Helpmate

 

Have you ever wondered about

the attributes of a great help mate?

He’s the one who actually listens

            when she talks.

She hands him a hammer

            when they’re building shelves.

He bags the groceries

            while she pays the cashier.

He holds her tightly

            just because he knows her need for it.

She lets the silence hang

            while he puzzles out life’s newest challenge.

He calls home to let her know he’ll be late—

            he knows how she worries.

She doesn’t make a big fuss about

            the muddy footprints, or the toilet seat left up.

He hands her a drink as she walks in the door

            from extra hours at the office.

     And she thanks him for his thoughtfulness.

They snuggle on a regular basis,

            just because it feels so right and good.

Help Mate: Helping each other with no

        expectation of reciprocation.

            It’s done out of love.

                                                        -Evy Kristensen, Portland, Oregon

The Magnificence of it All

It is 21 degrees on the farm this morning.  

The back frosted black cows

 Stand in silence by the corral gate

Waiting for us 

To haul them a bale-de-jour.  

There is a mauve whisp of clouds 

Pinking the marsh, 

It's cattails frosted. 

All is still.  

You are here with me.

I hear your words lingering

In our brain.

We have said our morning prayer

The heat from the wood has set

A tone through the house

Warming us enough

To dress in the first wool of the year.

Let's collar the dog and go out into the day.

I'll show you around, though you've seen it all before.

But, today we'll point to the magnificence of it all

Together.

                                                                               -Ron Crete, Callaway, MN

A Lobelia Sky

Lobelia breaks my heart
with its beauty.
It is the color of hanging the wash
on the line
to the tune of morning’s hush,
the perfume of just-waking air
and the sibilant gossip of small birds.

The sun brushes my hair and shoulders
like an admiring mother
as I pin up the towels and cloths
to be made white
by its magic.

There is something sacred
in the walled garden of the wash,
the free pass that lets the housewife . . .
out of the house . . .
in the guise of work.

Oh what a wonderful ruse this is!
Revelment among the percale!!!
                                                             -Marcia Myers

A Place of Belonging

Everybody needs
a place to belong . . .

Where you are
more similar . . .
than dis . . .

I hang with
Poets in The Hood

They could rap,
but they don’t,
They could rock,
but they don’t.

They rhyme,
sublime,
They alliterate
and onomotopoea-ate

We look at life
through crystals
sparked by heart and soul

Ears pricked to
false steps
that need shouting down

Canaries in the coal mine
we’ve been called

But there are far worse things
than Poets
to have in your
neighborhood!
                                           -Marcia Myers

Musicale

Alone with my memories, I watch
and listen to Harry Connick, Jr.,
in concert, on public television,
rendering 40’s and 50’s tunes—my
nostalgia—along with his own songs.

Shades of Sinatra, Bennett, Dino,
wander through my consciousness.
Did those old guys perform with
five o’clock shadow gracing their faces?
Harry’s curly hair softens his face.

He wears a suit and tie, no holy
jeans, twists no contortions

While I hear those old tunes
the lump in my throat stays.

His finale—a New Orleans
jazz jam, lightens my heart.

                                            -Barbara Hamby, Portland, Oregon