The River Poets - Where was everyone? - Poems: Melee at the Birdbath - Debris on the Side of the Road

For about a decade, the River Poets have met in the Lambertville, NJ, library, the former home of a Civil War surgeon, Dr John Lilly, no relation to the Eli Lilly Drug Company.

Date of orig. house: 1812-1830, according to a bookmark given me by Debbie, the librarian.

The Lilly home was rebuilt in 1993, after going thru the following surprising incarnations: service station, government housing for poor people, Moose Lodge, senior ciz center.

Since I haven't driven down in four years or so, I got terribly lost. I was shocked that I'd forgotten the way.

Finally I arrived at the library, walking up the stairs, feeling self-conscious about entering so late. As I neared the windowed room, I listened to the sound of the voices I had so missed.

Silence.

One person was there: Peter.

Here he is on the phone with his wife. A spiffy dresser, he hardly looks 70.

They raise border collies, which he discovered on a trip to Scotland.

The two of us had a great time.

When I showed him my new keychain with my new Swiss army knife,

 he showed me his

he finds the pliers invaluable. He'll be in the barn and might need it. The tool to the left of the pliers is for opening tough jobs, like a new CD.

He also raises miniature horses, not ponies. They are as perfectly proportioned as regular-sized horses.

He's a retired high school science teacher. Their favorite vacation spot is Moneghan Island Maine.

Peter read his poem Lying Upside Down on the Ceiling, a very imaginative work about yet another animal in his life, his cat.

I brot two short poems I'd been laboring over.

MELEE AT THE BIRDBATH

I can only watch in silence
and never intervene.
"Let me bathe," cries the
scarlet tanager,
black wing upended.

The tiny sparrow attacks
with Darwin'd yellow beak,
bluejay brings up the rear
with caw and pokes

Red robin speculates on the grass
as tanager hurls a futile cruse
and disappears behind the forsythia

God's backyard pariah.

DEBRIS ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

My daily constitutional brings souvenirs
for my windowsill:
a syrupy pine cone and a
tulip blossom splayed gorgeously
in the dust.

I cradle them and
sneakers pattering
walk through more debris
useless things
past their prime
magnolia blossoms, pink petals
shredded
decomposed
twigs, once yearning to mature
toppled useless to the ground.

And I, arms swinging,
legs churning,
am not yet toppled
not yet useless
not yet pulverized and
sprinkled into
Pennypack Creek.

I live:
a pink magnolia
turning toward the light
arms spread like the
backyard maple
glorying in her season

For me, no calendar,
no date
when I too become debris
useful only in memories
of those who think of me.