Stain-glass Eyes

Little Yellow Bird What? You have a message? Tell me,  I don't see! There must be a reason, you landed close to me. You jump  on my window, look in  at my fright. What do you want? What course is your flight? You flit yellow wings, "Don't go",  You seem to say. What do you want? I  don't have all day! Okay! I see you. I'll stay awhile. Read dates,  names and service of each soldier child. White gravestones  sit still, On this overcast day. Why me?  What can I do? No words can I say. Like a chess board of players lined up  side by side, Game's finished,  it's done. Pawns they all died. I stay and read names Melvin,  Donald and Roy.  Dates carved in black, each one  for a boy. Forgotten.  Not today, I accompany the dead. A message delivered, Warm tears are shed. Humbled and weary, I want to lay down. in soft grass by spirits, this little bird found. I open my car door, See a veil  through the mirror. It was lifted awhile and guided me her

Road Construction Stopping Along Lake Michigan Traveling to Iron Mountain this week. My road trip was full of surprises and the familiar: a) Beautiful driftwood waiting for me to find on a sandy beach b) Road construction stops forcing me roll my window down to hear the sounds in the woods Wilson, Michigan c) Small ghost towns looking more beautiful than sad           d) Clear Lake Michigan water showing all the sandbars and rocks           e) Cut River Bridge with a flash view to the river below f) Norway's spring gushing with fresh water and a man filling up    several milk bottles, his small pick-up truck parked by the spring g) A cemetery with more than a thousand little veteran flags, flapping in the wind h) Early morning along US-2, winding along Lake Michigan, feeling like it's     within arm's reach i) Enormous white pines canopying the wooded areas j) Real estate signs by swampy land     (making me smil

"Ney" reunion on Phil Howdyshell's property in Ithaca It's Saturday.  A day in July.  Perfect as it will get for a family reunion.  I sit drinking coffee and eating a bagel early this morning, while it's still sixty-two degrees.  I started thinking of all the Americans who will reunite with their families today. They'll wake up, maybe pack up their coolers, take one extra long look in the mirror.  Preparing to see relatives they may not have seen for years, or saw last July. Like a powwow.  A gathering for music, laughter, hugs and excess consumption of the best recipes.  All shared on the big table. Mom, Carol, Jim and I will drive to Ithaca to meet family for the "Ney" reunion. Jim and Carol's daughter, Caitlin, will come with a friend from Lansing.   Ney is Mom's "maiden" name.  Mom's family lived in an rural area called Lakefield, on a farm, where she grew up. There were thirteen children in the Ney family. Some of

She left the sidewalk across the small patch of stubbly grass. She crossed over to Church Street ahead of me, at a slant. Purpose in her stride. Twice she quickly shook her head to the side,  The uneven line of hair obeyed. It formed a curved line by her ear.  Out of her face. The second time she made this endearing movement with her hair I saw her face. Smooth, white against her straight black hair. Beautiful, rounded, familiar features. Dark eyebrows. High, full cheekbones, big eyes. Shelley Cope. With each stride  her right arm swung ahead. Further than her left. Its pendulum propelled her to some forward competence.  Her lips closed. Concentrating. Head up. Looking straight ahead. Not glancing down. Determined, confident, mature. Natural beauty. I stifled my, "Hey, Cope!"  Held back my greeting. I didn't hold back the memories. I couldn't. They rushed in. My eyes followed Shelley's daughter, as she turned the street corner ahead and disappeared.

Walking in the warm, humid weather with Mom is nice.  Hardly a breeze.  We walked along the Huron Lake shoreline to the Dock 3 park.  It has a boat ramp and is a possible swimming spot for us.  I've been swimming at the other boat ramp place, east of St. Ignace. I take Mom there so we don't have to tackle the loose rocks while walking into the water.  The problem with that spot is the Sheriff docks his boat at one of the small docks. I've heard him tell young swimmers, "There's no swimming, here."  (He's hasn't told Mom and me to quit swimming, YET!  I have a few answers ready for him)  I know it's his job, but it's annoying to know young people are turned away from swimming in this extreme heat. I spent my childhood summer days and evenings swimming.  I spent a lot of time down at the old Arnold Line dock.  Another place I loved to swim was by the mooring lines at the state marina.   I liked to sit on them, with my body half-submerged in the

Naked, I float. I feed myself, Inadequately. Parameters are set. They suspend me In a hazy bubble. Memories swirl around me. They pretend to nurture. Surrounding me with a watery abode. Can this be? An enduring dwelling place? Acceptance of existing rules of play. Acceptance of standards,  Each one static, Consistently fed through a thin worn out umbilical cord. Everything closes in,  I am being crushed. All this intense pressure  squeezes back my determination to leave. Intense appetite clears my mushy brain. Instinct pushes me to survive.  I kick and push.  My head throbs. There's no turning back. This long awaited labor is real. Choking will kill me if I falter. Excessive options could slow my decent. I arrive. My eyes squint to limit images. Too much will blind me. Homeless freedom Attaches itself to my first smile. Relaxed, I feel permission of renewal. I will rest. Regenerate from the struggle. Take time to break down the residual layers, Cemented from my journey.

Summer in northern Michigan. Dripping with sweat, waiting tables and smiling at tourists. Waiting until until I get off work to jump in the lake. Wondering if my work schedule compares to my friends' so we can plan a trip to the Sand Dunes. Checking if my uniform is washed and on the clothesline, drying for tomorrow. Wondering how anyone can be retired with so much time on their hands. Pitying them because they are too old to ever have any fun. I'm dripping with sweat, Can jump in the lake when I like. Don't care about schedules. Don't need someone to hold my hand to go out to the Sand Dunes. Don't need a uniform and I wear what is comfortable. Retired with plenty of time that flies by. I'll never be too old to have fun. Summer in northern Michigan.

Driving through Kalkaska, I think about cell-phone reception.  I'm almost there.  It's all so foreign with a ghost-like feeling of memory.  Driving past the miles of pines in neatly planted rows, empty gas stations, stands of washed cherries, small plots of vegetables next to run down two-story houses, in the middle of nowhere.  Grass only grows in clumps among the sand and rock.  The abandoned farmland has a look of past, futile attempts to settle. Before I realize what I'm doing, I catch myself checking the gas prices in the small 45 mile per hour towns.  I stare at a porch with a large towel tossed over the railing.  I imagine someone headed for a little lake nearby to cool off in this heat.  Like the waves slowly licking the shore on a hot day, I'm watching memory slides in my mind.  I make myself focus on the road and picture what would happen if a big deer jumped out of the tall grass while my eyes were closed while they were wide open.  I chew on some more small

Stretch, lift, extend, breathe. Shoulders back, and down to relieve. Avoid any pain, while body shifts. From dysfunctional limbs to three ounce lifts. "How ya doin'?" in kindness intends. an answer fitting, "It all depends." On the stance I take to sit, or walk. Write, eat, sleep or even talk. Avoid discussion me, myself and I. Think of an answer most likely a lie. "Better each day." Works and is vague. Saves on friends who leave like the plague. They don't want to know. They're being polite. They can't conceive of a daily fight. Better each day? A slippery gage. Determination, a war to wage. Regain strength, self-respect, hope. Un-stuck from the end of pulley and rope. Time, a friend, with forgetful brain. Blocks out memory of misery and pain. "Relax" I hear. What muscle first? Mental training, perform, rehearse. Mantras, curses,  crying sprees. Jolts of pain weakened knees. Focus comes  no other choice. I s