Turtle Hunting With Butch

There were days in August
When we hunted turtles,
Waiting for mid-afternoon
When the sun was hottest.
Some days I still see us there,
Two boys in a wooden boat
Rowing to the far side of the lake
Where the tall reeds grew
And turtles slept in the sun
On fallen trees half sunken in
The water.

Ores onboard, we sat quietly.
My brother peering into the water,
Fishing net in hand, as I sat
Silently in the stern
Watching dragonflies frozen
For a moment in flight,
Their bodies slender
Tubes of hand-blown glass
Filled with pale blue neon.

My attention slowly drifting
Toward the water lilies,
A jumping bass or the
Shape of clouds, for I could not
Sit quietly with concentrated intent
Or wait as patiently as him.
I never caught a turtle, but always
Held them tightly, both hands
Wrapped around their shells
As Butch rowed us home.






Glokamora

I hear the ghost of my father
Singing to me:
  "How are things in Glokamora?"
When I am serious, focused and determined.
His comic entrance into every room
Disturbs me now, when I make decisions
And deal with responsibilities in a come-back
With-your-shield-or-on-it manner.
I hear him.

I hear the ghost of my father
Singing to me:
  "How are things in Glokamora?"
From a musical I never saw, when I am with
People who depend on me, when I gather everything
I've built and value around me and bask
In the orderliness of a reasonable life, when I am
Sure that achievement is the measure of a man.
I hear him.

I hear the ghost of my father
Singing to me:
  "How are things in Glokamora?"
When I'm thoughtful and careful, when cool control
Is important, when I read a book or write
A line of verse, when I put on a dark suit,
Straighten my tie, and when I catch myself singing
A song from Finnigan's Rainbow and am thoroughly
Annoyed. I hear him.