If You Were a Shape

If you were a shape,

            what shape would you be;

don’t think, just write it down,

            whatever comes to mind, whatever.

Now write, “I am” … a square,

            one small square, anywhere, on a white

sheet of paper, four perfect angles, one-fourth

            of a whole, 90 degrees each, 4 points

connected, left to right, down, right to left,

            and up in black ink, India ink

on fine linen paper, or just a single sheet

            of unlined paper torn from a notebook,

rough edged in tearing. Use a pen, a pencil, crayons

            pulled from a box of paperless nubs

to draw the lines, a straight edge,

            1 inch long or tall, measured precisely,

the square as near perfect as you can.

            In the center, faint lines cross, drawn

to intersect, X marking the spot,

            and this is me, this is you,

this is us, squares on a white sheet

            of paper, four perfect angles, one-fourth

of a whole, connected, black and white,

            the square blacked out, perhaps,

or colored in a contrasting shade, a sharp

            border holding it in, holding in ourselves.

If you were a shape, what shape

            would you be, and what shape

would we make working together, you and me,

            designing, becoming, creating art. 

There are Ghosts

There are ghosts riding the winds of time,

flying over the fields where they gave their lives,

heroes, perhaps for someone else’s cause;

or took their own lives, victims of the world’s madness,

a decision reached, a simple choice easily made;

or the victim of someone else’s madness,

a violent loss, too soon ending dreams and hopes,

these ghosts riding the winds of time, timeless now,

taking flight across the fields of death.

 

And for what do they search, wandering,

blown with the wind, finding naught?

Nothing but the final rest of peaceful men. 

In the Silence of a Summer Morning

The only sound I hear is my canoe’s paddle

softly pushing back the lake,

a hush along the surface, broken now,

and the lonely cry of a loon unseen

through the mist and fog that separates us. 

Thank You

Sometimes, I think of my kids, remembering

them and wondering, for they are my kids still,

always, now, too, my friends, those young people

who shared their classroom with me, learning

along with them, even as I sat at my desk

at the front of the room, quietly

            watching them work, eavesdropping,

            turning them here into poetry