Radio

A Borrowed Bird
Pearl Street
Old Flowers
Paperback Crop
Tomatoes For Sale
Humpty Dumpty
The Ohio Window
Franklin Construction
Happy Anniversary
Two Cantaloupes
On A River In Ohio
Satch
Two Mourning Doves
The Ohio Wheel
Hydrangea Legs
Marlene Dietrich
The Lobster Wars
The Biggest Fish
My Grandmother, My Grandfather
28
A Yard Sale
King Medicine
Seagull
Tree Cup
Yellow Submarine
Lighthouse
The Blue Something
Philadelphia to Akron
Morris Teahorn
Acorns
Paper Airplane Dream
Back Home

A Borrowed Bird

She had the funniest
look of disbelief
squinting through
thick glasses perched
on her nose, her mouth
open and crooked.
We must have been
over Colorado mountains,
Oklahoma, or one of
those plains states
where the air can
boil up in thick
black thunder.
The turbulence
shaking the plane
got her hands gripping
the armrests
listening to me.
Another spell of
bad weather hit
and I repeated
“Here we go again.”
I know a third grader
knows better
what I was saying
was magic, made up
on the edge of
what she knew
and what couldn’t be.
Just there, balanced
in a neverland where
it might be true.
“Every once in a while
the big bird we’re in
needs to flap its wings.”
She still wasn’t so sure
and maybe I should have
been more honest about it.
Think of us going round
and round over oceans
and land.
People have borrowed
these birds, the captain
and crew sit in the front
in a crown of blinking lights
soothing the bird with buttons
and levers while we all sit
and wait in the narrow aisle
like Pinocchio in the whale.
It’s a little scary I know,
no wonder, think of the size
this animal traveling
like swimming in the air.
“Here, hold your arms out
and try it too. You can
expect to shudder and
drop as you do. Don’t worry.”
While the world spins
underneath us, with those
big silvery wings this bird
takes us safely where
we want to go.


Pearl Street

Lawn cut down
to the quick
the chicory
purple flowers
just poking through
like periscopes
daring to grow

Set List For Reading On August 9th

Old Flowers

I’m only in there a little while.
There are so many books stacked
like old flowers now, petals everywhere.
The hot air, dry in here as an Egyptian tomb
preserves the paper history of his 95 years.
The fabled 1930s, union massacres,
Woody Guthrie in the radio, interrupted
by the 1940s war, the photo of him
by the door wearing a uniform.
The factories and the military
then the years afterwards
when the labor dream
could be pinned to an easy fear
communism, conspiracy
with the enemy.
It’s all there for anyone to read
to understand how we got here
the cycles of exploitation and greed
a crafty oppression, the slow
building of the American pyramid
the song on a record
Paul Robeson sings.

Paperback Crop

A room has been cleared
in the back of the house.
Everything that was in there
has been boxed and pulled out
and trucked about town
finding new homes or
I guess going into the ground.
I was lucky enough to accept
a Signet paperback from 1959,
Tortilla Flat by Steinbeck.
This is the hot afternoon
I start to read the yellow pages
moving crisp as leaves of corn.

Tomatoes For Sale

The road goes beside
the tall green monster
wall of Genetic corn.
This is the part
I can’t understand.
How could this fertile land
put up with that?
Where’s the rebellion
the fight against
what is wrong?
That’s why
it’s a victory
to see a painted sign
on the chair in front
of their house.
Up the dirt driveway
I can see tomatoes
growing from buckets
in the garden.




Humpty Dumpty

He almost fooled me
laughing that way
on top of the wall
an arm dropped
over my shoulder
his wheezy breath
and cough at
the end of it




The Ohio Window

When I open
the Ohio window
all of a sudden

this is
the cricket song
my radio
won’t get
where I
come from

everyone
is in on it
the train
here and gone
the dog
that dots
with barks

I understand
a car rush
fading
like wind

inspiration
in listening

a night
like this
goes right
into dreaming




Franklin Construction

A red and white
dumper truck
tipped up so
it makes
a spill of walnuts
on the pavement
below




Happy Anniversary

I had to hear
the story
repeated
a couple times
when he said
his daughter
was marrying
a college man
(that would be me)
the old woman
was elated
until she heard
the words
English major.
How sad
everyone knows
the years
will barely
provide
it’s obvious
to the wise
no bird
ever built
a nest
with poetry.




Two Cantaloupes

Seen from a distance it couldn’t be what
it looked like. We drove up close to make sure
it wasn’t a mirage. Two cantaloupes were left
alone on a curb in the empty parking lot.
What a strange thing to do. Or is it?
Maybe this is how Johnny Appleseed
started out. Only now it’s two cantaloupes
planted in a modern day meadow.




On A River In Ohio

We unloaded it
into the Vermillion river
and took the couch for a ride.
It’s summertime,
everyone is friendly,
they wave to us going by.
A leisurely comfortable glide,
carried along the mossy
glassy surface,
rippled sometimes
by the fish below.
Swallows dipped
and threaded
and we spotted their nests
when we went under
the railroad bridge,
counting the mud daubed
into the trestles.
Our chair turned
when it wanted to,
presenting us with views,
like a barge loaded with
flinty chips of ore,
a blue cartoon tug tied to it,
a big willow draped hushing
leaves and shadow,
crowds of boats along the bank,
past houses stood like dominoes,
yellow windows going on.
Deep in a clutch of woods
some twilight fireflies began.
When the slow green poured
out into Lake Erie
you could tell the day
was getting done.
We came to rest
against the breakwater
blocks of rocks run aground.
There was a lampstand
washed up like a crooked stick
beside us. I clicked it on.
It made a glow.
Lifting off the upholstery,
pushing aside cattails
and dark tall purple flowers
we rose to the top of stones
just in time to see the red
ball of the sun at rest
on the waves
and filled with the warm
summer Ohio air going down.


Satch

Satch took a correspondence course twice a week
in a little office room above the street.
He learned the different ways to fill a page.
As an exercise, the class wrote letters
to far away. At first his words to Tennessee
were formal and awkward, cold to look at
as a blueprint, but somewhere along the way
he became an architect and something lonely
in him bloomed. He found he had a gift.
Something started to happen. One day
he stared deeply at certain words she wrote.
When he got her letters he took them upstairs.
He took his shoes off and lay down on the bed.
When he opened the envelope so carefully
he would pull out her folded letter and
bring it to his face, eyes closed
acting like someone in love.
Handwritten letters were precious
he traced her motion in the air
trying to conjure her there.
He bought a record that mentioned
Tennessee. He thought of wildflowers
and green hills, he thought of her
all the time. Once he talked to
a truck driver for half an hour.
Anyone who had been there
had been that much closer than him.
She sent him her photograph and
finally, he decided he couldn’t wait,
he wrote he was on his way.
He got a train ticket
arranged time off from work
he had never felt such excitement.
It must be the warmth of Spring.
At the department store
he bought a blue suit
a pair of leather shoes
and a diamond ring.
He was floating on air
without a care to what
the world might say.
That’s when it always happens.
It used to be called a Dear John letter.
On the very day he was due to leave,
it was typed, a text book example,
it was like Day 1 all over again.
An impersonal letter from Tennessee.
He read it and had to throw it away.
He went up to his bedroom
and came back down the stairs.
In his socks, he went to the basement.
Lit only by the last green of daylight
he found the corner by the furnace.
He set his new shoes flat
on top of the suitcase
and pushed it way back.
There were canning jars
berries cobwebbed in dust.
Time took care of it all.
like a broken fairy tale heart.
He never really got over her
not even after all those years
when his shoes were brought down
the laces were brittle and the suitcase
cracked open to reveal a blue
pressed suit with crushed flowers.




Two Mourning Doves

One is sitting
on the wire
another arrives
whirring wings

This evening
they could fly
anyplace
but this
is where
they stay




The Ohio Wheel

At night
the crickets
creak
the Ohio wheel
like a carrousel




Hydrangea Legs

Two flowers
in a glass jar
their green stems
reach through water
ready to walk




Marlene Dietrich

I wonder
if anyone
still listens
to the radio
in this age

It seems
old fashioned
and gone
until I am
proven wrong

In the car
on the way
to Akron
I press
the button
and hear
her sing




The Lobster Wars

Coffins do not sail
in these coves anymore
laying down their lines
and buoys like territories
the boundaries of wars
fought over on water

Those days are gone
their men are too
faded old
the last of them
living with memory
and the cold




The Biggest Fish

Our second day on the Atlantic
we tried casting and reeling
catching our limit of eelgrass,
seaweed and tangled line
when along paddled a man
in a red life jacket.
“How’s the fishing?”
I held up the empty bucket.
He was lucky though,
it was a good day for swimming.
He pointed across Harpswell Sound
a thousand yards to the other side
where the Bailey Island bridge
underwent repairs. He was
the crane operator, done for today
and he was swimming home.
Hungry, tired, at the mercy of current
and tide, he was the biggest fish
I didn’t catch.




My Grandmother, My Grandfather

“I see him in dreams too,” she told me.
We both communicate with the other world
only she tells him, “I’ll be with you soon.”




28

Her mother died only 28
in the flu epidemic and although
it was war, her father sent for help
from Scotland.




A Yard Sale

At the fire station
I read the sign
pinned to a couch
LBJ Sat Here


King Medicine

I suppose it turned into a bit of a story after all,
going to Bangor to see the Stephen King house.
It’s one of those things I had to do,
even though it bothered me to. If I was in
Memphis, Tennessee I would feel the same way
about Graceland. I would have to go.
I would stand in front of that metal gate
just like the tourists do. First we stopped at
the Brunswick library to get a book on CD.
I chose Cell because I knew the way it just
ripped right into story. Pulling out we passed
a man in a pink shirt, smoking a pipe and
I threatened to take him along with us.
295 North was a good drive, like a painting,
calm smooth new black tar, little traffic, low pines
on either side. Caution Moose signs and after a
long while listening to Cell and my daughter’s
occasional gasps, the garbage hill before Bangor.
It looks like a weird mountain the road bends for
and misses. Of course I thought of the drafts
that might be in there. We took Exit 184
and waited to go right on Union Street.
A beefy man with a Boston Red Sox t-shirt
crossed the walk. We passed Mansfield Stadium
a little later and saw the stands full, I thought
he’s probably there. We missed West Broadway
and I had to turn onto Pond, then Cedar and
suddenly I felt we were very near.
I knew it was a red house. I saw it.
Well, it was easy to feel like a fool now
but I had to do it. The street was eighty feet
wide, mansions on either side and nobody
was parked near. I pulled over just past
the property corner with a big green frog statue.
I don’t know what I expected to happen—no,
I do—I can tell it in awful truthfulness.
Like any other fan drawn here, I expected
there to be a chance of this happening:
at just this moment, he would be coming out,
a wave, I could say hello and talk a minute.
Grandpa made a call on the cell-phone
to tell where we were and shambled
at Rosa like a zombie along the curb.
We got our pictures taken awkwardly.
All the windows looked still and
I couldn’t blame them. I could hear shrieks
from the baseball field a couple blocks away.
We got back in the car, but I wasn’t done yet.
I had to try the stadium. I could picture him
there in the bleachers watching the game.
What a bizarre ride. The potbellied man
on the corner of Hammond wearing shorts,
black socks, an umbrella tucked under his arm.
All day long a fog had clung to the trees.
The radio kept warning about a hurricane.
He was prepared. Past the Dead River Company,
we circled those streets back onto 13th and then
we were there, I pulled off of the road.
I parked on the grass like the other cars
but I was the only one who dared to get out.
“But look,” I said. I pointed to a man
on the other side of the mesh wire fence.
He sat at a picnic table, writing something.
“That might be him, right there.”
When I got closer, walking past all the rows
of parked cars, I could tell it wasn’t him.
The announcer inside set up another batter,
a strange sounding name, people clapped
in the tall stands. I went around to the gate
and read Senior World Series and admission
cost, 10 dollars. That stopped me. I turned
around. I went back to the car. Now
I just wanted to get a postcard to send.
I don’t need to say how I even failed at that,
the Family Dollar store didn’t have any,
the grocery no, nor the gas station where
there was a dwarf in front of me in line.
“I’m sorry dear,” the cashier said.
It’s a winding and steep river town,
old buildings, iron, stone, wooden,
people living in a dream. We saw
the Paul Bunyan statue, giant maniac
face that I’ve read about. I didn’t really
expect to write this, I didn’t take notes
the way I should have. We drove out of there,
over the Penobscot again, heading south
on Route 1, caught in tourist traffic,
a taste of my own medicine, slowed
to a crawl for every tourist town
from then on, Camden, Rockport,
Waldoboro, Damariscotta, Moody’s Diner,
Wiscasset on down.




Seagull

With one lobster trap
set in the stern
he rowed slow
and didn’t mind
the seagull
in the bow
I’m sure
he had a name
for the bird
but we didn’t
stop to ask




Tree Cup

From the beginning
it was a tea bag
I dug into ground
patted it over
with the toe
of my shoe
then
after all these years
here I am again
I have to reach
up to a branch
where the ripe
teacup is waiting




Yellow Submarine

Max has
his favorite song
we must have heard it
twenty times

Finally
I turned on the radio
for something new
and what do you know
that song
by the Beatles
plays again




Lighthouse

The storm is gone
ocean calm
I can sleep
with a firefly
for company
on my wall




The Blue Something

After another unsuccessful fishing trip
we were motoring back to the dock
when we spotted the blue something
caught in the weeds. It breeched
like the back of a baby whale,
closer we could see it was
a plastic barrel. It had been
in the water for a while,
there was a growth of slimy algae
and big mussel shells.
No loop on it or handle to tie to,
I got into the rowboat so
I could fight it to shore.
Slowly going, I managed
to roll it into the shallows.
Stamped on the side I could read
Envasa Plas SA, San Juan Argentina
but no mention of what it contained.
Of course I was hopeful for contraband.
Grandpa was worried it might be
filled with oil or something hazardous,
kicked off a ship. He was in favor of
leaving it alone, but I had to know.
Maybe it was part of a smuggling ring,
a radio antenna inside sending out
a weak signal even now.
I couldn’t let it go—I could see
the headlines if I did—New Jersey
Couple Discover Millions In Barrel!
There could even be the horror of
an informant’s mangled body
crumpled up in there.
But 40 gallons of toxic mystery
almost won over, until I saw
the small hole in the top
pouring out clear water.
Now it seemed safe to find out
what it held. Argentina? What did
they export? What could have drifted
the Atlantic all the way here?
Wouldn’t it be perfect after all
our empty fishing hours if we
caught a drum full of pickled herring?
It was hard work to drag it onto
the rocky shore. More clear water
gushed from it. Grandpa got a hammer
and chisel and opened another hole
so the water poured out in a freshet,
not red, or stinking of gasoline,
or burning radioactivity bleaching
the shoreline. We let it all pour out
then I turned it, stood it upright and
looked through the little hole.
All blue lit inside, it held only
some water, a sprig of seaweed,
a bolt and a shard of plastic,
nothing else. Pulling it up
the wooden steps from the shore,
tied to a handline, across the grass
to the side of the shed, its drifting
journey has ended. It will make
the perfect rain barrel.

Philadelphia To Akron

Flying at night
looking down at
all the lights
the deep swirls
carnivals, volcanoes
and city grids.
My daughter sleeps
on my shoulder.
We’re over countryside
the little roads blink
headlights turn
in the deep black
that stretches on
until I wonder
are we up or down
stars or the ground?
It’s easy to imagine
any version of America
an inland ocean below
a forest a thousand miles wide
a Raymond Bradbury town
where a boy looks up
at the sound of a twinkling
rocket overhead.




Morris Teahorn

Actually that statue you see
there in the park, heroically covered
with pigeons, wearing the gray
clothes and crooked hat
from another century
isn’t really a statue at all.
His name is Morris Teahorn.
He’s been walking across the park
for two hundred years. His progress
has been tracked in paintings,
a woodcut, postcard etchings
and photography.
As of today, he’s halfway
to where he thinks he should be.




Acorns

This blanket
rain covering
began with
a few taps
like acorns
on the roof




Paper Airplane Dream

It’s the crickets
and the ceiling fan
calm

time slowed down
to where a dream
comes easily

the day
all folded up
and flown
into night




Back Home

A leopard slug
lifts its head
to greet me


8/29/9
3:15 AM

writing: allen frost
august 9—august 29, 2009
in ohio and maine
and back to bellingham