a sturdy trunk,

straight and tall, my head a crown of leaves 

glowing golden in the sun, holding hands—well, roots—

under the soil with other trees and plants, anchored

in storms while swaying to the music of the spheres, 

open to the sky, reaching for the light,

providing homes for birds and squirrels,

shade and shelter for pilgrims on their journeys, 

unconcerned with politics or religion,

race or sexual orientation, expanding or defending empire.

I don’t know about you, but I think being a tree 

sounds a lot like being in heaven;

it certainly beats wearing wings and harping on a cloud all day.

+

To my Daughter on her 56th Birthday

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~

This year, I find myself remembering

the night I spent in the waiting room

 (I wish now I’d been with your mother but 

those were much different times) finally 

hearing a phone ring, then the call from

across the hall, “Congratulations, 

Mr. Wile, you’re the father of a giant 

economy size baby girl!” 

Still, I wasn’t allowed in to see you 

until late that afternoon, after I’d 

wandered the village streets dazed, aware only

of the sun on the water and white boats

in the harbor. (Did I eat? I don’t remember.)

~

Until your mother and I walked down 

the hall to the nursery, where you lay 

with two other newborns, as big as both 

of them together. I stood before

the nursery window, paralyzed 

with awe. It all was too intense—

the waiting, the news, the village green, 

the blue water, white boats, my love for you.

~

Only later, all these years later, after

the arguments, the divorce, your anger 

at me, our reconciliation, your

shortened life, my prolonged anger at God,

my reconciliation, can I fully,

finally say how grateful I am for

the miracle that was—and remains—you.

~

Pneuma

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~

Leaves sway seductively

In a silky blue sky.

The air is clear,

the breeze an energy drink.

To a background of bird songs,

I wave to the crew mowing lawns,

breathing easily

as I walk the neighborhood,

recalling ten days ago

when emphysema rattled my lungs

and my ribs ached from coughing.

Holed up at home, I watched

through the window as

smoke from Canadian wildfires

stained the sky nicotine yellow,

the same color as the mucus

coming up in my throat,

consequence of years

spent fighting fires

in the American Rockies.

And although I can’t undo

the damage from those years

of wood smoke punctuated

by cigarette breaks,

I can take advantage

of this moment and

breathe in the grace 

that smells today of ocean.

~

This Year’s Garden

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~

This year’s garden is smaller than last year’s garden

which was smaller than my garden the year before

as I become less able to kneel dig lift.

Still I’m grateful to be able to garden at all.

For seventy years, gardens have been my teachers

admonishing me to plan prepare plant

water weed and wait 

for a power greater than myself

to provide the needed sun and rain

bees and worms.

To trust that in the liminality 

between planting and emerging

when nothing seems to be going on

new life is exploding.

So much happens beneath the surface.

To accept that not every seed will sprout

nor every seedling survive 

nor every plant produce

and that weeds are always with us.

To live in the faith

because it’s been true for 70 years

and why should this year be any different

that the harvest will come.

To be thankful 

to share 

and then lie fallow

resting in readiness …

~ ~

The COPD Blues

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~

After Jimmy Rogers

~

Woke up this mornin’ with a tickle in my throat. (Lawd, Lawd!)

Woke this mornin’ with a tickle in my throat.

 I said to myself: “Oh God, that’s all she wrote.”

~

By that noon, I was coughin’ frequently.

And by that night, I coughin’ constantly,

Barkin’ like a dog at a cat up in a tree.

~

I got the CO (cough, cough) PD (cough, cough) blu-u-u-u-s! 

~

When I gets to coughin’, I gets so out of breath. (Good God!)

When I gets to coughin”, I gets so out of breath.

And that’s, good peoples, when I contemplates my death.

~

My lungs, they rattles, like an old-time coffee pot.

My lungs, they rattles, like an old-time coffee pot.

My eyes, they’s runny and my nose is full of snot.

~

I got the CO (cough, cough) PD (cough, cough) blu-u-u-u-s!

~

I probly got this from all them cigarettes I smoked.

I probly got this from all them cigarettes I smoked.

They killed my father and they just might make me croak.

~

Then there was these fires out in Idaho.

Two years fightin’ fires out in Idaho.

Another reason, good peoples, that I gets to huff and blow.

~

I got the CO (cough, cough) PD (cough, cough) blu-u-u-u-s!

~

Might start with a head cold, might start with allergies. (Oh, Lawd!)

Might start with head cold, might start with allergies.

Don’t take much these days to make me cough and wheeze.

~

But it makes no difference, not one goddamn bit.

It makes no difference, not one goddamn bit.

Whatever the reasons, I gots to live with it.

~

Or not.

~

I got the CO (cough, cough) PD (cough, cough) blu-u-u-u-s! 

~ ~

(If you want to hear the tune, go to YouTube for Jimmy Roger’s “TB Blues.”)

Coming Upon a Clear-cut in the Woods 

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~

Two years ago, seeing the slash piles, stumps, 

wood chips, witch grass, and some scrawny hemlocks,

as if Death had been through here with his scythe,

I remembered how it feels to have your 

landscape destroyed: saw once again my child’s

remaining wisps of hair, her spindly legs, 

felt again the shock, denial, anger, 

my familiar depression descending.

~ 

The other day, I wandered through the same

 clear-cut and sensed my shock replaced by awe.

Bracken broke through slash, starflowers hugged stumps,

Pink lady slippers danced on decayed leaves,

huckleberry, aspen, maple promised

me that even death is deciduous.

~ ~

In Memoriam: 1956 

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°°

We assemble around the Legion’s log cabin by the WWII cannon: boy scouts, girl scouts, cub scouts, brownies, veterans of three wars, the women’s auxiliary, the fire department, the police chief, local town officials and state representatives, and the junior high school band in which I play trombone in the only white shirt and dark blue pants I have, and a blue and white garrison cap, which is all the school budget can afford to give us, and which makes me look like I work at the drugstore’s soda fountain.

°

At 9:00 a.m. we set off down Main Street, the drums—da da dumdumdum, da da dumdumdum, dumdum, dumdum, dadadadadada dumdum—introducing a ragged version of “Stars and Stripes Forever.” But our band director, Mrs. Marston, smiles and says hey, it’s 9:00 in the morning and we’ll get it right next time.

°

First stop is North Yarmouth Academy, where, standing beneath the flagpole with an airplane at the top, the headmaster remembers NYA grad, Somebody Fogg, shot down in the Pacific during WWII. Charlie Marston, the mailman and husband of our band director, plays Taps, while across the street, behind a horse chestnut tree, Stan Haskell from the Canal Bank plays the echo.

°

Then we march down Main Street, playing “The Washington Post March,” which sounds pretty good to me, but when we get to the “Armed Forces Medley,” it’s hard for us to get our breath because we’re going uphill on Route 88 and by the time we get to Riverside Cemetery, we kind of peter out, but I figure there’s no one there to hear us except for dead people, so it’s okay. 

°

Standing by a tall marble monument in a sea of American flags, my minister and next-door neighbor, Scottie Campbell, says a few words I can’t hear (and even if I could, I couldn’t because I’m blowing dandelion puffballs at Merry Barker.) Then Taps again, Charlie by Scottie and Stan behind another tree, before we walk over to the Catholic cemetery, segregated behind a stone wall, and a cherubic priest, whose name I don’t know because my family doesn’t associate with, in the words of my grandmother, “that element,” prays a confusing prayer that has all these “Amen’s” in it. (Doesn’t Amen mean the prayer is over and we can leave?) More Taps, Stan staying behind a tree in our side of the cemetery.

°

Down 88, we try again to get “Stars & Stripes Forever” right and Mrs. Marston smiles this time so we must have. Along Main Street, my parents are standing at the corner with my brother and sister waving and my father with his hand over his heart as we play “Washington Post” which sounds even better than it did the first time.

°

Back at the log cabin, we break for cokes and cookies, and Jerry and Ernie and I get in a burping contest and I belch coke on my white shirt.

°

We reform and head uptown, under the Route One overpass, across the railroad tracks, past Hilton’s gas station and Benny the Jew’s junk yard and the Five & Dime and Handy Andy’s, up the hill past the Old Meeting House, playing the “The Stars & Stripes Forever,” which is what it’s beginning to feel like. Mrs. Marston doesn’t look happy but her face is red and wet, so maybe she’s just tired.

°

We march (sort of) into the Baptist Cemetery, where the really old gravestones are, and where Pastor Storms, standing beside a thin marble stone honoring somebody who was in the Civil War named Blanchard, just like the last name of a kid in my class, prays for what seems like forever, and Charlie’s trumpet cracks, and Stan’s echo comes from behind the Old Meeting House, I guess, but by then, I don’t really care because I’m tired, too. So, I lean back against one of the old gravestones, grateful to those who have died for giving me a place to rest my butt.

°°°

Of Candles

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~

Gazing out the window at a candelabra of green buds,

for some reason known only to the God of my not Understanding,

I remember Liberace and his candelabra 

and his 1950’s TV show, the star flamboyant

in white tie and tails and wavy hair, 

which I guess wasn’t’ real, at least 

according to my grandmother’s movie magazines—

“Liberace’s Wigmaker tells All!”—which she devoured

along with pints of Sealtest ice cream

while she, herself a piano player 

who used to play for the silent movies, watched

Liberace play everything from Litz to ragtime

to her favorite song—“Nola,”

which we had played at Nanny’s funeral

and which the poor organist butchered,

while the candles in the church—candles I used to light

as a Congregationalist version of an altar boy—

flickered and danced and I think 

of a little old man at the nursing home 

where my grandmother spent her last years

who bounced in his chair when Nanny played 

“Nola” for the talent show, yelling,

“Tickle those ivories, Hatty!”

and I light the two candles

by my computer to write this all down

because candles do a really good job 

setting the stage, whether 

it’s for my attempt to write something, 

Or for the congregation to mourn,

or for Liberace to show off

his talent and his dimples, or for spring

leaves to burst forth while a choir

of gold finches sing backup for a cardinal 

whistling the first four notes of Nanny’s favorite song.

~