November 12, 1963--The First
01/31/2005 06:09 a.m.
If there was a plan,
I did not know it;
Cramped, we rode
In old blue “Phenelly”
Until we slid off
Into a snow bank
Somewhere on
Willard Peak Road.

And the snow fell,
And we tramped
And we camped
On a sloppy wet
Wooded edge
Of our wilderness.
My feet were frozen,
And I wheezed.

Terrified, I jolted
Awake to throaty
Snorts and snores;
I had to pee, and
Sandwiched tight
Between other
Bagged boys, I fought
In the blackness.

With naked feet
In icy boots,
I tore open the tent
And ducked out:
The canyon glowed
Blue in moonlight,
An opera of stars
Chorused overhead.

Amid convulsive shivers
I peed frantically
Inches only from the door,
And in a frozen panic,
Grappled back
Into bag, bed, and
Winter survival.
"Why," I asked, "Why?"

I could not sleep;
I could not breathe;
My feet were cold;
Snoring droned on;
But I heard the stars
Beyond the tent,
Beyond the years,
And I hear them still.
I am currently Nostalgic
I am listening to Old wintery voices

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Commentary-Limerick
01/17/2004 10:45 p.m.
A poetesque William named Bean
Tends to critically quip, it would seem.
Genial words, I am sure,
Would entice metaphor
More than curt words, so keen, mean and green.
I am currently Upbeat
I am listening to Willow

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20 December 2003
12/21/2003 04:29 a.m.
Some days seem to reflect the totality of life. Today, this morning particularly, was just such an occasion.

I met the Student Government and Key Club kids at Walmart this morning at 9:00 in Logan. Because they were to do the shopping for two needy families, I left for a while to let them do their work. I stopped at Lows for a "stud-finder," then went to the care center to visit with Uncle Paul.

He looked worse in terms of color, but his condition seemed much the same as it had been two weeks ago (even with cancer, death comes in its own time). When I entered the room, he looked sedated, like he was sleeping, but when I spoke, he opened eyes and responded. I chatted briefly, asked how he was doing, and asked about Aunt Lou. As usual he answered somewhat curtly and then he paused and said, "There's someone else here. I don't know who it is, but they're there between you and me."

With my eyes, I could see no one. With my heart and spirit I tried to feel, but didn't experience what I had hoped to (and on some occasions have)experience. My conscience whispered to me of "unworthyness." And yet in my heart I felt that I was in the presence of someone from the other side of the veil. I wondered how much they knew of me or would like to say to me. I wondered if it were Grandma or Grandpa Bowen, perhaps Aunt Carol, but regardless felt real comfort in knowing that such presences are there at our bedside at the last of life. And I thought of Aunt Ersel and the visitation she had in what is now my own bedroom.

I left the care center, bought some gas, and went back to Walmart. While I was wating for the kids to come, the Harris' from Portage came by. Our visit wasn't long, Bill did most of the talking, but it was from the heart, and Judy gave me a hug. And I considered again what those few months of service on my part in Brigham City had cemented into a lasting love, only to be reinforced as I taught their children--sons and daughters.

After Harris's a guy who I knew from Camp Loll passed with his family. Later Renee Hortin's granddaughter (who I taught last year in German) stopped and visited briefly. Then Jody Orme's Grandpa Bourne. And I thought of how our two families have been tied together through Scouting, teaching, and church service both by them to us and us to them.

Later I passed a face that looked familiar, and he said to one of his children, "That's my old English teacher, I almost didn't recognize you." And I didn't have the heart to say that I had no idea of his name, but simply said, "Time passes and makes changes."

I next saw James Coburn's nephew Donald Banks. He was tall and good looking and still had that air of quiet dignity about him. But he now spoke confidently as an adult, no longer a shy teenager, and told me about his life. And I was glad to hear that he lived by his stepfather York.

When I finally found the kids and as we were tallying up and sorting out our purchases, a big heavy kid that I know from the canyon passed by. I don't know if he even saw me, regardless, we didn't speak, and I both wondered and knew for what reason. And I made note of another aspect of multifacited life.

At the check out stand I almost called Ashley Scott, "Alison." And I no doubt surprised her when I asked her about her Aunt Alison (Oh, what a boistrous and tough one she was.) As she told me about her aunt's on-going divorce, I wasn't surprised. And in fear of digging up more dirt, I didn't ask her about her Uncle Donny. "Oh, so many years and so many live's I've known," I thought to myself. "And here I am with the next generation."

And as I drove the gifts back to the high school, I had that good feeling of having done good. And I felt thankful and greatly rewarded for having done this very duty not just this year, but for many, many years, usually (to the needy families anyway) entirely annonymous.

The opera on NPR was German and relatively understandable, but modern and cacaphonous so I switched it off and thought Christmas thoughts (here expressed), about who I really am, and am not. Thankful that such a morning could even be mine, and regretting, at least to some extent, that it wasn't a morning of full Joy.

I spent the rest of the day puttering around the house and yard (the weather was warm and beautiful for December), and thinking about the completeness of the morning.
I am currently Thoughtfull
I am listening to Riga Boys Choir

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Birthday
11/24/2002 12:40 a.m.
A week ago at fifty,
I slept beneath the sky,
Watched constellations rotate,
A bright Moon sailing high.

Now at fifty one, I lie
Upon a city bed,
Gaze on endless earth-stars,
The roar within my head.

And still I ponder inner Light,
Still struggle with the Sin,
And hoping, fearing, 'wait the day
When Real Life begins.
I am currently Reflective
I am listening to The living noise

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Layton, Loll, and the Summer of 2003
11/04/2002 05:25 a.m.
I'm not going back.
I called.
I feel good.
My poem "High August" reveals the truth of it.
My poem "Forbidden Fruit" bespeaks the personal.

"Write my own ticket," he said.
A kindness?
Honesty?
Friendship?
Sincere need?

What I will do, I don't know.
But what I won't do, I do know.
And it's November,
Six months until the end of school,
And I feel relieved.
I am currently Content
I am listening to Beruhmte Orgelwerke von Johann Sebastian Bach

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An American Mantra
08/27/2002 04:05 a.m.
As I sat beside Lake of the Woods contemplating outward, inward, and civic storm, I found myself chanting this familiar verse:

"Grant us the rain,
O, God,
But spare us the wrath
Of the Thunder."
I am currently Sarcastic
I am listening to The beating of my own heart and the rising of the wind.

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Old Blue Treasure Hunt
05/23/2002 03:31 a.m.
There's gold, I'm told
On Watkins Hill
But to find it now
Will take some skill.

212 degrees
To Highway 30,
But do be cautious,
Don't get dirty.

In "Case" you cannot
Find the "yellow,"
A white door's standing
Near the fellow.

From "yellow" to "silver
Round and bumpy,"
86 steps, yes,
Around it's junky.

From "silver" 116
Over to "red"
Stay away from
that messed-up bed.

94 north and west
To "Old Blue"
O'er the boneyard
Then you're through.

Eat and drink
When you are done,
That too is
A lot of fun.

Note: We did compass work with map and compass indoors to teach the skill and to find the place on Watkins Hill where they had to look further. The descriptive clues there matched the area well enough that they found the "gold" (pop and candy) in about 15 minutes and with a minimum of assistance. "A good time was had by all."
I am currently Creative
I am listening to My son clean up his room.

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Bridge
04/07/2002 05:30 a.m.
I despise the bridge
As omen of evil:
Pasture lost
To pseudo-progress,
Torn trees,
Graveled grass,
And loss of another
Country lane.

Yet o'er it I will
Penetrate where I've
Not been in half-a-life,
And celebrate transcendent
Knowledge with
Unravishable earth,
Water unquenchable,
And those visionary
Fireflies of the mind.

I am currently Disillusioned
I am listening to the hum of the computer

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Palm Sunday
03/27/2002 06:00 a.m.
Mysteriously
The Medicine Man
Shook gods to life
With his rattle.

Tediously
The Missionary
Rattled my well-versed
Bones to restive sleep.
I am currently Bothered
I am listening to The television

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West Forest
01/18/2002 06:26 a.m.
Not the factory lights
Nor the highway,
Nor the exotics
Dug in formally
Along the curb;

These could not speak,
But the voice was there,
Clear and poignant
And we huddled
Once more in the thicket.

Was it winter, wilderness,
Or wildlife that we sought?
The day was harsh,
The wind bit cold,
And we found shelter.

Thick enough to lie upon
Above the ground,
A twiggy tangle;
Protected, concealed,
We were gratified.

I smell even now
Old leaves, willow,
And wet sticks--
Snowflakes melting
On warmed thin skin;

And impluslively squinting
From the yellow glare,
Street lights, and
Traffic--"thirty years
On down the road."
I am currently Romantic
I am listening to Green Memory's Song

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