Dark Days And Theft Of A Dusky Symbol
I wonder at dark days and theft,
when I hear a story from my coastal home
of what is taken, and what is left.
Would they take a bald man's comb?
They stole the carved crow
off the Crow Tracks business sign pole.
Why? I am sure I don't know
does it make them feel whole?
Down on Water Street in Eastport.
the sign hangs bare now,
with no customers to court,
the owner wants to start a row.
Somewhere a 15-inch long
black wooden crow waits,
ready to sound his coarse song
in this town of fishermen and bait.
A broken dowel on a pole remains
where once the bird stood
in snows and summer rains,
remnants of the statue made of wood.
The police were called and took pictures
and stood chin scratching;
not providing society's illness cures,
just wishing they had ideas hatching.
I pray the crow flies home soon,
replaced by repentant vandals,
perhaps by the light of the moon.
In small towns theft makes large scandals.
I wonder at dark days and theft,
when I hear a story from my coastal home
of what is taken, and what is left.
Would they take a bald man's comb?
Dreaming Of Trains
A young boy's dreams of riding rails
are steadily fed with stories and tales.
Grown, engines cease their steam song;
slowly the vision of wandering derails.
I watched diesel trains move along,
blunt featured, efficient and strong.
I wonder at all the romance sadly lost
upon tracks where the smokers belong.
I guess the environment paid the cost
of belching, dirty coal smoke exhaust,
but sparks flying and blackened plumes
make my railroad picture pretty, glossed.
I see switchyard engines blow oily fumes,
but wish I was relaxing in Pullman rooms.
I never outgrew railroad dreams I assume
as my boyhood hobo fantasy resumes.
Elephant Mountain
"Watch out for that ice!"
"View sure is nice."
"Wait until we get to the top,
plenty of time to stop."
"I am a little cold."
The north wind was bold
as we climbed Elephant Mountain
north of Rangeley, Maine.
My brother Digger and I
under a crystal blue sky
were on a treasure quest,
without gold in a chest.
We looked for antlers dropped.
Where the trail stopped
we parked our snowmobile,
put on shoe spikes of steel,
and started up a game trail,
alongside an abandoned mine rail.
Poking through deer bed downs,
nothing here on the ground
except the trampled rent snow,
left behind by buck or doe.
We stopped by a blow-down,
for a drink and to sit down.
Digger's dented thermos cup
full of coffee we drank up.
My cold feet I began to stamp.
"Guess we better head for camp."
We climbed back on the sled,
following the trail laid ahead.
Down Elephant Mountain we flew.
This treasure did we accrue,
time spent as brothers,
better than gold and all others!
Fireflies
I can tell you from experience
fireflies don't taste as sweet
as their color would indicate
but if you sample them just right
tasting them will get you a date.
I can tell you from experience
that teen boys craving attention
will try to do just about anything
to get a girl to look their way,
when emotions jump like springs.
I can tell you from experience
that two fireflies on a tongue
don't light up your entire face,
but leave an acrid residue,
that even water won't chase.
I can tell you from experience
that a sweet kiss lasts long
and there is magic in hugs.
Mostly though my memory carries
the taste of dirty fluorescent bugs.
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