Wordtreasure

Home After a Glum Day

Home after a glum day.
Yellow crocuses are breaking ground.

Jumping up and down
and spinning around,
my dog likes me
more than I like myself.

In my world,
even the shadow has a shadow.
I look for a place
to lie down
between words in a sentence.

The world of work
is a slow winding river
on a featureless plain.
I remember nothing;
nothing remembers me.

Shadows lengthen,
evening comes.
The busy world is hushed,
the fever of the day is over
and my work is done.

Grant me a safe lodging,
a holy rest,
and peace at the last.

Contact info: davebaldwin37@gmail.com

[haiku]

end of an affair
sprinklers go off on schedule
in the hard rain

Autism Turns 21

It is hard for us to guess what’s on your mind.
We question you until you answer yes.
Outside of family, the world is not so kind.

Sometimes it’s twenty questions until we find
what triggers you. We understand your stress,
but the family needs to know your state of mind.

You are now of legal age and fully grown
standing six foot one and big as a house.
We give you hugs. The world is not so kind.

We know your music playlist calms you down
and steadies your nerves in solitude. Distress
starts up when conversation prods your mind.

Cold, indifferent people are not inclined
to help: it’s not my problem; it’s not my mess.
Outside of family, the world can be unkind.

For you, my grandson, if the future is predefined
by the past, please know you’ll always have our blessing.
The family will embrace whatever is on your mind.
Outside of us, the world is not so kind.

A Moment of Kindness

It was a long time ago,
when I was young and in my prime.
I was entering the city for Passover. Lo and behold,

prisoners were leaving the city at the same time
for their executions. One was Jesus.
He was weak from scourging as he struggled to climb

to the place Golgotha while carrying the cross.
Seeing that I was a Jew,
a Roman soldier tapped me aside the face

with the flat of his sword, and said, “You.”
Pressed into lethal service for the Roman
state, I knew what I had to do.

“Brother, let me lift your burden,”
I said, as I hoisted the wood shoulder high.
Together, we walked the hill

to his certain death. I wonder why
happenstance put me in that time and space.
Why me? Of all the events under the sky,

why I was plucked to show some grace?
I was in the right place at the right time.
A moment of kindness can last a lifetime.

[haiku]

end of an affair
sprinklers go off on schedule
in the hard rain

Cloud Formations

On simmering summer afternoons,
Mother and I stretched out
on the backyard grass
at our tiny wartime tract house
on Brighton Street
close to the Lockheed plant
and we tried to identify objects
in the clouds.
Those were the years
before smog commandeered the skies
over the L.A. basin.
Cumulus clouds were commonplace.

Mother was good at this.
She would spot some formation
in the clouds,
point it out to me,
and then tell a story.
I marveled at the stories,
but most of the time
I could not see what she saw
and that was a common theme
of our sixty-two years together:
we often did not agree
on what we were looking at,
but she could tell a story
like no one else.

Looking to the West

for Matthew and Ginger

We are looking to the west—to the old Smith Tower
on the left, to tinted office towers on the right,
to the piers and giant cranes of the Port of Seattle,

to whitecaps on Elliott Bay, to seagulls in flight,
to the Puget Sound, and to the Olympic Mountains range.
Breezes are light; the afternoon sun is bright.

We gather on the courthouse roof to turn the page
on the past. A judge with the matinee-idol look
begins to speak. We are present to witness the change.

Decision point: there is no turning back.
Eyes are brimming wet, but voices are strong.
In this moment, old sorrows fade to black.

Where do we go from here? As the old song
explains, We may lose and we may win,
though we will never be here again. We are looking

to the west as the sun declines to the haze horizon.
Where do we go from here? Will all of us hold,
or will our gathering scatter as we grow old?

Those People

The Paleo-Indians, the first Americans,
are checking out the neighborhood.
Woe to mammoths and mastodons.

Life is good in 1491.
Conquistadors from faraway Iberia
claim land for the king of Spain.

Driven away by the Church of England,
Pilgrims, Puritans and Roman Catholics
are free to worship on the eastern shore.

French explorers are moving in
to the river valleys of a vast continent,
all the way north to Labrador.

The Delaware people are pushed aside
as the Dutch build New Amsterdam.
The merchant class is riding high.

Germans create farms and towns,
but refuse to learn the English language.
Ben Franklin is very upset!

Scots-Irish come to America,
gambling on a promise of opportunity.
They travel west to the hills of Appalachia.

The potato famine is forcing the poor
of Ireland to emigrate to the new world.
The Irish are judged as less than human.

Much the same is said of the Italians
who come to America and take employment
that proper Americans will not accept.

Those people are coming ashore.
Those people are moving in.
Life was better before they came.

From the very beginning of colonial life,
captive slaves from out of Africa
power the economy for southern whites
and struggle for equity in the north.
Free at last! They are still despised.

Native Americans are dispossessed,
deprived of their game and forced to move
to plots of land drawn up by whites.
Broken treaties! A trail of tears!
Though first, they are treated as the last.

Seniority on the land matters only
for those Americans with roots in Europe.
To this day, Indians and blacks
are still regarded as those people.

Those people are coming ashore.
Those people are moving in.
Life was better before they came.

Do you really believe that?
Have you forgotten how your own
ancestors were advised to show respect
to those who settled earlier in America?
Remember, there was a time when
your people endured hostility and hate.
Your people were those people.

It is a declaration and a promise:
“All men are created equal.”
Those people are coming ashore.
Those people are moving in.
Welcome: E pluribus unum.
Welcome: out of many, one.

[tanka]

like a stuttering newsreel
from the 40s,
the same events and the same emotions
of joy and disappointment
roll across my mind

Jap

I was born in 1942.
One of the first words I learned
as a small child
was the word Jap.
I heard it ten thousand times
before my fourth birthday,
and when I learned to read
it was in the L.A. Times
every day.
Every day.

This is a Test

Matthew 4:1-11

The verbs to tempt and to test are not the same.
God did not tempt Abraham to sacrifice his one
and only child, Isaac. For it is written,
“After these things God tested Abraham.”
The devil tempted Jesus to turn stones
into bread to prove he is the son of God.
The devil tempted Jesus to leap from the façade
of the temple and force the angels to cushion his bones.
The devil tempted Jesus with his biggest and best
offer: the splendor of earthly kingdoms if he,
in turn, would worship him; Jesus refused.
Temptations bedevil us every hour of every day
as befits our nature, but do not be confused
when the Lord requires your service: This is a test.

Childhood Memories

Memories of my childhood
are hopelessly corrupt.
Facts are elusive.
The core event may stay the same,
protruding like a stone
in a turquoise tidal pool,
but ancillary facts appear,
disappear, reappear,
and shape-shift over time.

Facts are fleeting,
but feelings are forever
and absolutely incorruptible.
Memories are not unlike
the garden-variety dream
where the main takeaway
is not the inscrutable plot,
but the emotion I am feeling
when I awake.

Resilience

Carey, Idaho

The people come and go,
but Carey is used to the churn.
Time is a daunting flow.

Pioneers long ago
let the church run the town.
The people come and go.

Roads and railroads come slow,
and water is a grave concern.
The town withstands the flow.

Some children come to know
they need to leave to learn.
The people come and go.

Others choose to go
on missions and then return.
The town weathers the flow.

Carey continues to grow.
The seasons take their turn
while the people come and go.
The town welcomes the flow.

NOTE: In the 1961-62 school year, I attended Idaho State College on a track scholarship. Sprinter John Briggs, the “Carey Comet,” was a good friend of mine on the team. I got to spend one weekend with his family in Carey, a small Mormon community in southern Idaho. It had about 300 people at the time. Carey still has less than a thousand residents these days. I wrote this villanelle for the prompt “small town.”