I don’t write in a journal everyday, but I have accumulated many entries over the past 50+ years beginning in 1966. Some items evolved into longer works. Among the leftovers little pieces survived. I thought a collection of these with a piece culled from the same date in a past year would make an interesting yearbook. The consistencies and inconsistencies of mind, skipping back and forth across time, provide varied perspectives. It is difficult to remember the context of the past we’ve lived; we also make suppositions about times that predate ourselves.

The few alterations from original drafts were to improve clarity. The worst of my work is not included. There remains enough mediocrity and immaturity to make me feel humble and you feel smart. There are also moments of accidental insight and incidental humor.

Author Stephen Crane referred to his little pieces as pills…apparently they were small and somewhat hard to swallow, but good for you.


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Sunday, June 27, 2021

rhubarb poem

 

June 27, 1970  (I was 25)

 

         rhubarb poem

Each summer in a neighboring yard

rhubarb stalks folded their green umbrellas

to squeeze through the picket fence.

I followed the dry transition from leaf to leather

and awaited a moment of divine inspiration.

Rhubarb is swiped alone.

There’s no camaraderie in it

not like the apple trees watched by gangs

in anticipation of darker raids.

This is spontaneous crime, second degree

decided just after dusk, too light to go home

but night enough for fear,

a shock to make fence jumping easier.

Two three four stalks snapped and out

and up the alley before a thought of freedom

so sweet and tart, sour celery dipped in sugar

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