Cubbie Blues

Is the season over yet?
They lost again this noon
perished in the April cold
and Wrigley Field spring gloom

A grand slam but it's the other team
four more on the board
the Pirates served their pennance
and the Cubs are their reward

What we need now is a hero sort
to stop this juggernaut in reverse
this Addison addiction
this century long Clark Street curse

OK, the fans, they may not notice it
or anyone taking Prozac
but we're back down in the cellar now
and in my house we all know that

So before ivy leaves turn green
let's get him on the phone
get a blue Cubs pen and sign him up
my hero, Joe Pepitone

If I could catch it

In a craft made out of willow reeds
under grey skies, clouds opaque
we sailed upon new spring waves
an equinotical vernal date

Our souls together thus were borne

on drafts of wind unseen

warmed by love and innocence
in the temperate seas of spring

I thought if I could catch it then
in words I could express

I could give it to you endlessly

but its essence would not be etched

We float instead, past flotsam memories

past old Riley, with his rake

past crumbling limestone yesterdays 

and garden lives that once were great

Past growing things and summer vows

in a garden, in a church

in the seedings and the rootings

pasts and presents are converged

We float across the yellow green

then forsythia waves of gold
and see rich jeweled islands cobalted blue
just emerged from winter's cold

There, a flock of new magnolias
perched on a twisted old green fence
poise their pink wings to fly away
perfumed and intense

The lockers locks de-iced

hyberbation thawed

there’s a leaping of our hearts

a joy that winter stalled

Shedding hats and gloves and woolen coats

back to our new selves underneath

we smell the smell of leather gloves

then our selves are more complete

A parrot green with eyes of orange

has a key now in his beak
to a safe that holds a telescope
to see things once oblique

A squinted eye held to the scope
old dolls lost are seen again,
pony tails and pink ribbons
reunited childhood friends

There’s your birthday dress,
with its ruffled top, mom put it on your bed
your friends are coming over soon

for spring happiness again

Do you see your favorite album?

it’s fifties, no it’s rock

it’s Simon and it’s Garfunkel

it’s Cowsill family pop

Now a shimmering spirit

a soothing birthday potion

from dandelions and cherry blossoms

bittersweet and potent

We slip into Jacob's forest now

a shadowed Sherwood in her backyard
to sneak in and make a real faux camp
I’ll give you a head start

We’ll see cardinals, larks and blue jays

as they dance around the trees

disappointments don’t exist there

only inner peace

Squirrels, raccoons and grapevines

tea parties, rabbit holes

you’re alice in her looking glass

watching mysteries of the soul

The captain sends you to the crow’s nest

to spy for trains down at the corner

we close our eyes and listen

from you, our sole reporter

It’s the soothing of the railroad sounds
steaming brakes and clanking steel
cityscapes and city sounds
iron ships without a keel

You spy the station wagon

in the driveway, an old ford

In 70’s rides you saw the police

until the Wright’s they were ignored

I see you on your birthday then

and you’re tender, young and pretty

you’re holding your little sisters’ hands

Goat and Meg and Sticki

If it’s not like this now then you’ve just made things up

in the intervening years

spring is always out there

and won’t ever disappear

Like how I saw you in the kitchen

with all your still best friends

bell bottoms, beads and peace signs

none have ever reached an end

And in places there on Bell and Hoyne
you’re still holding hands with the girls
but your hands to hold have multiplied
like sparkling family pearls

Our ship lifted off and took to the sky
its great white sails unfurled
our captain pointed to a southern point
and gave the wheel a twirl

We moved up through the giant oaks
toward their ancient towering arms

they protected all our growing up

and kept us all unharmed

We sailed then almost aimlessly

we turned and lurched and twisted

as the captain threw the anchor out

I thought we almost missed it

But we floated up there in the sky

and I recognized the space

a sacred mission, a sacred heart

a childhood holy place

You looked down through your telescope
and saw yourself down there
white gloves and white dress
spring flowers in your hair

And you felt it then and you feel it now
with borchardt in the garden
and the next one there that would heal your soul
when you needed that department

We waved at you and you looked up
and the sailboat lifted us together
and the spring songs floated up to us
and they’ll be with us for - forever

The goats on your birthday

To-daay-aay-aay-aay on your birthday,
the mountain goats bleated
we two discussed
just what you needed

The Birthday Bird, as usual,
was no help at all
just hot dogs on spools
and jumps from high waterfalls

The tall blue-green pets
from the Katroo pet department
well, they’re too fluffy and tall
for a Manhattan apartment

The deep sea divers, Getz and Gitz
suggested a time-telling fish

But with clock-keeping problems
of burping and napping
we re-ee-ee-eealy can’t see
a ticking fish happening

How about a gift card
from Wesley Ballou’s?
a health food boutique
in downtown Katroo…

They have cakes by the Snookers
and beer by the Trappists
And jellied green eel
in gold metal wrappers

Or deep-sleeping darts
To throw at the baby
Eighty minutes of bliss (assuming good aim)
and guaranteed Katroo safety

A pa-a-a-alm-reading session
from the gypsies in town?
On second thought,
you should turn that one down

You might get the blues
if they looked at your hand
and saw te-ee-ee-enage years
you’d have to withstand

We couldn’t bu-uy-uy you a jersey
of the Mets or the Yanks
but might spring for a tee-shirt
of the Katroo Fighting Francs

So really, we’re back
to the ho-o-o-ot dog event
a Birthday Bird favorite
with little dissent

A spe-eh-eh-cial birthday lunch
a meal, seven course (all dogs)
but with a new twist,
we’ll make it veggie - of course!

And then we'll wash Katroo mustard
with a dive in the pool
and the goats can climb rocks
and eat hot dogs off spools

Happy Birthday!!!!!

My kind of rain

She's my kind of rain

Like love in a drunken sky
She's confetti falling
Down all night

She sits quietly there
Like water in a jar
Says, Baby why are you
Trembling like you are

So I wait
And I try
I confess like a child
She's my kind of rain

Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
She's my kind of rain

She's the sunset's shadows
She's like Rembrandt's light
She's the history that's made at night

She's my lost companion
She's my dreaming tree
Together in this brief eternity

Summer days, winter snows
She's all things to behold

She's my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
She's my kind of rain

So I wait
And I try
I confess all my crimes

She's my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
She's my kind of rain

Oh, rain on me

On Valentines Day 2011

Lyrics: Tim McGraw Set This Circus Down

Ode to the magical cat

A wispy grey kitty
in a gypsy box kiosk
a tea party granny
in a tabby grey dress

but once a new baby
a campus cat princess
a college co-ed girfriend
all fancy and frisky

Our bff best bud
In dorm rooms, apartments
backyards and bedrooms
winters and summers

when it wasn't so crowded
we were together
me a Chinese waitress
and you Cinderella

then a cherished cheshire
a cheese-head bret favre girl
sleeping and dreaming
with barbie and friends

scratch my chin here
rub my head there
and you'll see my paw thumping
up and down in the air

Frankie we'll miss you
our girl with a boy's name
Our little Miss Magic
we'll be wishing to you

Hot dogs, on a spool

You must be mistaken

red headed young lassie

you got the dates wrong

from your mommy and daddy

You're two days past due

the 31st is much later

then when I first saw you

in that pink incubator

So go tell your brother

our Sonoran-like cook

he can look it all up

in his chemical books

And tell your plump sister

expecting and dizzy

baby T got it wrong

well, we know she's been busy

Your birthday's been ended

two days it's been past us

the baloons are all popped

shrunken and gas-less

but it was fun one, out here in Florida

we had a big cake, a big chocolate torte one

we sang happy birthday and jumped in the pool

and ate birthday bird hot dogs, right from the spool

Happy Birthday Meg!

*****

Citronella

Dad's favorite fishing hole could have been drawn by EH Shepard, the artist who imagined scenes, in pen, for Wind in the Willows - and sketched the dreams of the Hundred Acre Woods.

His hidden place was just off a one-lane asphalt road in Indiana, past some waist-high weeds and down a rocky hill. From the top of the hill, the sound of rushing water could be heard. At the bottom, rusty corrugated pipe gushed water from the lake on the other side of the road.

He called it "the channel."



At the bottom of the hill, eddies and swirls formed as the water sluiced through the pipe - clear, cold, and a kind of slate blue. It frothed and swam around the yellow and green algae streamers that slimed the giant rocks below the pipe.

There we'd stand, on those rocks, staring down the narrow creek as it twisted into the distance. A misty spray would rise from the crashing water; with an earthy, wet smell. Waves of tall, sharp grass – and sometimes corn – could be seen on the hill atop the curving banks.

"You can catch anything here." My father would sometimes shout to be heard above the sound of the water. "This is where they caught that dogfish." Dogfish? Eyes widened, we'd stare into the waters and wonder if we had fishing line that was strong enough to land one of these mysterious monsters.

Sometimes we only had a bamboo cane pole from my grandfather's rusty Sears shed near the lake. Sometimes Zebcos. But it didn't matter. Dad was there.

In the humid cove, surrounded by weeds and willow trees, the mosquitoes were especially bad.  But in his metal tackle box, my father had a brown glass bottle that he cherished as much as any lure. It sat among his purple plastic worms and cellophane packages of pre-tied hooks. I remember the label on the bottle - still partially readable.

It was from Monterey Pharmacy, and printed under its telephone number (Hilltop 5-9555) in typewriter letters, was the word "Citronella."

Oh, Citronella. Not the lightly-scented stuff found today in backyard candles. It was the real deal, 99.9% pure and probably illegal today. It smelled like something from an organic chemistry class – like lemons and herbs and rich oil. A drop of it filled the room with a smell unlike any other.

The other accoutremonts in his tackle box were often smeared with the oily insect repellant. Among them were beautifully painted lures, plastic frogs, dried meal worms, and empty packages of pipe tobacco.

In the channel, the water moved from the pipe into a small creek, passing under hanging willow branches and overgrown weeds and grasses. And of course, the biggest and most unusual fish always lurked under those branches, occasionally jumping - but rarely biting anything cast their way.

But with our Zebcos and cane poles, we tried. And, almost always (and unsurprisingly), our hooks and bobbers and Rapalas would get caught in the branches, in tangled monofilament messes. Then, my father would reel in his own rig and we’d push our poles into his hands. He’d pull and tug and twist - anything to get us free. More often than not, the line would snap.

Dad would then sit on a rock, smoking his pipe, and work to untangle what was left of our lines. Then, he’d reach into his metal green tackle box for another plastic worm or new hook, likely knowing it would never be seen again.

As we watched, the citronella rubbed into his hairy forearms smelled like a burning candle in the summer sun. Then we’d cast again - and try for the big one under those same wispy branches. 

My father would eventually return to his own fishing pole and make a few short casts. Maybe one or two, before he'd hear his name called again.

Dad's secret fishing hole. Each time we went there, we believed in the mysterious possibilities of its unknown depths.

How many times would my father tie one of his most expensive lures on our line, then point across the channel, and whisper, "Did you see that? Cast over there, where that bass jumped!" We'd cast and wait for something amazing.

Every once in awhile on those summer afternoons, he'd help us catch a sunfish or a crappie. But more often than not, we'd climb back up the hill with our nightcrawlers, now wilted like losing lottery tickets. 

"I think we should come back tonight right before it gets dark," he would offer, as we trudged along.  "That's when the really giant catfish come out.  At the bait shop, they told me they caught a fifty pound steelhead here last summer."  The disappointment would melt away, and we'd plan our return that night, arguing about how we'd pull the monster out of the water when we caught him.

I think of dad every day. He taught us special things in his little fishing hole. Hope, selflessness, mystery, possibility, and determination. I'd like to believe he's still here, untangling our lines, tying on his favorite lures, and reminding us to cast where the big fish jump.

And when the mosquitos inevitably arrive, he'll reach into his tackle box and pull out his timeless bottle of Citronella, with it's wonderful, special smell.

The smell of summer. Of fishing. And of my father.

And sweet, sweet memories.

Thanks dad. We miss you.


*****

Summerfling

The feeling comes in summer
in the months of fall forestalled
stretching sunflowers, reaching grass
softserve and softball

An insistence, an impatience
pleading to be known
lingering in the background
tricking self control

Birthday months and bicycles
back to back, downhill
climbing in the maple trees
longings to be fufilled

One-piece shirts, ponytails
Miss Piggy, Mister Henson
coppertone and coolers
celestial firework sessions

Pink tu-tus and batman
garden parties, princess tea
minivans and bike seat rides
scrapbooked memories

Monuments to grizzly bears
cherry-dipped ice cream cones
climbing plaza pedestals
watching trains come home

Sandbox worlds and cicada sounds
collecting blue jay feathers
slip'n slides and fresh cut grass
afternoons to last forever

Bible schools, vacations
discovered garage sale things
Little leagues, camping trips
An equinox of summer flings

Now visage and foundation
lay dappled in sun and shade
an elixir of memories
of endless summer days


*****

The Midwinter Jicker - Atlanta

"It's the midwinter jicker!" she screamed from her cube
"It's on CNN and all over the tube,
I'm worried and scared, scared for my family
and I know I can't make it home in my Camry!

"And poor me in my dress (short sleeves and lace)
it's the ice age in Windward!"
she cried, in her shared working space

I should have listened to old son Al Gore
our own southern prophet,
he warned us before

"now 75's frozen," she mumbled and shivered
"A thick permafrost,
an ice concrete river

If we can't escape
the artic blast weather
we'll camp out downstairs
by the robots together

"And maybe we'll find, in one of those drawers
a Snickers, a Reeses or maybe a Smores
We can scavenge for bottles if we need them tomorrow
in the displays, the dextrose and water

"If the cold settles in,
in through the vents
we'll use the work banner and make us some tents

then we'll hold hands
and wait out the storm
working on Siebel as we try to keep warm

"We'll break open the boxes of HBO chocolates
and use the hand cleaner
like HR has taught us

and all through the peril
we'll remember we're mortal

While we spend time 
on the new sales portal 

*****

New Year's Menu

If you like burritos,
might I suggest
get a big
puffy
goose down vest

it'll make you thin
and almost wispy
so get them ones
that're fried and crispy

And don't feel bad
if you thunk it
eat the doughnut
once you dunk it
you'll lose the battle
against your will
so get you six
of them jelly filled

And here's a word
for that Chiang Kai Shek
get the egg rolls
what the heck
after all
you can't go wrong -
them Chinese people
live so long

What was that
I heard you mutter?
of course we're having
peanut butter
it's full of protein
which helps us all
and it's good for your
cholesterol

And the carbs are here
beer and spaghetti
for the marathon
you need to be ready

Your New Year's plan
it's about to start
when you get back
from WalMart


*****

A Cowboy Soul

"It should be ok," the doctor said to the mother
"I admit it's unusual, but it won't give him trouble"
On the baby's face, with a red ochre tint
Was the small and faint outline of a horseshoe print

"He should be quite something, as he grows older"
He packed up his bags and then shrugged his shoulders
"I've got this feeling," he said and he pondered
This little one here, he could be a wonder

And then just before leaving, he stopped and came close
He looked at the horsehoe, there by his nose
a brand, an odd mark, an impression, tattoo
He smiled and he thought of the luck he'd accrued

"I'll be back here next month or over the winter,
and check back him then," he said, twisting his whiskers
he hopped in his carriage and with clicking and whacking
the horses feet struck the stones with a clacking

The mother squinted her eyes, looking real close
she gazed at the baby; what she wanted the most
was for him to be healthy, true, brave and safe
with eyes closed she whispered, "You'll always be Rafe."

And Rafe, as he grew, she adored and admired
and the marks on the wall climbed higher and higher
he grew out of his levis and snap buttoned wear
as fast as his mother could buy them each year

His interest in cowboys appearded from thin air;
he was drawn to the stables, the tack and the gear
and old leather boots that made his feet sore
that his mother had bought from a second hand store

He read tattered old versions of western town stories
of purple sage hills, war cries and gun glories
of driving the cattle and building the rails
cheap dime store books of cowboys and trails

And before long his mother sent him to school
to learn history and English, of mathmatical rules
to learn from the nuns at St. Mark's on the hill
but no rules or detention could make him sit still

He fought with the bulllies, they teased him and worse
they laughed at his jeans and pocket flap shirts
but he was an old soul, with no compromise
so he bested them all, most twice his size 

Sister Melinda wrote to his mother
she told her the trouble and great strain she was under
for keeping him there would be out of the question
it was impossible for him to keep up with confessions

His mother taught him at home then, until he was older
then her health faltered, "consumption," they told her
"You need a dry climate, the air high and clean"
So they moved out to Tuscon when Rafe was fifteen

In Arizona they settled, near the canyons and passes
and he worked on a ranch in between classes
Among tall green saguaro, red rock and high ridge
he felt his soul stir, and his horseshoe mark twinge

He learned more of horses and mastered the branding
Practiced his shooting on tin cans left standing
And he read and he read, the novels and stories
and lived cowboy life in canyon and quarry

Rafe's mother passed when he was nineteen
and they buried her there, in a sage swept ravine
They spoke from the bible, the psalms and the words
amidst the scrub and cholla, the lizards and birds

His mother at peace in air high and clear
the mark on his cheek was streaked with dried tears
With bandanna and hat, a roll for his bed
he drifted and camped, and he read and he read

He came to a town, San Pedro del Sol
a small border town, just north of Cristol
His mark twitched again, buzzing and warm
The sky clouded over, black with great storms

He got off his horse and walked through the streets
with nowhere to go and no one to meet
and the rain started down, plopping in dust
and on iron lamp posts, washed of their rust

His eye caught a sign, a faded old shingle
it said Last Stand Saloon like some old cowboy jingle
a storm refuge site, it was that and much more
Rafe's soul was drawn through old batwing doors 

The room spun and it twisted; he fast grabbed a chair
through blinking and blurring, a man standing there
He saw him yet didn't - but his soul knew this place
He squinted his eyes - his soul knew this face

The bearded old man smiled as he spoke,
"It's me, Smoke McClinton," and he spoke like a ghost
"You said you'd come back and I knew it was true,
I stayed here in San Pedro, waiting for you

"It's been fifty years of growing this stubble
but I can say now
it's been worth the trouble

"You fought off the Kiowa when they attacked
stood on high ground as the others fell back
defiant and brave, with your rifle on shoulder
we remembered with pride, as we got older

Our last time together, we prayed to St. Thomas
as you were dying, you made me promise
to wait for you here, I don't know how long
that sooner or later you'd come back along

Smoke finished speaking, 
Rafe stood by his side
he hugged his friend then,
and the storm passed outside 
with thunder and lightning and skies dark and leaden

"Well I got here at last
and this feels just like heaven"

"The sheriff left these," said Smoke through the rain
Rafe rubbed his eyes, and he saw them again
There, an old Stetson, a gun and tin star
sat waiting for him on the end of the bar

Rafe picked up the gun and pinned on the star
redeemed with his karma
returned from afar

His horseshoe-like mark, which he'd had since the cradle
it shimmered and brightened, a gift from the angels

He turned to Smoke then
and Rafe surely felt it
Smoke faded away

and then he melted

*****