ICE

Most winters the river froze

A foot or more thick, visible,

Before the snows came,

By crack lines that struck

Down like lightning bolts.

I could step out fearlessly,

Though the loud zip sound

Of a fissure shot from yards

Away and ran between my legs.

As I skated the sounds of stressed

Ice followed me, just as I

Chased the schools of fish

That ran ahead of me. I was

Never quite sure what they were —

Panfish, cats, bass, carp or pike,

Never more than four or five,

Sometimes only one, like a finger.

They knew I chased them

From above their hardened sky.

Turtle

A neighbor taught me “trout-lines,”

Said they were named after trout

Having been gone for centuries,

If they ever were here to be run off 

By poisons more filthy than death.

(Even he, in his sixties, didn’t know

They were actually called “trot-lines.”)

Still some species of hardier stuff,

All ugly (why does ugliness survive?) —

Carp, suckers, bullhead and catfish —

Seem to thrive in a watercourse

The sun cannot pierce or illuminate.

The trot-line is for the lazy “angler,”

A stout length of cord with a big hook

Baited with a small fish and weighted

With a heavy lead sinker and thrown

Out as far as possible and left.

I would check mine every few hours.

Often when I was rod fishing I’d be

More intent on the trot-line because

The hope was to catch something big.

Day after day the line would droop,

Swaying in the Kishwaukee’s current.

Then the line went taut and walked

Upstream. Dad was mowing the lawn

Behind me. I shouted but he didn’t hear.

I pulled and it didn’t seem to resist.

Its head became visible by the pier,

A visitor from prehistory, carapace

Ridged with green diamond shapes.

I tied off the line, went for my Dad,

Who helped me haul the monster up

Onto the bank. “Snapping turtle,”

He said. “They can be dangerous,

But they make great turtle soup.”

He tied it to a tree and ran away,

Leaving it to wander, but thwarted,

When it came close to the river.

Dad returned with a hatchet and stick,

Offered the stick to the turtle’s snout,

Which grabbed, crunching on it.

“You’ll see. He won’t let go,

No matter how hard I pull.”

He meant to chop off its head,

But the beast did let go and bit

My father’s pinky. Blood everywhere.

Dad did take its head, swearing,

Breathing hard, then he threw

The turtle, head still biting the stick,

Hatchet, trot-line, all into the water.

As he walked away, he shouted,

“No more trot-lines. They’re too

Damn dangerous for a little kid.”

I told my neighbor, who said,

“I’d call him a damn fool, wasting

Good turtle soup, but I don’t say

Things like that to a neighbor’s son.”

DAM

The dam, built on the downstream

End of town, chevron shaped,

Concrete, with blocks of broken

Concrete laced with rusted rebar

Below, to break up the flow

Of only an inch or two of water

(Though some 80 feet wide),

Muddy, greasy green and brown, 

That slid in a silken sheet over its brim.

We used to dare each other to walk

Across the top, on a foot’s width

Of flatness, the water boiling

Around our naked feet, slipping

With each step on a thin layer

Of algae. None of my friends fell,

Though many others had, breaking

Bones and stabbed by iron rods.

The sliding fall was fast. Some died.

(Today there are warning signs

And fences to forestall foolishness

Masquerading as youthful bravery.)

I tried it once and turned around

After shuffling only five feet across.

I suffered the humiliation of jeers,

Though my feat wasn't surpassed

By my peers. Like water, it passed.

I fished for pike beneath the dam

And forgot I might have joined them.

SKY

We grew up in a small town

Near the smoke, dirt, and rust

Of the factory across the river,

The mud and coke-filled waters,

The drowned dead Dutch elms

Fallen away from rooted ground,

The century old iron trestle

Fenced off from foolish divers,

Floating carp and suckers,

Still gasping, twitching,

Unable to just drown and die.

A mountain of discarded tires,

Seeping sulfur, so slow-burning

They hissed streams of boiled air.

Such we’ve done everywhere.

Look up. The sky, cloudy or

Cloudless, storm-clouded,

Or spiked with myriad lightning,

Transfigures all into a paradise.

The Age of Aggravation

I can handle anxiety today

With a pill and a sip of water.

It comes from nowhere

And has little reason to exist.

Yea, I worry about this and that,

The bomb and global warming,

Without thinking, concentrating,

Like a deer in summer hiding

Its does though hunting season

Is an unrealizable future.

I like to think that all is well —

I mean the essential things,

From family to home and work —

I could explain why I’m right.

Then why is everyone so angry?

I refuse to recite the reasons.

They are invisible chimeras 

Of fear, corpses of inconsequence.

A few mad apples, rolling, legless,

Without sense or innocence,

Which won’t die before they rot.

What we used to call ideas

Are now ravenous ouroboros.

Oh, such satiety in aggravation! 

Bread: A Parable For Our Times

I drew bread from the shelf,

As so many thousands have,

A simple act for a simple meal.

I thought, from this one place

The uncountable have been fed,

From here, this grocery store,

Where the shelf is never empty.

And not just once — I have

Performed this act of grace

So many times myself, I wonder

That there’s any more for others.

Would I take the last loaf left?

We have all done far worse things.

It wouldn’t be a crime, of course —

Someone must be the last to eat.

I could say, “There’s more bread,

Perhaps, on shelves in other stores,”

Succumbing to rationalization.

There are now thousands lined up

Behind me, waiting for me to choose.

Has every one made up their mind?

If you were me, what would you do?

The Error Of Innocence

It’s impossible, a contradiction

Of being, a false manipulation.

The mistake is in not knowing,

Like a child mimicking a curse,

Without any idea what it means.

At four I once told my brother,

“I wish you would go to hell,”

Then added, “no, don’t go to hell.”

Hell being no more than a word —

Yet I was vigorously punished

With a dozen stripes of a strap.

Some think we’re not born innocent,

Like the lion, the viper, or the lamb,

But by some withheld benediction

That can only be lost in the learning,

Which in itself taints the newly-wise.

The veins in a sick hand, febrile

And limp, are not guilty till lifted.

“The only truly innocent are dead,”

Some say. No greater lie ever said,

Because even they are burdened

By all that has come before. Not sin,

Not ignorance, but the spoken word,

The lie given breath willingly,

For no other purpose than my own.