Dug Folk Fest 26 #1

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

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.

Norah at one

spoon in hand she drums the wooden floor 

adding to the music she hears 

she likes to say hi and smile 

and tells long stories only she can divine 

stands up on the furniture and 

walks along testing her little body 

creeps along quite quickly one foot and one knee 

not exactly a crawl 

ginger blonde hair rests on eyelashes 

and she cuddles with you turning the pages of a book 

sits and eats her square of bread and pb 

says yum yum 

and this is her world 

    so content 

        so lucky 

            so full of heart emojis

Roger wall climbing

striped pants give him the flex 

he needs to climb this wall 

feet and hands gaining holds 

and legs pushing body up and up 

doesn’t stop until he’s 

touched the top 

yesterday he was Batman 

and tomorrow he will play 

Pokemon 

but right now

he is boy climbing 

undaunted

 

life teaches life

blue eyes shining 

smile at cousin jumping blond curls bouncing 

and giggles escape seven month mouth 

with two sharp teeth growing 

she sucks on pickles or watermelon 

always holding with right hand 

left is used for balance while she bounces on lap 

and tests her voice for all the different noises it can make 

for life teaches life and we can only watch 

sometimes how the sparks behind those eyes

line up and map the future

Norah's laugh

where does it start 

this bubbling up from the belly 

unrestrained joy of lilting laughter 

learned or innate

     irresistible 

we must join in and 

let go of world 

hands open to catch 

happy catches in the voice 

to hold the ball lofted 

that says 

    pass me on 

hands cupped together 

to make a landing for 

the delicate bubble of the future

what he showed us

blonde hair like pure energy

front teeth growing in 

he shows us the shells he brought 

from Cuba 

pink and white and tan 

had to choose which ones 

to take home 

so these were the treasures 

the jazz of the sea 

exoskeletons of mollusks 

washed up on the beach

keeps them in a special bag 

mementos of the warm holiday 

the shells of memory

Norah's questions

deep blues bore into heart 

almost sitting 

on the couch 

leggings tight around thighs 

foxes and bears on shirt 

eyes ask questions 

what are you to me 

will you read me a book 

what is this world we are in 

and answers don’t come easily 

so we just stare and 

marvel this life 

    this mystery 

        this burst in our being 

            this gift

Norah at a quarter of a year

there’s a cluster of ribbons 

and a stuffed turtle with two rings 

yellow and green 

hanging just above her 

she wants them 

but hands don’t cooperate 

flailing 

and then she grabs the ribbons and won’t let go 

but the rings still hang 

penduluming 

left hand bats at them 

so hard to grasp 

fingers must unclench 

until finally two fingers wrap around the plastic 

goal achieved infant persistence

paying off 

boding well for ribbon-filled tomorrow 

 

don't worry Norah

don’t worry 

baby you’ve got that creased little brow looking 

so unsure your 

momma has you enveloped in 

love your daddy has you arms 

of protection your family has you a circle 

of smiles 

life will 

happen and it might be rough but 

you will be 

strong 

    and sure 

        and wise 

            and good 

                and true 

so don’t worry baby we’ve got 

you

Oma holds Norah

she sleeps under a guileless smile 

relaxed arm hanging beside

tiny curved fingers touching adult wrist 

strong arms enwrap newborn completeness 

small mouth curved 

in trust 

for this is right and good 

and white and warm 

and yellow and soft 

and true and tried 

slumber well sweet one

Welcome Norah

you are an armful Norah 

in your new sleeper 

your small arms crossed 

one hand against soft soft cheek 

eyes closed 

head in the crook of father’s giant arm

little mouth so perfect 

your breath a song of sighs 

this moment in the first days 

of life 

already a gift to this tuneless and jangled world 

little do you know 

that we listen to those sweet breaths 

and drop our shoulders 

and lift up our own harmony 

you are an armful

Tall Tall Trees at Snowberry (Folk Fest '22 poem #5)

July sun drenches heat at snowberry field 

beard and banjo 

but no trees 

just wires and foot pedals and speakers 

like a scientist experimenting sounds together 

rhythms so rooted 

harmony so heightened 

lyrics branched out 

melodies green leaves so intricate 

this music reaching for the sun 

Judy Collins sings Both Sides Now (Folk Fest '22 poem #2)

silver iridescent warmth seems 

to spread out from her dress as 

she begins to strum twelve string and sing

rows and flows of angel hair 

phrasing at 83 impeccable 

tuning perfect and 

I hear with my heart tuned 

this is what we’ve missed 

singer warming hearts 

with silvery  

voice and 

a song that doesn’t get old

T-ball

a loud swing 

drop bat and 

pump legs to first base and 

then second

blond curls sticking out under blue cap 

bouncing in wind 

big smile 

one foot on base 

sizing up the game so far

cuz 

this is serious stuff for a six year old 

on the verge of coming home on the next hit 

probably passing the base-runner ahead of him 

jump on home plate with both feet 

Darrel

a relief map of the heart 

signals the highs and lows 

the beauty and ruggedness of the topography 

but each is a singular journal 

of what love can do 

 

so when you check the heartbeat

below the bowtie 

and divine its shape 

you will discover 

hope and truth 

    in meadow and stream 

intellect and openness 

    in forest and lakes 

appreciation and concern 

    in hills and rivers

and love overflowing 

love flooding the plains 

for this is the calling 

this is the shape 

this is the heart

of a friend 

    colleague 

        pastor 

Christ follower

in the rifted rock

grand children’s love billows 

through iPhone speakers 

a sung embrace of closeness 

mother daughter hands clenched on lap 

failing ears can just make it out 

this song for the ages aged 

seeking rest from care and pain and turmoil 

my moist eyes lower to the floor 

where slippered foot taps the beat

 

two pictures April 17 1998

she is three 
& sits serious at table 
round green eyes solemnly 
singing 
    singeing through you 
framed by door 
two balloons blue and yellow 
tiara says birthday girl 
hand grips Styrofoam plate 
she’s waiting for her cake 
& your heart does a double take
can there be such goodness 

she is three 
and chin is angled up 
in pride smile 
    aflame 
for she has just blown out 
three candles on round 
cougar cake 
white icing placed just so 
pale blue kitty shirt 
made just for her it seems 
and your heart beams 
there is such pure joy

a cat still

this cat 

    so still stares 

out through window 

at cold stillness outside 

does he like what he sees 

in that white world 

so few birds 

a sometimes truck 

drives past 

and yet still he 

watches 

as if everything depended 

on his being sentinel 

as if the world’s heart 

couldn’t beat without 

his watchful eye 

until that 

still 

    small 

        voice 

speaks to him & 

he stands 

    stretches 

        & moves 

to another post in his still domain

darts

magnet tipped 

blue red 

tossed to metal target 

we try for bulls eye 

circle within circle 

sometimes we hit it saying 

I waxed you 

and sometimes it’s close 

and we say I edged you 

and we go again 

this old game 

catching a five-year-old’s excitement 

his long blond curls bouncing 

as he keeps a running bright-eyed commentary 

and I’m the lucky one 

red darts flying straight to my heart