LEGACY

A collection of poems, © 2001

by Bob Wright

A Good Night’s Sleep

A good night’s sleep and breakfast

are what I look forward to.  Forget

the rest.  Each day is all downhill

from there, no matter what I do.

There are no people cheering as

I move on through the day.  No

carpet being rolled out, and no

flowers thrown my way.  My teeth

are clenched.  My stomach churns.

I want the day to end.  The only

thing that saves me is that just

around the bend are bedtime and

a good night’s sleep, then breakfast.

Aardvark

Yes, it's true that,

generally, A is for

aardvark.  A curious

creature that used to

be portrayed, sometimes,

on two sides of the A

block in a kid's wooden

alphabet set.  The kind

of set that eventually

got mixed in with the

regular blocks in a big

wooden box with no top.

You'd get the box from

the hall closet and dump

it all over the parlor floor

on Sunday afternoons

when other kids were busy

doing other things, or the

weather was too bad even

for a kid to be outdoors.

There were never enough

blocks to do what you

wanted.  Even the youngest

kids in large families who

had inherited all the older

kids' blocks never had

enough to do what they

wanted.  It was then when

you first started to realize,

sitting there with your

half-finished skyscraper

and no more blocks, that

life in general was like that

more often than not.

Imperfections

You say that you have imperfections,

and my love for you has made me

blind to them.  But if you did have

imperfections, now you don’t.  For

love takes what you see as flaws

and brings them into harmony with

all the other, perfect parts of you.  It

doesn’t overlook them; it transmutes

them, gradually, into a beauty that

whoever looks beyond the surface

of you sees and wonders at.  If you

had imperfections once upon a time,

my love, they’re gone.

War Games

You hop away from me,

gazelle-like, over chairs

and other household items

that present a barricade to

my advancing.  Little did I

know that I was starring as

aggressor till these quick

improvisations blocked my

way.  Till I looked beyond

all this and caught a glimpse

of you, crouched down behind

the bunkers.

There's a Pond Now

There's a pond now where

there used to be a swampy

place.  I often walk past

where it is but never see

who's changing it.  Have

seen bulldozers idle by

the side of the road.  Rich

black dirt scooped out and

pushed up all around the

sides, higher and higher

each time I wander by, and

the excavation filling grad-

ually with each heavy rain.

They haven't smoothed the

edges yet.  And now those

mounds of dirt are layers thick

in fallen leaves.  And when the

days are really, really cold,

all that water gets a thin, icy

layer, which is shiny in spots

where the sun pokes through

the trees.

I wonder if they'll try to skate

on their creation later on

this winter.  If they'll smooth

the edges in the spring, blending

the one side on up into the slope

that holds the stand of evergreens.

I wonder too about the bullfrogs

that were there in swampy times,

croaking so loudly, and then

dropping quietly off their sunny

shelves into cool water, as

though somebody had gently

released a handful of small rocks

just above the surface.

The Locals
I like to hang out on the ferry dock,
hoping that I’ll be perceived as part
of the local color by the pale tourists
who stumble off the boats, visibly
relieved to have arrived.

I am properly tan by now.  My garb’s

some cutoff jeans, a t-shirt, sandals,

and I sport a two-day growth of beard

and a bemused expression.  Even so,

I do not fool the locals, who are always

more grizzled, more bemused,

and certainly more knowing than I.

They move with a certain purpose,

but not hurriedly, smiling warmly

at their long-time associates but dubiously

at the rest of us.  I know with some small

sadness I will not be on the island long enough

to earn their smiles.

Finding Dinner

Move over now, not later, mister

alligator, please.  I’ve a need to slide

into the water there beside you, my

eyes and nostrils showing just above

the slime, my mind ferociously intent

on finding dinner.

My world is much too complex anymore,

you see, and what you offer is a simple,

swamplike remedy that focuses on

just the basics.

Before You’re Done

How many after me

will smell like rain to you

before you’re done?

How many after me

will make you think that you

are safe and warm when

you are huddled in their arms

before you’re done?

How many after me

will make you feel that you

have finally come home again

and need no longer wonder

where you are

before you’re done?

No, Thank You

No, thank you.  I don’t want to ski

the Alps.  Or shoot the rapids

in Wyoming.  Have got no urge

to snorkel in the seas around

Australia or to catch that big fish

in the Gulf off Yucatán.  Don’t

want to skydive, hang glide,

or do bungee jumping.  Am not

inclined to dance the night away

in some exclusive jet-set club

in Mexico, or take a team of huskies

through that special hell called

The Ididerod.

My needs are few, my pleasures

verging on the ordinary.  A fine meal

and a tasty drink.  A well-constructed

movie or a special bit of music.  Some

walks or hikes that are just moderately

strenuous.  A cup of tea while working

on a crossword puzzle that I have

at least some chance of solving.

Some time to read and write and meditate.

Some time of course for family.

This life of mine will never really rate

an article in Challenge magazine.  Won’t

bring reporters flocking to my door to hear

me tell them of my latest thrilling feat.

But then I never really wanted all

of that, and even in those few weak

moments when I thought I maybe did,

I really didn’t.

Inadequate

Who wants to feel inadequate?  It

makes you want to run and hide.

It makes you want to leave and not

come back.  It makes you want to put

out of your mind the people and

the places you associate with your not

having measured up.

It taints everything.

The first time it appears, you need to step

right up and throttle it.  You need to gain

control right then and there.  For if you don’t,

it lingers.   It surrounds you.  It pushes

right up to your face and smirks.  It grabs

hold of your leg and won’t let go.

A Day

John Sargent looked out on

the day.  Declared it good.

Good for walking into, with arms

and legs swinging, and face turned

up to look out at the sky.

He walked out into cool, open air,

across a field, and up what may have

been a mountain once but now could

only qualify as one great hill.  He

reached the top at noon and sat down

on a large, flat rock to rest.  The sun

had soaked that rock, as if in preparation

for his sitting there.  The air felt clean,

and all the sounds seemed far away

from where he was, and so he stayed

to breathe and listen for a while.  It

was a day to treasure, it occurred to him,

and so he sat there, doing that.

The Place

The place in which I find myself

is more important than I ever could

imagine.  It talks to me incessantly

about my life and what I’m doing.

It asks me why I’m here and if I’m

happy where I am.  The dialogue

between us never stops, although it

changes somewhat as I move from

place to place.  If it is kind to me,

I thrive.  If it is not so kind, I grow

depressed, never really recognizing

how incredibly important it has come

to be for me.  It is my lover, friend, or

enemy.  I try hard sometimes not to think

about it, but I cannot stop for long because

I need the right place more than I will ever

know.

Summer Disappearing

Summer disappearing,

though still the gentle,

rhythmic sound of

katydids so late into the

night, and the air still

mild.

The old house quiet now

for months, except for

tiny-motor sounds, light-

bulb sounds, water-running-

through-the-pipe sounds.

You can feel it needing

to fulfill its purpose

once again.  Can feel its

rooms waiting, though it

does not cry out or

complain, simply sits

there, feet dug deep into

the soil, head tucked

high among the leaves.

It has sheltered many people

for a hundred years.  Knows

how to handle every season,

every change.  Is preparing

even now, in its steadfast

way, to face its first quiet

fall, quiet winter.

Be Good

Be good, she said, knowing

that without her I would have

no choice.

She’s always been a bitch,

but with that parting shot she’s

even managed to outdo herself.
 

Penarth

Penarth, the house, sits

alone, quite alone, deep

within a thousand wooded

acres.

It has been there forever,

some people say, its tight

granite blocks, its massive

doors, its large, leaded

windows, impervious to

weather and the years.

The grounds around it are

in splendid shape, just as

the thirty rooms within,

tended by a ghostly crew

that none of us has ever

heard or seen.

The flowers bloom, the

fountains splash, the

fireplaces glow and warm

the unseen, outstretched

hands.  The sunlight sparkles

through the glass, lies warm

upon the polished parquet

floors.

It waits, this special house,

this special place, for

tenants whom it knows shall

be there by and by.  Will

know them when they come, and

all will be prepared, though no

one here can tell you when

or why.

Penarth, the house, sits alone,

deep within a thousand

wooded acres, waiting.

Lists 

If I do it right, if I

structure my world just so,

with a nip here and a

tuck there, I will stay

focused always on the very

next thing to be done.

My list is long and filled

with straightforward,

doable tasks.  Call Joe.

Buy milk.  Take a walk.

Feed the cat.

Every day I add more tasks

than I complete, so my

list grows and grows,

endlessly.

I am sure that, somewhere, you

too are adding to your list,

trying to stay in focus

as you do so.

These days we have but one true

purpose in our lives, which

we repeat to ourselves, over and

over, as though it were some

great, all-purpose mantra.

We say to ourselves:

Stick to the list.

Stick to the list.

Stick to the list.

Treasure

I found you in a dusty room, behind

some old trunks, covered with

a sheet.

I’d come to this old river town in

New York state not thinking I would

find you, after all these years.

It seems that when a brief romance

had ended sometime back, you’d gotten

put away, and then forgotten.  I could

tell it had been years since you’d been

touched.  Or loved.  Or cared for by

somebody who would keep you warm

and safe.

I wrapped you up and put you in my

pickup truck.  And tied you down in case

we hit a bump.  You were my treasure,

just discovered underneath a sheet.

And everything was just about to

change.

The Next Telephone Pole

I figured if I could just run

to the next telephone pole,

and then walk to the one after

that, and so on, I could make

it, even though I felt complete-

ly wiped out, and the cramps in

my legs were getting worse.

I didn't know then I was working

on a method that would get me through

the rest of my life, with more

and more sets of telephone poles

waiting, and all the journeys in

between still to be taken.

Didn't know then that focusing

on the very next thing, and some-

how getting there, was really all

that one could do.  That even

though, on the journeys in between,

there could be magic moments, in

fact you couldn't count on that at

all.  Because it could just be that

you'd get leg cramps, or even worse.

Looking Out to Sea

In some mysterious way you

have returned.  I see you

standing pressed against

a doorway looking

out to sea.  I see you

sitting crouched and small

and pensive,

garbed in baggy clothes and rainbows.

You peer at me from pictures

in a magazine

or flash by on a TV screen.

A wisp

here and there.

A snapshot shown, then snatched away.

A dream never

finished.

A scent

that lingers on.

Laundry

It’s true that doing laundry

is one of the great ways to

avoid dealing with the rest

of your life.

Whites, darks, delicates.

Large loads, medium loads,

small loads.  Permanent

press or what?

But laundry doesn’t last for-

ever.  Sooner or later, you

have to leave all those fresh-

smelling and neatly stacked

clothes and go somewhere else.

Which is, of course, the ques-

tion you have been avoiding all

this time.

Somewhere else where?

Nosey

Who is there will grieve for you,

a cat?  And who is there to give

a eulogy for such a small, furry

thing?

You had an even disposition,

and you purred a lot.  The

last few years you lived, you

missed the laps and petting

you had got so much of, but

you seemed to take it philo-

sophically.  For warmth, you

turned a lot to hugging radia-

tors and the heat exhaust of

the refrigerator.  We used to

say you worshipped radiators,

the way you bellied up to them

and tucked your legs in under-

neath.

You had a way of sitting regally.

A way of lying on your side with

front paws curled in and touch-

ing one another that was charm-

ing.  You were affectionate and

undemanding.  And how we en-

vied you those qualities.  You

were a cat, but somehow you

were also more than that.

Workers in Trees

said the sign by the side

of the road.

So that's where all of them

have gone.

Watching the leaves instead

of terminals.

Sitting on branches instead

of buses.

Talking to the wind instead

of in committees.

What could have prompted

this?

And if all the trees are filled

with workers, who will then

be left to cut them down?

What’s

What’s part girl and

part woman, part mother,

part child, part mixer, part

hermit, part spicy, part mild,

part seeker, part finder, part

singer, part talker, part

smartie, part dumbie, part

racer, part walker, part actress,

part critic, part giver, part

taker, part winner, part loser,

part dreamer, part waker, part

teacher, part pupil, part smiler,

part frowner, part jumper, part

faller, part upper, part downer?

Oh I could go on, but you get

the idea.  It’s someone I love

who is all things to me.  My

fire.  My earth.  My sky.  And

my sea.

Familiar Things

I am not anxious when I drive

on roads I know.  Roads that I have

traveled several hundred times

before, past buildings, trees,

lakes, and people that I’ve seen

so often.

In some odd way, familiar sights

like this provide me with a sense

of context.  Convince me that, for

now, I’m safe and that, surrounded

by the things I know, I can relax

and put aside my need to fight

or flee.

No wonder that, with all the comfort

that I get from these familiar things,

I hesitate to leave them and to move

to places that I barely know.  Places

where I’m sure to make mistakes

and where I’ll have to spend so

much time once again just learning

what to do.

The Tern

You stand by the ocean, as others

have, and wonder to yourself

what really matters.

The pelican, who plunges into water

just beyond you, has no thought

for you, or what you wonder.  Nor

the seagulls, resting in a clump nearby,

waiting for the sea to shift and show

them special tidbits.