Voices Between Old and Young

PoetSpeak Reading Series

Sherwood Community Friends Church
950 S. Sherwood Blvd.
Sherwood, OR 97140

Spring: Feb. 22, 2004, 4-6 PM
Fall: Nov 21, 2004, 4-6 PM.

PoetSpeak arranges readings of poets
with enjoyable poetry
for audiences that might not access poetry
on a regular basis.

PoetSpeak provides illustrated poetry columns
for magazines and newspapers
and other publications which may
not publish poetry on a regular basis.

PoetSpeak believes
our culture is enriched by poetic insight
in poetry and song.

PoetSpeak believes
that each of us has a poem or song,
at one time or another,
that needs sharing.

PoetSpeak believes
that valuable poems are created
by children as well as adults,
men as well as women.

PoetSpeak believes
that there is great value
in reading and listening to poetry
produced by poets of widely different cultural
and experiential backgrounds.

Kurt Kristensen
2080 SW Fairoaks Ct
Sherwood, OR, 97140
503-625-2340
editor2003@poetspeak.com
www.poetspeak.com

PoetSpeak ® is a trademark registered to Kurt Kristensen

Advisory Board

Publisher

PoetSpeak  
2080 SW Fairoaks Ct.
Sherwood, OR 97140
503-625-2340

PoetSpeak Anthology
Content and poems published by PoetSpeak may not be reproduced by any means, except for brief quotations used in reviews, without written permission of publisher. Exception is granted for one (1) class set of one (1)poem for a teacher, with written acknowledgement. Attendance for performances is $5 and includes Anthology. Single copies available within USA for $5, postage included. Copyright reverts to individual authors upon publication. PoetSpeak reserves the right to publish up to 1,000 copies, and the right, with prior 
Notification to individual authors, to publish poems as part of future PoetSpeak anthologies and columns.

Copyright@Kurt Kristensen
PoetSpeak ® is a registered trademark and concept 

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Kurt Kristensen 

 Mom and Dad 

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Arthur Roberts

  First Memory

It shadows me;
and sometimes when I pause
to push the world aside,
my hands retain the mold
of that first memory.

Then I feel its bold
breath within my nose,
odorless; on my lips,
tasteless; on my tongue
wordless. . . .

Quiet memory,
like an ear of corn,
silk lifting-- green and purple--
silent toward the sun,
newborn!
                                           -from Listen to The Lord

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Arthur Roberts 

 The Croquet Game

We played croquet as usual
the Sunday afternoon
I first really noticed her.
Blond hair blew across
her neck and shoulders.
It was music when she laughed.
Anyway, at the Halloween party
we bobbed apples together
and afterward I walked
her home, hand in hand,
by the harvest moon.
At the gate I said goodnight
(not knowing it was goodbye)
and ran home.
                                              -from Listen To The Lord

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Arthur Roberts 

 The Old Dog Is Dead

The old dog is dead.
In the weeks before the finish line
she had circumnavigated
the house on crotchety legs
in a shrunken daily routine.
On call she walked with me, as usual,
among the young fir and Ponderosa pine
above the rock wall.  Stopping frequently
in her fatigue to pant, she would
glance at me in embarrassment--
her hind legs too trembly, almost,
properly to pee.

Even during those last days
when she was sick and dying
she would struggle to her feet
for the daily home welcoming.
Peering through a thatch of hair,
thickened by a cloud of cataracts,
she would sniff and wag appreciation
for scraps, but more for loving words
of touch and sound and smell.
Then, stiffly, she would amble
to the water bowl, drink deeply,
and flop upon her bed again.

How quickly the good old days had gone!
A decade and a half.
In retrospect it was like watching
a family member age
quadruple time.

 

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

 Arthur Roberts

Writing in the Sand  

Tracks in the sand.
etched signatures of seagulls
effaced by pony paths.

A child played here,
watermarking the world
with bare feet.

Tracks of a beach buggy,
splashing gay defiance
at the sea.

Footprints light and heavy,
line drawn in parallel;
offset of love.

And boot tracks, measured,
pointing to the jetty's
wind-blown solitude.

Tracks in the sand,
now signs, here signs,
until the tide comes in.

        -from Listen to the Lord  

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Arthur Roberts 

Swings in Heaven 

 
I went past a school ground today.
Boys and girls were playing.  Recess.
I wanted to stop and watch but figured
somebody might think, is that old coot
a predator?  So I drove my pickup slow.
Looked at little kids on swings
and teeter totters, or jumping around.
Lord, I hardly remember what it was like
to shoot marbles, skip rope, play tag.
Made me pine for the past, Lord.
Wouldn't mind being a child again.
Are there swings in heaven?
                                               -from Prayers at Twilight

 

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Arthur Roberts  

  Egypt, To and Fro
wn-ups

Clip clop, clip clop,
Clip clop, clip clop,
clippity clip clip clop
plods the brown donkey
through the dark night.

Clip clop, clip clop,
Clip clop, clip clop,
clippity clip clip clop
plods the brown donkey
toward the dawn's light.

Tick  tock, tick  tock,
Tick  tock, tick  tock,
tickity tick tick tock
plod harried persons
through the dark night

Tick  tock, tick  tock,
Tick  tock, tick  tock,
tickity tick tick tock
God leads the faithful
toward the dawn's light.

                                      -from Look Closely at the Child

 .

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

 Arthur Roberts

  To Mac

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

 My Teachers

When Mom told me not to stick the knife in the outlet, 

I did it anyway and now my hand is burnt.

When Dad said don’t climb on the bookshelves,

I climbed to the top shelf and now my arm is broken.

When Mom said don’t eat too much junk food,

I said too bad and now my stomach hurts.

When Dad said running with scissors was a bad idea, 

I ran as fast as I could and now I have 13 stitches.

When Mom said I should be careful in love, 

I said whatever and now I am nursing a broken heart.

It sometimes took more than words

to teach me a lesson.

And in order to help me fly,

My parents first had to watch me fall.

And now they’re telling me to be careful in the world, 

as I start my own life.

And I’m saying to them,

Don’t worry, you taught me well.

 

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

   Echoes

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

 Life Lessons
Wear and tears
hild

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

   I know you love me
Whispers

I know you love me.

I can see it in your smile,

in that special sparkle that reaches your eyes.

I can feel it in your hug,

in the strength that won’t ever let go.

I can hear it in your voice,

in the gentle tones as you talk to me.

I know you love me.

I know you love me.

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Cory Vehafric

My life isn’t your life 

I feel like you don’t know me.

I feel like my life is a mystery to you.

You tell me things were different,

when you were in high school.

I can tell you the exact same thing,

and you’ll disagree. 

You tell me to do things,

that don’t make any sense,

because it’s not done that way anymore.

I feel like we live on separate planets,

in our own foggy worlds.

Computers and cell phones baffle you.

Black and white television frightens me.

You give me advice, 

but I don’t take it, 

because you don’t know.

You just don’t know. 

 

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Cory Vehafric  

 You’re always there

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Suzanne Graham 

Body Markings   for Gavin

 I see your boy's body stretched in rest,
and note the shape of seven summers
with scars already graven on this youthful wax:
The face's faint red streak, 
memento from a careless childhood friend;
here the white line where the rock cut shinbone-deep;
there the pale moon from the spider bite that festered;
and countless other scars, each insignificant alone,
but adding up to mark you human, flawed.

Flesh of my flesh, you came forth perfect into this world,
but I would not wish it on you to remain so.
Rather, I invoke for you a thousand indentations
which score your skin and burn your beauty...
for each one is experience's bite,
a kiss from life itself.

And yes, kisses can be dangerous,
can bruise the mouth and scrape the skin,
can drop your heart's guard for a deeper blow,
can leave you wanting more - or different...

Yet, knowing this, I tell you
give your body to its fate.
For why else are we here?
Would you rather go unkissed? 

                                                                    -Published in Midwest Poetry Review 

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Suzanne Graham 

  Season of Goodwill             for my father

 Good.  Will.  Will.  Good. 
Adjective.  Noun.  Verb.  Noun.
Two words framing a life, forming it.
His life has been a season of goodwill.
At 80-plus he's lean, shrunken.
stripped down to the essence of himself,
so that his spirit burns clear,
uncluttered now by life's fleshier parts.
Descended from pioneer timber cutters,
he has the sturdiness of cedar flowing through his veins,
now knotted and gnarled like aged trees.

Will.  Good.  Good.  Will.
Will insists he will not leave this world until he's ready.
Will has held on through bereavement, illness, amputation,
Will insists he will not be left out of life.
Will is what makes him walk with wooden leg and gritted teeth, 
scorning the easier wheelchair.

Good.  Will.  Will.  Good.
This is a good man, in the old, clean definition of good:
love others, wish them well, care about their troubles, do no harm.
Good is also joy.  This is his secret essence, and his power -
a certainty that life is good, is joyous at the core.
Because it is good, it is also interesting.
So curiosity mixes with joy
to form the oil which lets his spirit flame.

Will.  Good.  Good.  Will.
They come together when he dances.
Yes, dances.  He has a wooden leg
yet when he hears a favorite melody he'll dance a little jig,
live flesh circling around wooden stump,
moving aged hips to ancient tunes,
willing old muscles to honor the song alive in his heart.
                                                            -Published in Midwest Poetry Review

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

 David Filer

Alder Springs   

No one here before 
us this early Spring.  
Remains of winter 
scattered about.  Flow 
of fresh melted snow
just beneath the sand.

We find the bones close
beside the stream bed, 
most of a spine, white 
against the damp earth:  
a deer, coyote 
kill, or starvation.

You ask one or two 
questions, then, without 
more, you make it a 
toy--this three-point fulcrum
of a once graceful 
leap, graceful today 
by natural design.

 

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

David Filer  

Sonnets To My Father  

He's eighty-four, and still he's going strong.
That's what I say, but he complains of loss
Of strength.  So he pushes out his daily walk
A block, then two, and soon he's gone so long
He cannot remember where he's been.  Then
It's yard work, laundry, and now, he's in his car
And off for groceries.  He says: It's not far;
Never at night.  He says: Don't worry.  I spend
My time carefully.  He says: I won't be wired
Again to that pulsing screen, that urine bag.
That's your nightmare, too.  Forget it. That sag
In the last ridge, seaward.  See it?  That's where
I'll be when that sharp flutter comes again.
He says: Let's walk.  Bring your jacket. I smell rain. 

And we still walk, though not quite together,
Not to that last ridge where he stands and shows
Me the sea.  He's more like a shadow now,
Thrown from behind, always getting longer.
And is it his-gaunt, stooping, with a pot
Belly-or is it mine?  Harder to tell
Each year.  Harder to break the growing spell
I thought I'd broken years ago.  Not
That I'm becoming him.  I know better.
Though sometimes it's him I see while shaving,
And I hear his rasp in my own talking.
Time's made us distant and now we're closer.
He's with me even when he's not along.
He's ninety now, and still he's going strong.

                

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

David Filer 

 Inebriant

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Celeste Thompson 

Relief 

Yesterday in a dusty irrigation ditch 
a rake clinked against two plates  
ceramic chipped    
a fifty year old reminder of supper 
a fixture for day to day living    
in the dryness of this summer

Yesterday I thought about my grandma:
her tendons stretched for decades    
by the crops she coaxed--
defending to herself
the side-long looking eyes of her husband's gaze
when she set irrigation pipe     

She lived a farmer's life ignoring the wind 
knowing the drought     
must give way to rain

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Peter Duff 

   The Shining Star

 
The shining stars in a young child's eye
Twinkle and drift across an ocean of time
To the sparkle in a grandparent’s eye
All of the souls become one and the same
As the earth spins a slow turn
The daily sun burns like a fire
                And burns like a pyre
                           Waiting for no one.

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Joan Cluff  

 My son 

With dimpled cheeks and chestnut colored hair
your shining eyes looked up and searched for mine
In eagerness you ate, then, trusting slept
Those moments ever captured in my mind!

Just like the thirsty ground you soaked up life
by drinking in each day 'till bedtime came
This earth was made for little boys like you
and where you've stepped will never be the same

But life, with all its human frailties
spares not the child when sorrow comes to call
Your tears still break my heart, though you are grown
and even time cannot erase them all

At least with wisdom understanding comes
forgiveness also finds its way back home
and lessons learned will benefit us all
if we but seek to grow where tears are sown

I love you more than any words can say
and stretch on tiptoe now to kiss your cheek
your shining eyes look down and search for mine
though grown, my baby boy you'll always be!

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Joan Cluff 

  The Patriarch

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Joan Cluff 

  To your arms from mine

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Joan Cluff 

  My mother

When I was young, a babe of three,
I'd climb upon my mother's knee
She'd hold me close and hush my fears
She'd kiss my hurts and wipe my tears
She loved me through those tender years!

Then, I grew up, became a youth
My mind was hungry for the truth!
We sat upon her bed at night
We shared and talked of wrong and right
We laughed and cried and held on tight!

And then, one day, a woman stood
where once there had been childhood
A husband came into my life
and children, duties of a wife,
still mother taught through love and strife

Today, I stepped before the glass
there stood an older, grayer lass
Now, I'm the one who guides another
You'd think that I would need no other
but, oh, how I do miss
my mother!

 

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Kim Steffgen  

 Walk with me through snowy woods

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Kim Steffgen 

  Compulsive traveler

 
V-formation moving swiftly, trailing foggy scrim 

yellow-smoke sky darkening with December

Your wings splash droplets of crystal air against the cool blue

Sending waves of good-bye as you fly to your destiny

Feathered motion sweeping the horizon arc

Mirrored facets reflecting your hell-bent intent on soaring skyward

Insatiable compulsion

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

 Night travelers 

Carol Richmond 

 They come to my nest
as sure as the best little homing pigeons
       coming to cuddle
       minds still busy from
       a hard day's play
       Bodies succumbed to sleep
They come from their nightmares
       or their damp covers, to my dry..
       cold feet.
       lonely and lost
They come with blankets, in diapers or t shirts,
In whatever state sleep overtook them
There we lay, all a-tangle
       Maybe four, maybe more
Any lost night travelers welcome here !
I raise the covers and under my wing come all
Safety in numbers, yes
But sleep.
   Nevermore.

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Carol Richmond  

  Grandchild

I like chocolate
It's no secret
But when I hold you
delicious, sweet little perfection
delectable to sight, touch and smell
Your presence so satisfies me
So feeds my soul's endorphins
Yes! You are like chocolate
I can't get enough of you
Have I discovered
an allowable self-indulgence ?
Will I have to join a
'Grandmas Anonymous'
Or could this be
Heaven's reward
   along the Mother Path
       that is paved
       into my heart ?

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

 Carol Richmond 

 A Child Apart

She may always know fences
So careful we are not to let her
get out
So careful she is not to let us
come in

Little lost girl
stranger to your own kind

Such a dim little light
We blow and blow to kindle a blaze

A chimney lamp is firmly in place
We believe because we see
Only..
the warmth of you
is just out of reach

You, my love, are in this world
but not of it

There is a gentler place than here
if we could but travel awhile with you
to be rocked awhile
in peace

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

 Quiana Klossner

 I see her 

I see Grandma
Walk
Across the room.
I do so too.
She tires fast.
I am still lively.
We are different.

I see Grandma
Write
A long letter.
I do so too.
Her’s is all squiggles.
Mine is scratches.
We are different.

I see Grandma
Stand
 From a long sit.
I do so too.
She rises slow.
I jump up fast.
We are different.

 

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

  Dick Grover

  Generations: The Rain Forest on Vancouver Island

As I walked in the rainforest, I stopped -

there lay one of the giants.

A cedar.

It had lived a long life,
a good life.

Pehaps eagles had nested in its branches.

But finally it had grown tired
of the days
and the nights
and the seasons
and the eagles,

and it lay down to sleep.

And then one day
a seed from another tree fell on it.

And slowly but confidently
the little seed began to grow.

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

  Dick Grover

 For You, Jonathan Starks   

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

 
I am, nearly
An old man
Now.

And, I
Miss you
Deeply.

It took
Almost sixty years
To arrive 
At this place
Where your love 
Began:

Homemade bread, mom
And, a wordless book,
Dad!

   Thank you,

    Mom and Dad.

Index and Reading Order

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

  Cory Vehafric

 Cory Vehafric

Cory Vehafric  

  Cory Vehafric

 
Thanks, Mac,
for showing me
how to catch a ball loose--
giving just a bit--
to lay down a bunt
so soft the sacrifice
might earn a hit
as well,
to think lines
while fielding
and spaces
while batting.
"Nice game!" you'd say.
I say it now to you, Mac,
"Nice Game!"
                                 -from Sunrise and Shadow

If I were a mother,

I would have a list of things not to forget.

Don’t forget to say please and thank you.

Don’t forget to wash your hands.

Don’t forget to eat healthy snacks.

Don’t forget to be nice to your sister.

Don’t forget to say your prayers.

Don’t forget to finish your homework.

Don’t forget to brush your teeth.

If I were a mother, 

the most important item on my list would be:

Don’t forget to love.

Her tiny rosebud mouth
and soft, sweet baby cheeks
led me to believe
that she was mine for keeps

How life could make her laugh!
(and pride bring angry tears)
Her emotions I knew well
for she was mine for years

We cuddled on cold nights
and shared our time in day,
for we were best of friends
before she grew away

I've often called her home
but I will not this time
In joy, I let her go
into your arms from mine.

So fragile,
So weak,
So feeble...
So strong.

So wise,
So aged,
So old...
So young.

So quiet,
So faint
So calm...
So full of
Wondrous laughter.

She is Grandma.

So weak,
So strong,
So old,
So young,
So quiet,
So loud.

Yes, that is Grandma.

She is always here,
Never gone,
With us always.

  Grandma 

Sight

Quiana Klossner 

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

If I squint...
She doesn't look
That old.

If I squint...
She looks almost
Young.

If I squint...
If I concentrate...
She looks like
Me.

Will I
Look like her,
When I am old?

Will I have
The wrinkles,
The grey hair,
The arthritis,
The hunched back,
The smile...

Yes, I might.
I probably will.
I might even
Look like
Her.

I hope I do.

  If I Squint

Quiana Klossner 

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

The echoes of the past

are found in the future.

Their voices ringing

for generations to come.

Their stories and lessons

are told from parent to child,

who tells their own children.

Their belongings, valuables

are given as gifts to the young.

Their thoughts, their memories

are never forgotten.

Their voices ringing

for generations to come.

The echoes of the past

are found in the future.

  

I've bathed him now.
His skin has a liquid look.
I lift him carefully,
and hold him to the light.

In the late afternoon sun, 
he glows like champagne,
like mead, like a good chardonnay.
His eyes are brilliant,
and his sweet effervescence
overflows into the still air.

Before bed, I rock him
in my grandmother's chair.  
As he drifts off 
in a final sigh, I am 
drunk and worldly
with the spirit
of his young life. 

With the help of a never-ending flowering of writers, we, in the Northwest, are rich beyond words, and the success of PoetSpeak’s years of producing performances in the Northwest attest to our joy.

Our formula is simple: Poetry is needed!  Especially “Accessible, Useful and Enjoyable” Poetry!

Our advisory board comes and goes as their family and private obligations permit, and they help us dream and change to meet our community’s need. Our next project is to add audio to poems on the web site.

PoetSpeak’s core concepts of “Accessible, Useful and Enjoyable” poetry have remained constant as we have evolved to meet needs of poets and audiences. And, along the way, PoetSpeak has quietly succeeded.

There are still challenges to be met; if you have skills, time, passion and resources we welcome your help:
•	Professional video taping of performances
•	Professional help with CD recording of poets
•	Distribution of anthologies and posters
•	PoetSpeak Neighborhood Library/Bookstore circle

PoetSpeak writers love to gather for a PoetSpeak Salon at our home; it’s an event where we socialize with home-made soup and bread and share new poems. Not a critique group, but a joyful environment to share newly gestated art. Email us if interested, and we will contact you with next date. You can now find the dates for each salon event so you can reserve a spot.

Board of Advisors
You are always welcome to serve a period of your choice. We appreciate any energy and time you can contribute, and, always, we look for new ways to make PoetSpeak pursue its mission. Our only criteria is that you love life, and know that poetry is an essential part of life.

Poets
Artists are private people, but they welcome your contact. You can reach each poet by emailing PoetSpeak’s editor. Just go to our website and click on “Email Us: 
                                                 www.poetspeak.com.

Sometimes the public assumes that “poets” are “strange” people; this belies our PoetSpeak experience; in this anthology, for example, you will find: A college professor, high school student, 6th grader, accountant, public relations, teacher, 

   

Of course, Bruce,  
there was no way for you to know
that it was the middle of the night.

All you knew was
that you wanted to come out
and see the world.

So you started moving around.
And Mom woke me up
and said her water had broken
and labor pains had started.

So she and I got up
and got dressed
and I helped her down the stairs
and out the door
and into the car,
and the three of us drove off
towards the hospital.

As we came to one of the long downtown streets,
I saw that the traffic lights
at the next three intersections
were red.

At two o'clock in the morning
we were the only car in sight,
so I decided to drive through the red lights.

  February 20, 1967 

Dick Grover 

I can barely write my name

and he's asking for lines of differing darkness

and I'm giving him lines of differing Straightness

then...

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

  
As young as a sapling
Yet I am older than the most decrepit oak tree
I have set out on my journey with nothing
and found a visible path somewhere along the way
In my childhood, I danced with starlight on my skin
When I cried, the wise rivers consoled me
As I slept, the sky wrapped its cloak about my shoulders
The wind gave me wings to soar
Now here away from that world
I can still see the stars inbedded in my eyes
My soul is as old as the sunrise
though my body and mind still linger in the ignorance of youth
I carry immortal blood

Child of the Clouds  

Jill Jonas 

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

You are so frail today that sunlight passes through you.
Your soul is returning to your feet as they strike softly
between the wheels of your borrowed walker.

You're dying, but not today and, probably, not tomorrow.
It's harder to breathe, and getting dressed
is like conducting a choir underwater.

It's always at night when the next one comes.
Something turns inside of you,
it steals your sleep and it won't go away.

You work to repair your arm drained of its art.
Your speech slips, leaves scratching the road
on a dry winter day.

And at night you may remember:
Hollow-eyed, the cancer clears its throat
and paces in your marrow.

This is getting old: Winter Leaves   for our parents

 D. H. Bleything

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

You’re always there.

From my first dirty diaper, 

to my first speeding ticket.

From my first smile, 

to my first day of school.

From my first mud pie,

to my first fist full of worms.

From my first tooth,

to my first art project.

From my first Christmas,

to my first date.

From our first fight,

to my first runaway attempt.

From my first laugh, 

to my first hug.

 
You didn't hold me to your breast
to give my name and then to bless
you didn't teach me how to pray
nor watched me grow from day to day

You never saw me win a race
nor looked into my tear-streaked face
the first time true love broke my heart
Of none of these were you a part

But let me take this time to say
if I'd been yours back in that day
you would have lived and died for me
The love you feel, I truly see

You've raised a strong and righteous son
it seems you knew I'd be the one
that he would have and hold some day
You molded him in every way

I took your name when I took his
and I would like to tell you this -
no flesh, no blood could love more true
nor feel more deeply than I do
My heart is filled with love for you!

Walk with me through snowy woods 

On frost-cloaked mornings

Ice crunching, shattering underfoot

Crystals riding streams of breath

Like stars shimmering as a new day is spoken

Say, I love you, and hold my hand warmly

It's all right, Jonathan.

It's all right to feel hurt
and scared
and alone,
and want to cry,
and want your mother to hug  you,
and want someone else to hug you,
and want to be left alone.

It's all right to ask where your mother has gone,
and if she loved you,
why did she go away
and leave you alone like this?

It's all right to feel all mixed up
and want more than anything
for her to come back and hug you.

It's all right to ask
why did God take her away from you,
and to be angry at Him for hurting you.

The months fit like stones in the wall by the garden.
This bright one, your voice
through the delivery room door and next to it
your birth mother fitting our lives together.

That blue-gray stone, our old house and your small room in back
with pear blossoms trained around the window.
You've always wanted that back but lacked
a window in the sun where fruit would grow.

This red one, your first teacher
and her careful Montessori ways.
The smells of Sri Lankan cooking,
her gentle mother visiting from home.

And these, with the sharp edges, the months your shin ached
and bruised, three times until we found the tumor.
And the next one your leg, stretched open
and boned on the operating table.

There is your grandfather, who helped care for you
all that time.  And the grandmother that makes
your favorite applesauce, and the other one, ready
to take you to museums.

And this stone that the light catches
is your music.  The piano, and you transposing
before you could read.  And the flute,
your new one, bright in the sun.

We are building our lives month by month
and each fits to the next, stones that make your life.
You are the one that fits in to make ours strong
and ready for what comes next.

  Stones   for JRKB

D. H. Bleything

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Editor’s Notes

Kurt Kristensen	Editor	503-625-2340	
Scott Brown	Music	503-228-3622	
Bruce Becker	Catering	503-925-0887	
Evelyn Kristensen	Accounting	503-625-2340	

Marcia Myers	360-944-7888	Organization	
Travis Johnson	503-864-2511	Readings	
Evelyn Kristensen	503-625-2340	Salon, Pictures	
Frank Vehafric	503-625-2340	Outreach	
Ken Vanden Hoek	503-625-7879	Facilities	
Michelle Martin	503-692-2777	Legal, Outreach	
Cory Vehafric	503-625-6344	Youth contact	
Suzanne Graham	503-531-3506	Outreach	
Kym Croft Miller	503-690-0923	Outreach	

First we dropped the Sunday walks
to the horse-smell and apple place.
She couldn't climb the hill back home.
Then the walk to the scent-laden woods.
Then the mailbox trip. . . .

Gone is the barking, bouncing chaser
of bird shadows and swaying trees,
gone the night-howling accomplice
of shrill, dark-piercing sirens,
gone the grey-white cushion
for sunshiny children, purring cats,
and summer days.

It was sad the last day
("too old, too feeble").
I can feel yet her head
within my hands, the tears
within my eyes.

She is buried in the woods,
home to her ancient kin, the fox,
the squirrel, the pheasant,
the deer, the soaring hawk,
And a fir tree grows
on her grave.

              -from Sunrise and Shadow

But then,

every now and then,

I’m caught by surprise.

Once in a blue moon,

you drop a nugget of wisdom and truth.

And I realize,

maybe you do know,

more than I’ll ever understand.

You’re always there.

You watch over me,

never letting go.

And for that,

I love you.

Son, death has its place
here, just as the new 
grass emerging at 
the stream bank farther 
down, weasels, quick in 
the meadow, juncos 
chatting in the sage
on the canyon wall.  
 
It will be your equal, 
but at nine, dashing 
off with your Star Wars 
vertebra, you need 
know only this: death 
is worthy of honor, 
watching us here with 
this engaging sign 
of its winter work.

All that you feel will bloom
in that lovelier place
never to be trampled or unadorned

We'll know then
why you laughed
what kept you apart

We'll know how well we loved
by how easily
we speak
your language

Yet the same.
Young and old...
Antonyms,
That fit together.

And then I wonder...

Will I ever be
As tired,
As neat,
As slow?

And then
She hugs me.

We are one.

Will I ever be as happy?

It sent its little roots
down around the sides of the giant
into the ground,
and its little trunk balanced itself on the giant
and began reaching up,
and its little branches reached out,
and its little green needles sprouted.

And as I stood there in the rainforest
and looked at the two trees,
I saw young and old,
large and small,
horizontal and vertical,
waking and sleeping,
reaching up and sinking down,
growth and decay,
life and death.

As I stood there in the rainforest,
I let the silence speak to me.

And it told me about yesterday

and tomorrow.

 

Remember sometimes
when you'd be angry at your mom,
and she'd love you anyway?

God does that too.
He loves us anyway.

All of us love you, Jonathan,
just as you are.

We love you,
and our arms and our spirits
are all around you,
hugging you.

And so is your mother's spirit.

And so is the Great Spirit.

.

If I got stopped by the police,
I planned to tell the officer
that my wife was in labor,
and to please let me take her
to the hospital
to have her baby,

after which
I would willingly accept a traffic ticket
and pay the fine.

And then,
as I approached the first of the lights,
rehearsing my speech
and looking carefully in all directions
for other cars,

something happened which,
over the years,
I have prayed may be a symbol 
for your life.

Dear Bruce,
at exactly the same time,
all three of those red lights
turned green.

 What was it like when you were young,
Grandma?

Did you watch your mama
In the kitchen?
I'll bet that's why you bake that
Delicious brown bread.

Did you go barefoot
All the time?
I notice you always wear your sturdy shoes,
Even in the house.

Where did you learn
To crochet?
Was that something 
your grandma taught you?

You must have hung out
With your papa a lot, too.
I've never seen another grandma
Who could pound a hole in a wall
And a week later have 
A window in its place;
No muss, no fuss.

Who influenced your lemon drop craze?
That says "Grandma's House" to me;
Always a bowl of lemon drops
Ready for the asking
(never just the taking).

Brown Bread   

Evelyn Kristensen 

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

I have a picture in my kitchen
Of Grandpa candling eggs.
Mom said he used to do that
To see if they were fertilized or not.
I don't remember the chicken coop
I know they used to have.

I do remember Grandpa
playing his mandolin, though.
He'd pick it so gently,
So deftly.
I didn't usually recognize the tunes,
But each one lifted my spirit,
Just to have him play for me.

Other times
It was his harmonica
That brought the music to my heart.
His old, wrinkled hands
Curved around the slip of silver.
His smiling lips
Hugging the tiny holes.

  Grandpa

Evelyn Kristensen

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

There's a special person in my life-
She used to be my mommy.
She gave me juice when I was sick,
"Here, this will sooth your tummy."
At every concert, she was there
No matter what we sang.
It made no difference if we were "good",
To her, our  voices rang.

There's a special person in my life-
She's always been my mother.
I didn't want to listen to her.
After all, why should I bother?
All she said was "Do this. Do that."
And "Don't sass back to me."
It made no difference that she was right-
I didn't want her to be.

There's a special person in my life-
She has become my friend.
Amazing how she's changed so much;
It couldn't be me who'd bend.
She listens now to what I say;
Our thoughts now often blend.
There's a special person in my life-
My mommy . . . mother . . . friend.

  Mother’s day

Evelyn Kristensen

PoetSpeak  Reading Series

Was it an aunt who gave you 
That watermelon rind pickle recipe?
Or did you perfect that yourself?

I wish I would have taken the time
To learn more from you, Grandma.

I can't even bake bread.

 The old organ he'd plunk at.
"Blue Danube" was my favorite.
Probably because I could read the notes
Along with him,
And sway back and forth.

Actually, I'm not sure he even read the notes.
Could he even read music?
Or did he have that natural ear.

Grandpa was a quiet man.
He didn't say much.
Grandma was the talker.
He couldn't get a word in edgewise
Is what I think.
But his music spoke volumes
To a little girl who just wanted to spend time with Grandpa.  

Page	Poets & Poems	Reading	v	Page	Poets & Poems	Reading	v	
	Kurt Kristensen				Joan Cluff	 		
5	Mom and Dad	30		26	My Son	 5		
	Arthur Roberts			27	The Patriarch	 29		
6	First Memory	43 Last		28	To Your Arms From Mine	 36		
7	The Croquet Game	26		29	My Mother	18		
8	The Old Dog Is Dead	33			Kim Steffgen			
9	Writing in the Sand	16		30	Walk With Me ...	11		
10	Swings in Heaven	21 intm		31	Compulsive Traveler	40		
11	Egypt, To and Fro	37			Carol Richmond			
12	To Mac	7		32	Night Travelers	4		
	Cory Vehafric			33	Grandchild	2		
13	My Teachers	35		34	A Child Apart	25		
14	Echoes	42			Quiana Klossner			
15	Life Lessons	27		35	Grandma	32		
16	I Know You Love Me	12		36	If I Squint	14		
17	My Life Isn’t Yours	38		37	I See Her	8		
18	You’re Always There	14			Dick Grover			
	Suzanne Graham			38	Generations	9		
19	Body Markings	24		39	For you, Jonathan Starks	34		
20	Season of Goodwill	31		40	February 20, 1967	1		
	David Filer				Jill Jonas			
21	Alder Springs	13		41	Child of The Clouds	41		
22	Sonnets to My Father	28	 	 	D. H. Bleything			
23	Inebriant	3		42	This Is getting Old	10		
	Celeste Thompson			43	Stones                      	23 2nd pt		
24	Relief	15			Evelyn Kristensen			
	Peter Duff			44	Brown Bread	17		
25	The Shining Star	39		45	Grandpa	20		
47	Editor’s Notes			46	Mother’s Day	6