Myth Of The Mound

I learned the myth of the mound was blowing away
from the TV's urgent plea.
Humidity transformed into a sickly, green hue.
I need to see what is coming, but the cedars block the view.
The rapidly increasing darkness and howl means the monster broke free.
Sirens rise to take a stand, join the fray.

Mom's at the store, dad's day at the Capitol just began.
Alone. . . across the street to join the neighbors downstairs.
Inflow yanks at my feet, begging me to slip, and my eyes have to know.
Looking backward, I keep moving forward...it follows...I might be too slow! 
Bathed in different light -- the dying sun, exploding blue arcs, headlights in the air.
The door latches, then leaves, along with everything else of where I just ran.

Monticello

Tracks down the middle of the street.
But the Monon doesn't run them anymore.
Miles pass mutely by on the way to Monticello.
Hoping some of my questions are lost on the way home.




Your signature was recognized by men much smarter than me.
But their rate of concentration lapses.
Replaced by apprehension, realizing what, if not sure when.
But not long...as your fuel breezes past their skyward gaze,
as it tracks down the middle of the street.


I see the black sky boil over and spill to the ground.
And it tracks down the middle of the street...taking aim on all I know.
The walls are giving up, but instruments persevere.
Pressure and mercy rapidly fade in equal measure.

Accounting for what is no longer.
Trying to remember all I know, now gone.
Disbelief tunnels my vision.
And it tracks down the middle of the street.

Aftermath

I used to dream of spring

and a lifetime of long June days

I watched you walk away into the warm, whistling wind

Singing with your voice, "So long".

I should have stopped you in your tracks,

by the tracks long lost.

I should have realized and spoken these words...

"Take all my tomorrows and give me one more hour tonight."

I've been walking for so long,

but I've never gotten too far.

Impeded by spring's warm, whistling wind

which caught and carried my life away.

As I gaze into your face -- brilliant, blue, and fair.

Words catch and choke as I ask myself again.

How many more steps till I can stop drawing this spring air?

Elephant

Just home from work

and I'm still not quite here.

When it was morning,

I walked out on Tracy's simmering mood

and into her thick June sky.

The elephant's trunk hangs from a cloud

In sepia, it seems

there can be no explanation, but a dream

Scale out of whack -- no longer confined, no turning back.

In color, 

smooth rampage just born.

The trunk flails and takes aim.

Storms through the corn,

coming for me to reconcile the blame.

I'm still not quite here.

In the afternoon,

as Tracy's sky dims to deathly grey and ghostly white,

I ran back to her worried eyes and reflected them back.

And directly, the stampede consumed my regret.

Twins

Palm Sunday service in Goshen

The sermon of Jesus’ return to Jerusalem…

and knowing what's coming

As the entrance hymn fades, I'm

Wondering where the damp, chilly morning went

Wondering how it gave way to muggy warmth

Wondering why I urged the twins to wear their jackets

Wondering when I last saw a coppery noon sky

Wondering what's coming

On the mound in Pringle Park,

a whiffle curve doesn't break.

Whistling the increasing wind, just past my ear

turns me around and while the wind is gaining ground. . .

                an early warning

the winning run scores

                of what's coming.

The gathering darkness crept up from the west

Didn't we just spring forward?

An increasing weight bears down on my chest

Thunder rumbles, but the horizon conceals what's coming.

Everyone into the Electra, dust sweeps back to what's coming

It seems to keep us from 33.

Look right, clear, look left, fear

There's a train, then two, then three

The entrance hymn in refrain, no longer clear on what remains

But now, in Goshen, it is clear what's coming.

Finger of God

Black and white photo of horror in color

From a safe distance of many years

I luridly recall your details.

At the airport, I see your fearsome construction

I marvel at how it came together

And struggle to understand how and why, because

I couldn’t help then and I failed to help now.

Regret draws me closer.

Trespassing through a farm, stealing the earth

Late for work and malicious at birth

A hungry wind with a green sky calling card.

Darkening danger almost on top of us,

as dad watches from the garage

and we play in the front yard.

“Open the windows. . . get in the car!”

Only a few seconds to gain enough distance.

Our school, our home, our hands and voices

Couldn’t hold on or offer enough resistance

against the finger of God.

I couldn’t help then and what am I doing now?

Regret sweeps me away.

Sickle

Sickle of wind, meeting the wheat.

Coming to cut me down.

Cut me down to size.

A river will run from my eyes.

Swift enough to sweep clean,

not deep enough to drown

the loss I'll come to realize.