CROWNED WITH LAURELS

NO MORE HALLOWEEN

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 20:34:00 +0000

pull down the shades, turn off the lights,
go to the basement and put the TV on low.
Doorbell’s busted, so they’ll stand and ring
it a few times, but it won’t make a sound.
Years ago he slammed the door, vowing
to never hand out candy again, rotten kids,
driven in from other places, no costumes,
pillow cases opened wide, demanding rudely,
“Gimme candy. Gimme some for my cousin.”

It was different back then. My dad says this
about so many things, wondering why it’s
all changed in the last forty years or so.
He describes faraway places, long gone times.
Again he’ll tell me the story about a lady with
bright orange hair, like Lucille Ball, how she
always wore a dress, an apron, a pearl necklace.
How she’d come out, same time every day
to sweep the sidewalk in front of her pink house.

Jenny always smiled, always paused to look up
between swishes of a yellow handled broom.
Always waved to the kids, but spoke to no one.
Her name was Jenny, Jenny Notaro. I think.
Dad seems to be forgetting some of the story.
Other than that, we knew she was divorced,
no kids, no one seemed to know the details.
But her ex-husband, Jimmy showed up
each afternoon to visit, have a dinner some said,
others chuckled, insinuating they still got along.

Dad says, Jenny became a different neighbor
on Halloween. She didn’t crack the door open
to throw candy into your bag or plastic pumpkin.
Instead she’d invite everyone into her home through
the spotless living room, into her showplace kitchen.
Laughing, Jimmy plopped half gallon tubs of
rainbow sherbet into huge glass punch bowls
filled with Hawaiian Punch and Canada Dry Ginger Ale.

Blood red, iridescent candy apples, lined up on the
counter glowing next to gooey caramel-coated ones
rolled in chopped peanuts. Pies and cookies baking in
the oven, filled the air with cinnamon, vanilla, molasses.
For a few moments on that last day of October, long ago,
the happy couple was surrounded by the neighborhood kids,
who they never really knew, but had all to themselves.
My father’s story always ended with, “Can’t imagine that today.”

SHARING AGAIN, A PREVIOUS POST

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 19:29:00 +0000

THE HISTORY OF MY GRANDMOTHER’S COOKING

Grilled cheese with tomato soup,
Fritos on the side.

Ham Salad from the meat grinder,
passed down from generations.

Meatloaf with stewed tomatoes,
brown on the ends.

Fried flounder with potatoes au gratin,
crispy layer on top.

Baked Virginia ham with green beans,
snapped earlier outback.

Butter, bacon, glistening on Pole Limas,
found at a roadside stand.

Shepherd’s pie with crusty potatoes,
baked longingly in a Pyrex dish.

Sweet potatoes with mini marshmallows,
always on the holiday tables.

Slabs of juicy, crimson garden tomatoes,
a blob of mayonnaise on top.

Pork roast in sweet sauerkraut,
turned dark with the juices.

London Broil with peppers and onions,
soaked in Italian dressing all day.

Chocolate pudding with a skin coating,
made in the early afternoon.

Pineapple upside down cake,
dripping with sweetness.

Bright yellow ears of Jersey corn,
boiled in the great aluminum pot.

Creamed chipped beef on toast,
flowed carefully over the bread.

Pancakes and sausage links for dinner
never seen as the wrong time.

Corn fritters in powdered sugar,
that seemed a strange idea for food.

Applesauce cake loaded with raisins
made especially for me.

Round chocolate peanut butter candies
in little tins for Christmas.

Chex party mixes with Worcestershire
the treat for New Year’s Eve.

Tender little plump blueberries
sitting in milk with gritty sugar.

Hunks of watermelon shaken with salt,
to bring out the flavor.

Cream cheese and olive sandwiches,
always on white bread.

Browned scrapple slabs cooked just right,
couldn’t be served without ketchup.

Fried egg sandwiches with pepper,
the old standby lunch.

Pearl onions swimming in cream sauce,
that’s Thanksgiving for me.

Country style ribs with baked beans
stewing all day.

Chicken and dumplings, not square
the size of baseballs.

Hamburgs in the frying pan,
how they were always cooked.

Tomatoes topped with breadcrumbs
buttered, then broiled.

Vegetable soup with bits of ground beef
that seemed to float to the top.

(Poem was previously published in the chapbook, A Strange Kind for Food,Poetry)

PICTURE FRAMES

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 23:51:00 +0000

When I’m in my reading and sleeping chair,
the one where I drink my first cup of coffee,
I look over at the many pictures standing
on the china cabinet or dining room hutch,
even though it’s placed in our living room.

There’s a baby picture of me in black and white.
One of my wife too, as if we grew up together.
It could have been possible since we’re born
just 25 days apart in the Summer of Love, 1967.
On the bottom shelf I notice how many photos
there are now of our little family, with our son.

As the sun rises slowly in September, I think about
how he is a little bit bigger inside each of the frames.
Soon there will be a picture on this shelf with him
as tall as me, maybe taller, surely towering above
his mother in the pose he always calls a family hug.

And when I sit here a few years from now
in this same chair, drinking from the same mug,
I will be overwhelmed with joy for the life we have,
saddened to know that we won’t see our boy today,
it will be time for the young man to go away.

BAD WITH THE TELEPHONE

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 17:23:00 +0000

She always had to tell him,
“Call your mother, call your father.”
He always put it off and claimed,
“I’ll call later, now is a bad time.”

Thanksgiving came and went.
Christmas season, way too hectic.
New Year’s Eve seemed a good time,
but he still didn’t call either of them.

Two days before his father’s operation,
he called to wish him well, and this time
remembered to say a Happy Birthday too.

Three weeks later, without being told,
he decided to call to see how the recovery
was going. When he heard his father’s voice
he knew that things didn’t seem quite right.

Following his wife’s advice, for once-
he was sure to say “I love you Dad”,
and after hearing the same, he quickly
hung up the phone and began to cry,
for some reason not yet known to him.

STAY WITH US

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 00:50:00 +0000

He had never lived in a home with dishes
that were mismatched, multicolored, chipped.
Where meals were eaten at a kitchen counter.
Not far away, pots bubble with soup beans,
iron skillet pan, grease pops off fat back bacon,
apples cook in cinnamon, sugar, chunks of butter.
Bag of white bread, light bread, laid out for all.
Sandwiches made with one slice of baloney,
without mustard or mayonnaise. Gallon of milk
passed to one another, the beverage every meal.

Biscuits called cat heads rose up in the oven on
most nights. Hand rolled, methodically and simply
made, flour, Crisco, cut out by an empty jelly jar.
Honey and butter mixed together topped them off.
A bowl of bright leafy lettuce didn’t stand a chance,
when a pan of heated vegetable oil poured over it,
truly killed, Granny said with her one eye squinted.

Coffee brewing all day long, five or six pots, always
ready for another sup, “Stay with us” is what they
said to all who entered the kitchen, “Get you another”.
No sugar, no milk, just black. JFG, Knoxville’s best.
And that’s when the stories were told about how
it all came to be, how they headed north for work.

He was grateful for that year, living with his father’s
parents, his grandparents. The ones who provided
meals, a warm bed, moments full of laughter, stories,
some about life’s regrets,tough times, the Depression,
World War II, being migrant farm workers in Jersey,
the loss of a child, raising a family, coming back home.

Before he left, he stopped on the front lawn, to say goodbye.
A hand shake, a hug, a tear in his eye. The man he grew to
know as Papaw said, “Aw, you’ll be back, once you get a
little of that hillbilly dirt in your shoes, you keep coming back.”

IF THERE IS A HEAVEN

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 03:24:00 +0000

And I hope there is and don’t feel upset or
agitated by me saying this now to all of you.
I feel better about missing him, thinking about
him hearing someone shout,“Hon’y, you made it!”
His tall slender cousin will rise up from one knee
toss his cigarette away, and smile his beautiful
chipped tooth smile under a bristly moustache.

And if there is a heaven, his brother will be ready
to go fishing, running the roads, chasing after girls
on Saturday night. His sister will open the squeaky
porch door and he’ll enter the home of his parents.
His mom will be rolling biscuits out on the counter,
cutting out little circles with them with a jelly jar.
His dad will be loading up the wood stove and
after an “Aye Law”, curl up in his brown recliner.

He’ll have a sup of coffee from the kitchen and
this time they won’t say to him-“Stay with us!”
because they’ll know he’ll be with them forever.
In the evening, he’ll walk out to water the roses,
check on the horses, slice open a green tomato and
be forced to make a difficult choice, each time.
Should he go coon hunting with the redbone, Jack
or bear hunting with the Treeing Walker dog, Albert.

The dogs will howl, and he’ll run on with them
up and down the slopes of pristine mountains,
into green valleys full of wildflowers and he’ll remark
with his signature smirk, “This must be heaven ‘cause
it’s almost as pretty as the Great Smoky Mountains.”

BETRAYED

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 00:59:00 +0000

Lied to is what they said
in class one year later.
Why didn’t they tell us?
They were told not to say a word.
Act like nothing is wrong and
continue on with your day.
As the parents rushed in
and took their children home,
by signing them out early.
Feeling like they wanted to
have them by their sides.
Who knew what was coming next?
The teacher was forced to lie again
when they wondered aloud,
Why is everyone going home so early?
Must have dentist appoints or something
is all he could think of to tell them.
And in the back of his mind he kept
asking himself, why or who would
fly those planes into the towers of
The World Trade Center on this
second week of fourth grade.

AN EVENING AT THE STEAK HOUSE

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 21:55:00 +0000

He wants to tell me that today
was his Dad’s birthday.
“I think we’re going out
to dinner to celebrate.”

He describes the perfect steak house,
says it’s down on Route 9, not sure where.
“My father would’ve loved the place, it’s awesome”.

Voice cracking, he stops, eyes sparkling
at the memories racing through his little head.
We sat and listened knowing that his Dad
lost his life as the Twin Towers crashed down.

A kind, gentle man. An elevator expert,
thought he might be able to help.
I remember now the same sparkling eyes
as he spoke of his children at
“Back to School Night” less than a year before.

MY PHONE HANGS SILENT

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 21:37:00 +0000

On the kitchen wall
by the opening of the
carpeted basement stairs.
The long, twisted and
stretched cord reaches
down to the tile floor.
It doesn’t ring for me
and I don’t dial it.
I walk past and feel
I should call you both.
But it would take two
separate calls from me.
One to Ol’ Rocky Top.
One to Dutch Wonderland.
One to the South.
One to the North.
What stops my calling?
I want the phone to ring.
I’ll answer it and I’ll hear
that you want to know
if I’m okay or if I’m safe.
The way you both did,
separately, of course,
on September 11th, only
a few minutes apart.

A previous post that also appeared in my chapbook. Remembering the victims of 9-11-01.

YELLOW ROSES

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 04:19:00 +0000

of Texas, fashioned into wreaths,
intertwined with rodeo lariats
draped over easels, hung on walls
standing up by a podium, they spelled out
your name to honor the cowboy way of life.

A true horseman. A heeler, the one
who ropes the back legs after your partner
has roped the head of the running steer.
All your hours of practice, bruises, pain,
and miles of highway to compete across
the southern states, to win silver belt buckles.

Is it any wonder that the other cowboys
cried so hard, so long. To many you were like
their father, brother, uncle, boss, best friend.
If you look in the books about the meanings
of colors, flowers, or symbols you will find-
yellow roses stand for friendship and joy,
we know that the book isn't totally right.

RUNNING SHOES

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 13:02:00 +0000

Sorted in categories, by sport, brand, color, then by price.
Easy to see the differences between what he wanted and
cheaper, more sensible sneakers, less colors, less flash and
less money. And I have to say, I’ve come to the point where
it’s more important to have the ones you want. Rather than
deliberate cost, spend time speaking of how very expensive
it has all become, or worrying if they’ll last a whole year.
Instead I remember when he wore the other size ten,
how he’d run through the aisles of the store celebrating his
new found speed, all because he laced up a brand new pair.
This time we the get the ones he wants and don’t think about
saving the fifteen dollars, only about the annual photo I’ll take
of him, that same spot in our kitchen, another first day of school.

LONESOME HIGHWAY

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 02:11:00 +0000

Too many hours to spend driving,
the thoughts we’ve all had traveling
north and south on this Highway 81.
Over the years, all the miles logged
by our family, cursed for having roots
in two places, almost seven hundred
miles apart for the last fifty some years.

We ride back now,the end of summer,
the end of another funeral, my father’s
this time, and each green mile marker
brings a memory back to me. Words of
advice, his stories, moments shared,
the history of us all who keep on going
up and down this road, reading the signs.
Roanoke, Harrisonburg, Winchester and
each trip we say to one another after
a long deep breath or exhausted sigh-
“My God, Virginia is a really big state.”

THE BOY GETS SAD

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 13:23:00 +0000

when we come to this point each year,
when he has to say thanks and good bye,
when he knows it will be another year
before we travel to the South to see you
and spend a week living with you.

You’d be the perfect image
if they were still allowed to show
the Marlboro Man in commercials.
Solitary cowboy, hard working, fearless.
Living your life, on your terms,
not having to answer to anyone.

“At this point, I don’t miss many things”
is what you tell us when we all ride together
alongside all the acres of property,
the multiple homes, packed barns, garages.

You are tired now, five in the morning
way too early, you sleep in your chair easily
so when the dark comes you finish your nap,
try not to think about the next seventy days.
You will put up the fight of your life, again.
Harvesting the crops you are proud of and
then you’ll wonder why you put yourself through it.

Next year, we hope to see you again
and we know that we are one of the things
that you truly miss as we are about to drive away.
And this time I make sure that I hug you too,
because it may be the first time, it could be the last.
And I don’t want to say that I never hugged my father.

Originally posted about a year ago.

In memory of my father,(1959-2009).

WHEN I CROSS THAT STATE LINE

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 12:05:00 +0000

this time will be different, I suppose.
I may not hit the car horn repeatedly.
I may not make my usual announcement
of “Look, there it is, we made it again!”
But I know I’ll stop and sit to think
of you and how it was that I came to
know you. Yes, mistakes were made
but it wasn’t that hard to find you.
Just pick up a phone, keep in contact,
get to know one another, care about
each other and feel like a family too.
Because it was such a great ride, I have
to hit the horn, holler and celebrate you.

FLAVORED COFFEE

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 21:27:00 +0000

With each visit, we entered her home, a maze of lace,
china dolls, chiming clocks, dust encrusted knick knacks.
She’d offer us a cup of coffee and then run down a list
of special blends, gourmet flavors. Every time she had
to tell us about Snickerdoodle, Kris Kringle, hazelnut,
chocolate macadamia, southern pecan, raspberry danish,
vanilla cinnamon swirl, pumpkin spice, jamocha almond.
But this time, before she went further, the voice of her
husband interrupted, older now, he spoke in a tired voice-
“Can’t we just have Maxwell House? That’s all I really want.”

TREASURED

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 14:06:00 +0000

Earlier that day, we stopped building
sand castles, stopped jumping waves,
stopped playing catch with a Pinky ball.
Instead we ran on the beach because
August brought, an event every year
for locals, summer kids and tourists too.

On the boardwalk, we went to meet
a man dressed as Captain Kidd, a pirate.
A day to remember a legend, history,
old stories of this ocean community.
Black paper hats, plastic coin banks
given to all. A strange sight to see
hundreds of children chanting, cheering,
waving shovels of every color, running
behind a tall man like the pied piper, or
a strange kind of seashore Santa Claus.

An army of babies, grade school children
and leftover teenagers galloped together
past the blaring noises of Frank’s Playland,
onto an area of the beach, set aside by
a cyclone fence, to a spot prepared for
treasure hunting. The children dug quickly
with hands, feet, and pointy shovels to find
those miniature steel chests in shallow holes.

Easily discovered, winners shrieked loudly,
jumped up and down, and it was a time
when kids were good losers too. Content
to have dug, content to get a paper hat,
content to get a plastic coin bank, content
to be a part of a tradition, to have a chance.
In each box, silver dollars, Kennedy half dollars,
The luckiest child, found the real treasure-
one chest had a coupon for a free bike.

Suddenly at the end of the event,
someone mentioned seeing him
on the boardwalk, near our beach,
our grandparent’s summer rental.
She always feared he was coming to
take me away, trying to take me to
another state, far away, never again
would I see them, is what she said.

Stay here, in the bedroom, take a nap.
Can’t let him find you or even see you.
She had a way of speaking about him,
never using his name, just pronouns.
And at three years old, I laid my head
on the pillow staring at my little box,
a treasure chest with a pirate’s head
and skull and cross bones on the lid.

I began to cry, not because of my
family situation, because I was missing
a sunny day at the beach, something
unheard of then, at that time and place.

STILL WORKING

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 03:27:00 +0000

He walks upright, tall in his crisp black jacket.
Gazing down at each table, circling the room,
some would say, like an old buzzard or vulture.
I’ll say, like a hawk, because vultures are ugly
and calling him that would give a bad impression
about the old guy, even though those birds
accurately describe the job he’s doing now.

He’s working hard tonight while hundreds of us
celebrate in this noisy and crowded banquet hall.
He waits for all the happy people to take one last
bite of cheesecake, their last sip of whiskey sour.
then he swoops down to clear the table, instantly.

Some would say that he looks like a butler on TV.
But when I see him reaching for the dirty dishes,
I see a man with a sad story, a sad past, someone
with so many expectations when he came here.

Some would say, good to see that he’s working
and in such a fine hotel, in our nation’s capital.
But I say, I think it would be better to see him
walking with his grandchildren through the zoo,
eating ice cream on the steps of the museum, or
laughing under the shade of a southern magnolia,
smiling and overjoyed about being here, like us.

TEAM COLORS

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 12:19:00 +0000

When you see me in the coffee shop
and walk towards me with your grin,
I wonder what you’re about to say and
then you ask me “Did we win last night?”
My mind races to figure out who you are,
what you mean, what you’re talking about.

Then I have to smile, when I slowly realize
this morning, I’m wearing a red Phillies shirt.
Fans speak like we own the team or that
we’re on the staff, the roster, the bench.
Maybe it’s much stronger, since it makes
two total strangers, different in many ways,
smile, talk awhile, feel a kinship for a moment.

Somewhere else, in this city, I imagine others,
more strangers stopping to speak about their
Red Sox, their Yankees, their Cubs, to ask the
score or to say “Hey, how’d we do last night?”

NEW CHAIRS

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 20:26:00 +0000

This may be the last summer for
those green plastic Adirondack chairs,
been in our yard for six or seven years.
Maybe even more than that, lately I’ve
had trouble counting when things came
or went, but I do know that no one in
the family ever felt like sitting in them.

Too much of a slant to be comfortable,
they’re always splattered with bird poop,
they’ve got no stool to rest your feet on.
I planned to sit there in the sunshine to
read, write, rest, and breathe in fresh air.

But I find more comfort in concrete steps,
it’s where I go to sit, to think, and drink
this morning’s first cup of coffee. It’s where
I watch the squirrel brothers play and savor
sounds of mockingbirds, a blue jay’s caw,
a competition in the early morning hours
in which I'm lucky to have, a front row seat.

TRAILBLAZER

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 13:41:00 +0000

-for my son

You are farther than me now
walking on this mountain’s trail.
I am moving slow today, letting
you take the lead, following you.

You have grown stronger and
complain very little about the
jagged rocks, the network of roots,
strange insects on the path.
I am plodding along, tired with
every step, no complaints though.

You may still be worried about
snakes, spiders, and other creatures
but you don’t flinch, you don’t stop,
you don’t speak of the dangers.
I pause to listen for a rustle in the
bushes, looking out for black bears.

You walk on, taller, leaner, in control
with an even measured pace you climb.
I am breathing hard, looking for a spot
to sit, lagging behind, panting now.

You keep your footing and have
your eye on the goal, the top.
I have slipped more than once,
and I even fell, landing on all fours.
You asked me if I was alright and
had that worried look on your face.
I knew the look, the one I had when
you fell at three or four years old.

You reach for my elbow to help me up,
you place your hand on my shoulder.
We walk on together, reach the top,
we sit for a moment, together there.
I think of you, how we are starting to
trade places, going in different directions.

“All I have to say is, I’m ready to walk with you next year.”

WILD TURKEY

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 01:18:00 +0000

Old biker, shirtless in the parking lot
more hair on his back than on his head,
tip toes like a cartoon spy in his flip flops.
Black wraparound sunglasses, faded tattoos,
he sneaks up behind the cars and mini vans.
Camera in hand, a strange sight for us to see.

He snaps photos of a wild turkey in the grass
on the edge of a hill, begging for food from
a pale skinned couple from Ohio, I suppose
since they’re wearing red Buckeye t-shirts.
They sit and stare at the four foot tall bird
with his rugged good looks, and toughness.

He has the demeanor of a survivor, who walks
tall and makes things work on this mountain.
If you asked all of the tourists watching him
they would say that now they understand
how he could have been the one selected
to be the symbol for our country, long ago.

HILLBILLY

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 14:10:00 +0000

The last group, it seems.
The only ones, for that matter.
They joke and make fun of your
heritage, culture, and history.

Moonshine stills, little brown jugs,
words misspelled, crudely written
on makeshift signs, shacks for homes.
Outhouses with crescent moons
on the door down in the holler.
Shoot at strangers in the woods.

Tattered overalls, colorful patches,
red and white checked dresses,
oversized clodhopping brogans,
worn out work boots, shoeless.
big floppy black hats full of holes,
corn cob pipes, pig tails in hair,
gap toothed, bad teeth, missing teeth,
no teeth, crossed eyes, big bug eyes.

Marrying your cousin,
messing with your sister,
second grade education,
one room schoolhouses.
Lazy, sneaky, thieves, cheats.

Snake handling in church,
holy rollers with tambourines,
fainting, moved by the spirit,
baptized in a muddy creek.

Possum and raccoon to eat,
iron skillet cooking huge biscuits,
banjo picking, dulcimer playing,
Wildwood Flower singing.

Seven dogs on the porch,
worn out sofa on the porch,
whittling on the porch.
Flies on your face, too lazy
to shoo them off or away.

Maw and Paw calling
fourteen children to dinner
at lunchtime and supper at night.
Loaded down jalopy pickup truck,
backfiring, bouncing along, no shocks.

And all of this came about
because they wanted -
to live in the forest,
to respect the land,
to worship their god,
to be with their families,
to stay out of the wars,
to not own slaves,
to make what they needed,
to eat and drink what they wanted,
to keep what they worked for,
to keep to themselves,
to ignore questions of strangers,
to not answer to others rules or laws,
to have the right to be left alone.

A STRENUOUS PATH

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 13:40:00 +0000

A paved road, zero point five miles,
how deceived he was to think this
short afternoon hike would be easy.
He noticed benches lining the path
every ten to twenty yards and how it
seemed difficult to breathe walking up
from the crowded parking lot full of
cars from Alabama, Ohio, and Kentucky.

An elevation of about a mile and a quarter
stole the valuable oxygen and made his hike
a slow paced, static trip with creaky knees,
burning thighs, a gaping jaw, a heaving chest.
A scene where all the walkers are convinced
to think about following the simple code of
healthy weight loss,-eat less,get more exercise.

At the top awaits a winding spiral walkway,
park founders didn’t have the nerve to place
a tower at the end with a set of a hundred stairs.
In the domed tower, a reward awaited the hikers.
Cool breezes, like the ripest of fruit just picked,
like drinking fresh brewed coffee in the morning,
like eating a hot biscuit straight from the oven.
Whatever you decide to say, it is a pure feeling
that made one woman point to a wooden bench
and tell her husband, “Sit down, take it in, enjoy it”.

With spectacular views, tourists politely bother
each other to take pictures of them and as they
trade cameras, an old lady repeatedly reassures
them,“It’ll make a really great Christmas card.”
Some take a moment to study the famous smoke
on the mountain tops of this National Park, a few
wonder how many more hemlocks will die before
those little bugs from Asia will get under control?

I think about all the ones before me, who stood at
the top of this tower, feeling alive, safe, and lucky.
One man says how close he feels to God up here.
But the wisest one in the bunch, sets us all straight-
“I do know one thing, nothing left to do but go down.”

CURSIVE

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 21:49:00 +0000

In second grade he couldn’t wait to unlock
the mystery of longhand, cursive, handwriting.
He looked forward to hours of continuous circles,
lines to push up, lines to pull down, rows of loops
and don’t forget the 45 degree slant of the page.

A Papermate pen, shiny silver, a two heart logo
on a pocket clip, Prussian blue, on the bottom.
He took pride in showing everyone a huge bump,
the callous, the disfigurement caused by the grip
of the writing utensil, an instrument for recording
ones ideas, to share, to express, to give an answer.

And each year his efforts did not go unnoticed or
in vain, he reached his goal of “Perfect Handwriting”,
receiving, what else- a piece of paper with perfect
printing on it, “Best Handwriting, Fifth Grade, 1978”.

Now as his hand aches from clutching a pen,
you can barely tell the a’s from the o’s and so on,
he wishes that he had one of those certificates to
hang on his wall, next to his desk where he types
on the keyboard of a computer every day, every night.

DAMN IT

LarryWLawrence@gmail.com (LORENZO) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 02:44:00 +0000

is what he shouted as he smacked his thigh
and splattered someone else’s blood all over.
After swatting the first mosquito of the summer,
he no longer could relax and enjoy his new
folding chair on the small concrete back porch.
He sat, waiting for the next bite,unable to
enjoy the gift of the cool breezes in mid June.
Planning his next killing was all he thought of now.