I must have fallen asleep
For suddenly the shadows
Are showing halfway across
The meadow fair.
The tinkle of bells in the air
Speaks of cows headed for home.
The bark of a dog sounds a welcome
Off in the distance toward home.
Over the high road I run swiftly.
I need to be home as daylight shifts,
Or Dad will know I was truant today.
Sometimes his strap really hurts.
But I won’t mind too much this time,
For today was absolutely sublime.
#SchoolTruant #PlayingHooky #SkippingSchool #NaturePoetry
August is the time of summer heat
Of air-conditioners and cooling drinks
Swimming in the nearest pool
Or sitting under running sprinklers
Dreaming of snow-capped mountains
Eating ice cream and frozen ice cones
Doing nothing, moving not one muscle
Waiting for September to arrive
With gold harvest and hard work.
August, get on with you, hurry now.
I am melting away to nothing.
Ahhh! A lovely refreshing shower
Comes to wash away the heat.
#SummerPoetry
It was summer, an August afternoon. Far behind me lay the hot-coal sand I crossed bare-soled to the fire-banked concrete rising to the relative cool of the pier ship-timbered and mica-frosted with fish scale.
Behind me too, the turbine hum and wet-street slish of waves at the bikini-benched shore. Voices of swimmers far up-shore were heard only as the muted bird-waking sounds of morning that voices imitate when distant and sifted by irresolute air. Nearer and more present were the voices of fishermen: raucous deep-throated men, raven voiced women and screeching eaglet children.
But even these were filtered through the sea-soft air to be lost, if you wished it so, along with the smells of bait—live in rank water, the dying caught fish, the sweats, stale coffee, warm beer and deep fat fry of the snack bar squatting mid-pier. Lost to the soft still song of a sea light day, lost in the taste of salt air—clean, untamed, long traveled—sweet and sour with the tang of yin and yang.
At the end of the long pier, I leaned outward—like a ship’s figurehead—to catch the sweep of sky as my eyes witnessed grays melting into blue. The still of the horizon wrapped separateness around me. Within the hush of this sea spun cocoon, I knew only the creak of the seagull’s cry echoed by the wharf beneath my feet, the caress of sea-kissed air, and the lapping lullaby of quiet tide.
The westward sun diamonded in a thousand liquid mirrors—a laserium impressionist painting—floating, tilting, shimmering…
#Summer #BeachMemories #BeachandImpressionism
These two were truly innocents—
She liked a game called House.
He loved to roam the open fields.
She had blue eyes, a complexion as pure as air
And hair that was a pretty cornsilk yellow.
His sandy, unkempt hair blended
With freckled arms and face and hazel eyes.
They gravitated toward each other
As trees reach out to the sun.
Holding hands, they romped across the fields,
Sometimes skipping as if in a game.
One time she impulsively kissed him.
So startled was he that he pulled away
Reminded of that aunt who always kissed
With warm wet kisses.
Yet, this one kiss was so different.
He leaned across towards her and quickly
Pecked her with the lightest of kisses.
Abashed, he hugged himself.
But she just laid her blond head on him
And quietly said, “I love you, Joe.”
#FirstLove #PuppyLove
Down the hill it went. Faster and faster,
From the meadow top to its bottom,
Spun that old rubber tire round and round.
Curled inside was one very small boy
With his knuckles white, screaming and laughing
While clinging tightly to its inside rim:
One half scared, the other half a gleeful bliss
As he plunged downward, rolling ever swifter.
That old tire rolled to a stop some fifteen feet
Inside a downhill thicket
Where the boy tumbled out upon the ground,
Ignoring the small bruises and scratches,
Joyfully shouting of his extreme pleasure.
He cries out, “May I try that again?!”
#OldTireUses #ChildhoodGames
The following is a memory from May 20, 1959 in Long Beach, California. It is written as the diary entry of a fourteen year old girl.
They set off the city-wide air raid warning siren for the last time today. They announced it in the papers yesterday. Sort of makes you wonder why they sounded it at all, since this was to be the last. Why not just announce that on the scheduled day for the siren, there would be nothing—because it was all over. Kind of dumb.
Well, the thing sounded off just as it has for several years now. We all heard it at school, but no one left the room. There was no air raid drill. We all just stopped everything for a moment while the thing bleated out its noise. And for just a moment afterward we were still silent. Then everything went on as if nothing special had happened.
Except I know I felt different, and maybe some of the others did too. I mean, after all, what did this mean? It meant that there is no purpose in giving warning if a bomb is heading our way. There can be no escape from the fallout, no safe place.
Of course, it’s not like we didn’t all know this before today. But the last siren got me to thinking how things have changed. I can still remember in elementary when we were at recess and told to lie flat on the ground and cover our heads and necks when the air raid drill sounded. Even then I thought it was a foolish thing to do. I mean, it was lying down and saying to the bomb pilot, “Here we are, all laid out and ready for you to drop your bomb on us.” I thought we should have been looking for a place to hide instead, but that wasn’t what we were told to do.
Inside the school we were told to duck under our desks, cover our heads and necks and turn our backs to the windows. That made a lot more sense to me. At least you were under some sort of cover.
Later as we learned from the discoveries the army made by dropping bombs in the Nevada desert, air raid drills had us out in the halls squished together between the doors of our classroom. There we stood with our noses pressed into the back of someone else’s head until the “all clear” bell sounded.
By the time I was in sixth grade, we pretty much knew it was a useless exercise. I can remember standing in the hall and looking up at the row of windows that ran the length of the hall. The Nevada test had told us that the glass would be blown out, thereby making our sanctuary useless.
In seventh grade, they finally stopped making us march out into the hall. The whole exercise was simply to “be quiet and wait for news or the “all-clear” signal. In other words, wait to be incinerated or to learn you all have been radiated to death with nothing to do but suffer until you die.
The Civil Defense signs are still scattered about the city. At one time, they thought any building with a basement could be an emergency bomb shelter. One of those signs was posted by the church at the end of my street. But the basement there has windows at the street level, so once again—useless. Also, it was too small to house all the people on my street whose houses don’t have basements. And by the time you reached it from half-way down the block, it would be too late anyhow.
Suzy, my use-to-be friend, who lives down the street, has a basement. She took me down once to show me how her family had stocked it with emergency water and food stuff, mostly cans. It was a really small basement, barely big enough for her family (two older brothers, Suzy and her parents). They were a little worried about not having room for neighbors who might need help, but there really just wasn’t a lot of room. Of course, that was before we knew hiding in a basement wasn’t going to be much use.
Anyway, hearing that siren today made me remember all this. Oh, yes, and there was that day when the windows shook in our sixth grade classroom at the exact time they had announced they were setting off that big explosion in Nevada. Other people said they thought a sonic boom shook the windows, but there’s always a thunder-like boom and there wasn’t any that day. Some said it was just the wind, but there wasn’t any wind. Others blamed a mini-earthquake, but the floor didn’t shake. No, I was pretty sure that the concussion from the Nevada bomb made our windows shake. When you think that we were way out on the California coast, and the bomb was way inland in Nevada, that’s pretty scary. That’s pretty much when I realized nothing can protect you from an atomic bomb.
Well, all these thoughts have been haunting me today because of that last air raid siren. I think of it now as a sort of moan of despair or a death knell (like in a poem) declaring once and for all time that hope is only a word locked in a box—Pandora’s box. It’s a non-reality.
I think, or maybe it was just my imagination, that some of the other kids were also feeling pretty down because of the message of that last siren today. At least, it seemed like there was a damper on the whole day, sort of like when the weather has been gloomy for days without relief.
I guess it helps to say all this stuff, even if it’s only here in my diary. No one at school wanted to talk about it much. And Mom’s such an overboard optimist that it’s really useless to talk to her about it. Dad might be better, but he’s back in San Francisco until June. Gram’s no use either. I don’t think she quite gets it, or maybe she just chooses not to believe. I don’t know.
Anyway, I’m really kind of down today because of this. I don’t know what else to say, so I guess I’ll just sign off here. bye.
#Anti-NuclearArmaments #Anti-War
With the flames licking away fright of the night,
In a circle around a patch of earth:
The Boy Scout troop—so tried and true—
Each one alone with his secret fear
Of some unknown beast from every sound.
Even total silence was cause to peer
Into the night for the ogre waiting, waiting.
The younger now tried desperately to sleep,
As the older scouts stood watch in the night—
Four hours alert and four hours asleep—
Keeping the fire burning high and bright
Until morning brought in the rising sun
With no one missing and no one harmed.
What tales will they tell of this first night?
#ScoutsandPoetry #CampingPoem
Looking down at your thin, tired face,
So many memories flooded my mind.
Why was I not there at the end, and
How you taught me to meet threats head on.
My troubles also seemed less serious
Because of how I saw you handle yours.
I was a much better workman
After you showed me how
To do a job right the first time.
But because we were often angry with each other,
I never once said, “I love you, Pop.”
I know how you felt as I am trying not to cry,
Yet I sound just like you on that day
When we had to say good-bye to John.
I know you may not be able to hear me,
But I want you to know how special
You always were to me and now one more thing,
I really did love you, Pop.
#Father’sDay #Mourning #ElegyPoem
At Lexington, proud farmers stood their ground.
An indentured servant left bloody footprints
Across the snows of winter in Valley Forge
Just to make sure we had a flag to fly.
A city lad fell on the deck of the Bon Homme Richard
While a mountaineer marksman fell at New Orleans
Providing the courage and the blood to assure
That our flag would continue to fly free.
So much blood and tears were shed at Antietam
Where a Maryland boy killed his Virginia cousin
Because he wore a different colored uniform.
Yet that made sure our flag survived to fly.
Uncle John charged up San Juan Hill
As they guaranteed that our flag could
Always fly high and free wherever it is,
But he carried malaria for the rest of his life.
On a windswept hill, a memorial stands
Containing the last remains of a lad—
His name unknown to anyone—
Fallen on Flanders’ field in the war to end all wars.
But in a maniac and a sneak morning attack,
Our youngest and fairest fell again,
Followed by the dead at Midway,
Guadalcanal, Omaha Beach, and Anzio.
Perhaps, now, our flag will fly free and in peace,
We thought. Then quickly followed Pork Chop Hill,
Inchon, the Hanoi Hilton and a sea green jungle hell.
What was our flag doing in these strange places?
Then, all too soon, came Grenada, Panama, Desert Storm.
When will our leaders hear the voices
From Yorktown to Veracruz to Gettysburg,
Inchon, Belleau Woods, Manila Bay and Fort McHenry?
The muffled drums roll on across the land.
Will our glorious flag ever fly in peace?
#FlagDay #Patriotism #Anti-WarPoetry
In that hour before the doors of home
Lock down for the night,
In that last hour before the doors close
Against the cold of night,
In the hour before
A child’s freedom to wander ends for the
day,
In the hour before dinner—
A frightened child slips quietly from the
house
And rides toward the beach.
High above the sands along the bluff,
She rides down to the end of the track
And back to its beginning—
Riding until it is safe again to go home
To be locked away from the open sky.
Listen to the waves
Listen to the air whistling at your ear
Listen to the seagull cries
Hear the grass grow
Look at the far horizon
Look at the largeness of the sea
Look at the bigness of the sky
Feel the distance they have traveled and
touch
Listen to the waves
Taste the sky
Trust the wind to carry away
All that must not return
To be locked in with family
In a home closed in for the hours of
night
Trust the wind to blow clean and fresh
Through a heart choked by thorns
Hear the ocean sing of far away shores
Taste the seasoning of distance in the
air
See as the sky sees
Feel the wild freedom of the wind
Back and forth along the bluff
The child rides in the hour before
Night locks down and around.
Back and forth above the sea
She flies with the wind
And dwells where distance dwells
Till windswept and free again,
She turns toward home.
#ChildhoodDepression #SeaPoetry #MeditationPoem #Self-Healing