Last time we see Bogey

 

Last time we see Bogey

A three-tooth smile on a rattletrap bike,
refugee from a warm place fled to a cold one,
he sweeps sawdust, unloads bags of cement.

Pointing at the face printed on his T shirt
he says Hoom-fray Bah-gurt
so we call him Bogey. Nearly deaf
except at the boom of a lumber drop
he ducks for cover, searches the sky.
Tremors, the hand.

Bogey brings a single mango for lunch, so we
“share.” He loves bologna and peanut butter.
We give him steel-toed raggedy old boots.

Autumn comes fast with a sleet storm.
Kerosene heaters indoors (not safe)
hanging drywall when we hear a rattle outside.

Bogey’s in an eggshell of ice
cracked at knees but frozen like glued
to the bike so we wheel him inside,
pour a thermos on gloves and boots,
then stand him dripping in front of the heater.

Jumping up and down trembling laughing
in a puddle of Guatemalan coffee he shouts
Cray-zee! You cray-zee! Won’t let us
drive him home. Snot nose, body shaking
he cleans up scraps of drywall,
coughing at the gypsum dust.

Sleet ends, sunset is gorgeous,
color of passion and peace.
Bogey is shell-free, wobbling,
riding away with his small pay.
Not crazy. Gone.

……

First published in Anti-Heroin Chic. Thank you James Diaz, editor

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Alone, Moose Mountain

 

Alone, Moose Mountain

Foolishly alone
he climbs into clouds.
He snaps branches, cleaves cobwebs
to reawaken an abandoned path
found on a faded map,
first footprints to this loam in years.

A final, steep scramble up rocks.
Clouds lift. Atop Moose Mountain
a brilliant view, shared: perched on a spar,  
an alert falcon. Companion.

The descent, again no escort.
Crossing a creek, he hops to a
green rock algae-slick — and upends
flipping like a pinwheel so fast
there’s no time for hands, for reflex.
Jaw slams against boulder.

A moment, stunned.
He's in cold water, soaked.
Stars spin across eyes.
He springs up to scream at nobody,
the gods, the cussed green rock.
But can’t scream—jaw too sore.
Where's the hat? The camera?
He stumbles down the creek, spies the Nikon,
and slips again. Crashes. Aargh!  

He's too tired, too wet,
too banged up and crazy with pain.
Farewell, beloved Tilley hat.
Socks squish inside boots. Jaw throbs.
Arm, shoulder, stabs of heat.

A doctor purses her lips saying
"You're crazy, hiking solo where nobody
would find you. You almost broke your jaw.
And didn't it occur to you," she asks
shaking her head, "you dislocated your shoulder?"
She pops it into place.

Above Moose Mountain,
alone, a falcon soars.

……

First published in Peacock Journal
Note: Yeah, it’s about me. At age 60-something I set out to explore rough country alone. This particular Moose Mountain is in the Adirondacks of New York State and was seldom hiked by anybody back then. The camera was ruined, photo film got soaked in the creek when I fell, but this picture I salvaged—falcon’s world.

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Blonde, tight skirt, leather vest,

 

Blonde, tight skirt, leather vest,

she knows her privilege and uses it
smiling at the young JetBlue attendant
who mentions nothing about size limits
as he helps her pummel a gigantic
purple duffle into the overhead bin
occupying the space of two bags.
I have the aisle, she the window.
From her body, a powdery scent
like fresh-cut sugar pine. Perhaps I stare.

“Something wrong?” she asks.
“Sorry,” I say. “First time I ever
smelled sawdust on a jet plane.”
“My first husband,” she says as if that explains it.
“I just spent two weeks at his cabin.”
A chatty woman. I soon learn she woke
to the call of loons, had to brake
as a dozen geese held a family meeting
on the road to the airport. She wished
she could stop right there,
paint plein air on Interstate 89.

She’s bringing maple moose lollipops
for the evil stepchildren. “They’re frankly
glad I’m gone,” she says. Now we’re over
Lake Champlain. Destination JFK.
“Goodbye Vermont,” she says to the window.
“I’ve cleaned his cabin, I’ve brought you
his ashes. Stay green and may we all
dwell in peace.”

……

First published in Freshwater
Photo by sumanley on Pixabay

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People who rise in darkness

 

People who rise in darkness

From the street long ago
you see glow of windows
frosty and foggy
as you toss a roll of news.

You’re just a kid
breathing clouds into the air
but you know they will pay
when you ask each month,
sometimes with a tip
though not large.

You catch glimpses of bathrobe,
of coffee pot, scent of bacon
or they wave, bundled outside
scraping windshields of warming-up cars.

The houses still dark
might make up excuses,
dodge you or complain
or be so rich you don’t exist
but the people who rise in darkness
are on your side.

……

First published in Poetry Breakfast — thank you Kay Kestner, editor.
The painting is “We'll Make It Through” by Richie Carter.

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Birthday—August, 1979

 

Birthday—August, 1979

After scary sickness, weeks in bed,
    today I’m better.
Head clear. Body hollow,
    sixteen pounds shed
    in sweat and snot.
So I call Dial-A-Lawyer,
    write a will by phone.
Drive to the city, Social Security
to register my daughter
    who is unknown by the state,
    born at home
    one year to this date.
Bring her along as proof.
Paperwork.
Plan a death and record a birth.

My beloved bakes a cake. One candle.
I’m still a bit shaky. Can’t rest.
Where’s my tool belt?
It’s time to build toys. A wagon.
A house. Soon.
A life for this daughter.

……

From my book Foggy Dog
First published in Snapdragon
photo by me of her

Note: my daughter was born at home in the back yard on a waterbed under a full moon—your basic hippie home birth. Then I got very sick. Recovered on her first birthday, saw the light and felt a rush of energy, wrote a will (by telephone), drove the old car to the city and made her an official person. It was time to get organized about this whole fatherhood thing.

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Helping Ken

 

Helping Ken
 

"Hey Ken, need a hand?"
"Nope."
"Can I help anyway?"
"Doubt it."

Old Ken couldn't lift this dock alone,
but he’d manage
with the wile of eighty-odd years
to winch, drag, set it in place.
His movements, stiff.
His knees, weathered.
His grip, when we shake hands,
like the clamp of death.

Job done,
he climbs aboard his
skeletal tractor,
a relic, 'Fifty-One Ford,
for the uphill journey home.
Maintained where it counts,
the naked motor
purrs.

……

First published in Northampton Poetry Review 

Photo by me of Ken’s old tractor from the rear

Ken Laundry of Hawkeye, New York was one of my life’s heroes. I’ve written extensively about him in my Clear Heart blog here.

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First Aid

 

First Aid

Timmy is skinny as a skink
from a dysfunctional school,
a sad father who beats him for having asthma,
but for two weeks Timmy worships me,
rookie counselor of Cabin 8.
First time from inner city
he meets crawdads face to face.

Timmy follows me chattering with delight
at the rituals of summer camp
so he is right there when Jamyl tumbles
like a cartwheel from a buckeye
onto his wrist creating a new joint sideways
like cracking a drumstick.
“Timmy!” I shout. “Run for the nurse!”

Timmy knows pain as a bird knows a cage.
Speaks not a word through raucous
dining hall dinner until I question him
alone and he whimpers “I didn’t help.
I didn’t know how. I didn’t do anything.”

Thank you, Timmy for running to fetch the nurse
who arrived so fast. It was just what we needed.
And you could take a class in first aid, Timmy,
you could learn what to do. Who knows —
you could be a doctor.

Doc Tim. Yes. He follows me
chattering with new purpose
the remainder of camp. Then
he busses home to his old man
and I can only hope.
.....

First published in Freshwater

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This

 

This

Quail Court
is a manicured plot
where dwells a schoolteacher
named Jane who this once
in the entire span of our lifetimes
I meet for a few minutes in her bungalow of
flamboyant art, orchids in pots.

Jane outlines my electrical task,
a new circuit plus a couple of floodlights,
and then with schoolteacher gaze
both merry and serious she asks
“Are you honest? Wonderful and all that?”

“Um… Yes.”

“Then here’s where I hide the house key.
Just leave a bill on the table. I’ll pay it because
I’m also honest and wonderful and all that.”

And I do. Next day. Alone.
And she does. By mail. Promptly.
And I love. All that.

……

First published in Poetry Breakfast

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Learning to touch-type

 Learning to touch-type

Closing eyes, I typed blind
making up jingles, whatever came
to my eleven-year-old mind
like one about a cocker spaniel 
    Who knows
    but the nose?
or one about my crush, neighbor Elaine
    Eyes of amber
    change your timbre
which I thought were brilliant.

The old Underwood I called Miss Understood.
In a cranky mood her legs stuck together,
her tongue would jam. But touch her kindly
and  her lips would clack clack clack,
her little bell would ring
and I would slam the carriage return.

I miss her physicality.
I could literally write up a sweat
as she taught poetry in her machine gun voice:
    Make each word strike solid.
    End with a period that punches a hole,
    clear through, to the light on the other side.

……

First published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal—thank you editor David Stephenson
photo by Johanna Nikolaus on Pixabay

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Airplanes

 

Airplanes

Trees grow craggy and cranky, says Noah.
One old oak grows sideways
so you can walk the trunk
and we do, Noah and me,
we walk up the tree and down again
balancing with our arms stretched out
like airplanes
which is cool if you’re four
or seventy-four.

Noah decides to tour the drinking fountains
of Flood Park. Why not, this fine day?
So we run a circuit of twenty acres
with wings outspread, sampling.
Most fountains are concrete,
a few are shiny steel,
most in sun where the water comes hot,
a few under trees where the acorns fall.
One dribbles a bath for birds,
one blasts your nose.
Most of them paired—one high and one low
for the thirsty, for the curious,
for the very young or very old
with so much to discover.

……

First published in Birdland

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