a poem

Andrew Frueh

everything seems alright
how come I feel so wrong
it's a beautiful sunny day
please make this feeling go away
something in my heart is saying
things aren't what they're supposed to be
this feeling that is dark and looming
has such power over me

Daughter poem

Stephen Frueh

my wife said “the water’s bubbling up in the shower”
and the toilet sounds funny.
I myself was frumping around worrying about money
and the ‘new-house-being-built-next-door’ sounds
didn’t offer repose on this wednesday morning.

Nevertheless, my five year old daughter- five years, six months and
three days- came into my study ready for her first day of Kindergarten.
Hair shiny wet from the bath braided into a pigtail,
new lavender top with dark blue skirt, rounded five year old tummy.
“How do I look Daddy?” And I looked. Wow. and kissed her told her
she is more beautiful than a sky full of stars or a moon shining
on a still ocean.

Out she went starting on still another trajectory, hopeful, happy, eager.
I picked up the phone and called the plumber.


8/27/03

A Different kind of Father

Stephen Frueh

His “teacher- daughter” called him the ‘un-father.’ “Is that an insult?” he said. “I mean, should I feel put down by that?” “No,” she said. “It’s just you. You’re the un- father. I tell my friends that you are unlike any father I’ve ever met.”

He was unsure and uneasy. Had he failed his children? He thought maybe he had an idea of what his daughter meant. But he didn’t want to assume anything so he said “tell me more about the un- father.”

“Dad, when I was growing up you did things that my friends fathers never did. Like the times you took us out of school in the middle of the day to go see the whales. You said it would be too crowded on the weekend and besides, who knew if the whales would be there on Saturday.

Or the time you confronted my third grade teacher who had given me a ‘C’ on an art project. You said “art should not be graded. Art is a creative activity in all aspects. No one should receive a grade for art, but especially a third grader shouldn’t.’ My friends were all listening and silently clapping.

You didn’t agree with dress codes or curfews or grades or anything else that taught conformity. You were always saying, and I can still hear you saying, ‘that’s ridiculous!’ when I brought home my report card. And, that’s another thing. When in middle school I got straight A’s you didn’t congratulate me. You said, ‘Is that what you wanted?’ I said yes. Then you said, ‘well good for you!’ You thought that if we were going to be graded then we should set our own standards. I tell my students that and they laugh and then I tell them to decide at the beginning what kind of grade they want and what kind of grade they think they’ll make.

I loved your stories. You didn’t read stories very often but you told us stories every night. I know you made them up as you went along because you’d often ask us to tell you what happened last night. If we couldn’t remember, you’d say, ‘well I guess it wasn’t a very interesting story and then you’d start another. Sometimes, when it was late, you’d fall asleep in the middle of a sentence as you sat on the floor between our beds. We’d get out of bed and gently lower you to the floor and throw a blanket over you. I remember one night when you were still there in the morning. The first thing you said was ‘where were we?’

My friends liked coming to our house because you would stop what you were doing and talk to us. Our house didn’t always look good, lawns needed mowing, paint job not finished, but you spent time on the front lawn listening to our stories and laughing with us.

And the stuff you brought home when you were painting houses. All my friends loved the day you drove in with a car full of clothes. You were working for a lady who compulsively, I guess, bought a lot of clothes and you told her about us. She loaded your car with dresses, shoes, purses, custom jewelry, scarves and other things and you came into the driveway beeping your horn so that our friends on the block all came running.

What a time we had! Six, seven and eight year old girls dressed in expensive evening wear, high heals, shiny new patent leather purses, scarves flying in the wind.

When mom worried that we’d ruin them you said, ‘that’s what they’re for, to ruin.’

I take you now, dad, my ‘un-father’ into all I do and every time conformity or compliance wants to bully me into being who I clearly am not, I simply murmur ‘hi dad.’

that peace will come

Andrew Frueh

in our halls of wisdom where
our leaders with their fists declare
that peace will come
that peace will come

in a land so far away
with flowing blood and screams they pray
that peace will come
that peace will come

in languid comfort while we mope
we writhe and choke on empty hope
that peace will come
that peace will come

I yelled at my little boy today

Kelly Tinker

I yelled at my little boy today

harsh and unforgiving.

We were late

he for school, I for work.

He didn't like his pants...

I knew he was struggling

reminded myself to be patient

even hugged him

tried to ease his concern.

He said his friends were going to laugh at him.

But standing outside the car

chapped in the dry desert winter

my patience was paused

my temper was lost

I was almost consciously trying to scare him.

I pulled him then, roughly, and stopped abruptly

two boys, one sniffling, one simmering

and I made him sit, on my lap in the cold

against the wall on the way to his class.

Our rosy cheeks touched with my head on his shoulder.

"We're not allowed to do this." he said

as the classroom doors shut

leaving the playground empty.

I took a deep breath, held him tight

full of shame, and replied

"I think it'll be okay."

Zipped - a poem after Kelly Tinker

Andrew Frueh

Telling Kelly's story "Zipped" as a poem
---

Sitting at the foot of the stair
and on the phone
with the doctor's office drone
reflecting off the walls of my brain
while above childs hands slide around on my scalp
and probe to reveal the source of my pain
a seam is discovered
and as it's uncovered
the children say "Dad, it's a Zipper!"

It's a shell that I wear
that they peel away
and drop in a heap at the top of the stair
then we three children descend
in games I'd long forgotten to play
until suddenly later that day
the world of grown-ups sent their thunderbolt singing
an abrupt siren's song on a telephone ringing

and so we run back up the stair
to see if after a whole day of playing
that old rubber grown-up suit
is something that I am still able to wear

Clarion

Jason Naylor

Clarion

Come friend, and heed with me our hearts' command.
Take up what tools your worthy will may wield
and join me in this fierce and dauntless cry:
We live! And living, we shall see the light
of destiny illume the earthly forms,
the cool and dusty remnants of that spark
whose heat drew stars from out the waiting void
to fret the firmament with golden fire,
composing epic pageantry to match
the promise of the fecund silence from
whence being's lineage it needs must trace;
those forms and habitations wherein dwell
the breath which moving wakes the idle clay
and renders matter sensate, thus to turn
reflection on it's very self, but lo;
nor on the quickened forms alone shall fall
this light, but also on the flame within:
that by prism, lens and glass these sources two
redoubled may dispel the dark that looms
and set in plain relief the boundaries of
one more viewpoint; another scrap of truth.

Though our arms be but shades of heroes' limbs,
our tongues mere puppets 'pared to poets' pens,
our tools rough-hewn, our hands too coarse by half,
our hearts intemperate, our eyes purblind,
our souls, our instruments, our minds no match
for legends' legacy outstripping time's
indiff'rence, serving us with wisdom's stead,
an eminence whose awful tower becks
and dares we fit our frames it to surmount.
Though these indictments mayhap be but true,
yes, these and else, which, on hearing, mean ears
might deign admit despair; yes, though thus bound
yet, strive, my friend! Yet speak! Yea, strive and speak
and hew and shape and beat in time and seek
and thrill and play 'til understanding breaks
upon the shrouded rim of ignorance
a rosy-fingered dawn. Yes, friend, say on!
Say on, for though our age of brass may shine
without the gilded glory of the gods,
still, our purpose holds! Our kindly muse, her
cups flowing fresh with meads of Arcady,
yet slakes imagination's thirst with draughts
that sating also stir more yearning still;
her voice resounding clear with hearty hail,
our sometimes faltering but finally
unyielding will calls to the cause of life,
reminding us that now's the instant when
an opportunity to make our way
before us stands awaiting nothing more
than our acceptance of the proffered prize,
our willingness to step into the breach
and blaze what radiance impermanent
we share in service of the highest good.