Crustacean Debris

      You can use your toes as divining rods --
You know, those magical Y-shaped branches alleged to be able to detect a water source --
      Yes, you can use your toes as divining rods
            In the early morning surf at Wildwood Crest
To search for sunken conch shells,
      Three-quarters-covered with wet sand
            In the shallows formed by receding tides.

      Ah, June, July, August at the Jersey beaches,
            Sandy Hook to Cape May,
They can be like distant Caribbean Island getaway destinations.

And further north along the Jersey coast,
      While the sun reddens and browns the bare tops of men's heads
Like a form of Holy Tonsure --
      You know, the ritual haircuts the monks proudly wear
As outward signs of prayerful commitment --
            Anyway, further north along the Jersey coast,
Years ago an Army Corps of Engineers "Beach Reclamation Project"
      Siphoned sand off the ocean floor a mile to five miles out,
            And pumped it onshore,
There to be spread by bulldozers to widen the beach.

Spewing forth from the pipe the sand looked as though
      It had never seen the light of day,
Yet like an old wooden house that shines
            From a new coat of paint after a refreshing powerwash,
The sun bleached clean the years of life spent beneath the sea
      Like the detective's powder that reveals fingerprints.
The solar rays reflect off millions of fragments
      Of broken anthropod shells and discarded gems
That had perhaps laid under that water for millenia uncounted.

            And now with your toes as divining rods,
You can sift through the various specimens of crustacean debris
      As though they were as valuable as diamonds,
And imagine hundreds of stories from over the ages
      When this Indian canoe or that ship wreck,
            This fishing trawler or that Navy sub,
      This clam or that crab,
            This mussel or that oyster,
Might have left their mark for the ages,
      Years and decades and even centuries ago,
            Millenia ago,
Now finally to be revealed too insightful beachcombers,
      Tonsured anthropod anthropologist sojourners of faith, hope and love,
Who are open enough to look closely enough
            At the raw materials of life's truly remarkable headline news,
And be creative about how best to incorporate the experience
                  In our own special individual
Army Corps of Engineers spirit, mind and body reclamation project.

                  Oh Dear Lord,
Mother Ocean and Father Sand and Spirit Surf,
      As we approach the intermission of the school year --
Because, in truth, the school year is year-round and life-long,
            Although the summer, ah, the glorious summer, is its own special learning station --
As we approach the summer of the school year,
      And look forward to, and prepare for, another Fall,
Open our mind's and our heart's and our soul's creativity
      As we remember that some of the
            Most important,
                  Most valuable,
Most enriching lessons that will be learned
      By children and adults, Fall through Spring,
Won't be taught in school classrooms,
            But rather will be detected by year-round divining rods
At learning stations more closely resembling Summer's best learning readiness zones
      Called child care centers and pools,
            Gymnasiums and fitness centers,
      Playgrounds, family swims and camps,
            Community youth theater and dance stages,
      Morning announcements and evening fire circles,
            Teen activities and senior citizen drop-in centers
      Baseball diamonds and soccer pitches,
            Catskill Mountain and Scout campouts, and 3,500 feet hikes,
      Street road races and walk-a-thons,
            Zoos, museums, aquarium and historic site field trips,
      Family vacations and Saturday day-treks to the beach,
            Fireworks on Independence Day, all proud and spectacular,
      Main Street parades, all tubas, trumpets and trombones,
            And first-light Taps off on a distant hill muffled only by the dew itself,
Worship services in a favorite cathedral or chapel,
                  A man-made structure, perhaps,
       Or a God-made outdoor tree canopy or seaside horizon, yes, yes,
Followed on alternate weekends by drowsy city park walks to that particular forgotten bench,
                  From which to try the divining rod on the Sunday New York Times,
                        And Papa Hemingway's best stories.

As we approach the Fall after a Summer full of divining rod days,
      As the leaves turn and the temperatures drop,
            And bathing suits and sunglasses
Give way to sweaters and cords,
      Let us remember how we used our toes as divining rods,
And now instead substitute our convictions as creative artist teachers and mentors,
      Sojourners and poets and dreamers,
            To assert our commitment to mission,
To reaffirm our belief in body, mind and spirit,
      Faith, hope and Love,
            And the greatest of these is love.

Yes, let us use our energies,
      Our infectious human laughter,
And our profound belief in play,
      To help our charges discover for themselves
The next part of themselves
            Just waiting to be unearthed,
Like those nearly sunken conch shells,
      Like that rich layer of crustacean debris,
Now sparkling like jewels in the bright sun,
            The whispered voice of the the Lord, his or her self,
Waiting for us decipher this blessing,
            This holy gift,
For we tonsured anthropod anthropologist sojourners of faith, hope and love,
      This crustacean debris.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 21, 2011

Dish No Dice

Dish No Dice
      Took no gruff
From any of the fellas
      At the Crossroads Bar.

From four directions,
      Truckers, bikers, bus-riders,
Tourists, ranchers, farmers,
      Mixed it up all day and all night
At the Crossroads Bar.

One night, one of them blokes
      Tried to mix it up with Dish,
Went a step too far.
      She scolded the mug:
            "Ya went where you shouldn'a,
      Off limits, you fool."
At the Crossroads Bar.

Patrons looked up from their beer,
      Pushed plates of steak and taters,
            Stood from each corner,
      Stood in fury,
            To defend Dish,
Don't mess with Dish,
      They scowled.

Dish No Dice
      Took no gruff.
From any of the fellas
      At the Crossroads Bar.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 18, 2011

One-Way Street

One-way street
       This ruler called time
Though memory,
      While an illusion,
            Can seem as real
As blood,

      And learning
Can be a coach to cheat
            The future.
It can teach the veteran
      To play smarter
When the physical
            Of unbounded youth
      Is robbed by time.

Otherwise,
      A one-way street
Is this ruler called time.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 17, 2011

Harold And The Gent

"You pregnant?"
      Harold, the coffee guy,
Asks the gent before him
      Who just asked for his morning joe:
            "Decaf... black."

The gent laughs, scrunches his face, questioning.

      "Been doing this 29 years,"
Says Harold, friendly enough fellow,
      Graying mustasche, receding hairline,
Working his little coffee stand,
      Parking lot, Westfield station.

Surrounded by newspapers, magazines,
      Cigarettes, candy and coffee urns,
Harold explains:
      "Women come by here, day after day, year after year,
Suddenly the switch, they say,
      Decaf... black."

I say, "What, you pregnant?"
      They look in disbelief,
"How'd you know?"

The gent's laugh turns into a broad laugh,
      Going along with Harold, seeing his point.
Gent tells Harold, "You tell'em, 'It must be your glow.'"

Harold likes this guy, his kind of humor.
      They laugh again, the moment passes
Between Harold and the gent.

      Gent catches his train to New York.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 14, 2011.

Engineer Pulls His Whistle

Engineer pulls his whistle,
      Long and loud, 4:38 a.m.,
Crossing Rahway Avenue in Westfield.

Stephen could hear it plainly
      Three-quarters of a mile away,
At home in bed, awake,
      Fighting to get back to sleep,
Shoulder sore from sleeping too long on one side,
      Air passageways burning
From being too dry, condition of the bedroom,
      He and Aggie put out water,
But the air never seems to dampen,
      Dry heat in the apartment,
Window opened, but a high dominates the weather map,
      An unusual overabundance of arid atmosphere,
Adding crackle to the treble of the night,
      And the digital numbers fix the time before his eyes,
            The serenade for the sleepless.

Engineer pulls his whistle,
      Long and loud, 4:39 a.m.,
Crossing Rahway Avenue in Westfield.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 13, 2011

Draw The Curtains

Draw the curtains,
      Let me get some kick.

Worked all night,
      Exhausted.
            Drained.

Last two hours
      Just dreaming
            About crawling home,
Climbing under the covers,
      Snuggling as deep as possible,
Maybe even wearing blinders,
      Put plugs in my ears,
            Shut out the world.
Forget about the bills,
      Leave the nasties behind,
            Back on the factory floor,
Back with the shadows and sawdust.

Let me get a good eight hours
      Of Grade A American shut-eye.

Draw the curtains,
      Let me get some kick.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 13, 2011

He Had An Insatiable Appetite

The smoker had an insatiable appetite
      For cigarettes.
And sweet coffee. Very light.

      Something about him
Always attracted the attention
      Of khaki-pants-brown-loafers
Whenever he'd stop by
      Early in the morning on a Saturday
      To pick up the overnight newspaper
      And a cup of coffee.
The smoker would be there.
      He'd always been there.
Smoking up a storm.
      Or filling up coffee
With 10 or more packets of sugar.
      And tons of cream.

Sometimes the Saturday streets and sidewalk
      Would appear damp
Either from a passing Friday-night front
      Or from the collective ramains
Of the morning dew.

      Or maybe the filmy coating was the collective sweat
Of the generally poor migrant workers of the farming district
      That surrounded the town proper.
Maybe the smoker was a refugee
      From years spent racing the weather and the calendar
      To get the crop in the ground.
Maybe the pressure had finally gotten to him
      One March or April
And the damage done to his emotional gas tank
      Had left him delirious
      With an appetite
      For cigarettes.
And sweet coffee. Very light.

Khaki-pants-brown-loafers walked
      Under the shade of irregularly planted trees.
He tripped over broken pieces of sidewalk,
      Slate that had once been level
But now ran perpendicular to several different planes,
Thanks to the massive strength of one of Mother Nature's mighty trees,
      Their roots enforcing their will
      On mere man-made arrangements.
Khaki-pants-brown-loafers walked out of the store this morning
      Paper under an arm,
      Corn-beef bun in a small brown bag
      And coffee too-hot-to-drink-just-yet
      Burning through his fingertips,
      Burning through the hot beverage styrofoam cup.
Two black squirrels played
Beneath a bush in front of the antique store across the street,
      Although what appeared like play to khaki-pants-brown-loafers
Might, in fact, have been a raw struggle to survive.
      The smoker didn't even notice.

The smoker put one one butt
      And flamed up a new one,
"In practically the same motion,"
      Commented Khaki-pants-brown-loafers to himself.
"A human chimney he is.

"What happened to him that he turned out this way?
      Need I fear turning out like him,"
      Khaki-pants-brown-loafers debated to himself,
"When Wall Street's fields turn fallow and parched?
      Even if I tried to help
Would it be any good, would it reach through?
      How do I pray for him tomorrow?
How do I pray for the smoker?
      And does he pray for me?
Is this what becomes of hobos?
      Not some Woody Guthrie song,
But this, a smoker,
      His emotions plowed under and turned to dust?
He is turned into smouldering coals,
      Turned into cigarette paper
Glowing in the dim shadows of dawn,
      Half-asleep, half-alive,
Wheezing,
      With an insatiable appetite
      For cigarettes.
And very sweet coffee. Very light.
      Could I ever become this?
What does he think about when he thinks?
      Where does he go from here?"

As Khaki-pants-brown -loafers walked away
      He heard the smoker hack up more phlegm.
      Wash it back down
      With another cigarette.
And very sweet coffee. Very light.

      The smoker
Continued to sit in front of the small-town deli
      As brown-station-wagon-power-windows
Made a u-turn back to a new development city
      For breakfast.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 10, 2011