APHC: Saturday, October 27, 2001

Poems by Louis Jenkins
Saturday, October 27, 2001
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Flight

Past mishaps might be attributed to an incomplete understanding of the laws of aerodynamics or perhaps even to a more basic failure of the imagination, but were to be expected. Remember, this is solo flight unencumbered by bicycle parts, aluminum and nylon or even feathers. A tour de force, really. There's a lot of running and flapping involved and as you get older and heavier, a lot more huffing and puffing. But on a bright day like today with a strong headwind blowing up from the sea, when, having slipped the surly bonds of common sense and knowing she is watching, waiting in breathless anticipation, you send yourself hurtling down the long, green slope to the cliffs, who knows? You might just make it.
From The Winter Road (Holy Cow Press)

A Place For Everything

It's so easy to lose track of things. A screwdriver, for
instance. "Where did I put that? I had it in my hand just a
minute ago." You wander vaguely from room to room,
having forgotten, by now, what you were looking for,
staring into the refrigerator, the bathroom mirror… "I
really could use a shave…"

Some objects seem to disappear immediately while others
never want to leave. Here is a small black plastic gizmo
with a serious demeanor that turns up regularly, like a
politician at public functions. It seems to be an "integral
part," a kind of switch with screw holes so that it can be
attached to something larger. Nobody knows what. This
thing's use has been forgotten but it looks so important
that no one is willing to throw it in the trash. It survives
by bluff, like certain insects that escape being eaten because
of their formidible appearance.

My father owned a large, three-bladed, brass propeller that
he saved for years. Its worth was obvious, it was just that it
lacked an immediate application since we didn't own a boat
and lived hundreds of miles from any large bodies of water.
The propeller survived all purges and cleanings, living, like
royalty, a life of lonely privilege, mounted high on the
garage wall.
From Just Above Water (Holy Cow! Press)

Thunderstorm Warning

The National Weather Service has issued a severe thunderstorm warning effective until midnight. Expect heavy rain, hail, damaging winds, dizziness, nausea, headache, fainting, disorientation, uncertainty, loss of direction and the questioning of deeply held beliefs. Persons in the warning area should seek shelter immediately. If you are caught out in the open you should lie face down in a ditch or a depression.
From The Winter Road (Holy Cow! Press)

Late October Above Lake Superior

A north wind shakes the last few yellow leaves clinging to a thin popple tree. It's easy to tell what's coming. Old leaves must fall to make way for the new. That's all well and good as long as it's not your turn to go. Keep the dead waiting! Keep the unborn waiting! There's not much to this life anyway, some notions, some longings that come and go like the sea, like sun and shadow played across the stone. This weather is not so bad if you can find a place among the rocks out of the wind.
From The Winter Road (Holy Cow! Press)

Change

All those things that have gone from your life, moon boots, TV trays and the Soviet Union, that seem to have vanished, are really only changed, dinosaurs did not disappear from the earth but evolved into birds and crock pots became bread makers. Everything around you changes. It seems at times (only for a moment) that your wife, the woman you love, might actually be your first wife in another form. It's a thought not to be pursued. . . . Nothing is the same as it used to be. Except you, of course, you haven't changed . . . well, slowed down a bit, perhaps. It's more difficult nowadays to deal with the speed of change, disturbing to suddenly find yourself brushing your teeth with what appears to be a flashlight. But essentially you are the same as ever, constant in your instability.
From The Winter Road (Holy Cow! Press)

Somersault

Some children did handsprings or cartwheels. Those of us who were less athletically gifted did what we called somersaults, really a kind of forward roll. Head down in the summer grass, a push with the feet, then the world flipped upside-down and around. Your feet, which had been behind you, now stretched out in front. It was fun and we did it, laughing, again and again. Yet, as fun as it was, most of us, at some point, quit doing somersaults. But only recently, someone at Evening Rest (Managed Care for Seniors) discovered the potential value of somersaults as physical and emotional therapy for the aged, a recapturing of youth, perhaps. Every afternoon, weather permitting, the old people, despite their feeble protests, are led or wheeled onto the lawn, where each is personally and individually aided in the heels-over-head tumble into darkness. When the wind is right you can hear, even at this distance, the crying of those who have fallen and are unable to rise.
From The Winter Road (Holy Cow! Press)