THREE POEMS: Ike, Schmike - ye olde Smith homestead still stands tall & strong

The remnants of hurricane Ike rolled into town this past weekend. He threw his best shots at ye olde Smith homestead and all he had to show for a half day of huffing & puffing was a 2 foot strip of siding resting in the side yard.

So come with me if you will as we climb aboard "the wayback machine" and pay tribute to that stalwart of nearly 50 years of inhabitancy, ye olde Smith homestead, with three bits of poesy from yesteryear:


father & son

Every morning
you stared

at the crack
in the plaster

above the stove.
Coffee cup curled

to your lips
like a weight.

Dressed in the shadow
of the overhead light

the hands of the clock
would slowly push you

away. The slam
of the backdoor

sending a cool draft
that swirled under the table

then circled me
like a coat.

(from the chapbook STUNNED BY THE MOMENT, 1990 - also published in The MacGuffin)



on the street where i grew up

the trees have all but disappeared. once
as a child the rain hit my cap at an angle -
each drop spilling over the bill into my
pocket.

now the hollowness of regret
is replaced with acquisitions
and we slowly fill our houses.

but i am beginning to see that what really matters
is what passes this window.

the sky is like pewter and the snow
melting on the neighbor's rooftop drips
from the spouting. i can almost taste it metallic
on my tongue. each drop pecking deeper
into the ice. working through it.
seeking something new.

(from the chapbook ROCKING GENTLY OUT OF SYNC, 1996)



look, it's faith

when i was a boy my father took me to crosley field
to see the reds. i would look for vada pinson but
remember most seeing henry aaron get his 3000th
hit. an infield single that tommy helms knocked down
but did not throw.

when my son was born
my mother said "surely this
makes you believe in a god"

it didn't.

but when i see that roberto clemente died
after collecting exactly 3000 hits i feel
the seed of faith take root.

now i pass ball with my son in front of the home
where my father passed ball with me. two spots
worn out where i place my feet every spring.
we squeeze each throw and offer it back -
the simple, repetitive, call & response of prayer.

(from the chapbook ROCKING GENTLY OUT OF SYNC, 1997 - also published in Heartlands Today; photo by me)