Seawall, Kitty

Could I write a poem evoking memories, images, sensations, from a different time, a far different place - even from 26 years ago? The question tantalized me in the sleepless wee hours. It seemed like accessing a mysterious power - perhaps memory is that. 

Childhood memories are often fuzzy, especially when connected with surroundings that are no longer present. It was my desire to make them live again that prompted this free verse composition recalling my family's first 3 months in Georgetown, Guyana, in the suburb of Kitty by the sea.

Seawall, Kitty

Bright, steamy heat bears down 

on coastal Georgetown,

drawing ever upward the green myriad

of palms, bananas, poinciana, grasses, and unending vines, 

through every gap unguarded 

by the concrete works of man.

The brown sea glistens with attempts at blue beneath the noon day glare - 

flat, innocent-appearing, 

but guarded with more diligence.

Above the coastal road that curves 

the busy edge of town, 

the seawall stands - long, angular, prosaic, backed by a beach of tar-encrusted boulders, 

and fronted by evolving paint displays,

announcing enterprises somehow linked with holding back the sea - 

'Drink Low-Fat Klim!',

'Trust Western Union', 

blare from rectangles of yellow,

between more numerous stretches of chipped and fading red, or white, or green that once promoted things familiar and gone. 

My invitation is the concrete steps

to the wall's top, 

where, many evenings, our house-weary feet found freedom, 

wired hyper child legs leaping, 

from wall to boulder, and to boulder and to boulder, 

welcoming the steady rush of sea breeze from the darkening waves.

Dark people blossom like night flowers, from the streets and corners, 

welcoming the cool of dusk, 

while sudden tropic night fall 

turns us back to rooms, walls, roofs, mosquito nets, and breeze-receiving windows,

where songs of tree frogs 

sweetly pierce the fading roar 

of city traffic in the night.

-AFB, 3-12-2024

From a Windy Night

Perhaps more things do happen on dark and stormy nights. 

We had let the cat out in the wee hours, after 24 hours of rainy weather had come to a near end, and the wind had begun to blow in a moonless night. Later, we heard a faint wailing, that, for a change, did not seem to come from the little boys room, but from outside.

"Caterwauling," said I, tiptoing from bed to take a peek at the porch, expecting to see Kitty in static mode, facing off against another critter of the night. In the dim porch light, I saw her mounded quietly on the railing, eyes closed. What was making the sound? I grabbed the flashlight and shone it through the window at some unidentified lumps on the top step. There sat Otto and Tom Bombadil, two large toms (suspected) that we had long observed slinking through distant corners of our property at odd times - Otto with his distinguished long mane of black, marked out with white nose and paws, and Tom Bombadil with his lank brown tiger-striped body that seemed to follow his huge head like a battle-wizened rear guard. They were sitting quite still on the top step, looking out on the night, while Kitty dozed on. My flashlight put an end to their music, and after a wary glance, they slunk off into the night. I felt I had spoiled a party. The sense of camaraderie only experienced with others whose company does not require eye contact or words had briefly emanated from their shadows.

The next morning at breakfast, we saw Tom Bombadil making his way up the hill out of our backyard. It is one more reflection on the genius of the Tolkiens who coined the name, that its rhythm is poetic.

Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadil 

Is stalking up the windy hill. 

The trees and grass toss in the blast; 

His crooked stripes march stiffly past.

The fresh creek gurgles after rain,

He prowls, regarding his domain.

The night that heard his eerie song

Has packed its bags of dark and gone,

And light, familiar and fair,

Spreads color on the morning air.

Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadil

Is passing up the windy hill

To places suitable for light

Until returns his friend, the night -

The realm of lurking and of song -

The green woods hide him, and he's gone.

- AFB, 3-10-2024

This morning's sermon on Psalm 19 and God's glory in creation had me thinking, How is God's glory displayed in the existence and behavior of cats? "You make darkness, it becomes night, and the beasts of the forest prowl" (Psalm 104)  comes to mind. They do not reveal His glory like the heavens, and yet each creature taking its place in the order of things bears some witness  to the goodness of the One who orders it all.