The Rock

In the gloaming along a creek out the way, 

I met a boy alight a rock.

Secure in the swaddle of innocence

he bore no remnants of yesterdays

no illusions of tomorrows.

 

Resting in the present,

the boy supped the succor of childhood.

His heart fixed on the fires of spring,

he drank in the clarity of cold blue sky 

and savored the bliss of his place in the cosmos.

 

He slipped into the water,

not to stop or go speed or slow

but only to drift on his dreams.

 

In the gloaming along a creek out the way, 

I met a boy alight a rock.

A shadow flickered across his eyes

as we shared a glance through that window in time.

 

He knew the boy I saw was not the self-conscious boy 

too busy living in the next age, 

missing countless moments that were his to relish, 

moments in the reality of his own life 

not someone else’s.

 

Now in elder years afflicted by opportunities 

forfeited and time squandered, 

I grieved in my reverie, musing who would I be 

if what could have been would have been.

 

“It matters not, you can begin anew.” 

the boy hailed across the years.

“How can this be?” I asked.

 

“For all who desire to pause 

the rock is always here, 

cleansed in each day’s dawn. 

It lies between your 

‘I should haves’ and your ‘I wishes.’

You think of it merely as a rock;

we know it as Grace,

the daily gift of beginnings.”

Celebrate the Miraculous

Celebrate the miraculous in

         all things, small things

         in you, in me

                   in them, those and others.

 

Celebrate in

         the moment

         in potential

         in hope, joy, love, faith, mercy,

                   Justice, harmony and gratitude.

 

Celebrate the miraculous

         in the giant oak and the mustard seed

         in peace between nations and

                   the reconciliation of a marriage

         in the hover of the hummingbird

                   at your love-filled feeder.

 

Celebrate clean water 

         in municipal water systems and

                   village wells

         food to eat, shoes to wear

                   safe havens.

 

Celebrate

         grace asked 

                   grace given and grace received.

 

Celebrate the miraculous in

         all things, small things

         in you, in me

                   in them, those and others.

 

Celebrate the miraculous in all of us.

 

Celebrate the miraculous

         even in broccoli.

Where I’m From

I’m from coal dust as much as stardust.

 

I’m from a coal town in the Alleghenies, 

a patchwork quilt of ethnic minorities,

all poor except those who weren’t. 

I’m from potatoes, casseroles, homemade noodles, 

and the aroma of fresh bread, 

soup for breakfast on frigid winter mornings and,

plain cooking, and practical life.

 

I’m from white-tail deer country,

pure mountain spring water,

from cricks and hollers, 

a dense laurel-laden forest, 

fishin’ holes created by beaver dams, 

from Northey to Southy and beyond, 

a playground I thought was Eden

where anything I needed or wanted 

was in walking distance. 

 

I’m from cinders on winter roads, 

boney piles, and the smell of burning sulfur;

from generations of dollar-a-day miners, 

men who knew Sunday 

as their only day in the sun.

I’m from a heritage of resolute women who 

challenged the powerful, 

marched for just causes, 

and ran for office 

even before they had the right to vote.

 

I’m from Frank and Sue Louise called Louise 

by everyone but Frank, who called her Suzie;

from a household nesting grandmothers and cousins

in rented houses with napkin rings on the table. 

I’m from quiet BTV evenings reading classics 

and listening to classical, swing and jazz

prepping my brother and me 

as the family firsts to go to college, 

an obligation I knew was mine 

as early as fourth grade. 

 

I’m from an Irish-Catholic, Scot-Presbyterian,

catechism and flannel-board-Jesus childhood 

with an ecumenical gaggle of friends.

 From childhood days of 

“I’m leaving, Mom” in the morning and

“You be home by dinner, Michael” 

knowing precisely when dinner would be.

 

I’m from 15¢ movies with a cartoon and newsreel 

and 25¢ double features on Saturdays.

I’m from climbing up on a stool at the soda fountain 

in the drugstore to get a sundae or Lemon Blennd;

and later the single packet “Speedy” Alka Selzer, 

the before the double-the-price pop-pop fizz-fizz 

two in a packet version. 

 

I’m from digging out swimming holes along Cold Stream 

on cool spring days before the town lake opened 

that my brother and father dug out before me. 

I’m from two-cent bubble-gum cards 

attached to my bike spokes,

from marbles, mumbly peg, red rover come over,

“High-buckety-buck,” and footballs 

made out of socks and friction tape

that at school we would put in our pockets 

alongside our knives. 

 

I’m from a generation that disappeared 

when the jobs along with the deep coal ran out, 

and the next war began.

The education that was to secure our future

became our underground railroad

to escape the mines 

and the town.

 

The “Where I’m From” of my children 

was to be built west of Eden.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What if? . . . I Wonder!

 

What if?

Perhaps,

Do I hear? Do I see?

Maybe … Is it …? 

Could it be?

 

Could it be that …?

Was it ever? Is it now?

Seemingly …

Do you suppose …?

Potentially.

 

Might it?

Consider … Ponder … Muse.

Feasibly, could it ... ?

Perchance,

Possibly.

 

What if … we had

a world full of people

actually

not quite so certain?

O what glee!

 

What do I know?

I wonder …