JOHN WELLINGTON HALE

John Hale died 83 years ago today. He was my great grandfather. I wish I could have known him. He was a photographer, jeweler, and a builder and installer of light plants. I have been told many times that he was a man far ahead of his time. I can only wonder what he would have made of the computer, no doubt he would have been wild about them. He loved his children and he was a good man.

BIRD BLOSSOMS

Tiny specks of birdseed
have found
their way
into the cracks
of our picnic table
where the lawn mower
stirred up
the dust that has settled
around the seed
to form a mixture
that even a drenching rain
failed to wash away
serving only
as the most important
ingredient
to form rows of blades
of greenery
growing toward the sun
I wonder
if they will bloom
boasting blossoms
the shape of birds

by Me

THE TRAIL OF MY MOTHER

Traipsing around with my mother is about like following Hansel and Gretel. I could never lose her, the trail she leaves always gives her away. This morning she had a doctor's appointment. Neither of us had eaten breakfast so I got biscuits, gravy for me, butter for her, and we ate in the car. When we got to the doctor's office Mama was sporting crumbs on her blouse and pants. Crumbs and pieces of napkins were under her when she got out of the car. Her mail was scattered on the seat and the floor was strewn with things from her purse.
She was her usual impatient self waiting to see the doctor. Our wait wasn't long but she said she was leaving if they didn't call her next. After her eyes were checked she had to wait for them to dilate. While we waited she rubbed my hand and I went sound asleep. The doctor told her she didn't seem to have any new problems.
I was so sleepy that we found a shady spot beside Pier 1 and we both took a nap. We decided to go to O'Charley's for lunch, mashed potatoes for her, potato skins for me.
On the way home we stopped at the Dollar Store. We got a few things and started home. I told her she needed to gather up her things from the seat and floor. She found papers, kleenex, coins, a nail file, peppermint candy, red hots, a rain hat (sunshine outside), and other odds and ends. While she was stuffing the rain hat in the side pocket of her purse, she pulled out a fork. She couldn't imagine where it came from. I finally figured out that it came from O'Charley's. She was just beside herself, said she was so embarassed. I told her nobody knew it but the two of us. She wanted to know if I would take it back the next time I was in Owensboro. I assured her that I would.
Mama was tired when we got home, we got her things in the house, and she took to the couch. She is probably still asleep.

TWO OF MY FAVORITE POEMS

FELIX CULPA

Too wet to plow, we climbed
the ridge where Jack-in-the-pulpit
and Fire pinks fringed woods' edge.

Spent of love, he lay crucified
across my Garden Path quilt, hat low
on his brow to shade the sun.

Stretched beside him, I thought his feet
the prettiest I ever saw on a man. Upright,
they framed the wet bottomland below.

Blue veins traced a mystery map
to his toes. I wiped them with the long towel
of my hair, woke him to adoration.

A cast of hawks rose on a draft
towing spring in their talons,
snaring us in a greening spiral.

I think of those elegant feet,
boot-shod, mud-logged, entrenched
below shell-plowed, fallow fields.

Summer fades, no word comes, I soon
harvest what he sowed before following war.
Tiny feet beat sad tattoos under my heart.

Preacher calls me Magdalene. I refute
him, knowing her wiser in her choosing,
blessed by loving, not damned.

-Jane Hicks
Jane read this poem to me at Hindman. I asked her to read it several times throughout the week. Even now, I find something new in it every time I read it. The poem is in her book, BLOOD AND BONE REMEMBER
-
AT REID HARTLEY'S JUNKYARD

To enter we find the gap
between barbed wire and briars,
pass the German Shepherd chained
to an axle, cross the ditch
of oil black as a tar pit,
my aunt compelled to come here
on a Sunday after church,
asking me when her husband
refused to search this island
reefed with past catastrophes.
We make our way to the heart
of the junkyard, cling of rust
and beggarlice on our clothes,
bumpers hot as a skillet
as we squeeze between car husks
to find in this forever
stilled traffic one Ford pickup,
tires stripped, radio yanked out,
driver's door open. My aunt
gets in, stares through glass her son
looked through the last time he knew
the world, as though believing
like others who come here she
might see something to carry
from this wreckage, as I will
when I look past my aunt's ruined
Sunday dress, torn stockings, find
her right foot pressed to the brake.

-Ron Rash
This poem is taken from Ron's book, RAISING THE DEAD. I first read it late one night at Hindman. I haven't recovered.

POEMS

I love poems. I don't know that I could choose a favorite one. There are so many that are such a part of my life.


When I was little I had poems read to me every night. I memorized them when I was in school. In the 5th grade we had to memorize SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS. One line in the poem read, When Lucy ceased to be. One of my classmates took the floor to take her turn reciting the poem and the said, When Cucy leased to be. Everybody just fell over laughing. The classmate cried and went home. I still think it's funny.

I've cried over many a poem. I loved every tear.

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
-- William Butler Yeats