Bev is a social being
WHEN WE ARE YOUNG
WE GNAW THE APPLE GREEDILY
WIPE THE JUICES FROM OUR CHIN
AND THROW THE CORE AWAY.
IN MIDDLE AGE
WE SLICE THE APPLE
INTO DECOROUS FOURTHS
TO BE CHEWED DELIBERATELY.
AND IN OUR FINAL YEARS
THE APPLE MUST BE STEWED,
SUGARED AND SPICED
TO SWEETEN ITS SOUR TASTE.
A PARTING WORD
(In Memory of JB)
At first the heart does not remark
The passing of another friend.
The aging brain makes routine note
That all good things must come to an end.
The list of those who’ve gone beyond
Outnumbers now those who remain.
But then the funeral brings to mind
A cache of memories bitter sweet:
Saturday evening cheese and wine
Trail clearing bouts with fallen trees
The underlined article under the door
With questions: What do you think of this?
Do you agree? And furthermore
What do you think the answer is?
And then the heart begins to crack.
That kindred spirit will not be back.
BEACONS
(For Judith, with apologies for poetic liberties taken)
Each night as on our bed we lay
I saw three lights across the bay,
Three glimmers on the darkening sea
That seemed to call and beckon me,
And as we settled into sleep
They seemed a silent watch to keep.
Now that dear cot no longer sits
Atop the fast eroding cliff.
Only the low rock wall and gate
And a flagpole mark our nesting place.
Victorian, loosely built and frail,
It was not destined for repair.
But still each night alone I dream
Of three clear beams across the sea.
SNOW DAY
Thankful for shelter,
I watch the snow
Falling on spruces,
Coating the patio
Where pecking away
Are three ebony crows
After yesterday’s scraps
Which are blanketed now.
Thankful to have
No place to go
No errands to run
No rows to hoe.
Grateful for warmth
And neighbors I know.
LOOKING BACK
I see them now, the friends of my childhood.
We had the run of the Pine Hill neighborhood:
Out on the vacant lot swinging at softballs,
Called home by porch bells and whistles at nightfall.
Pauline was my first mate, found at age three.
Then there were Millie and Peewee and Jeanne.
We walked as a foursome to the Anderson School,
Played Cowboys and Injuns in adjacent woods.
Weekends and evenings older brothers joined in
For Kick the Can, Ringolivio or Sardines,
Scrambled on cliffs overlooking the hospital,
(Conveniently placed should one of us fall)
Or perhaps tried a game of croquet in our yard,
Rollerskating or biking or rainy day cards.
Those were Depression days, parents worked hard.
Those were our glory days, fondly remembered.
(Inspired by our Chorus’ rendering of “Song for the Mira”
A MORNING MISSION
This morning a smoking sea
Of fog enveloped my friend’s
Adirondack lake cottage.
The straggly tips of lonesome
Pines poked out of the mist.
Through glassy water we paddled
To reach a secluded cove.
My friend was on a mission:
She carried her cat’s ashes
To lie in a pristine place
Among the wild inhabitants
Close to the sacred stone
Marking her son’s grave.
THE CCRC COFFEE CIRCLE
The time has come, the oldsters said,
To talk of many things:
Of presidential candidates
And whether it will rain,
Of Bobcats scooping up the yard
And the installation of drains,
Of who is in the nursing lodge
And the state of someone’s brains.
The three percent rise in annual fees
Is always food for thought.
Whoever came up with that idea
In our good books is not.
By this time the muffins are all gone
And the coffee’s no longer hot.
THE ECLIPSE
Three oldsters sit on a wall to watch
The super moon’s eclipse, a sight
They will not live to see again.
The stars shine faint in the ebony night
As a shadow darkens the moon’s left rim.
This moon that bathes our faces with light
And spotlights the jet plane streaking west
In olden times would have filled with fright
Our primitive ancestors’ childish hearts.
A monstrous mouth they would have thought
Was eating their beacon amidst the gloom.
It is not without some dread we watch
The red cloak spread across the moon.
When barely a sliver of silver shows
We rise and repair to our separate quarters.
The next night we welcome the cheering glow
Of an only slightly diminished goddess
Who yet protects us from the dark.
KISMET
As the cribbage game comes to an end
She wonders about Bev’s maiden name.
“What?” she exclaims. “Is that who you are?
I knew you in high school. Your friends were mine.
We often sailed on your husband’s boat.
How did I come to find you here?”
Ah, that is the mystery Kurt Vonnegut
Called “Karma”. Who does Fate arrange
To saunter in and out of our affairs?
As once we ferried down Lake Ullswater
Where Wordsworth saw his daffodils,
We saw, on landing at the ferry dock
A friendly and familiar figure calling out,
A welcome face so far from kith and kin
That last we’d seen afloat on Big Moose Lake,
A fellow paddler in the Adirondacks.
And once on a remote Montana trail
To Cracker Lake in Glacier National Park,
We recognized a couple by a rock
Who greeted us with an astonished hail:
Friends we had made on Elderhostel treks.
And how did you and I manage to meet?
On such encounters do our fortunes rest.
THE OPENING GAME
On the cribbage board your hands,
Your big and bony masculine hands,
Move your pegs, your red pegs,
And my unwomanly sturdy hands
Want my pegs to follow
But the cards do not cooperate.
Instead I tell you how my sled
Slid into the sunken garden.
You tell me your father died young
But yours was a kindly stepfather.
And now my blue pegs come up
To yours and we move in tandem.
WE ARE NOT ON THE LEVEL
Clambering up slippery slopes,
Avoiding obstreperous rocks,
Teetering on edgy brinks
On this over-the-hill hike,
We’ve summited our local Everest,
Mounted steep fire tower steps
And gazed with a mild surprise
Over hills and lakes and skies.
Now sprawled on boulder benches
We eat our ten o’clock lunches.
A mild breeze stirs our hair
While Nancy sketches us there.
Wind-bent pines lean toward us.
A redtail circles over us.
TIME TRAVEL
As I cross the Connecticut line,
I am driving into the past:
Past Norwich, where in the city
Garden across from our house
A half cup, a handful
Of my young husband’s ashes
Are nourishing the roses;
Past the no longer new
Montville city highschool
Where I introduced
The first juniors and seniors
To Henry the Fifth and Macbeth;
Past the enlarged co-ed
Williams School on the campus
Of Connecticut College where
My classes of fifteen girls
Doubted the justice of
Hester’s scarlet letter;
On to the rendezvous
At a waterfront restaurant
Of Ledyard Center teachers
With whom I once taught reading
And took fall hikes in the Whites;
And here we all reminisce
With laughter and a few tears.