Legacy

Legacy

by Stephen Anderson

No easy task this

Cleanup of basement workbench

Full of multifarious clutter,

Dusty mementos of hand-me-downs.

The real chore is in tossing the

Handmade tools my father

Crafted as a machinist under

The final shadows of WW II

And the scraped-up pale-blue tackle box

Full of Lazy Ikes, Bombers, Jitterbugs,

River Runt Spooks, and

Hula Poppers.

A simple matter on the surface

But what’s not seen is

The slippery thought of

Letting go of steel craft and memories,

Lovingly bequeathed as if

They were brothers whose being

I’m now releasing like unwanted

Fish, letting them drop from my hands

To the trash bin below, letting them go

While I suppress a traitor’s smile,

Great Judas at the workbench, a son

Not much more than an ingrate

Who will probably keep only the tackle box

In the end.

~ originally appeared in Fox Cry Review                                        

The Laying of Hands

digital art: ralph murre

The Laying of Hands

by Stephen Anderson         

        

After the cutting,

After the slide under the microscope,

The herringbone stitches to the open flesh come

In a dutiful, meticulous sewing

Of the cancer-vacated crater in my temple,

Hybrid birth-child now of Nature and surgeon’s handiwork

Setting as right as possible all that had gone

So terribly wrong in a matter of mere decades,

Now hand-stitched and shiny like a fine, leather shoe.

~ first published in The Foundling Review

A Tribute to the Penguin-Men Among Us

A Tribute to the Penguin-Men Among Us

by Stephen Anderson

who huddle around watching their young ones

take to the ice like the wobbly creatures they are

at outdoor school rinks now lent to these

bundled-up fathers who shift from side to side

and huddle together to stay warm like

looming Emperor Penguins,

while dutifully standing vigil for their

offspring who careen wildly but then

glide like pros for up-to-seconds-at-a-time before

spiraling into impromptu, shaky pirouettes

that cause the men to gasp from the sidelines,

then fake-skate with their shoes

over to the crash site where they whisper

their concern and, upon further triage,

encourage their fallen angels to right their little

skates on the ice, to again take on the

wintry reality of the late afternoon,

with their chins held high to the glory of

the Penguin-Men in attendance.

~ first published in the New Purlieu Review

A Discovery

photo: ralph murre

A Discovery

by Stephen Anderson

           

Last spring, the old bay window over the back deck was

Done in by ripsaw, crowbar and sledgehammer—

Smashed into a pile of scattered debris on the deck.

Among the leftovers, in the middle of a boxed-in section,

A hornets’ nest rose up, a Taj Mahal dome in miniature, some ten

Inches in diameter, a delicate looking carp scale pattern of maple

Seed and other unknown matter, home, the carpenter said,

To scores of yellow jackets, many of which terrorized us in

Seasons past while we entertained on the deck.

When the nest was torn open, its interior was empty like

Some lost, ancient civilization once sheltered so well by its

intricate design. Now gone forever from our property, a sacrifice

To our sliding deck door, a weatherproof invention—

Man-made technology of high order, lacking, though, the

Miracle that preceded it in that spot.

~ first published on Your Daily Poem

Blocked

photo: ralph murre

Blocked

by Stephen Anderson

Just beyond the sandy crest

Dates bake in the sun,

Water is poured into tin drums,

Children watch their fathers

Stroll away down roadsides.

And those children, bursting

Inside with angels and demons,

Wonder about slingshot throws,

Feel impervious to real bullets,

The threat of demolition by

Bulldozer, soldiers who think

Of them as animals – each side

Out of touch with their Semitic

Muscle fiber, their similar genetic

Codes, despite the different paths

They have taken to the same place.

Each other’s sweat is not seen.

Each other’s blood is not seen.

Each other’s life is not seen.

Each other’s family is not seen.

There is only blindness, at times

Blistered by the sun, at times

Chilled by cool and rainy winters with

Rivulets of water inhaled by the waiting,

Parched earth.

 ~ previously published in Harvests of New Millennium

On a Hot Afternoon in Jerusalem

detail: historic illustration: artist unknown

On a Hot Afternoon in Jerusalem

by Stephen Anderson

The sun-parched face of an old Arab

crowned with a kaffiyeh,

his nicotine-stained fingers clutching

a smoking Galloise,

peers directly at the

photographer.

Is this a survivor of untold losses,

of so many blood-curdling mourning wails

of Arab women,

this very same man who sips black coffee

sugared to taste from a demitasse,

a sweet companion to his cigarette,

a sure soothing balm for desperate souls

in such toxic, war-torn environments,

here during a sweltering afternoon in the

calmer, narrow lanes of a Jerusalem souk

where Arabic words dance between

walls, then flee, muted, into the open air?

Does he dream too – that Allah

will some day

silence

gunfire forever?

~ previously published in The Silent Tango of Dreams

Detour

photo: ralph murre

Detour

by Stephen Anderson

Driving home that day

On the bleak, otherwise

Deserted road,

The man, trance-like,

Remembered deep green forests,

The picnic-worthy riverside

That was ever so pleasant with

Warm human touch, shared drink

And food, laughter – afternoons

Since lived and forgotten

By the aging man, now

On this isolated road across

His glaring current reality,

Across this path not of his choosing,

Not really sure where he’s heading

In what seems like time-travel so

Distanced from those memories that

He now feels courted by

A siren, seductively singing from

The other side of his river memory,

A call to go to that river’s edge and

Slide into its cool embrace, Zen-like,

Not pushing the water at all,

His fingers open-webbed like those of

A fetus free-floating in the womb.  

~first published in Free Verse

Nighthawk

digital art: ralph murre

Nighthawk

by Stephen Anderson

It’s 3 AM outside the 7-Eleven.

In the distance, approaching car headlights

Dot the blackness at this hour while

Inside a scrawny twenty-something sits

Behind the counter tracing a 9 mm under the

Counter with his fingers, surrounded by four lonely

Walls that contain items insomniacs seek

During black hours like these. All the cars

Pass silently except for one that booms by, its radio blasting—

A rolling boom box that shatters the still,

Vapid night air while the car’s occupants

Head to nowhere good, to their rendezvous

With the nothingness of this night rhythm

In the key of absurd loneliness.

They all seem to head toward what home

Might be, the place where eyes will later

Strain under desk lamp far into the night

Amid silver ghosts that shimmer in the dark blue

Shadows before sleep envelops them in a dream

Of star-sent angels light years from Edward Hopper’s

Nighthawks, while outside the night’s mist will soon start

To evaporate, as it will again and again . . .

        

 ~ previously published in Brawler

Basilica . . .

sketch: ralph murre

Basilica circa AD 2000

by Stephen Anderson

A tarnished copper dome, expertly fitted

Over steel and concrete shell sheltering

Inside the ornate masterpiece of

The finest carved marble,

Exquisitely crafted wooden pews,

Polished sandstone and chiseled granite,

Richly colored murals with

Golden trim from the gilded strokes

Of master painters,

Saintly stories in stained glass

Painstakingly cut and welded with

Lead frame into whole form

By yet other Old World artisans whose

Creation, nourished by decades of

Pious devotion and religion-inspired generosity,

Rises defiantly into the new millennium

Above urban decay, gangbangers

And people searching for their

Next food pantry.

~ first published in Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar

At the Oriental Theater . . .

artwork: ralph murre

 At the Oriental Theater in Milwaukee

 by Stephen Anderson

Something tells me that the little man

in striped short sleeves and a Sears’ tie

could really cut loose with a wild, wailing

boogie-woogie on that awesome Kimball concert organ

on stage down at the Oriental Theater,

instead of the take-me-out-to-the-ballgame/true-blue

schmaltz he is probably told to play before the previews

come on.  Not that there’s anything patently wrong

with his standard repertoire, but that magnificent organ

has got to be capable of so much more, as I’m sure the man is.

Watching him play, I can imagine him suddenly exploding

into a Ray Charles or, hell, even a Jerry Lee Lewis rocking rendition

in which he shakes the sleepy, popcorn-eating, soda swilling place

up a bit, maybe even bringing those exotic moldings and fixtures to life

before the main feature sparkles from the screen.

And so, every time I’m sitting there waiting for the big screen fare,

I’ll imagine how nice it would be if he could, just once,

snap out of the corral he’s in, out of all that has been constrained inside,

and make hulk-like all that stuff barely breathing there.

                                                                 

~ previously published in Fox Cry Review