Meadow Fog Shaftsbury

An image of the meadow fog

Saying Goodbye

In early memory I am riding my six-four grandfather’s shoulders like a mahout.

Saying goodbye                                                 

For James J. Cormier, Jr., Esq., for sharing his personal story.

Booval, QLD  and
Sydney, NSW, Australia

1945-1953

In early memory I am riding my

six-four grandfather’s shoulders like a mahout.

He took me on his rounds – railroad tool shop,

pool hall, pub, racetrack, horse farm, orchard.                                                       4

                                                           

The railroad tool shop rumbled with repetitive      

din of machines dye-stamping, drilling, spinning.

I sat at his desk quietly drawing trains

on green graph paper, using a compass, ruler.                                                        8

The pool hall was filled with railroad workers sporting               

grease-stained white T-shirts, suspenders, steel-toed boots.

Bent over green-clad tables, their muffled voices

barely audible above the crack of the balls.                                                           12

He'd say, “Let's go to the pub." I loved the sawdust

and stale beer smells, my glass of ginger beer.

I laughed with the guys who always asked, "Are you

Aussie or Yank?" I always answered, "Both!"                                                       16

On Saturdays grandfather ran the racetrack tote board. 

Afterward, we picked up discarded claim tickets. 

Every once and a while, we found a winner

I stuck in his hatband like a feather.                                                                      20

My father managed a barn and boarded strangers’

horses.  In fig groves there, I set bird traps

high in the trees for Grandfather.  He would cage

the birds a short while, release and catch some more.                                       24

  

On Guy Fawkes Day when I was six, my fireworks           

jumped the barrel, setting a field ablaze.                             

The fire threatened to burn several buildings,

including the school.  My friends all ran away.                                                    28

I fled to Grandfather’s and hid under his bed.    

The police, firemen, neighbors, family and school

searched until dusk. After the fuss died down,

he came home, looked under his bed, hugged me.                                              32

When I was eight, my folks decided to emigrate.

They promised we would return to see my Grandfather

who came to the dock to see us off.  The steward

handed us each a streamer. Mine was white.                                                         36

I threw one end to Grandfather and kept the other.                      

The gangplank removed, whistle blown, lines cast-off,

the ship carefully backed out of the slip.

I walked toward the bow; he walked along the pier.                                             40

We fiercely clutched our end of the streamer.        

In the channel the ship pivoted like a hippo.

The streamer’s coils stretched until they broke

and each end slowly fluttered to the water.                                                           44

I saw Grandfather bury his face in his hands  

and bow his head.

I never saw him again.                                      

Alaska Life

This is a link to an article our daughter, Eve, wrote for the Great Land Trust.  It has pictures of our granddaughter, Neve, and some interesting lore about AK.  Please enjoy the photos, Eve's blog post and the ambiance of this family.

http://www.greatlandtrust.org/the-case-of-the-mystery-mussels-backcountry-ice-skating-and-a-sense-of-wonder/ 

Winter Fantasy

In green woods stands a forlorn spruce, branches snow

bent to the breaking point, a lost Carthusian,

his cowl askew, bowed shoulders sighing woe.        

Stooped by the cold, red blooded, normal, human;  

has cabin fever, longs to be incognito,

escape his sore knees, create himself bohemian.  

He could be tired or tipsy from abuse

of the green liqueur in their cave, Chartreuse.       

Ottava Rima is 8 lines of iambic pentameter rhyming ababcc.  Ottava Rima is usually a whimsical, satiric or comic form.  Lord Byron's "Don Juan" was a mock epic in ottava rima stanzas. This poem won 2nd prize in the Maine Poets' Society 2015 winter contest.  

608 December 2014