On family trips when
I was eight, nine
plastic, primary-color
cowboys, Indians,
soldiers, animals
fought and romped
in a synthetic, nappy,
dark-blue rear-window
battlefield meadow
Other times, it was a
fuzzy ledge on which to
lean, and watch the road
fading, while my mother
half-jokingly admonished
me to turn around, see
where I was going, not
where I had been
Plaid flannel shirts
of my Northwoods youth
smelled of
beer and pine cones
boat motor gasoline and
fresh caught sunfish
wood smoke
and filtered Winstons
when I was a kid the
intertwined, pungent
aromas of cervelat salami
plumbers’ grease, house paint
mingled freely, locked
in square-patterned fibers,
always-rolled-up sleeves
no amount of
Fels-Naptha soap
could smother those
godly auras
When I was a kid
plaid flannel shirts smelled
wonderfully worn by heroes –
old men with accents and dialects
eye-winks and odd habits
mentors who I know understood,
that I emulated
aspired to one day be like
Plaid flannel shirts
hang now in my closet;
freshly washed, hanging neatly –
as they never
would or could on the
hero-men I knew
My plaid flannel shirts
hang quietly, neatly,
sedately
rarely worn, quietly lived-in
yet they, too
smell of wood smoke
and pine trees
beer, salami, pine
wood box colby cheese and
chainsaw exhaust,
bait minnows and Old Spice
whenever I open
my closet
summer comes to a close
autumnal breezes waft
rustling memories of those
days when the close of summer
had more definitive endings
sun-drenched days of youthful
frolic, innocent play, done
swimming, playing with frogs in
holes dug on sandy beaches at
grandparent’s homes; ‘the lake’
summer Xanadus of childhood
one year, scenic backdrops for
advancing adolescence the next
the summer dented pails,
bent shovels lay unused in
boathouse corner; replaced with
initials inside a heart, drawn
artfully at dusk in beach sand with
carefully chosen stick, just to be
erased by evening’s gentle waves
Previous summers we traveled
in packs along endless lakeshore some ‘ooing’ over discovered shells all ‘eewing!’ over dead, bloated fish
skipping rocks to show machismo
But our duo walks became more
intimate strolls through the woods
privacy trumping pinecone collection,
coy separation from the collective
group not as subtle as we hoped
Each summer indelible as the
next; parts of many years blending
seamlessly together, a montage of
youthful Julys, childhood vacations
But the starkness of one summer
that is viewed not with the gauziness
of looking back fondly, but with clarity
of time, place, purpose…firsts.
One brilliant, Kodacolor snapshot
that never made it into any scrapbook
yet still remains the clearest picture
especially when summer ends
and the breezes of fall swirl
As a kid I collected rocks –
as many colorful pebbles as my
six-year-old jacket pockets
could smuggle via subterfuge
mom and dad later humored my
geologic interests with a small,
paperback, field guide to rocks –
which I always took with on trips we
took – grandpa in tow – playing along,
helping me find increasingly larger
chunks of ancient igneous,
sedimentary curiosity, to store in
boxes in my room, much to his
daughter’s eventual, excavating-her
grown-son’s-vacant-room, chagrin
rocks, and my self-motivated,
D-I-Y study of them, still serve me well
curiosity being a developed skill as
much as a personality characteristic
Where my parents simply indulged whims
Gramps saw wisdom in Fool’s Gold.
Twenty-one years was not nearly enough; we had just embarked when you left.
Thirty-three years is not nearly enough
to erase what is indelibly sketched
not a pencil caricature, a dimly recollected
photographic snapshot or grainy home movie
just you, at nineteen, before illness
rudely smudged and dog-eared the picture
you are smiling, damn it
you always smiled – warranted or not – but
really, when was it not, for us?
I cannot for the life of me conjure up you at forty, thirty but especially not now
I imagine your asphalt black beard still thick,
neat, coarse…tinged gray, framing sly grin
your perpetual smile-induced squint turned
permanent as well-earned crow’s feet
‘imagine’ is all I can do
I have aged gracefully, so I’ve been told,
a goal you will never attain, a good-natured
insult I will never get to hurl your way
you left, life went on
The plans, hopes, dreams, big ideas we
discussed to death oddly survived yours
some of mine came true, differently than
we could’ve ever dreamed, but still true
the shared versions departed with you as
my road strangely and happily diverged from
plans made, starting with your leaving,
life taking me along for the journey much as
I have taken your spirit within me
The calendar now ironically tells me that
the years since you left match the numerals
you wore on your South High football jersey
the same numbers I have always worn for
company softball teams, and just because
I see you so clearly now – slashing through the
defensive line of time and memory, breaking
into the clear, smiling and always running free
A ma-and-pa resort, small lake
north woods of Minnesota small office behind
quaint bar, twelve small cabins
dozen aluminum rowboats to use;
minnows, worms, leeches for sale
amenities, ala Angler’s Edge
Joe & Gloria’s place
The bar a hangout for township locals
grandpa Ivar and I frequented the nicked,
cigarette-burn speckled
polished, yellow-varnished bar for a
North Star beer, ice cold Nesbitt’s Orange
I enjoyed from my end-of-bar spot
A summer semi-regular.
Perched atop two upside-down
wooden Coca-Cola crates
stacked together, laid across two
shiny red-vinyl top, chrome-rimmed
swivel-seat bar stools
bringing me to proper sitting.
sipping height
until the summer my height
matched my station with
always jovial Joe, ever kindly
large-laughing Gloria
Joe would slip me dimes
to play his disc-bowling machine
feed his 45-laden Seeburg jukebox
always selections G5, G6
back-to-back Dean Martin starting
with the bass-thump of Houston…
My musical choices amused Joe
his dimes, gratis – except on Fridays
when I earned my keep
prepping Angler’s Edge worn,
maple dance floor
for the evening’s band
paid in advance, I would crank Dean; Little Ole Wine Drinker Me
grab the yellow-and-black shaker can
liberally sprinkle the dance wax
the floor all mine as I shuffled
to Dino crooning
“…I’m prayin’ for rain, in Califorrrrrnia….”
spontaneously choreographing
my personal pre-teen two-step
grinding the wax in
elevating the floor to polka, waltz
schottische, western swing perfection
finishing as Dino was faded off …little ole wine drinker, me…I say…
with a show-stopping slide
ending near the cramped bandstand
between wax-infused Levi knees
tongue-in-groove hardwood boards
meeting no resistance
the wax, the music, the memories
rich patina of my youth
remembering trumps
planned forgetting
spontaneity a full house,
repression a lowly pair
erasing the past is
deleting old email, your
in-box is empty, but…
our eternally modern
struggle remains
reply or delete?
reply or delete?
reply or delete
reply. delete.
indecisive
hunt-and-peck
via archetypical
cartoonish devil
on one shoulder
angel on the other
needing a reboot;
archeologist feverishly
digging away on one scapula
Santayana philosophically
musing on the other side
your contemplative
reveries frequently disrupted
answering the doorbell t0
Jacob Marley’s ghost
clad (sans chains) in
Dickensian FedEx uniform
resignedly you scrawl
your nonchalant signature
on her thick clipboard
close the door before
tossing the unopened envelope
onto the stack with the others
On family trips when
Plaid flannel shirts
stick, just to be
blending
we had just embarked when you left.
you at forty, thirty but especially not now
wore off leaving us with our
small office behind
Ponderable polemics, poetic 