To My Davidson Class of ‘71

The Summer of Love was coming undone 

when we, the groomed and vetted, primed 

and ready, settled in freshman dorms. 

Recall their Old World boarding-school ‘charm’ –

communal bathroom down the hall 

with open showers, doorless stalls. 

Now picture your buttoned-down selves, 

gentlemen-scholars-in-training 

trudging to chapel in Davidson beanies. 

Consider the privilege of cloistered life 

where you leave your rooms unlocked 

and take exams unproctored, 

and feel the pride of big-time teams 

whose athletes are classmates 

who’d come to be friends.

Banish the fear you don’t belong

while you fight the tide of assignments 

that will blight your dreams for life.

Suppress the anxious waves of fatigue 

as you catnap and cram 

for your first round of reviews. 

Relax in the grip of a gentle daze 

after another all-nighter 

eking out essays longhand. 

Then savor once more the textures of youth –

the sticky floors of dance halls, 

the stink of stale beer out back of Hattie’s; 

the squeak of sneakers in Johnston Gym, 

the spin of a frisbee against the sky, 

the arc of a toss on a flickerball field; 

or late-night talks with new-found friends,

the taste of shakes at the M & M 

and burgers in the Wildcat Den. 

I still smell the tea-olive sweetness 

cutting across the quad on autumn afternoons 

to tend my empty mailbox. 

It was a time before I knew Quixote, 

before I crewed the Pequod, 

or wrestled in the wilds with Enkidu. 

I came to campus listening to soul, 

slow dancing to Otis. The Righteous Brothers 

harmonized my heartbreaks.

I left listening to Leonard Cohen, 

lit up by the late Beatles, decoding secrets 

between the tracks of the Magical Mystery Tour. 

I would come to fight my faith 

as I marked up my boyhood Bible 

till the pages frayed and the binding broke. 

Outside, our country was coming apart. 

War peaked and cities burned, 

but a tender spirit was stirring inside. 

In ROTC I bore an old M-1, 

but wore a covert peace button 

on my jacket collar for marching drills. 

I joined that ironic boycott 

of the whites-only Black-owned barbershop 

and tutored a townie across the tracks. 

I picked up litter on Earth Day.

Turned on to Thoreau, I found a conviction – 

to save the world would be my career. 

The time had arrived when cloister 

became cell. I broke out early. 

My degree came in the mail 

while I backpacked across Europe. 

I’m happy to have it, 

wherever it is. 

To Maggie When Grandpa is Gone

Make it April when you and your mumma 
come back to explore her childhood home 
searching for solace when Grandpa is gone. 

Enjoy the glory of Georgia in spring 

as you poke around the garden paths 

but don’t look for my ghost in the roses 

or the showy whites of viburnum. 

I’m not in a swath of azaleas 

or a perfect row of tulips. 

But rise before the sun first lights 

the clouds behind the crest of trees 

that shadow our stretch of Oconee. 

Bundle yourself and set a brisk pace 

through the chilly end of an April night 

immersed in the chorus of morning. 

The gates of my heaven are guarded 

by a sentinel brown thrasher 

belting a medley of bird-psalms 

from the tip of a tender-leafed tree. 

We’ll meet in the moments the new world glows 

with clean glimmers of predawn light. 

And I will sing my peace to you 

in the whistling trill of a waterthrush song 

and the sweet of a chickadee call. 

You’ll bound like the yearling trailing a doe,  

you and your mumma, but girl when you go 

I’ll be the still spring in your soul. 

Fractal Shadows

Take the jagged spine of the Karakoram 

as seen from the heights of Haramukh, 

then examine the folds on the face of K2, 

creased with valleys of shadow and snow.

See the ravines with ribbons of ice 

heaped with scree and hills of rubble –

their ripples and rills reprise the peaks

in the span of the Karakoram.

Trace the chiseled edges of Ireland 

around an image taken from space, 

then zoom to the shores of Kerry and Cork 

where promontories part the sea. 

Swoop over cliffs at Mizen Head Bridge 

and follow the surf line east 

past fissured inlets and hideaway coves 

that reprise the whole coastline of Éire.

Probe your life with a one-word prayer, 

confess your worst day in a diary, 

compose an account of your favorite year, 

then draft your own obituary. 

Savor the play of creation – 

how days reprise decades, 

how moments harbor whole lives, 

how we inhabit the fractal shadows. 

Aerial View of the Baltoro Glacier, by Guilhem Vellut, Paris

Becoming the Color of Winter

When the world tilts toward darkness 

    and seasons of color wane, 

        as you feel life ebbing, look for me: 

I am the glint on evergreens 

    lit against the clear embrace 

        of cold air cleansed on Arctic ice. 

I am the swath of bare terrain 

    of ochre earth and umber mud 

        softened in a misting rain. 

I’m the stubble field of muted tan 

    suffused in amber overtones 

        streaked with shades of fading sun. 

And I’m the warmth of dancing light 

    above a base of burning embers 

        cradled in layers of ash. 

Deep into a sleepless night 

    on the bitter edge of winter, 

        I will be your summer dream 

of sea-green tinged with deep blue hues 

    framed by sunbeams slicing through storms 

        that rumble along the horizon. 

Summers Once Were Cotton Candy

A memory shared by my daughter while riding the San Francisco Muni
home after work September 2, 2016.

Those fleeting hours we hit the strand – 

a band of cousins and eager aunts 

dragging our frazzled uncles in tow. 

Fueled by cokes and funnel cakes, 

we bounced around the beach pavilion 

trading a wad of tickets for thrills 

till, flushed, we faced our final ride – 

the ginormous log flume, 

which took six tickets 

or was it ten? We gave no thought, 

just hopped aboard a dugout log 

and off we floated, swept beyond 

the jostling crowd through a portal 

walled with wads of bubble gum – 

the scent of Juicy Fruit, chlorine, and fun. 

We went sliding down the sluiceway 

swirling into curves, swaying through 

a snake turn, sloshing round a bend 

which washed to the base of a towering mountain 

where gears engaged with mechanical thumps, 

shudders and clanks, the stink of grease 

on a slow rise to heights where young lives 

pause. We peered beyond our tiny selves 

to a miniature beach, the silent surf, 

the forever swath of water. 

The whole world lay at our feet 

so we let go our hold, small hands high 

the free fall 

took 

seconds 

the great splash 

even less. 

It was over in a childhood moment.