Faulty Vision

May 8, 2008 at 1:58 pm | In childhood, nature, poems, viewpoints | Leave a Comment
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Old Man of the Mountain, he’s always called,
and if you stand at just the spot
you’ll see his craggy nose and chin,
the deep-set eyes. Mount Rushmore
of New Hampshire, carved by God.

I must have been no more than five
the day we traveled there. “Oh, see!”
said mom, “Look up! See the old man?”
I saw some piled-up rocks on top.
“Oh, yes,” I said, “I see him very well.”

And it was years before
a postcard pictured what I’d missed.
But then, I’ve often looked and seen
things strangely; a slightly different angle
than’s intended. Still, I’ve been content.

Winters Remembered

May 6, 2008 at 1:45 pm | In Self, childhood, poems | Leave a Comment
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Do you remember?
Being six or seven?
Ice . . . ah, Hurrah!
I’ll run and slide!
Mom says, watch out,
you’ll fall! But I don’t care.

I have to remember now, at sixty-seven
that I really may fall, and often have.
But even then, as I start to slide,
there’s that scintilla of joy.

Thirty-fifth and Galena

May 2, 2008 at 3:43 pm | In childhood, poems, social justice | Leave a Comment
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A child, a seventeen-year-old,
was “popped,” the neighbors say.
The old game from our childhood,
“Bang, you’re dead!” is real today.

What have we done, what sin can push
our so-called human race
to such a place where life
is cheap? What leads to such disgrace?

“Blame the parents, that’s for sure!
They’re the guilty ones
whose lack of values teach the kids
to roam the streets with guns.”

But no, it’s all of us; we fail
in every chance we miss
to love; but wash our hands
and say, “I have no part of this.”

From a Young Girl

April 29, 2008 at 8:47 am | In childhood, poems | Leave a Comment
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Everything opens and closes; doors and days,
eyes and ears, minds, seasons, a pickle jar,
mouths and years and books and Broadway plays.
And my heart, if you know where the buttons are.

Living in Leviticus

April 29, 2008 at 8:25 am | In Self, childhood, poems, spirituality | Leave a Comment
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I remember saying to my brother, Don,
“You be the Dad and I will be the Mom”
when we “played house” so many years ago.
Oh, what a perfect family we were,
with no discord, and kids who found that they,
in make-believe, know only what was good.

So when I found these words, I felt again
the rooms of that small house beneath a tree
where we had hung a sheet to make the wall.
Your voice says clearly I need have no fear;
your promise is my talisman of hope:
“You will be my people, I your God.”

After the Bar Mitzvah

April 20, 2008 at 12:55 pm | In childhood, poems, spirituality | Leave a Comment
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The fringes on my shawl say who I am
as I recite the Shema morn and night
and call upon the God of Abraham.

And eighteen times the Tephila I pray;
ask blessing upon blessing; but the sight
of fringes on my shawl say who I am.

Each short, blue cord reminds me of the way
I learned each law, and learning, earned the right
to call upon the God of Abraham.

The prayers mark off the hours of the day
and as I move into the dying light
the fringes on my shawl say who I am.

“I love the Lord my God,” is what I say,
over and over, and with what delight
I call upon the God of Abraham.

My parents say my fervor may not stay
and if it’s so, I’ll pray. “Oh. might
the fringes of my shawl say who I am,
and call upon the God of Abraham.”

The Old House

April 14, 2008 at 4:36 pm | In childhood, poems | Leave a Comment
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I look at it, not seen these fifty years.
The mountain’s higher than I saw it then,
the house so small I cannot quite believe
that six of us lived there. Weeds own it now,
and trees from deep woods creep out, slender, tall
sentinels to guard the prison I recall.

I shudder at remembered pain, and try
to find the little windowed, attic room
where I had felt so safe. I wonder now
if there was ever such a room, or did
I build its very walls within my mind,
a place that no one else could ever find?

Fifty long years ! How can I reconcile
what was with what I see before me now?
The roof beam sags, the windows are long gone,
the front door, fallen, leaves a gaping hole
that looks on darkness. Darkness that I know
left no escape those many years ago.

Childhood’s Bedtime

April 14, 2008 at 4:08 pm | In childhood | Leave a Comment
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Wild beasts and monsters

paper my bedroom walls.

Only the moonlit

window’s safe, but my gaze

turns again in fear-cination.

Rockfall in Vermont

April 14, 2008 at 3:46 pm | In childhood | Leave a Comment
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The ancient mountain

let loose this field of scattered

gray shapes, tossed without

apparent plan, but really

meant to be a child’s playground.

Childhood Poem

March 12, 2007 at 5:04 pm | In childhood, poems | Leave a Comment
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JOHNSWORT TEA

by Sr. Andrew-John

My father always said that Johnswort tea
was good for everything; that it would cure
a case of constipation, or the “runs,”
a painful itch, a cold or influenza.
“It equalizes everything,” he said,
“from head to toe, and keeps you out of bed.”

He sought and picked the golden weeds that grew
along the roads that led to Grampa’s farm,
and no doubt other roads; but I recall he’d
stop the car for Johnswort, while we kids,
restless, remembered summertimes before,
pastures to run, and haylofts to explore.

Later, at home, he hung the Johnswort up
from attic rafters, where it dried and lost
some of its brilliance – but a lovely smell
was loosened on the heavy, dusty air.
Next year, in jars, brown leaves were all we’d see;
“But just for grown-ups, kids, so let it be.”

“She’s got a touch of fever,” Mother said,
“she’d best stay home.” But Dad was skeptical.
“She’s only sick of school,” I overheard.
“He doesn’t care, “ I muttered to myself,
“He never does ! I’ll stay in bed today,
but tomorrow I am going to run away !”

I heard some clattering of pots and pans,
And thought how they would look for me, and Dad
would say, “I should have known that she was sick !”
Then he appeared, short-winded from the stairs,
carrying a cup – the “grown-up tea” – and said
“Now drink it, And tomorrow, out of bed !”

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