My arm, my hand, my fingertips
Stretch out until my shoulder hurts
To Sirius
And the Pleiades
Just - to wave -
As from a boat to shadows on a bridge.
With arms and legs and head in ballet pose,
She calls, "Watch me!" and holds position still
Until my eyes meet hers - then off she goes
To share the thrills of practicing her skill.
A cartwheel, round-off, walkover, and dive
To handsprings, aerials, and somersaults -
Her pale pink limbs like windmills spinning live -
Till finally a split, and then she halts.
Her body suit reveals a skinny frame
Of bones and sinew hard from hours long
Spent bending, pushing, stretching in the name
Of graceful movement and position strong.
An alien world all upside-down she's found
Exploring off our planet's trusty ground.
She fills her head with tales of mystic lands
In fog-dimmed past where castles tall and groves
Enchanted served as homes for fairy bands,
And godmothers with magic wands in droves
Were found for princesses and ladies fair
When bullied by mean witches' evil spells.
But Cindy sings her songs and hangs her hair
From sad Rapunzel's tower where she dwells
Alone, awaiting some chance passer-by
To take the time to scale that charming cord.
For, after all, the tower's not too high
A climb to share frail fancies she has stored.
Yet it appears that most prefer to quest
For love far off where it's a sterner test.
I'll wait for you by our sycamore tree,
Minding the tolling sharpener's bell
Echoing off porches I named so well.
So should you ever look for me
That's where I'll be
(By our sycamore tree)
My pulse tolling the sharpener's bell.
The children are settled now.
Sleep came keeping each other awake.
Bedtime giggles that quell fear and loneliness
Have ended,
Along with talk of home, bathroom trips,
And traded tales of psychic wonder.
In the hollow,
The water wheel thumps its way through the night -
A wilderness monster out stalking its prey.
Twice slamming doors called -
For the girl with diabetes and boy with a cough -
Helped along their way to nurse's care
With escort and jacket.
The flashlight doesn't reach the stars;
But the top of that tree it can easily grasp,
And time-weary headstones in the old cemetery.
In motionless cabins all still and all dark,
Every sleeping child's heart beats some seventy times
In each passing minute -
Which sums seven thousand for all we have here.
Sounds of the night continue to tease -
Cicadas and crickets and grandfather frogs,
And hickory nuts on the rooftops.
A check of all beds finds most in deep sleep,
But chat with the one who smiles wide awake
Of best friends and bats and baby-sitting.
How often do a hundred hearts beat in an hour?
Stop, and listen -
Is there a sound out of place?
Mortality is the issue
On shadowed stairs to relentlessly black basement.
Hope relies on one two inch match
To illuminate a path to the hanging bulb -
A hundred miles away.
You shouldn't touch a spider's web,
Or the wings of a monarch butterfly,
Or anyone's imperfect dream.
It's alright to touch a rose petal - carefully,
Or - if you're not afraid -
A cheek with an arab tear,
Or a horse -
Most horses don't mind being touched.
Isn't it sad -
Each little girl clad
In uniform plaid?
Ocean -
Thrills the surfer, goes through shark,
And fondles drowning sailor -
Running, dodging, jumping, falling
Crackling hissing cheering sighing
Chilling smelling
Massaging senses - oils of life upon its hands.
God, I would be by ocean;
Or by the wind, inconstant wind -
Flatters bear, holds up hawk,
And drives to musty doorways shaking children of the streets -
Pushing holding pointing twisting
Breaking keening
Bringing lifebreath to my cheek -
Then lies calm.
Still, there is the night
Just out the door -
With no spirit of its own -
Witness mute to yawning watchman, glowing bus,
And perfumed lady on the corner -
Living hoping trying dying - biding all.
I touch what touches - and claim the bond.
Big and black and completely out of place,
Drifting in like time at ease
To a weightless stop on top of second base -
Center stage and poised.
Kickball ends, of course,
As seven year old hands cover open mouths,
And girls scream.
An emergency note is sent:
"A bird is attacking the children."
Unusual, for sure, and needing official response;
Yet one among many tales
To be written by the principal someday when there's time.
In two directions the little ones run -
Away or toward the invader,
As daring or fright shapes their course of action.
But the phantom has drawn a line
Marking the limits of the nearest approach allowed.
Though tempted with lunch box goodies,
A foot too near sends him off on wings
As broad as the children are tall
To a step beyond reach or to the edge of the roof;
But never any higher, or never far.
Then suddenly he talks!
"Hi-Bud, hi Bud," he says. A crow that talks!
No omen of ill will -
Only a pet on the loose and lost -
Fearing three circling shadows
More than fifty children playing kickball.
He crosses here to there
When happy sounds lure him from a perch,
Or when called by his adopted name, Hi-Bud.
His fame spreads class to class
As gym teachers try nobly their planned routine to keep
Between his sudden flights across the field.
Then he leaves -
Tired of the game,
Or the haunting shadows gone,
Or missing home.
He isn't seen again;
Except when he's found soaring
Over dinner tables of hundreds of families whose children
Played kickball on the playground that day -
And occasionally when an adult becomes a child again,
Recounting the time
When a crow visited the playground.
June 10, 1982
Early dusk,
Children gone,
Teachers gone,
Custodians now on daytime hours.
All are gone but me -
Looking at the ghosts.
Lizbeth bopped Melissa's nose.
Mary braided Debbie's hair.
Joey ran when told to walk.
Karen put her hand in mine.
Curt could never do a cartwheel.
Jane and Sally always giggled.
The hall's proud morning polish
Filtered dull by sneaker scuffs
From a hundred thousand footsteps
Reflects the sleepy evening light
Allowed through mid-way exit doors.
Looking at the ghosts.
Bobby ran away from school.
Kim used gum to buy a friend.
Billy wrote bad words on walls.
John was told his mother died.
Steve and betty kissed in math class.
Peggy broke her collarbone.
In sassy chaos, classroom desks and chairs
Relax, as broken ballpoints, crayon stumps,
Forgotten tests and ancient homework pages,
Notes of love and hate, and daring sketches
Lounge on floors in stoic innocence.
Looking at the ghosts.
Larry cried.
Janien laughed
Kristi shook.
Martin won.
Norman lost.
Chip didn't care.
Somber tolling silence all around, except,
Sometimes, for rudely clanking pipes and snapping switches -
And errant attic breezes lifting ceiling tiles.
Listen! Water loosed from automatic flushers
Cleansing any vestiges of life away.
Looking at the ghosts.
Children gone.
Building gone.
Now I am gone.
Who is there to see the ghosts?
The mockingbird puts on a vaudeville show,
A utility pole for a stage.
He soars and dives and chatters and sings -
At The Palace he'd have been the rage.
How lonely must be this bird's solo performance -
No audience provides the applause.
Only occasional idle observers
Heading nowhere - perhaps might pause.
Yet he continues his chants and his flying gymnastics,
And fulfills some restless role.
Aloof from flocks and coveys and all -
Isn't he a peculiar soul!
Poetry from Circles Linger copyright 1987 by Gordon H. Kearns
Comments: gkearns@prodigy.net
