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| 30 July 2009, by Stanley R. Larson My neighbor and I still hang out the wash,
(I, each Thursday, taking my chances;
she, according to weather forecasts, I think,
or maybe by what she feels in her bones).
We laugh at StarTribune's report of some suburban bans
against clotheslines.
We wonder out loud whose tomatoes will first turn red,
and whether cucumbers will make it at all;
this year, it's been too cool and dry
for normal progress to the fall. Tenacious dandelions, spread as stars across green-earth skies,
drive in spike-like roots, take hold of earth, and won't let go.
Kids squeeze bunches of stems in tight fists
that will open only to release the buttery bouquet to Mom
who hurries to put them in water, in a crystal vase,
wondering how soon she might mourn both flower and child. While hanging bright, white unmentionables (some somewhat tattered)
on our clothesline, I, unembarrassed, remember my mother.
With one clothespin held in her mouth
and half a dozen more in her apron pocket,
thus needing not to walk over and over again
the east-west path to the back door
where full supply of pins hangs on the knob,
she does her woman's task with flair,
spacing each garment so as not to block the sun or air.
You'd think she'd held some tool to calculate
where the sheet would best allow the breeze to circulate
or where to place the pillow case and socks,
so each would recognize and meet their mates!
And I know she theorized regarding how to hang those socks,
always with toe pointed upward, so as not to show,
when dried and worn, a crease or ever-so-slight evidence
of the pin's pressure displayed for all to see on the exposed ankle,
as if that might be a matter worthy of shame.
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| P.S. (An old "Pail & Stick" poem, ©1989. Stanley Larson) "P.S." the notation read,
marking what writer must have weighed
an afterthought of such import
that it could not be left unsaid
until the next round of rhetoric.
But no post-scripting could override the
subtext of what had gone before:
the message could not be outdone
by anything in a pail,
nor could a stick supply threatening power
to annul original words.
No. No P.S. will work--not now.
Most likely never.
"Let your yea be yea and your nay be nay," I always say."
"Yes!Just so; that's as should be!" you agree. "
"No more; no less. Say what you have to say; then stop."
As Mrs. Hopewell might proclaim,
"Let's have none of this afterthought." P.S. The generic pail bears no mark.
The stick, dead and dry,
promises nothing more to follow,
except for resurrection. | | |
| That You May Know "I am the LORD," he had said, so
blood, frogs, gnats, and flies that stink
(arriving or departing)
should be enough, you'd think,
to let me know who it is I'm dealing with. Livestock in the field:
horses, donkeys, camels, herds and flocks--
(hardly little noticed yield of death), yet
hidden away, "out of sight, out of mind,"
to my hardened heart, my wrong is right,
and I will stand my ground. Soot fills the air and settles in fine dust,
breaking into sores on man and beast;
thunder, hail, and fire
strike down every plant and break every tree.
Swarms of locusts, borne on East wind,
dense, blanket the land, leaving nothing green--
then only a darkness to be felt. First born descendant of the throne,
first born of slave behind the mill,
first born of cattle--
all mine--
all die.
I refuse to listen,
or to know. How much like him,
the one of hardened heart,
would I (given half a chance)
prove myself to be,
knowing what I know,
and still choose, risking all,
not to know? | | |
| On Friday, January 23, 2009, Ron, Dianne and Craig Bonine, John, Kathleen, Becca and Philip McBride, and Janice and Stanley Larson gathered at about 6 p.m. in the Larson home (1603 Judd Ave N, Glencoe, MN) for lasagna, green salad (w/craisins, pineapple, & nuts!) and dessert (Chocolate!) AND fellowship and a hymn-sing. None of us claims to be a singer, but, for about two hours, we sang all of the verses we had available of each of the following hymns, to the violin accompaniment of Kathleen: He the Pearly Gates Will Open
Jesus Calls Us O'er the Tumult
What a Friend We Have in Jesus
Amazing Grace
There Is a Fountain Filled with Blood
Hallelujah, What a Savior
Come, Ye Disconsolate
Art Thou Weary, Art Thou Languid I'm guilty of making the choices of the hymns and doing introductory commentaries, based mostly on what I recalled as my earliest memory of hearing each hymn, or on some historical, biographical information about the author. It seemed to me like a foretaste of heaven! | | |
| Stanley R Larson, January 26, 2009 Facebook's faces, sometimes as strong as words on the wall,
or in Xanga's blogs, or in now-old email messages,
serve as evocateurs
that summon more than one could think was stored
in tangled strands beneath the cortex. That vault, in fact, proves not to be protected space
or cerecloth meant to hold or hide some hallowed hopes
that I had thought were now impervious,
reserved apart from further, subtle, deeper text,
not subject here to parse or vivisect. From vantage point of age, perchance
one sees that those faces smiling over progeny,
or cyber-lighted eyes peering out in brightness,
mask sober-tinged realities
expressed ever so casually in the orderly syntax
displayed on my wall or my blog or my mail. | | |
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