Towing two little ones behind in a tiny
bicycle trailer,
the older man pedaled and panted furiously,
in through the nose, out through the mouth,
audible gasps and gusts of humid air,
his breathing defining his determination.
The children riding silently behind never smiled,
echoing his serious demeanor.
One sucked solemnly on her pacifier,
the other wondered at the world with wide dark eyes.
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The water sprinklers came on in
midmorning on Oak Hill;
from a distance they resembled a row of tall fountains.
Each sprinkler shot double plumes of water
into high arcs that spread into rainbowed fans of drops,
dispersing and blanketing the hill with artificial rainfall.
A man and his dog stood at the periphery
with faces upturned to the cool falling mist.
The dog suddenly broke free and ran to the sprinkler head,
jumping and biting at the base of the column of water—
a canine Don Quixote sparring with a watery windmill.
After a valiant series of successful attacks,
convinced he had at last bested his enemy,
the dog trotted triumphantly back to his owner,
his belly distended by
the water he had ingested
during the fierce battle with the aqueous foe.
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Only
the faintest breath of breeze blows
across the lake, dimpling the surface slightly.
The water is slightly warmer than the chilly air,
for wisps of foggy mist rise in rows
scudding across the surface in an elemental ballet.
Near the far end lie hidden currents
where the ghostly dancers turn and twirl
before racing back to the shore in undulating lines.
The sun breaks over the treetops
and the mist rises to greet the day,
a pagan morning ritual
performed by nature alone.
Their worship concluded,
the phantom dancers dissipate
into the morning air.
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She has the look of a former nun,
that indefinable quality
of someone who has shed her skin,
not quite re-grown a new one,
and perhaps never will.
While walking with her usual companion
she speaks intensely
with perhaps an over eager desire
to explain her opinion
in terms her friend will embrace.
When walking alone
she appears incomplete,
uneasy on her solitary stroll
and too much alone with herself.
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If I lived mostly on the streets and
sometimes in the park,
I’m not sure Anne Rice would be my first author of choice.
Yet the street person was avidly reading,
a paperback of tales about the Vampire Lestat.
When curled up in his blanket at midnight,
with only dark open spaces around,
does he hear stealthy footsteps
and sense preternatural presence about?
Are those glowing eyes a hidden raccoon
or a child of the night thirsting nearby?
Are those strange muffled noises
the nightmare, of a friend asleep by the tree,
or the furtive approach through the dew damp grass
of a terrible blood drinking fiend?
With no protecting walls to enclose him
and no door to keep night creatures out,
does he really wish he had chosen
rather than of tales of the undead to read,
a nice light summer
novel or satire by Dave Barry instead?
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A small Robin boldly stood beside the
path.
He cocked his head to one side
and tracked my progress with round
black eyes,
but he did not take flight.
Motionless, he stood his ground
on thin stick-like legs that disappeared
into the cedar shavings.
He did not ruffle a feather
until I was barely a foot away,
then he fluttered to a nearby tree branch.
Perhaps he was a juvenile,
too young to have learned to know fear.
More likely he was a bird-teenager,
accompanied by unseen peers,
quietly hiding behind Magnolia leaves,
daring him to stand still for just one more minute,
as the monster approached.
I hope he now holds the record.
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The big dock at the lake is transformed
into an Elizabethan stage—
Shake at the Lake presents
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream”,
in mid Spring at Piedmont Park .
At the moment the set hides behind
bright blue tarps and sheets of clear plastic,
precautions against sudden Spring thunder storms,
an almost nightly Atlanta event this time of year.
I couldn’t help but imagine
that last evening after all the humans
had packed up and returned home to dry off,
the wild park creatures
crept quietly under the tarps
and presented their own production.
The red squirrel with the tattered tail
who sasses me from his perch on the crooked limb
probably played Puck.
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Walking
with my Daughter
For
Rebecca with love
Walking down the Fourteenth
Street sidewalk
I passed by someone wearing your favorite cologne.
With great will power, I kept my feet moving
and did not stop to catch a second hint of the scent.
(Most people become alarmed when a stranger
stops and sniffs in their vicinity—trust me!)
Breathing deeply the vestiges of the familiar perfume,
your face materialized in my mind.
You walked in the park with me this beautiful morning
and thoughts of you colored my journey.
If you felt a momentary sense of well-being,
that was merely me sending you mental Mom messages.
I willed to you continued strength and courage
and waves of hope and love.
I stopped to pet an incredibly soft and fluffy puppy for you.
She wiggled in delight at my acknowledgement
that it was all about her.
I think the two of you may have a lot in common.
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La
Brea
March
27, 2008
Los Angeles, CA
Eons
ago
a wooly mammoth grazed
on tender grasses
near a harmless seeming pool.
One step too far,
sealed her fate,
as her legs sank below the surface,
held fast in tarry substrate.
A saber-toothed cat spied
the trapped beast,
planning dinner on the hoof.
Springing onto her back,
the cat anticipated
Mammoth tartare
until it, too, began to settle
into the black sticky goo.
Millennia later
their asphalt preserved bones
tell the tale,
one chapter only in
eras of
encyclopedic stories
catalogued in the tarry ground.
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Jack London
April
5, 2008
Glen Ellen, CA
Gentleman
farmer
who did not hesitate
to get his hands dirty,
he brought foreign methods
to worn out hillsides
and made them bear again,
despite neighborly griping.
Labeled unfairly,
or perhaps not,
by the Right,
he remained
a champion of the downtrodden,
regardless of the cost.
Prolific writer
of the exotic and adventurous,
one who lived life
to the fastest and fullest,
perhaps he surmised
he had to do it all quickly
before he ran out of time.
A full lifetime packed
into forty short years.
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Mendocino Headlands
April
8, 2008
Mendocino, CA
Rocky
bluffs dare the sea
to batter them down,
and the waves take up the challenge
with a vengeance.
Constantly changing,
sculpted by wave, wind, and rain,
the headlands’ beauty
not only remains,
but intensifies
in spite of,
or perhaps in league with,
the ravages of time.
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Kunde
Wine Caves
April
6, 2008
Sonoma Valley, CA
The
smell of oak
and grape and wine
blend into a musky
aroma that tantalizes the nose.
The wine caves are cool
almost two hundred feet
below the oaks on the hill.
Drilled into volcanic rock
millions of years old,
they guard the wine
in chilled silence,
anticipating its maturation
from harsh beginnings
into sought after vintages.
In essence,
the caves shelter
six thousand barrels
of hope.
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San
Francisco
March
31, 2008
SanFrancisco,
CA
There
is something
about San Francisco
that truly does steal the heart.
Riding a bus through the city
its charm reaches out
to caress and possess.
Tall narrow homes
step onto the sidewalks,
separated only by ornate grillwork.
Each tiny patch of bare lawn
is landscaped
as if a formal garden
of a palace.
the hills rise
so steeply it seems
the buildings should slide
down to tumble into
untidy piles
at the bottom.
The Golden Gate Bridge
stands sentinel
over the skyline,
defining its identity.
The city pulses with
energy as if alive.
But then,
I think perhaps
it is;
I can feel its breath
over the bay.
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Troll Under the
Bridge
April
28, 2008
Freemont, WA
On
Troll Avenue in Freemont
crouching underneath the bridge,
a troll lurks in the darkness
with a Volkswagen in his fist.
You may pose between the fingers
of his non-VW holding hand,
and admire the town that created
this folk masterpiece of whim.
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Page
4 from "Darren Drops By"
_______________________________________________________________
He opened the door all the way and could hardly
believe what he saw.
On the bottom attic step stood
a tiny green dragon with
rainbow colored eyes.
“Hi!”
the little dragon said, “My name is Darren,
what
are your names?”
____________________________________________________
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March
Morning in Atlanta
A
sudden breeze dislodges
and scatters clouds of white petals
from the sunlight-reflecting
row
of flowering cherry trees.
The petals flutter through the cool morning air,
drifting slowly down like oversized snowflakes.
Another gust brings a hint of honeysuckle
from around the corner;
bright yellow blossoms’
cloyingly sweet scent
soon builds to sensory overload.
On the sidewalk and street
drifts of granular golden pine pollen
blow into fanciful designs and lacy patterns,
unimagined by mere human artists.
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Cocoons
Tightly wrapped blanket cocoons
dot the grassy park lawn just off Piedmont,
the homeless sleeping as long as possible
to diminish the wandering part of their day.
Soon, like incipient moths or butterflies,
they will emerge from their wrappings—
hungry
and searching.
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Forbearance
Tied to a post at the dock’s end,
the long suffering dog stared glumly at the lake
as the ducks began to gather.
Each morning his mistress secured him there
while feeding her ever growing flock of lake ducks.
Grown bold with his familiar presence,
the mooching birds no longer feared him.
Spreading their wings wide,
almost grazing his
muzzle
with flapping wing tips,
they taunted the poor patient creature,
then passed by with arrogant waddles.
He moaned softly in frustration,
but stood obediently still
while the bread crumbs were tossed
to his feathered persecutors.
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Skater
and Daughter
In the jogging stroller
with the over-sized wheels,
a pink-helmeted little girl held aloft
a small white tag on a string.
She watched it dance and twirl
with obvious delight.
Her roller-blading Mom
pushed the stroller with ease
as she sped along the roadway
gliding gracefully from side to side,
with crisp even strokes.
The ascent of the hill
just past Magnolia Hall,
slowed the pace a bit,
and her daughter leaned forward
in a body language attempt to assist.
Cresting the top of the rise,
they fairly flew along the downward slope.
The little one threw her arms high into the air,
the universal posture of roller coaster riders,
smiling at the accelerating speed
and lifting her face into the wind.
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Caretaker
The homeless man
who comes to the park each day
from the night shelter at Peachtree and Pine,
climbed with cautious arthritic steps
to the back veranda of the visitors’ center.
Finding a mildewed green garden hose
lying there in loose loops,
he slowly uncoiled it as he carried it back down,
detouring at the side spigot to turn on the water.
Placing his thumb partially over the hose nozzle,
he sprayed the chalked
obscenity
from the sitting wall by the sidewalk.
The words blurred, then dissolved into pastel pools
that thinned and dissipated into the grass.
Then, solemnly nodding, his task accomplished,
he dragged the hose back to the porch,
turned off the flow of water,
and meticulously recoiled the old cracked hose.
He carefully descended the steps once again,
to wander away the rest of his day
alone on the park paths.
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New
Construction
The
new building will block our view
of Atlantic Station and the hills beyond.
But we have developed a fascination
with watching the embryonic structure
take form and grow ever upward.
Steel bones take on concrete flesh,
guarded by stockades of supporting studs.
A trio of nascent elevator shafts
rise skyward, always a few stories ahead
of massive posts and
curing cement floors.
Like a grown-huge-beyond-reality science fiction insect,
the cement pumper sucks up the wet mud
from rotating cylinders of massive
trucks,
chutes and hoses pulsing in life-miming motions.
The high yellow crane confidently swings
over the growing structure
slowly lowering stacks of re-rod and lumber,
feeding the growing beast with raw sustenance.
At night the crane stands sentinel at the deserted site,
illuminated by sufficient spotlights
to turn nighttime in our bedroom into day.
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Night
in the Country
The
lack of sound grows louder,
an inaudible roar of quiet.
I sense a total isolation
from the pulse of life
in the absence of horns and sirens
and errant laughter in the night.
I am tempted to stand at the open window
and shout
“Is anybody out there?”
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Cancer
Shrinking into himself—
all hollows and bony angles—
his body threatens
to disappear entirely,
like Alice’s Cheshire cat,
leaving only the spectral smile
of teeth too large
for the face he now wears.
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The
High Wire Walker
San Jose,
California
The
middle-aged man
apparently thought
he was safely concealed
from any accidental observer.
He balanced carefully,
heel to toe, heel to toe,
walking the sidewalk crack
as if he were a high wire walker,
arms extended to his sides
like balancing poles,
gently rising and falling
gracefully, by small degrees,
as he carefully traversed
the dangerous course,
far above the ground
in his mind.
Reaching the end of the sidewalk,
he nimbly leapt the curb,
landing on his toes and
bringing his arms high
in triumph,
inclining his head slightly
to acknowledge imaginary applause.
Adjusting his billed cap
lower over his eyes,
and giving his shoulders
a slight shake,
the maintenance worker
in faded, drab gray
slouched off to his car.
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Awakening
Houses
Buckhaven,
Fuquay-Varina, NC
The
two ranches
on Antler Meadow Way
have awakened.
Last week they stood
desolate and unoccupied,
empty shells of possibilities.
Today they project an air of occupancy,
temporary shades at windows
providing newly necessary privacy
and cars parked possessively in driveways.
Soon each building will develop
a distinctive personality
aided by carefully planted flowers,
perhaps a birdbath or bench,
or even a gaggle of garden gnomes.
There is already a change in their bearing,
an indefinable quality
that allows them to subliminally announce
to all who pass by,
that the metamorphosis has begun—
empty houses into
homes.
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