TREASURED

Earlier that day, we stopped building
sand castles, stopped jumping waves,
stopped playing catch with a Pinky ball.
Instead we ran on the beach because
August brought, an event every year
for locals, summer kids and tourists too.

On the boardwalk, we went to meet
a man dressed as Captain Kidd, a pirate.
A day to remember a legend, history,
old stories of this ocean community.
Black paper hats, plastic coin banks
given to all. A strange sight to see
hundreds of children chanting, cheering,
waving shovels of every color, running
behind a tall man like the pied piper, or
a strange kind of seashore Santa Claus.

An army of babies, grade school children
and leftover teenagers galloped together
past the blaring noises of Frank’s Playland,
onto an area of the beach, set aside by
a cyclone fence, to a spot prepared for
treasure hunting. The children dug quickly
with hands, feet, and pointy shovels to find
those miniature steel chests in shallow holes.

Easily discovered, winners shrieked loudly,
jumped up and down, and it was a time
when kids were good losers too. Content
to have dug, content to get a paper hat,
content to get a plastic coin bank, content
to be a part of a tradition, to have a chance.
In each box, silver dollars, Kennedy half dollars,
The luckiest child, found the real treasure-
one chest had a coupon for a free bike.

Suddenly at the end of the event,
someone mentioned seeing him
on the boardwalk, near our beach,
our grandparent’s summer rental.
She always feared he was coming to
take me away, trying to take me to
another state, far away, never again
would I see them, is what she said.

Stay here, in the bedroom, take a nap.
Can’t let him find you or even see you.
She had a way of speaking about him,
never using his name, just pronouns.
And at three years old, I laid my head
on the pillow staring at my little box,
a treasure chest with a pirate’s head
and skull and cross bones on the lid.

I began to cry, not because of my
family situation, because I was missing
a sunny day at the beach, something
unheard of then, at that time and place.

STILL WORKING

He walks upright, tall in his crisp black jacket.
Gazing down at each table, circling the room,
some would say, like an old buzzard or vulture.
I’ll say, like a hawk, because vultures are ugly
and calling him that would give a bad impression
about the old guy, even though those birds
accurately describe the job he’s doing now.

He’s working hard tonight while hundreds of us
celebrate in this noisy and crowded banquet hall.
He waits for all the happy people to take one last
bite of cheesecake, their last sip of whiskey sour.
then he swoops down to clear the table, instantly.

Some would say that he looks like a butler on TV.
But when I see him reaching for the dirty dishes,
I see a man with a sad story, a sad past, someone
with so many expectations when he came here.

Some would say, good to see that he’s working
and in such a fine hotel, in our nation’s capital.
But I say, I think it would be better to see him
walking with his grandchildren through the zoo,
eating ice cream on the steps of the museum, or
laughing under the shade of a southern magnolia,
smiling and overjoyed about being here, like us.

TEAM COLORS

When you see me in the coffee shop
and walk towards me with your grin,
I wonder what you’re about to say and
then you ask me “Did we win last night?”
My mind races to figure out who you are,
what you mean, what you’re talking about.

Then I have to smile, when I slowly realize
this morning, I’m wearing a red Phillies shirt.
Fans speak like we own the team or that
we’re on the staff, the roster, the bench.
Maybe it’s much stronger, since it makes
two total strangers, different in many ways,
smile, talk awhile, feel a kinship for a moment.

Somewhere else, in this city, I imagine others,
more strangers stopping to speak about their
Red Sox, their Yankees, their Cubs, to ask the
score or to say “Hey, how’d we do last night?”

NEW CHAIRS

This may be the last summer for
those green plastic Adirondack chairs,
been in our yard for six or seven years.
Maybe even more than that, lately I’ve
had trouble counting when things came
or went, but I do know that no one in
the family ever felt like sitting in them.

Too much of a slant to be comfortable,
they’re always splattered with bird poop,
they’ve got no stool to rest your feet on.
I planned to sit there in the sunshine to
read, write, rest, and breathe in fresh air.

But I find more comfort in concrete steps,
it’s where I go to sit, to think, and drink
this morning’s first cup of coffee. It’s where
I watch the squirrel brothers play and savor
sounds of mockingbirds, a blue jay’s caw,
a competition in the early morning hours
in which I'm lucky to have, a front row seat.

TRAILBLAZER

-for my son

You are farther than me now
walking on this mountain’s trail.
I am moving slow today, letting
you take the lead, following you.

You have grown stronger and
complain very little about the
jagged rocks, the network of roots,
strange insects on the path.
I am plodding along, tired with
every step, no complaints though.

You may still be worried about
snakes, spiders, and other creatures
but you don’t flinch, you don’t stop,
you don’t speak of the dangers.
I pause to listen for a rustle in the
bushes, looking out for black bears.

You walk on, taller, leaner, in control
with an even measured pace you climb.
I am breathing hard, looking for a spot
to sit, lagging behind, panting now.

You keep your footing and have
your eye on the goal, the top.
I have slipped more than once,
and I even fell, landing on all fours.
You asked me if I was alright and
had that worried look on your face.
I knew the look, the one I had when
you fell at three or four years old.

You reach for my elbow to help me up,
you place your hand on my shoulder.
We walk on together, reach the top,
we sit for a moment, together there.
I think of you, how we are starting to
trade places, going in different directions.

“All I have to say is, I’m ready to walk with you next year.”

WILD TURKEY

Old biker, shirtless in the parking lot
more hair on his back than on his head,
tip toes like a cartoon spy in his flip flops.
Black wraparound sunglasses, faded tattoos,
he sneaks up behind the cars and mini vans.
Camera in hand, a strange sight for us to see.

He snaps photos of a wild turkey in the grass
on the edge of a hill, begging for food from
a pale skinned couple from Ohio, I suppose
since they’re wearing red Buckeye t-shirts.
They sit and stare at the four foot tall bird
with his rugged good looks, and toughness.

He has the demeanor of a survivor, who walks
tall and makes things work on this mountain.
If you asked all of the tourists watching him
they would say that now they understand
how he could have been the one selected
to be the symbol for our country, long ago.

HILLBILLY

The last group, it seems.
The only ones, for that matter.
They joke and make fun of your
heritage, culture, and history.

Moonshine stills, little brown jugs,
words misspelled, crudely written
on makeshift signs, shacks for homes.
Outhouses with crescent moons
on the door down in the holler.
Shoot at strangers in the woods.

Tattered overalls, colorful patches,
red and white checked dresses,
oversized clodhopping brogans,
worn out work boots, shoeless.
big floppy black hats full of holes,
corn cob pipes, pig tails in hair,
gap toothed, bad teeth, missing teeth,
no teeth, crossed eyes, big bug eyes.

Marrying your cousin,
messing with your sister,
second grade education,
one room schoolhouses.
Lazy, sneaky, thieves, cheats.

Snake handling in church,
holy rollers with tambourines,
fainting, moved by the spirit,
baptized in a muddy creek.

Possum and raccoon to eat,
iron skillet cooking huge biscuits,
banjo picking, dulcimer playing,
Wildwood Flower singing.

Seven dogs on the porch,
worn out sofa on the porch,
whittling on the porch.
Flies on your face, too lazy
to shoo them off or away.

Maw and Paw calling
fourteen children to dinner
at lunchtime and supper at night.
Loaded down jalopy pickup truck,
backfiring, bouncing along, no shocks.

And all of this came about
because they wanted -
to live in the forest,
to respect the land,
to worship their god,
to be with their families,
to stay out of the wars,
to not own slaves,
to make what they needed,
to eat and drink what they wanted,
to keep what they worked for,
to keep to themselves,
to ignore questions of strangers,
to not answer to others rules or laws,
to have the right to be left alone.

A STRENUOUS PATH

A paved road, zero point five miles,
how deceived he was to think this
short afternoon hike would be easy.
He noticed benches lining the path
every ten to twenty yards and how it
seemed difficult to breathe walking up
from the crowded parking lot full of
cars from Alabama, Ohio, and Kentucky.

An elevation of about a mile and a quarter
stole the valuable oxygen and made his hike
a slow paced, static trip with creaky knees,
burning thighs, a gaping jaw, a heaving chest.
A scene where all the walkers are convinced
to think about following the simple code of
healthy weight loss,-eat less,get more exercise.

At the top awaits a winding spiral walkway,
park founders didn’t have the nerve to place
a tower at the end with a set of a hundred stairs.
In the domed tower, a reward awaited the hikers.
Cool breezes, like the ripest of fruit just picked,
like drinking fresh brewed coffee in the morning,
like eating a hot biscuit straight from the oven.
Whatever you decide to say, it is a pure feeling
that made one woman point to a wooden bench
and tell her husband, “Sit down, take it in, enjoy it”.

With spectacular views, tourists politely bother
each other to take pictures of them and as they
trade cameras, an old lady repeatedly reassures
them,“It’ll make a really great Christmas card.”
Some take a moment to study the famous smoke
on the mountain tops of this National Park, a few
wonder how many more hemlocks will die before
those little bugs from Asia will get under control?

I think about all the ones before me, who stood at
the top of this tower, feeling alive, safe, and lucky.
One man says how close he feels to God up here.
But the wisest one in the bunch, sets us all straight-
“I do know one thing, nothing left to do but go down.”