Sonnet 19 - There Comes a Time

For Jennie, Christmas 2018

There comes a time in the life of a car
when systems malfunction and trouble lights glow;
when it's dark and it's cold and you have to go far
over slippery roads through the ice and the snow.

Once you peel your white knuckles off of the wheel,
you find on the Internet just what to buy --
a practical all-wheel drive automobile
that can comfortably hold both you and your guy.

But suddenly fate knocks you flat on your ass
just when you thought things were going so well;
antler and fur, mixed in with steel and glass,
yield a total loss up, with a new car smell.

A strong woman finds the exact car that she seeks,
then buys the same car again in just two weeks.

Sonnet 18 - You Go Beat a Stick

For Betsy

You go beat a stick of softened butter
and sprinkle grains of pure white sugar on it,
while I think of a few sweet words to utter
and fit them into phrases for a sonnet.

Then go and add two eggs, one at a time,
so flour and the sweetened grease adhere,
while I think of a couple words that rhyme,
so lines from out of memory’s web appear.

But we’ll forget, and no one will recall
this poem or the things it meant to say.
It will prove to be as ephemeral
as birthday cake that’s eaten in a day.

That’s why our days of happy marriage take
A constant flow of poetry and cake.

Sonnet 17 -- The Effort

For Suzy, after buying a new house in Medford.

The effort that’s required to buy a house

is daunting -- first amass a pile of cash,

a bank loan, and the buy-in from your spouse,

then if the market’s tight, go madly dash

to open houses everywhere in town,

ignoring the sage and sound advice --

“Buy low” -- you bid high, but still get turned down

although you bid above the asking price!

But like a pinball bouncing from home to home

that strikes the bonus, you win a jewel

with kitchens and bathrooms of burnished chrome,

a landscaped yard, and an backyard pool,

and there you can float about in style

and make all the effort you’ve spent worthwhile.

Sanctuary

For the Annual Meeting of the East Congregational Church of Milton, June 4, 2017

Brothers and sisters, when we’re upstairs

Singing the hymns and saying our prayers;

have you noticed that there’s peeling

paint chips flaking on the ceiling?

The narthex rug is stained and faded,

the paraments are dull and jaded,

and the light within now has to pass

to us through yellowing Plexiglas.

Beside the altar cross the panels

are sooty now from all the candles

that burned to show God’s presence here

on Sunday mornings for sixty-six years.

Now a sanctuary should inspire

visions of a higher power,

both to those who like to ponder

sermons, and those whose minds wander,

turning their eyes to rise above

the pediment, where the holy dove

looks back down at us in our pews

as we experience God’s good news.

And all or this – the sermon, story,

candles, choir, and offertory – 

are outward signs of an inner grace

that we share together in this sacred space.

So brothers and sisters, let's turn the page
on the musty rugs and the dusty beige,
and join as one to do our duty,

and restore this house of God to beauty.

Potatoes

In the North, November is the month when cold winds blow,

and strip the trees of golden leaves before the coming snow.

In stony fields the cold earth yields to harvesters its fruits

as digging shares relentlessly tear up the tasty roots.

Then caught up in a system that is larger than themselves,

the spuds are lifted up mechanically to picking shelves,

where Latin girls with glistening curls pluck out each haulm and clod,

like angels who send goats to Hell and spare the sheep for God.

The large and firm are washed and graded US Number One,

then sent off to fine restaurants before the day is done.

The knobby and misshapen are dumped into plastic bins;

they’re second class potatoes, for second class citizens.

Potatoes that are mashed and served with turkey, squash and peas

when once a year we volunteers fix homeless folks a feast;

and all the while we laugh and smile, at jokes and gentle ribbing,

then when we're through, share a brew, our due for virtuous living.

Still let’s be sure to thank these poor, for enriching our Thanksgiving.

Sonnet 16 - In Praise of Abstract Art

An image of a herd of bison running

from horsemen twenty thousand years ago

is painted on the cave walls at Lascaux --

it clearly shows a hunt, and ancient cunning.

Now artists paint us much more abstract scenes;

a spattering of brilliant cadmium hues

was sold for millions, making headline news;

while making millions wonder what it means.

Yet if out of this wonderment we find

new meanings using our creative urges,

(though what we come up with sometimes diverges

from what the working artist had in mind)

then we who live in anonymity,

while observing art, share creativity.

The Lesson

Based on a True Story

One night in early spring it snowed

enshrouding house and tree and road

a gift, it seemed, left in the dark

that in the morning sunlight glowed.

All set to go from on their mark

with childish squeal and puppy bark

a copse of children I could see

go sliding downhill in the park.

I walked on to the library

where underneath a glistening tree

by a stone wall I met a friend

who’d just read a great mystery.

“There’s darkness in the hearts of men,”

he said, “it hides inside them, then

explodes in violence, just like all

diseased trees break and never bend.”

Then in that park, by that stone wall

the heavy snow made a tree fall.

It sent a young girl to her grave

and over glory cast a pall.

Where is the lesson we can save

for the enlightenment we crave,

when tree limbs die all over town

and no warden cuts them down?