Saturday, March 23, 2013

Dwight in Des Moines

So what inspired you to travel to Iowa,
In the ice spitting days of early spring,
(Not much of a respite from snowy New Hampshire)
Long before the wheat swirls in the summer heat
And the corn pops upon the stalks?
Is it basketball… or
Wrestling?  The Nationals…?
Old grapplers and coaches
Love their sport…
Stepping down to the arena floor
To wish a buddy good luck, talk shop,
Or just to put your toe once more on the mat.

Or is it some other excuse
To scratch an itch,
A might have been,
That you have had
Since the days on Columbia Rd.
When you and Wayne Kuzman
Walked the back streets of our small town
Discussing the finer points of the single-leg take-down,
While crossing the double tracks that headed west
Out of Ohio,
And wonder silently just where they led?





Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Fortunate Passages

Take a little bit of good fortune and sit with it
When it comes your way,
It’s the best approach to enjoy the ride.
Catch the wave of destiny and
Notice how it buoys you benevolently
Lifting you beyond your strength of will
And cavalier control.

 If luck is yours
You will recognize it as a gift of grace
And feeling emboldened you may try to circle back,
To see if it is still there within your grasp,
This may be so, sometimes…
But as likely as not, it is not.
Remember these times, such fortunate passages
Like the pages of an old photo album,
Which may bring a dear smile or two…
And then remember also that
Wisdom wishes us
To say thank you,
And then to let it be.


Thursday, March 14, 2013

Scars Afterwards

I let go of the wheel for a while
I just had to…
A visitor here I surely had overstayed
My welcome.
And not quite ready to compost into the soil
Like the rusting Pearce-Arrow
Parked deep in Walden Woods,
I let go, dream-like
No brakes, no horn
Downhill and picking up speed.

The crash of course
Was inevitable,
And when I came to
I was living in a yurt
On a stranded mountain side,
In the middle of the unfathomable Pacific.

You don’t get much forgiveness
When you pull up roots and leave,
Not much of a send-off either
I guess that those that had cared
Bought my dog-and-pony show.
Well I sure had.

 But now there is no show,
Just an occasional monologue,
And a lengthy convalescence.

 So the wounds and the scars don’t show-up sometimes
'til much later
When the bruises turn that yellowish-green
And the scabs well up like lava.