Almanac Poems

Waiting

Cramped in the back
of the old Toyota Van.
Our mom can only be one place at a time.

And so we wait alone,
my sister and I.
Idly munching potato sticks,
adding new crumbs to the collection.

The time isn't wasted
when you have nothing to do.
She returns, and we continue
on to the next errand.


Storm

The rain beats down furiously all around
but in the shelter of the garage
not a drop reaches us.

A stout fortress
offering staunch resistance against the elements
affording us the luxury of passive observance.

Lightning lashes out, but we know
this artillery is woefully inaccurate
and we have nothing to fear.

The rain picks up,
this is an all out assault,
one final charge at the walls.

But the bastions hold, of course,
as they always do.
Once again nature is foiled by the stubborn ingenuity of man.



Preparation

It's all over the news, the atmosphere is just shy of hysteria.
We've been attacked, and it could happen again, anytime.
Families rush to the stores, buying bottled water by the case.
Turning basements into bomb shelters to hold out in for days.
Peanut butter and canned foods that keep for years,
Duct tape to seal the cracks for a gas attack.
But what are we truly expecting? The truth is: I don't know.
"Keep the bathtub filled with water," my mom says, "In case they poison the reservoirs."
Who are 'they' and why do they care?
You're telling me to drink from the bathtub?
The fear wears off with time and we begin to forget,
But I'll always wonder: What if I had to drink out of my bathtub?



How to:
How to tie a bowline.
On an early morning at the end of winter,
The rabbit pokes his head,
Out of his rabbit hole.
His eyes dart around for bit
And then he hops over to the sturdy tree
Taking root by his hole.
He loops around the tree
In a lazy frolic,
Before sliding back down
Into his hole.


The Salt Mines
As young children we love to play in the creek.
We explore up and down the banks, build dams,
Try to catch fish with our bare hands
(we never succeed).
One day we find some grainy white rock,
That sticks out from the usual dull drab stone
That populates the length of the creek.
My neighbor pulls a chunk up out of the bank
And we stare.
Salt?
In a reckless act that only a child is capable of
He sticks his tongue out and gives it a lick.
He pauses, a slight grimace:
"Salt!" He states proudly.
And there is plenty more hiding around.
We makes plans: We will bottle it up and sell it.
Authentic sea salt, the birth of a company.
And so the excavation begins.
But digging is fun for its own sake,
We soon forget the salt,
Thus passes another week
Of summer by the creek.