Marty's Porch

The smell of grandma's porch was wonderful
but not in the clothes on the line or fresh apple pie on the windowsill kind of way.

Grandma's porch smelled of old paint
of winter even in the summer and of
damp wicker, an ancient outdoor rug, oxidized aluminum siding
and dust from the cars on First Avenue speeding to,
or from, the Post Office on Main Street at the bottom of her street

These were not necessarily "good" smells
We'd wash them off of our hands before we ate lunch in front of
the TV with grandpa, watching Jeopardy
but the old one not the one with the Canadian guy

But they were good smells to us because
they reminded us of a grandma who allowed her grandchildren to build massive forts
from blankets and every chair and sofa cushion in the house
TV tables too
As long as they were dismantled before Noon when Jeopardy came on
and grandpa would want his lunch
and the vapor rising from his bowl of Campbell's chicken noodle soup
would wash away the smell of grandmas porch from our noses.

Further Away Sacandaga

The water was further away when I was a boy
and the land it was much longer
jutting out into Sacandaga like the lone remaining tooth in the smile of an old tannery worker

Now, the tooth worn away
by years of spring waves and thick winter ice,
the land is more a nub than a point
but many things are the same

the early morning call of a bird through fog
a fish splashing through his sky to ours then returning to his
car doors and the sounds of the marina coming alive
the unsyncopated drum beat of coolers and tackle boxes being dropped into an aluminum rowboat
then strained sounds as an outboard motor pushes its load
through the water

which was further away when I was a boy

Louis Ray

Another playing with form poem. This time different types of couplets.

Louis Rey smolder bright
Your velvet smoke obscures my sight 
It's been near year for me and you

I loved you so while in my youth
But mother's gone since last we parted
From cancer, wait, here's my light

Schine on Gloversville

As a child I walked, no ran, downtown
a dollar grasped in hands that wanted to move small plastic armies
to Woolworth's for a bag of soldiers in Gloversville

Then as the places that made things left
and Main Street began to starve and it's abandoned bones bleached in the Adirondack sun
We drove to shop, like everyone else in Gloversville

Standing once proud and full of life
Then left to decay and die
The resurrection of the Schine brings light to Gloversville

In the midst of the abandoned and empty
a spark grows to a small flame
and a more vibrant life returns to Gloversville

There's no one here at the moment

This was created for an activity given in a course on poetic form from Open University.

Flopped in the house on the floor alone
Sullen and saddened wondering
Are the missing near or far away from home

Nails scratch circles into the hardwood floor
Wondering whether the missing will ever return
Then in an instant, a car door, and the realization that the missing no longer are.

Cooking Pontiac

Working on car engines and in fish cases
has enabled me to cook
for often
when the process of cooking is a balance between hands and heat

my old fingers
battered and beat up as they've been by the heat of a Pontiac V8 manifold
or five hundred pounds of shaved ice every day for seven years with no gloves

shrug and shake it off
as an old cowboy shakes the dust from his chaps
after being thrown to the dirt by a horse who doesn't realize
how many times the cowboy has been in the dirt before
and gotten up

Minuteman

Standing in the dewy grass
I hope and pray that they will pass
But they may not
but come to stay

I know not
If I die this day

The Redcoats come a thousand strong
their battle line is wide and long
What's ordained
I can not say

I know not
If I die this day

We stand apart but look across
to the other line and toss
a look of nervousness
then pray

I know not
If I die this day

Commanders yell, Commanders bark
their orders all along the park
but then a shot rings out and in
the confusion, it begins