WHAT TO DO, OH, WHAT TO DO!

The package arrives at half past ten
carried in by six strong men,

a rickety crate without a door,
the nails are loose; we hear a roar,

It’s odd in both its shape and size,
but the weirdest part is the hint of eyes,

they peek at us through tiny slits,
and wink until we lose our wits,

what to do, oh, what to do,
if you have any thoughts, please send a few,

but please make it snappy,
our time could be short,

the creatures seem hungry,
and the crate is falling apart!

Illustration by Philip Bourland

THE WORLD AT HIS FEET

His gaze follows me
as I walk through the neighborhood,

an area growing faster
than the seeds his father
used to plant on their family farm,

all that is gone,

replaced by craft breweries
coffee shops, hair salons,

new visions replacing traces of the past,

he still lives on these streets,
volunteering at the community center,
doing the crossword at the corner diner,

he embraces old ways,
while accepting that nothing lasts forever,

except possibly this 200 foot silo mural,

he’s memorialized,
standing as a poignant reminder,
a symbolic talisman,
a humble, hard-working gentleman,

with a watchful eye and hopeful heart
for the ever-changing world at his feet,

he’s sowing seeds in others

that will continue to grow when he
Is no longer among us,

ensuring traces will remain
of the past that existed here.

INFO ON THE SILO MURAL
On a recent visit to Nashville, Tennessee, I discovered this amazing mural on the side of a 200 foot silo. It was painted in 2017 by Guido van Helten, an Australian and a former graffiti artist, who now specializes in monochromatic, photorealistic murals. The silo was formerly part of the Gillette Grain Company but now sits in an area of the city called The Nation. It is located on a bend in the Cumberland River. The subject of the art is Lee Estes, a 100 year old resident of the area.
On the side of the silo, van Helten painted two children from Saint Luke’s Community House. They stand at 130 feet tall.

WAITING

A woman sits in her courtyard waiting for flowers to grow,

Another waits at her bank to make the last payment on her house,

A boy fishes at the neighborhood pond waiting for a bite,

A baby cries in her crib, waiting for familiar hands
to scoop her up in a warm embrace,

A woman waits for news of a job offer,

A teenager sits in class waiting for the last bell to ring,

An airplane pilot waits for the signal to take off,
another waits for clearance to land,

A child waits for his turn on the slide,

A photographer waits for a perfect sunset,

A chef waits for the first reviews of her new restaurant,

A writer waits for inspiration,

A farmer waits for rain,

A patient waits for her pain to end,

Eventually, the waiting will end,

the flowers will bloom,

and we’ll begin again.

Subjects of photo – Regina and Maggie May

THE DOGS THAT WALKED BESIDE US

The gentle elders
of the park have left us,

they walked behind the pack,
yet led in stature and grace,

their journey
worth every hard-earned step,

even on the toughest days,
when their aging bodies
couldn’t keep up,

they longed to be
among us,

over the years they filled
a special place in our hearts,

a place that needed filling,

our precious pets,
our steadfast friends,
our greatest fans,

may we never forget,

the dogs that walked beside us.

Photo by Estelle Boyaka
This poem was written in memory of several beloved dogs who passed
in recent weeks. They were friends to all of us.

Dreaming on Harp Shaped Wings

As we dip our oars in the pristine river,
the cello cradles us like newborns,
navigating through a soothing clarinet of sounds,

with little warning,
timpani and trumpets warn of danger ahead,
fluted wind carries us over rapids,
through quick turns,
past boulders,
into sudden drops,

an orchestral powerhouse of energy
coursing through us,

no time for distraction or fear,
all focus on each moment,
each determined slice of oars through water,

with a sudden decrescendo,
the rapids cease,
heartrates slow,
the cello sighs in relief,

sunlight blinks on the water,
a symphony of birds soar,
a chorus of frogs bassoon,

gentle violins and oboes sing us home,
leading us back to safe harbor
where sweet dreams float on harp shaped wings.

The poem was inspired by the music from Fountains of Rome
which was composed by Ottorino Respighi in 1916.

Photo – Mysterious Man Sitting on Chair Playing Cello
Sold by ONORMAL on Redbubble

A SECOND CHANCE
And just like that,
the shadows lift,

a corner,
unaccustomed to light,
reveals its rough edges,
craggy stones,

alone for so long,
its scars and beauty
crumbled,
eroded,

human hands in decades past
made this their master work,
and now its moment has arrived anew,

a reminder that shadows can lift
from rough-hewn edges,
from hard-earned scars,
to reveal truth, beauty,
and a second chance.

This poem was inspired by the refurbished Historic Trolley District that was built between 1882 and 1920 to serve horse carriages, streetcars and buses. It is now the vibrant East Market located at 212 Kelton Ave. Columbus. Go check it out: https://eastmarketcolumbus.com/

ALL WE HAVE IS RIGHT NOW

Even though, my mind has gone blurry,
even though, your name might escape me,
even though, I can’t make you coffee
like I used to,
I’m so happy you’re here,

sit with me for a time,
take my hand,
share the warmth of your kindness,
the warmth of your heart,

I hope you recognize me,
the me I was before
this blurred state
consumed me,

when my dignity and grace were intact,
when my giving spirit and smile defined me,
when my words were accessible,

so much has been taken,

in truth, the edges of my days
often feel like unsafe cliffs
where nothing can save me
from a treacherous fall,

yet, I do find delight
in momentary joys,

my caregiver and I sing old familiar tunes,
the words rising from unknown wells
deep in my mind’s recesses,

we keep a balloon aloft,
back and forth it floats,
a blissful, playful interlude,

I guess we’re all trying to keep things aloft,

balloons,

songs,

hopes,

each other,

all we have is right now.
all we have is each other.

SEEING EVERYTHING

Oh, to be an owl,
whose wisdom sits
lightly on shoulders
feathered for flight,

who soars at night
on silent wings,
eyes piercing
through moonless, misty skies,

past trees
whose leaves tremble
in silent respect,

oh, to feel
his mantle of wisdom,
his steady strength,
imbuing us with fearless flight,

relieving our burdened spirits,
allowing vision beyond this day,
this way of being,

seeing everything
for what it is,

understanding our place
in this universe, this space
where each breath,
each sigh aligns,

where love and wisdom
still reside.

Art (colored pencil on suede art paper) by my cousin Kathy Garvey Quinn

THAT’S WHAT I THINK WE SHOULD DO

There once was a twisted house,
not lived in by man or by mouse,

some people say,
if you pass by that way,
you’ll question your night
and your day,

what’s up isn’t up,
what’s down isn’t down,
yet the world is still spinning
around and around,

so what shall we do,
when we haven’t a clue,

stick with the things
we know to be true,

like the me that is me,
the you that is you,
and the days when the sky
is bluer than blue.

that’s what I think we should do.

The Twisted House is at the Indianapolis Art Center. It was created by John McNaughton.

Tilting the Universe

Birds die every day,
so many things do,
dreams, people, pets,

we can’t save them all,

but once in awhile,
we step outside
our passive sorrow,
to forestall the inevitable.

**************************

The duck was clearly in pain,
in imminent peril,
a fishing hook gouged his neck,
one end coming out the front,
the other out the side,

four intrepid friends
jumped into action,
employing wire cutters and a firm grasp,
they calmed and saved a frightened bird,

a steady hand clipped the curved hook,
another pulled out the straight end,
a third held the duck close
before easing it to the ground,
a fourth held her camera steady
to capture its joyous freedom flight,

it was quite a sight
seeing it soar into the evening sky.

**************************

Birds die every day,

but in that moment,
on that day,
four friends
eased one duck’s suffering,
while also tipping the universe
in a slightly more positive direction.

Poem by Rita Bourland Photos by Estelle Boyaka
Duck rescue at Sunny 95 Pond by Tanya Willett, Regina Goetz, Rick Calendine and Estelle Boyaka