Thursday Twofer

A Little Violence

In the second scene, the plea 
was nearly whispered, the snake 
quite small—could generate a nasty 
bite, that’s so—my neighbor’s breathing spoke
something more, and so I strode 
into the garden, with much purpose 
but without intention, not knowing 
how this scene would unfold, but the snake 
was on the move, and this enactment needed 
to find its conclusion, and so I acted, 
and in that moment, a little violence, 
now the curtain drawn.

Ladson 2014

                                   When You Stop Talking

When you stop talking,

I will come and sit by you

in your father’s orchard,

among the apple trees, blossoms come

from hard wood.

 

When you stop talking,

I will hold your hand,

or maybe take both of them in mine,

while we sit and watch the sea 

loll about in and out on the sand.

 

When you stop talking,

I may panic—something wrong—

and so pace about the garden,

hemmed in between walls older by a hundred years

than we could ever be.

 

When you stop talking,

that may be the moment—

a kiss.

We may hear the muted song of a meadowlark. 

If. 

Ladson 2015

 

Sidd & Francis

My seven-year-old neighbor put an arm around the small statue in the corner of a raised bed in my backyard. 

"Do you love him?"

"Francis?" I answered. "Yes, I like him."

The Francis in this case, the one from Assisi. He of kinship with Brother Sun and Sister Moon, lover of birds and animals, the tamer of the Wolf of Gubbio, and official patron saint of ecology (so deemed in 1979).

Note the downward cast of his eyes. Yes, perhaps Francis is checking the water basin he holds. Perhaps humility is the order of the day, along with a life of poverty.

By the way, members of the Franciscan order are friars, not monks. Friars. Did you think of Friar Tuck?

Yesterday morning I chanced upon a dead mockingbird just outside my fence. The wings--I do not know if it was Brother or Sister bird--the wings were neatly folded along its body, no obvious sign of a mortal wound apparent. No loose feathers about either. 

I scooped the bird up with a shovel and took it to an ever-growing pile of dirt and dead plants and pruning debris. I dug a shallow grave, knowing full well its fate--the carcass, at least. 

Returning the shovel to its storage box, I passed the other small statue in my yard, Siddhartha, sitting in the shade of crape myrtles, back to a tea olive. My youngest neighbors last year placed a robin's nest in his lap, and later in the summer replaced it with a mockingbird's nest. 

This particular pose is known as Calling the Earth to Witness, or Earth Touching. 

For me, a grounding comes as I walk about tending plants and trees, seeding this season's vegetables, setting fresh water out for my dog. And, I have much time for sky-watching. From out there, sun and moon and stars and clouds, to beneath my feet.  

I do not mind a bit the notion I will end as ashes scattered to the wind or cast into the ocean, carbon infused, infusing the carbon chain of being. I make no pretense of any philosophical purity, but I do believe myself part of the whole. 

At the very least, Sidd and Francis would understand.

A Confluence of Coincidence

My sister's first grandchild to be graduated from high school celebrated that threshold yesterday. My brother's youngest child will end her high school career soon, too. They, the Class of '21, may be reconvened for their 50th reunion in 2071. 

I find the notion, uh, staggering, but not much more so than my 50th reunion being held this year. Coincidentally. 

Markers, you know. We do seem to gravitate toward anniversaries and reunions--demarcations, mostly by 5s and 10s and 20s and, well, 50s. Of course, the 100th such and such, a wow. Or 250th. 

After all, who can forget we celebrate the 1000th anniversary of Basil II's victory over Giorgi I at Lake Palakazio. I know, tell me about it. Go Byzantine Empire!

I suspect I'm more likely to hear--maybe--from some member of Baton Rouge High School's Class of 1981, my first group of seniors as their high school English teacher. I think it very likely they will celebrate their 40th. Coincidentally. Go Bulldogs! 

No seniors on my watch in 1991, was in the throes of a run of 9th and 10th graders then. But in 2001, after a transfer between schools, I did usher 3 classes of seniors to the end of their high school run. And so, their 20th. Go Green Wave!

Let us not forget this year is the 1250th mark for Japanese business Genda Shigyo, a ceremonial paper goods company. Go Emperor Konin!

I have saved the Class of 2011 at Ashley Ridge High School for last--only 10 years ago, already 10 years ago. They were our first full group of  seniors at the newest high school in the district. Go Swamp Foxes!

Now whether I will hear from the Classes of '82 & '83, '95-2000, 02'-'08, or '12 & '13, when certain milestones arrive, I can't say. But they will be measured. An accounting will be made. It's what we do.

By the way, I will be 117 in 2071 when my nieces celebrate that 50th mark. Put it on your calendar. My 100th.