CIMICIFUGA

A startling smell to be sure!
Fall wind from just the right direction.
An incredibly sweet pervasive
    odor that commands attention.
And, there it is. A garden plant, tall and
    with spikes of blooming white flowers.

I must visit the place again soon -
    before the gift wears away.

"BETTER LIFE THROUGH PLUMBING"

Driving north from Minneapolis proper, there used to be a large painted message
on the wall of a warehouse "better life through plumbing." The warehouse has long
since been demolished . . . but the overall thought still vibrates across the world. Years
ago I was part of a mission work team that was assigned to work with families living
in a poor part of the Cumberland Mountains in southeast United States. The home we
came to work with was owned by a quite elderly woman. She lived alone and made
quilts to sell. She didn't have an outhouse and explained that she never had one but
would love to have one like her neighbors. Not fancy. Tar paper on the roof and a nail
for a door handle. One of the youth workers asked her how she took care of herself and
she replied "across the field by the forest." The group took two days to build an outhouse
of her liking. She worked right along with us and when the outhouse was done, she
said that she would like it if all of us could crowd into the structure and together pray
The Lord's Prayer. We did.

Sometimes life can be better than it is . . .

W H E R E ?

Where does

     mountain water flow?

To the sea?

To a bottomless pit?

To nurture life-giving crops?

Into our souls to refresh?


                  Flow

                        carefully

                                   water.

Sweet Teeth En Masse

It was early in the morning and I realized that there was

no milk for breakfast.

Going through the line at our CUB grocery store, 

I was startled to hear a cheer arise from some checkout clerks

the next aisle over. 

    Two thousand plus dollars . . . our first transaction of the day.

    (store manager comes running over) That person right over there, 

    the one going out the door, just bought 2,500 bars of Haagen-Dazs*

    ice cream! He said it was for a convention and said 

                        'if that's what they want . . .

                         that's what they will get.'

I could not help but stare. And yes, there they were. On a pallet . . . cases of

something all wrapped up being carted away.

Outside, I offered to hold one of the cartons until he could lift the rest into the 

back end of the small truck. He didn't take me up on my most generous offer.

          (No one seems to have ever taken me jump on ploys like that!)

So, I took my milk and went home.

Can't believe for the life of me, 

some people's palettes.

                       *Living briefly in New Jersey in 1961, I remember when Haagen-Dazs

                         first came out. The media said that the inventors of the ice cream

                         created the name so that it would sound exotic and Danish. The words,

                         evidently, were just made up.

W H A T G O E S A R O U N D . . .

The first poem was written on the day, four years after

a Discovery Shuttle astronaut lost grip on a tool while

doing an outside the shuttle procedure. The 15 lb. device

was allowed to go into orbit with little thought as to the

likeliness of ever having to "meet up" with it again. A 

direct hit would likely spell disaster. In 2004, it was

estimated that there were 10,003 pieces of space junk in

earth orbit - some small and some as big as a refrigerator.

Smaller pieces of "space chunks" fall ever 2-3 days, larger

chunks . . . every 10-12 days. On 4/29/03 a 2.5-ton Italian

satellite fell into the Pacific Ocean. It had been in orbit

for seven years!

The second poem was inspired by a Minnesota state-wide

air pollution alert in which everyone was encouraged to 

remain indoors unless absolutely necessary - especially

persons with asthma or lungs. Since I had both, I stayed

mostly inside.  I couldn't help but wonder where "road dust"

must go. With the help of the cooperative staff of the local 

Tires Are Us and Firestone outlets, I calculated that there 

is about 16.8 million tons of tire dust produced each year

in Canada and the U.S. If the dust is compressed into a 

somewhat-solid mass, that translates into a column that

measures 6 x 6 feet at the base and rising 140 miles into

space. Or . . . it would form a block the size of a football

field soaring to 9,835 feet. ( 1-1/2 times higher than

Mt. Washington.)

                              +   +   +   +   +   +

                   Heavy, vise-like tool, 

                   slips from astronaut's grip.

                   Released to orbit -

                   assumed never-to-be-seen-again.

                   Then, after three days -

                   a fifteen-pound emergency

                   looms. 

                   Shuttle rockets fire.

                   Dodges

                   disaster.

                   Almost not seen.

                       Often,

                              what goes around, 

                                         comes around.

                                +   +   +   +   +   +

                   Tire circles

                   wear thin -

                   spinning off rubber.

                   Particulate matter,

                   released to join soil, water,

                   air and -

                   lungs.

                   Disasters mostly unseen -

                   insidious.

                   Inner pollution.

                       Often,

                              what goes around,

                                         comes around.

 

A New Article Published on MinnPost

Elizabeth has an article just published on MinnPost. Its title is From here to Syria, the question haunts: Am I my brother's keeper?

Go to www.minnpost.com. and click on Community Voices to bring up the article. Check it out!

MinnPost is a on-line nonprofit nonpartisan news organization, providing "high quality journalism for news-intense people." Although their mission is aimed at issues of interest for Minnesotans, in this Internet age their site is visited by people all around the world.

A Toad Encounter of the Third Kind

Yesterday, I almost mowed over a toad.

It was early morning . . .
still the cool of the day.
By the time I got the mower started
the humid heat onslaught had begun.

So now, the task was at hand -
normally a twenty-one minute job
but today I aimed
for eighteen.

It was so hot that I skipped
stopping at the duckweed-covered
garden pond, replete with its little stream
gurgling over rocks along the edge.
A springtime home to many creatures,
one of which is always
a pair of toads.

Normally, not much attention is given them except
to enjoy their soothing evening calls or
to pause and try to spot them among the perennials
before they
plop into the safety of their pond.

Mowing around a corner of an organic bed
of garden vegetables, something moved!

Tiny it was and
hugely struggling through the long grass.

The mowing stopped and I cut
the engine with its whirling blades . . .

Then, two more diminutive strugglers emerged.

Kneeling, to peer into the grass
where the motion had been, I saw
their bejeweled eyes and lumpy skin.
The baby toads were so still and trusting -
I imagined they knew I would
cause them no harm.

I remembered a child, long ago
holding a toad up close and thinking -
those eyes are the most beautiful things in the world.

Still they are . . . except for
the dark brown eyes
of my sweetheart.

           Elizabeth, 
               I love you so much!
                      Clem
                                                    (Written the day before our Wedding Anniversary)