[y66]

'Thank god for poetry or I could never say,
"he was a quarterback from Hackensack."'

From "Cassandra on the Dance Floor", Shannon Worrell, Charlottesville

[y66]

"The Woman at the Dig" by Leo Dangel, from The Crow on the Golden Arches © Spoon River Poetry Press. Reprinted with permission at www.writersalmanac.com.

Tired from running a combine
all day through acres of wheat,
alone in front of the TV, I pay
attention because the show's about
scientists digging up an ancient site.
I have no special interest in bones,
pottery, spearheads, or prehistoric
garbage dumps, and I always look past
the man describing animal migrations,
burial rites, or building design and try
to catch a glimpse of the women
working at the site - one of them
might be wearing cut-off jeans
and a halter top, clearing a patch
of ground with a trowel or brush.
These women are all experts.
You can tell by the way they look
at a bone chip or a pottery shard
they understand worlds about
the person who left it. Sifting soil,
they show more grace than contestants
in a Miss Universe pageant.
Years from now, when these farms
are ancient history, an expedition
with such a woman might come along.
I could drop something for her to find,
a pocketknife, a brass overalls button.
If only she could discover my bones.
My eyes would be long gone,
But I can see her form coming into focus
above me as she gently sweeps aside
the last particles of dust - her knee, thigh,
hip, shoulders, and finally, set off by sky
and spikes of sunlight, her face - a woman
who recognizes what she's found.

[Al_U_Card]

When the muse strikes, learn to duck, or say “ouch”

Confluence

Twisting, turning, unrelenting
Dark and deep and never ending
Seemingly we have no choice,
But when we try and raise our voice,
We often call to those beside us
Hoping they will hear and help us
Often just to realize that they too
Are struggling just to stay afloat.

How can we then hope to persist
And even more than just survive
What will we do, how to proceed
Is there hope, not to be denied?

Recall that in our darkest moments
Even as our failing gestures
Confirmed the power of that river
And the breadth of its mighty course
That together, sensing pressures
Feeling currents, testing efforts
We will find both rest and pleasure
On the way to where we’re destined.

[y66]

Nothing Is Lost

Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.

by Noel Coward, from Noel Coward Collected Verse. © Methuen Publishing, Ltd., 2000. Reprinted with permission at www.writersalmanac.com

[Al_U_Card]

Co-incidents

Who says that things that happen now
Are not related in some way
To other things that happen when
That first thing happens once again.

How can this be, what does it mean?
A never-ending conundrum?
Or just a story to be told
Waiting for what is to unfold.

Be not afraid of what it takes
To write the story as you go
For in the telling of the tale
Comes understanding’s wisdom, sage.

And through all the experience
We come of age and learn to live
Our lives in full and not to think
That what we do is a mistake.

But rather that decisions made
Relate to ones that came before
And link us to a future when
Those choices are our just reward.