REFRIGERATOR

I explored my neighbor’s backyard

Though he told me to stay out.

I found an abandoned refrigerator,

A treasure chest calling to me.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I climbed in.

I could just fit with my arms by my sides.

Would I still fit if I pulled the door closed? 

I tried and heard a distinct click. 

The blackness was absolute. 

I couldn’t even see the door.  

I pushed with all my might. Nothing.

I hated that door. My mind leaped to panic.

I pounded with my fists.  Pain made me stop.

I hollered for help ‘til I was hoarse.

Total silence.

Then, a click.

The door flew open.

He pulled on my shirt with one hand 'til

I was dangling above the refrigerator,

Slapped me hard with his other hand and

Told me to get out of his yard.

I cried running home.

I smelled of my own piss.

He saved me.

Why wasn’t he happy?

MISS WEGLE

She was German granite

Chiseled into a five foot cylinder,

Thick fingers that grasped

You in a handshake

Full of strength and lift.

In her sixth grade classroom

The morning schedule was

As dependable as sunrise.

Only a Russian atomic attack

Could postpone morning reading at 9.

In her mind reading was fundamental

Years before others called it so.

I struggled with it, but

My strength was arithmetic at 10.

For world geography at 11, each country

Had its own page in our notebooks.

She liked a tiny drawing I did for Brazil

And wrote “Good” in red on my page.

I was elated.

We memorized poetry,

Longfellow’s “Ride of Paul Revere”

And Lincoln’s “Gettysburg Address.”

Somehow she made it all achievable.

She understood how much

Simple rewards, words or gold stars,

Could mean to a nascent pupil.

I was eleven, less than a larva.  

I surrendered to her and

Thrived in her care.

There was comfort in her ways

And her dependable routine

With its impregnable order.

I knew exactly what I’d be doing at 10 a.m.

It was 6^th grade.  I was her child for the year.

She was my gold star teacher
Teaching me to fly. 


SEA GLASS PEOPLE - Portraits in Words and Watercolors   (available on Amazon.com)

WHAT IS POETRY TO ME

Poetry is not verse; it doesn’t sell.

Created by careful selection of sounds, poetry

May be quaint or serious, short or long, rhyme or not.

Its distilled words transcend the ordinary, even,

Even when describing the ordinary,

The airy world of lovers

Or density of philosophers.

Poetry lifts off the page floating in mid air

Without benefit of a safety net.

Since a poet’s heart might dance at a friend’s funeral

Or weep uncontrollably at a wedding,

His words can do no less.

They are stones he throws at windows

For the few who’ll see the broken glass.

 SEA GLASS PEOPLE - Portraits in Words and Watercolors   (available on Amazon.com)

CRAB BRAIN

I thought as hard as I could

Using my primitive brain

To find the correct answer

To this critical refrain,

Do I eat him, or

Does he eat me?

On this vital issue

He and I might not agree,

But if my brain

Has only a hunch,

I may end up

As somebody’s lunch.