Over the years, I’ve dabbled in poetry and short story writing. These are what I’m willing to show the public—from time to time I will add newer efforts. Much of my best work was lost in a computer disaster, so some of what you see here are inferior recreations.
Whistle Stop
The boy stood shivering by the tracks
That curved into the distant darkness,
Lonely lines of earth-bound moonlight
Bright against the softly glowing snow.
His breath floated like clouds
Scudding across the hard points of starlight,
Reflected glints in the boy’s bright eyes,
Starry wonder in the cold night.
Swaying tree branches tapped together,
Pushed by slow breezes dense with winter
And rich with untouched vastness;
Sound itself seemed newborn of silence.
His hand gripped the lantern handle,
Intent on his task, watching and listening;
Then, deep and distant, a long whistle’s wail
Pierced the air, flowing through the hills.
Along the curving tracks, a new light appeared,
And the dead steel came alive, singing
Of power, movement, adventure;
The boy’s heart pounding in sympathetic joy.
Now in sight the distant light coalesced
Into a whirling headlamp banishing darkness,
Sparkling with blowing snow hurled
In the wake of the charging machine.
Awed, the boy flung his lantern-hand up
And down again—a small light in the hands
Of a small me to halt tons of flying metal;
But it obeyed with a whistled salute.
As the night train slowed, braking smoothly
Into the darkened station, the watching father
Smiled, remembering other trains and his own hands
On a lantern handle long ago.
Reflections on the Cross: March 25, 2003
Winter wind is sharp, hardening
The golden crispness of fall,
The lush softness of summer,
The blurry newness of spring;
It slices along the ridges, cutting
The stiff bareness of tree branches,
The crystal iciness of snow drifts,
The blinding whiteness of frozen ponds.
My soul is cracked, exposing
The willful blindness of my past,
The haggard emptiness of my present
The frightening darkness of my future;
It finds refuge in your cross, kindling
The unshaken supportiveness of love,
The steady hopefulness of reconciliation,
The patient certainness of resurrection.
Winter wind is here and now, giving way
To spring, summer and fall, an endless cycle
Of birth, life, and death;
Your cross is forever, pointing the way
To a new spring, summer and fall, an interwoven cycle
Of rebirth, new life, and vanquished death.
On Being Stressed
Taking time to unplug
From myriad miasmic moments,
Can I find the quiet moments
Of joy, fulfillment, peace?
Perhaps the extremes are bound
Together, inseparable, interwoven;
Perhaps fulfillment needs frustration,
Perhaps peace needs stress.
Would fall color be so poignant
Without inevitable winter?
Would winter hold such secret promise
Without inevitable spring?
Clouds
I saw the scudding clouds and laughed today;
A full measure of joy cascaded like rain
Washing clean my tangled, squirming mind.
I turned my face into the rays of sun
Streaming light between the clouds to warm
A wintery landscape waiting still for spring.
I blessed a man who needs to hear it said;
A blessing bouncing back to bless me more
Than I have ever blessed myself before.
To be alive! Here’s the amazing thing:
No amount of pain or grief or shame
Can take away the joy of scudding clouds.
I wrote the following short story in 1975, an assignment for a creative writing course at St. Paul’s School. I’d forgotten all about it, but when I was going through my father’s papers after his death I found that he’d saved a letter I sent him from school with a copy of the story. I’ve corrected a few of the more glaring errors, but otherwise the story is as my 17 year old self wrote it.
Two Children
Two little children sat near a large pond, watching the fish swim around empty beer cans. A policeman came by and, seeing no adults around, assumed they were lost. He walked up and stood by them.
“Hello there,” he said, “what are you doing?”
One of the children turned and stared up at him, but said nothing. The policeman noticed his eyes, bright and full of an undecodable meaning.
“Well? Are you going to say anything?” he spoke again.
The bright eyed child smiled and said, “Anything,” and then turned back to the pond. The policeman was a little startled by the sound of the child’s voice, which was unlike the eyes in that its meaning was humor, and contained no hidden meanings.
“O.k…. now why don’t you tell me who you are, and where your parents are?”
The bright eyed child did not turn around this time but said, “I am part of you, and my parents are yours.”
The other child, silent all this time, turned and said, “Come with us for a while.” The eyes of this child were dark and full of troubled meanings, and his voice was smooth and compelling. He reached out his hand and pulled the policeman’s arm.
“Where are we going?” the policeman asked.
“Everywhere,” answered the bright eyed child, “but nowhere in particular.”
The dark child led on to a field near the pond.
“We may stop here, if you are tired,” he said to the policeman.
“But we have gone only a few yards.”
“Is walking the only tiring task?”
They both sat down on the grass, while the bright eyed child remained standing near by. The policeman looked into the dark child’s eyes and then felt his troubles and fears bear down on him at once. He lay back and soon began to feel the gradual release of his problems. Soon he sat up.
“Good, you are done! Now you can play.” The bright eyed child ran to his side. “You can jump as high as you can, climb trees—why not run as fast as the wind?” He leapt into the air and landed in a heap of energy. The policeman jumped, and found to his surprise that he could jump as high as the child and then stay there until he slowly slid back to the ground. He ran around the field twice, before he even knew he had started. The child and he played together as both children and adults in a free for all of energy and carefree fun. The policeman turned and looked at the dark child. At once the dark eyes held him, and he could do nothing but stare into them.
“Come here.”
The policeman came over. “Why do you not play with us?”
The child did not answer, but took his hand and said, “Remember this day when you live and die.”
The bright eyed child took his other hand, and at once the policeman felt himself again. He turned to say something, but the children were gone.
