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.

Spring Valley Farm Market, October Afternoon

This poem was composed on a cold January morning, months after the warm, bright afternoon when we visited the farmer's market in Winchester. As I remembered that day, the colors, light, and smells came back vividly into the dimness of my winter room and made themselves into the beginnings of this poem. 

 

Hot autumn sun

glares from the parking lot,

through the open doorway,

glows inward, 

catching curves of color, 

arresting mounds of cauliflower

magnificent in violet, cream, and orange;

echoes in a hundred jars of gleaming glass -

of honey, sauce, and jellies,

bearing promises of flavor

surprising and untasted.

The apples, less reserved,

cast their sweet russet spell 

of fragrance noseward

with abandon that belies 

their tidy mounds of crimson, green,

and butter-yellow, piled in crates,

labeled with names and prices,

bags provided. One may buy these,

but their free intoxicating scent

is one of autumn's gifts - do not forget this.

And here's the joy of cranny crammed full stores -

sleek vacuumed packs of salt pork and pink ham,

jars of mysterious, eccentric blended tea,

great mounds of onions, satin and rotund,

bunched flowers, languishing in loveliness,

and sweet potatoes, stacked up skyward

torpedo roots washed of the soil they conquered,

the soil, so low and brown, 

from which comes all the colors of the market -

God bless the soil!

- AFB, 1-16-24

Next Morning

A contemplation on the possible indifference of the crowds in Bethlehem the night Jesus was born led to this invitation to imagine the scene.

The Next Morning 

Mild morning light

Sifts through the windows of the inn,

Where blear-eyed travelers

Shake out slept-in cloaks

And comment on the scarcity of

fodder, and of comfort, 

and of bread, in Bethlehem.

One yawns out "Did anyone else

Hear singing in the night?"

"Nah, I sleep anywhere, most

like a rock," one says.

"People coming, going, all night,"

groans another, "hardly slept a wink - and no denying there are fleas in here."

"These crowds," growls one whose gray-striped turban smells of fish - "I'm out

to get in line first thing at these *___* registration booths -

Old Caesar never had to make his living from the sea -

I hope that red-haired boy

gave water to my donkey - here you!

Where'd you put him?"

"In the stable," calls a red-fringed silhouette of head

thrust through the morning door,

one second's shadow on the dust-thick floor.

"Here, you!" - again the sea-stained gentleman - but no response.

"I'll have to fetch the beast myself."

Down two turns of the sun-streaked stairs,

The dark door of the stable

Rustles with the restlessness of rising animals.

Eyes new-adjusting to the dimness, 

Old Jonah sees a small white shape 

Amidst the remnants of the last night's hay.

"I'll be -" he mutters, noticing the woman, and the man, nearby, asleep.

He turns away, embarrassed,

Looking for his donkey,

"This government - 

Come on, you slow of bones" - 

this to the donkey, gazing back, ears pricking toward the manger, nostrils twitched -

"Time we're gone".

Their shadows fill the door

One second more.

Then Mary wakes

To see the square of sunlight on the hay-strewn floor,

And hears with sudden leap of weary heart,

The whimpering in the manger.

-AFB, 12-25-23

After Talking to Hispanic Workmen on a Rainy Day

The house is still and warm.

Front door bangs to on 

drizzle, cold, and foggy

conversation with the 

work men come to 

lay new cables with 

their new brown hands.

They stumble over

English words, their brown eyes

hiding from another 

round of "I don't understand".

Hunched against the dampness, 

they think Spanish thoughts 

inside.

 

The dryer tumbles to a stop

just as I step inside,

My cold hands dive

into a nest of toasted t-shirts,

basking in the light bulb's 

yellow glow.

Outside it's grey.

 

Some time today,

brown hands will

end their day in rain

and take off hats,

printed with English words.

The lights will glow on in their

Spanish eyes, and Spanish

thoughts come tumbling

out like warm towels

into homey, waiting hands.

When We Can Sing

A poem written after reading John Bunyan describing the throne of the Lamb in his book, Prayer.

I've heard a deaf man speak -

irregular, unsettling leaps

of vocal cords untied 

from careful reins that hearing

holds to modulate

our bursts of sound.

But soul must find expression.

Thus, first, when I imagine all

our resurrected eyes beholding 

on that highest throne, a Lamb

once slain of love for us, 

and now exalted 

as the center of all good,

our tongues must stumble 

like the deaf before his 

soul's great sound

and cry with mingled joy and grief,

a startling moan of realized love

to shock the universe.

Not so it says.

Somehow, it will be "Worthy!" -

yes, a song of measured words - 

"Worthy the Lamb once slain"

from every ransomed tongue,

each ear un-chaosed,

modulated to the music of the spheres.

We know not now the meaning

of restored, unbroken,

as we shall then,

when each ear hears 

before that healing throne

its song lined out 

upon a thousand, thousand

never-stumbling tongues.

- AFB, 4-26-23

A Prayer for Lent

 In 40 days,

    we'll stand beside the stone

    dropped in the dew-wet grass

    beside our dew-wet feet

    before our tear-wet eyes,

    while dawn and bird dawn-chorus

    echo back our joys.

 

Today, our eyes are dry

    and we forget, between

    the dishes and the wash machine

    majestic sweetness 

    in Your voice.

    We cannot see beyond the screen

    the darkness of Gethsemane,

    or feel beyond our creaking chair

    the heavy cross you had to bear.

Teach us again to taste and see,

    the goodness of Your body,

    drained of blood, but not of Love,

    which bids us follow

    till we reach again,

    the fallen stone,

    the folded linen clothes,

    the moment when

    we turn again,

    hearing Your voice.