All the More Reason to Care

When summer grew hot
a creek named Turtle on the maps
was familiarly called Sulfur Creek
by the denizens of Trafford,
the small factory town it meandered through,
It was a combination of effluents.
The color came from the upstream clay deposits
mined to make the brick walls of the factory
and most of the town's old dwellings,
built to house the families of the workers
at the factory and supporting railroads.
The smell of damnation came
From the foul reek of the chemicals
dumped into the flowing waters
by the men who were thankful for the jobs
they found making circuit breakers
and laminates meant to imitate quartz.
The waters run clearer now, the factory shut.
Republican may argue with Democrat
about the reasons why any business fails,
but both agree there was nothing to celebrate
when the town's children would come home
from playing in the noisome waters,
having snuck off to play in the creek,
their clothing stained and reeking
from the poisons everyone knew were lurking
in the creek that began as clear spring waters
in the hills off Route 66 near Dunningtown.
All the more reason to care
for all flowing waters eventually seek larger water,
somewhere, be it the shores of South Carolina
or the windswept Oregon coast,
and the ocean is the foundation
of all life on this fragile planet.

Another Jigsaw effort. Words from an old High School friend Larraine Kozlowski (nee Bugiski): summer, Sulfur Creek, Trafford, old, thankful, Democrat, celebrate, ocean, South Carolina, Oregon

How to Change the World

She's 10 years old and worried,

caught up in thinking about the future
frightened of the darkness she sees ahead.
While reading her chapter books and dreaming about horses,
she can't help but see and hear the news
the grown-ups are watching on the television.

At 10 years old, her concerns should only be about
what to wear, her friends, her hairstyle, her homework,
but she's smart, she pays attention, and she cares.

She wonders at the threat of global warming.
She wonders how her paternal grandmother can support
a man named Trump who brags about assaulting women,
how he acts like a schoolyard bully
calling anyone who opposes him names.
She listens as Noni complains about taxes,
about how the voting was rigged
and how she cheered the rebellion in January
where police were viciously attacked.

"Why are Republicans acting like this?" she asks Pop Pop

her maternal grandfather.
"I'm just a little girl," she says,
"what can I do about these things?"

"YOU can change the world!" her pop pop says.
He tells her a tale of his childhood
growing up in a Pennsylvania factory town
where the air was filled with soot
from factory smoke stacks fired with coal,
where the local creek that should have held trout
instead was orange and stank of sulfur
from the factory’s unregulated effluent.
He tells her how unions built the middle class
and gave his father a better life,
how taxes pay for the roads, bridges,
firemen, police and schools,
the things we all depend upon.
And he tells her how when he was young
that you could be denied service in a restaurant
simply because of the color of your skin.

"We were young, like you,” Pop Pop tells her,
“but enough of us wondered
what can we do about these things?
So we spoke up! We said "Enough!"
And we found that together we were strong.
We learned that one individual can make a difference!"

Pop Pop gives her books to prove
that she, just a ‘little girl,’
Can make a difference.
Books about Greta, Malala,
Amanda, Ruby and Claudette.
All young women who were brave
and willing to say "Enough!"

"But Pop Pop," she asks.
"What about old men like Kevin McCarthy?

They have so much power!"

Pop Pop laughs,
"that corrupt old fool couldn't hold a candle to you!
You are the storm coming he fears the most!
But pay attention. It will be up to you
and others like you,
to fix what he is breaking."

Another Jigsaw effort. Words provided by old high school acquaintance Joseph Miller. Words are global warming, Trump, Republicans, taxes, voting, rebellion, Pennsylvania, Kevin, January, unions. 

Trumpet Call

A young girl in her Easter finery

skipping through the park,

twirling an umbrella and laughing

at the kaleidoscope of colors the spinning creates

reminds me how simple things,

like colors flashing in the sun,

would bring a joy that, once,

long ago it seems, would wash over me

to lift my spirits out of an emotional ditch,

filled with the detritus and silt of past hurts

and worries of the future,

that I would seem to fall into,

again and again.

Age and responsibility kept pressing on my shoulders,

leaving me bereft of smiles and happiness,

furrowing my brow with the lines of worry,

fear and anger, that many mistake for age.

A finch sitting in an old oak tree warbling its songs

understands more about this world than I do.

No future, no past, just an ever-present now.

Was it age that silenced that simple joy?

Why do I sit, cozened by an old religion

into waiting for a trumpet to sound,

calling me away from my worldly cares,

to be happy again?

The thought of that trumpet’s call

suddenly makes me laugh,

as I realize the song of the finch

and the little girl’s laughter

are indeed, the clarion call to happiness

I have sorely missed for all these years.

Ten words from a friend, Allison: trumpet, wash, bereft, silt, finch, umbrella, oak, finery, ditch, lift.

Forest Meditation

Following a well-worn path from the cabin,

she pushes through the dense brush to her spot,

her hidden sanctuary, and sits on a fallen tree

lying next to a large mirror-surfaced pond

created long ago when a jumble of large rocks

slid down the hill side in a torrential storm

to impound the swift moving waters

of a trout stream winding its way

through the valley.

Surrounded by the cool fresh green of leaf and fern,

she kicks her shoes off and smiles,

her bare feet and toes caressing

the cold soft mud and gravel,

the past week’s tension escaping,

releasing in a long exhalation.

The first solitary raindrop from the dark cloud

of an imminent storm ripples on the surface

animating the reflections shining on the water.
It is a discovery for her, a revelation

that she is truly in the moment,

the past forgotten and the future unimagined.

With a deep inward chuckle she speaks

expressing her thought out loud

as if to make it official,

“I shall call you Loch Reflection!”

As the intermittent drops

rapidly turn into a steady rain,

scattering the reflections on the surface

into chaos, she continues to sit, 

allowing the downpour to bathe her

to cleanse body, mind and soul,

at peace, finally.

Another jigsaw poem. This one took almost two weeks to work out. Words were given to me by my sister-in-law Kimberlee. They are: Leaf cloud fern mud pond stream raindrop loch trout gravel

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I have been struggling with writer's block a lot over the past couple of years. I have all sorts of excuses - work, loss of work, financial worries, health problems, issues in our politics and society, family issues - but in the end, they are all excuses. 
I've written hundreds of letters to the editor, then tossed them into the trash and deleted the trash. A couple have made it to the local newspaper. And then there's the nonsense of Facebook. OMG have I LOL'd far too much! Pissing matches with trolls, long diatribes on the state of affairs in this country and the world, and fervent appeals for people to pay attention to the climate crisis, replete with source citations and substantiating science.
Unfortunately, the creative side has been absent. So yesterday I turned to an old friend to see if I could kick-start my muse. I call it the jigsaw poem. I ask folks to give me 10 random words and I look for an inspiration in them to write a poem using those words within the poem.
So, yesterday my niece, Veronica, gave me these 10 words: preserve, condensation, lichen, anime, coffee, bufflehead, lighting, multiplication, fluffy, towered. 

Here is the poem I cobbled together using them. Please tell me what you think!

Deciding Factor

Somehow life had become too complex,

The simplicity of morning coffee and watching anime

Had slowly evolved into a multiplication of problems

Of bills, relationships and responsibilities,

Towering higher and higher, frightening, threatening.

So she ran, seeking the solace of ocean waves,

lichen covered rocks and the refreshing condensation

of morning mists floating down from the skies.

It is here she finds solace.

The dim lighting of dawn is healing to her,

A therapy of light and the unspoken promise

Of a new day.

The smells of brine and the rippling beauty

Of the receding tide preserves her inner calm.

The strength within that city living abhors

Gradually returns.

A bufflehead and its fluffy chick wander the mud flats

Diligently searching for the tiny shrimp, worms and larvae

Exposed by the receding waters.

“I belong here, with you,” she says to the small ducks.

“Not in steel, concrete and glass canyons.

Here where the water is a mirror, where chaos has order,

Where life is in the present moment,

Worrying neither about the past or the future.”

The ducks pay her no heed and continue their foraging.

Simplicity, she thinks, knowing this calming scene

Is a complex tableau of life and death beyond imagination,

Yet, calm. And in that healing calm

She makes her decision.

3/31/20

I'm baaaack!
Yes, I have neglected this blog for quite a few years, but now I'm back.
My intent is to show everyone some of my latest poetry, maybe even a glimpse into some of my prose projects, plus provide folks with some interesting links I have found to what I believe are outstanding writers, poets and artists.
Here's the deal. I'm old. I'm living off Social Security and because of some physical issues and my advanced years, it has been impossible to find work in this age-biased society. Funny, though, how I am always welcomed and appreciated as a volunteer! Hmmmm?
Because of these things I hope to maybe monetize these efforts via ads on my site(s). So please click through those ads. Seriously - it helps!
And yes, I said site(s). Stay tuned for a second poetry oriented blog , plus more, coming soon!
Bill