Pearl

It was a few words
A sentence
Uttered on
The playground
Long ago at
Some early age

It stuck and
Rolled around
And around
From that
Awkward time
When your nose
Was too big
For your face

And continued
With less frequency
As somehow
Your face grew
And your nose
Shrank
Rolling around
And around
In your brain
Covering itself
With layers
Of protection
From slights
Real and perceived

Until it was like
A pearl
That sentence
Like a grain of sand
That got inside
And grew to
Become a part
Of who you are

Talisman

I carry it in my
Pants pocket

It is like a well
Worn worry stone

A talisman
A connection
That nurtures
With its touch
Providing a sense
Of safety, security
And comfort

Each day it finds
Its way to that
Right front pocket
To go again
With me into the
World

My Dad’s
Pocket knife

Meade

Made both for
The academy and
For the world

Hewn by the
Wisdom and
Power of language

His lectures
Stirred the ramparts;
His students moving
On to make a difference

The impact
He had on them
And his broader
Community continues
Long remembered

With quavering voice
He said he was touched
By the impact a small town
English teacher can have –
Sending forth a student
Grounded in the classics

Unknowingly he spoke
Of himself
Of the majestic reach
Of a man and a teacher
Who has mattered

The occasion was
The unveiling of
A celebratory portrait
At his school

In it you could see that
Twinkle in his eye and
A mischievous brightness
That lights up our world

Gary

He was dying
Ravaged by an
Aggressive cancer
In his brain

When his uncle,
My father, died
Some three years
Ago he asked if he
Could have a small
Tool from his shop

A talisman of
The man he so
Admired who had
Taken him under
His wing when
His own father
Died suddenly when
He was a boy of ten

Along with Sunday supper
And a framed photo
Of him with my Dad
I brought a well used
Screwdriver with a handle
Covered in blue paint

Is this mine to keep?
He said, holding it in
The hand that still worked

I’ll treasure this and
Put it with the my special things
He said from his bed

It lay next to him
For those few more days
Until he too died
And joined the fellow
Craftsman he so loved.

Whistle

I spent endless hours
Working on pursing
My lips just right

With practice I could imitate
Several local songbirds
And keep my self
Company while doing chores

I would do songs and sometimes
Go on so long my lips would ache

It is becoming a lost art
And now people don't
Know what it means
To wet you whistle

A Man

A man
Comprised of
Many parts

His personality
Like the
Seasons

Changes and
Reflects those
Around him

Forces which
Bend and shape

At his core
There holds
A center
Which like
The earth
Allows the
Seasons to
Unfold

Walleye

It is the staple
Fish of the
Minnesota lakes
Country

Filleted and breaded
It anchors many
Special suppers
In that flat land

We had a walleye
Fillet that first
Night in Fosston

In my big
City way I
Inquired of the
Waitress the
Provenance of
The fish

Wondering if
It were line
Caught by a
Sensitive fisherman

"Where did the
fish come from,"
I asked

"It came from
the man who sells
us the fish,"
she replied