Radio Flyer

Remnants at best memories are,

lodged or dislodged by strange forces

that come out of nowhere.

We try so hard to remember some,

equally hard to forget others.

They’re all there,

even if we think some are lost forever.

I’ll never forget my first kiss

and the panic in my heart.

My first wagon, a Radio Flyer,

in which I traveled the Universe.

My first bike, a Schwinn.

My first rifle, a .22, at eleven years old.

My marriage to a beautiful woman

and the bewildering beauty 

of the births of our children.

Mountains are grafted where valleys lay;

It was winter…or was that early summer?

Things were shiny? Or big? Or small?

Did they ever exist at all?

The faces, the places, 

the joys, the broken hearts.

Memories are strewn in our heads 

as if by five-year-olds 

who played with them all day.

Sorting is futile at any age.

We cling to our vague certainties 

of who did what and when.

They were like jewels in the fog,

but we fill the gaps with what seems possible

and change them if something seems better.

Even siblings, under the same roof, 

witnessing the same things,

rarely agree on what happened.

However messy it is, we still say, 

Oh yes, I remember that…

And for a minute, utterly convinced.

From: A Preface To The Universe:

Women, Getting Older, and

Other Mysteries

Unpub. MS p. 27

A Love Letter To Edna St. Vincent Millay

Once too young to appreciate you,

now too old to ignore you,

seasons have also sung to me,

and come and gone,

and come and gone,

some forgotten like casual kisses 

planted on one’s cheek.

Were we to meet in some

timeless shadow,

you might catch my hand

holding your face or grazing your breast.

Your sense of beauty and grace 

would have endured time’s test,

without thoughts of being friendly 

with death.

We would walk together for a while,

and walk and walk, 

together talking of living lives,

in and out of love,

enjoying the sun’s warmth,

stripped of pride

and shorn of reticence.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 11

Quartet

I have stood on many beaches staring

at the oceans’ promiscuous turbulence,

astonished by their vitality and exuberance.

In their seeming chaos, they were reassuring and calming.

I secretly wanted in despite their obvious warnings,

but the message was astoundingly clear.

Just wait—your time will come.

*

In the third grade

Lora Lee ambushed me with a kiss.

I had no idea what happened but it was exciting.

Today, I marvel at how a kiss of love is exhilarating, 

becoming suspended in a place of no time,

in a time of no place.

*

In our later years, 

we begin to acknowledge 

the frustrations of our youth, 

having left unpicked so many beautiful blossoms.

Too eager to pluck the easy ones and be ‘finished,’

we ignored what we really wanted, fearing the blossoms 

that were more elaborate and mysterious.

*

The world changes rapidly;

the usefulness of stuff is fleeting.

We accumulate more than we care to admit,

but how our hearts speak to us is obscured 

by the possession of glittery things,

sacrificing the Grace of intimate love.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 8

Wandering In The Dreamscape

The Paintings of  Philip C. Curtis

It became dusky, then darker the moment I leaped 

off the path of conjecture into this imaginarium.

Looking out and up, confused faces stared back at me.

My call for the North Star to appear in a blank sky 

went unanswered.

It doesn’t matter where I look in this alien landscape,

my blood pulses loneliness, my anxiety deepens.

There was endless slogging through sand and 

staged scenarios of broken wagons, 

useless train station platforms, solitary baby carriages, 

more loneliness, pointless tea parties, 

and a woman running from some unknown danger,

leaving her hanging laundry to snap in the wind.

In fear of this wasteland, I saw nowhere to go,

yet an endless, hopeless, incoherent road enticed me.

I made my way through the wrinkles of pastures,

the tilt of bones, and leaves drinking moonlight.

Dodging partiers on stilts, I staggered the way of stones 

and gravel, almost to infinity, until, at the precipice of nowhere,

in a panic, I made my escape, loosed my anxieties,

leaped blind into darkness nearing dawn,

into the welcoming warmth of sheet and blanket,

and the familiar creaks and groans of my body and house.

Outside, an owl hooted; the coyotes barked.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 40

For more about this artist, see

https://phxart.org/artists/philip-curtis/

Things That Matter

Love matters most of all.

And hope.

Children and Family.

Stories, poetry,

and music.

Art in all its forms.

And friends, too.

The seen and unseen.

And Kindness.

And just showing up.

Faith and Charity.

Hard work.

Truth.

And Silence matters.

Listening for 

the unexplainable,

the unknowable,

the incomprehensible,

and all that nature offers;

listening with the ears of your heart

to the pain and joy of others.

Walking in the way of peace,

toward a goal,

even if the goal is 

simply to rest.

That matters, too.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 46

Like Prayer

Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 5

in E minor, Op. 64

From the moment the orchestra begins 

until the last magnificent chord,

I am playing and being played,

stretching myself from low notes to high notes.

It is wine from the glass into my mouth,

a rambunctious exuberance,

stirred in a realm of detached frenzy.

What is the way to pray

when there is no translation?

When I would have so much to say?

I’m left with only the continuous rhythm 

of my aching, pounding heart.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 29

Pondering

If yellow turns into rocks,

will rocks blossom in the fall?

If hope springs eternal,

from where does infinity spring?

Earth sings duets with the moon,

but how does Mars stay well read?

What kind of wine is made from

meteors dropped from a stellar vineyard?

If a rose has collected too many thorns,

will the extras be donated to Good Will?

The ocean’s wild surf asked me,

Where is passion most wasted?

From: Shorts: Short Poems On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 10