Daisy Clover, Me and Thee

I live inside a Daisy Clover

World for a little while.

I see Natalie/Daisy on

The boardwalk,

And Christopher Plummer,

Right after The Sound of Music

Which I understand he just

Wanted to forget

And Daisy sings in someone

Other than Natalie’s voice

Just like in West Side Story

On her way to fame

As she stakes her claim.

Sweet Natalie has a song

That cries to be sung. It’s

1965 (or 35) and the music sounds

Just like it as Ruth Gordon

Croaks out some sounds

On the California (seems like Jersey)

Shore sounding tough for an old

Jersey gal, and a really young (just

Look at his skin) Robert Redford,

Of course, looking Robert

Redford-esk and a lot

Like what I imagine my

Late father-in-law looked

Like when he was Redford

In The Sting, and, Holy Cow,

That was so much like the guy

From the South-side who was my

Late wife’s dad and my son’s

Grandfather, my son looking

A lot like Redford, also. And,

Yes, even though it has been

Nineteen years since she died,

I still miss the blond-haired, blue/

Green-eyed girl who could have

Been Redford’s sister. She’s the

One who I met at fourteen and

Threw straw at on a church hay-

Ride and then courted seven

Years later, married, lived

With for twenty-six years and

Who then up and died in

A day.  While I watch Natalie

Scream and shout and yell

Her Daisy Clover yell

Knowing that she, too

Died in a day, drowned.

As I watch I hear Barbra

Streisand singing “The Way

We Were,” and Natalie,

Christopher, Robert, Ruth,

My late, great father-in-law

And the blond-haired, blue-

Green eyed girl I loved

All dance together on what sure

Seemed like that Jersey shore.

Voices Rise Like Blue Jays

Voices rise like Blue Jays

Swarming a garden and

Claiming their territory

Even from each other,

Except the sound is soft

And quiet, passing only

Between select ears, for

Now, but, later, for other

Ears teased by slippery

Tongues passive but as

Aggressive as those Jays

Claiming their territory

In what should be the

Realm’s version of the

Garden Of Eden, the

Coffee hour following

Worship and later.

Would He Know How To Do It Again?

He sits in the back pew on Sunday morning

Arriving just after the passing of the peace.

He observes the service from a distance

As far away as at least the next galaxy.

He experiences an enormous disconnect from

The pulpit, a place where he stood for forty-

Two years in various denominations, locations

And states of the union, mid-south and mid-west.

He seems to remember playing baseball in

Little league, Kiwanis league, high school

And junior college and he can anticipate

Which pitch is going to be thrown by the

Professional on T.V. and when the preacher

Is going to throw a curve ball or spit ball at

The batters in the pews. But it’s almost like

He never played the game, and almost like

He never preached a sermon, led a service

Of worship on Sunday or a funeral anytime.

Ironically, he can recall, all too well, what

It was like to lead a wedding service

Which he never liked, because the kids to

Be married never listened to him as they

Looked saccharin-ly into each other’s eyes

And it killed his whole weekend what

With Friday rehearsal, Saturday wedding

And then his usual Sunday responsibilities.

How ironic that he would remember what

He didn’t like to do, but couldn’t remember

If he could remember how to do all the

Stuff he had loved to do ever again.

Fire Blasts

Fire blasts out of hell onto earth and

Jumps over hill and dale and interstate

Torching and scorching along the way,

While rain from heaven falls to earth

Like fire out of hell and the drought

Ends but floods roar through towns.

Winds from the West kick zephyrs

In the groin while they flash and trash

Trees and power poles scrunching cars and

People, and coyotes and bobcats and

Mountain lions and the 110 year old

Chocolate Lab scurry for cover while

Fahrenheit 451 rises in the foundry

And plastic and metal and glass

Melt as its breath blasts away

Just about everything, including books,

That anyone ever bought from a long time

Passing or, perhaps, just that morning.

They sit on the back of the yacht sway-

Ing in the gentle breeze and he proffers

That they are all cooked like the

Bacon some had for breakfast and one

Lifts his nose and breathes in the some-

What cool air and blows him off with

The proclamation that this coming

Winter will probably be more frigid

Than any they have ever experienced

Before.

Joseph Smith’s Dreams

Mysteries fly like bats

Out of a cave in search

Of nightly feasts.

Fantasies grow out of

Dreams of visions

Of gods within.

Nineteenth century dis-

Content spawns a

Plethora of ideas

Out of rocky New England

Spiritual soil ready to

Move west

When traditional minds

Shout “Don’t tread

On my Congregationalism.”

Could have been an

Interesting novel, Joe,

But, if you insist,

Where are those Golden

Tablets? Presbyterians

Know the Decalogue

Shattered at the base

Of Mt. Sinai when

Moses got his

Dander up, so they,

At least, have

An excuse,

Or maybe not. A copy

Parked in the Ark

Went missing, too.

So maybe there is

Gold in that there

Lost Ark.

And so it is

That religions

Are born.