The Old Wing Chair

In the corner,

arms curved out to hold,

wooden hands protruding,

stretching ,  resting,

from its sea green damask clothes,

its legs slightly bending,

clawed to the rug below,

awaiting, making room

for two if one was small

to be there snuggled in a lap

when happy or when sad,

now worn in spots,

with traces in its threads

of all the times it held them,

a father and a son,

who now grown gazes down upon it

and imagines he’s still little,

standing looking up,

his father there again,

his arms held out to hold.

This Old Sweater

This old sweater,

white ribbed wool,

heavy

with times we’ve spent together,

the patterned puffs ,

and yarn stitched lines,

by myth I’m told,

but tell my friends as true,

were first used as family signs,

so  those Aron sailors

washed ashore were known.

Its gentle itch next my skin,

welcome to me unlike others,

an alive and touching friend

recalling worn past ways of:

love lying rumpled by me on the floor,

cold wet tear soaked days,

wind tickled times blowing joy,

the soft light blazing inside me,

its thick white cables tied,

to memories from the deep.

I Saw a Bicyle in the Road

I saw a bicycle in the road

tossed and tumbled

when father yelled at son

“Next time kick him when he’s down.”

and wondered what else he,

trusting  so  advised,

this boy by chance

a man might become.

Perhaps even little

would be more than I had done.

If this father’s way became the son’s,

the heights ahead,

of brutal hurts and hates

harder than I ever saw

would be more for me than him

and I hopeless

blasted bloodied

in the try.

I see a bicycle in the road.

I smile.

My daughter laughing

rides on by.

The Cottage Tap

Out from the broken lattice,

below the white clapped cottage side

water from the sand point well

through the one turn tap,

through wriggling toes,

splashes beach sand on the flag stone path

before toe and heel track away,

dripping foot slapped puddle shadows,

to the front screen door that springs and slams

behind the damp traces left behind,

from shore side joyful playing paused,

drying in the smiling sun

and the kissing pine scent breeze,

carefree days’ passage kept,

by the flowing  time of the cottage tap.