Dug Folk Fest 26 #1

hard banjo
smooth
old finger picked guitar
steel  National
gravel voices
old songs

I'm not much

I’m not much of a deipnosophist—

I sit and listen to better table-talkers

I might look lost in a funk,

but I’m just watching the board

tracking every conversational

checkmate and zugzwang

not antisocial, nor a solivagant,

just solving puzzles with pizzazz—

the crossword’s clues feeding me

new words to keep me quiet-busy

some might call it sniffishness

but they’d be wrong

I’ll speak my mind one-on-one

it's only in a crowd I clam up—

the tiny bones in my ear vibrating

to a silent ululation

Joel jokester

he loves to tell a joke

in high school, he’d laugh and sway

until he was sick with humour

breathless in the hallway

now he starts every talk the same

have you heard the one about...

the latest headline a political name

Trump or a scandal

he speaks of the world and current events

then shifts to a song perfectly on key

his fingers find the chords by instinct

shaping the air with a melody

he’s the first at the door of the hospital room

bringing the light when the walls are grey

armed with a joke to scatter the gloom

and chase the heavy silence away

a lifelong friend

I’ve heard them all and I’ve heard that 

snow falls in March

snow falls in March

it might melt tomorrow

but for now all is covered 

in white like the flesh of this apple I’m eating 

so sweet like our granddaughter 

who looks at her mother and smiles 

when she wakes up from her nap 

sleeping like a bear hibernating 

in winter with snow covering 

his den until it melts in March

Eleanor

She sleeps in my arms

as I fall in love with her

tiny body.

All the parts there—

the perfect curve of a fingernail,

the rhythmic rise of a ribcage thin as paper.

Every breath a quiet victory I didn’t earn,

but get to keep for a little while.

She changes every day;

it’s so hard to wake up as she sleeps and sleeps

until her eyes open

and those deep blue eyes look at me.

What can she really see

as I bend low to kiss her forehead,

soft skin against my lips?

And I sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow,

where the lullaby land is right here,

tucked between my shoulder and my chin.

Where the sky is soft and the clouds are skin,

and the trouble melts like lemon drops.

George in the hospital

At ninety-eight,

the years are a blurred map,

except for this:

the sharp, clear grief of a son’s funeral

and the way the Mendelssohn rose

to meet the rafters.

His hand lifts—

a slow, ghost-weight motion

cutting through the heavy air of the room.

He is conducting the shadows now,

guiding a choir only he can hear,

every finger an instrument of memory.

He pays attention to the phrasing,

the swell of the alto,

the steady pulse of the bass.

He is practicing for his entrance.

The score is almost finished.

He is smoothing his lapel,

steadying his breath,

ready to step onto the riser

and find his place

between his wife and his son.

fan

he wears the colours of the Broncos the Phillies the Jets

has been to Springsteen Zevon Tedeschi Trucks

many folk fest favourites 

he reads Tom Clancy John le Carre Wodehouse National Review

he is a true fan of these things 

and he is a true neighbour 

a fan of the family

always there when you need him

wearing the colours of us