CREEK ROAD GANG
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Kate Lydon: 3 Poems
copyright 2010
Pearl Street
There are men digging
big holes on Pearl Street.
I saw them from my backyard
with their big trucks
and noise, noise, noise!
Cars can’t even drive down Pearl
to the stadium from the A&P,
where Mummy sent me to buy
a bottle of milk,
a loaf of Nissen bread
and three packages of KoolAid.
I can pick the flavors.
And after lunch
she might let me have
a KoolAid stand on Pearl Street.
I will put the cups and pitcher
in Johnny’s red wagon –
he will help me –
and we’ll pull it up the street
around the corner past the Jenny station
down to Pearl.
I will charge five cents a cup.
The workmen all will want some,
and they will be happy,
and we’ll make lots of money.
I might even make enough to buy
a book about teaching tricks to dogs.
I saw one at the Five and Ten,
and maybe someday
Queenie could be famous.
Forever Hold
The organ stops. My father sits. The stirring ends.
Yards of white satin and lace behind me,
I stand before the altar now with you,
your face as solemn as the hush.
Where’s that wry smile I fell in love with?
Have you tucked it in your pocket, saved for later use?
We hold hands,
your restless thumb tickling at my finger.
The stained glass windows sparkle with the sun.
The priest’s words sound a cadence of
centuries of ceremony,
ritual of joining our two lives.
Abruptly, his words penetrate,
capture my attention:
Do any here know cause
why these two should not be joined?
Speak now, or forever hold your peace.
I turn my head, gaze out on shining upturned faces,
our parents shedding joyful tears,
our loving families, gathered friends,
invited now to nix our bliss?
Over my dead body!
I screw my face in threatening glare –
my brothers laugh –
I shake my fist!
Christmas Cove
From high on a massive thrust of stone,
I hear the tugging waters of John’s Bay,
See in flashes of overdue sun the rising filigree of spray
Break on the far side of Hay Island.
The incoming tide surges and gurgles at bedrock –
Granite, pegmatite, feldspar, quartz.
This has been mine for a week:
The osprey tending her nest on a white chunk of rock;
The gull perched on the chimney top next door;
The bearded blue heron posing on our ledge;
The goldfinches nesting in our birch;
Pink blossomed sedum patching over slate;
Lobstermen circling their pots,
Sturdy boats chugging and churning the waters,
The polka-dot pattern of buoys on the bay;
Living rich with binoculars, sketch book, bird guide,
And books to ponder on foggy days.
Tomorrow, in sorrow, I’ll leave this behind,
And in joy, carry it away.
There are men digging
big holes on Pearl Street.
I saw them from my backyard
with their big trucks
and noise, noise, noise!
Cars can’t even drive down Pearl
to the stadium from the A&P,
where Mummy sent me to buy
a bottle of milk,
a loaf of Nissen bread
and three packages of KoolAid.
I can pick the flavors.
And after lunch
she might let me have
a KoolAid stand on Pearl Street.
I will put the cups and pitcher
in Johnny’s red wagon –
he will help me –
and we’ll pull it up the street
around the corner past the Jenny station
down to Pearl.
I will charge five cents a cup.
The workmen all will want some,
and they will be happy,
and we’ll make lots of money.
I might even make enough to buy
a book about teaching tricks to dogs.
I saw one at the Five and Ten,
and maybe someday
Queenie could be famous.
Forever Hold
The organ stops. My father sits. The stirring ends.
Yards of white satin and lace behind me,
I stand before the altar now with you,
your face as solemn as the hush.
Where’s that wry smile I fell in love with?
Have you tucked it in your pocket, saved for later use?
We hold hands,
your restless thumb tickling at my finger.
The stained glass windows sparkle with the sun.
The priest’s words sound a cadence of
centuries of ceremony,
ritual of joining our two lives.
Abruptly, his words penetrate,
capture my attention:
Do any here know cause
why these two should not be joined?
Speak now, or forever hold your peace.
I turn my head, gaze out on shining upturned faces,
our parents shedding joyful tears,
our loving families, gathered friends,
invited now to nix our bliss?
Over my dead body!
I screw my face in threatening glare –
my brothers laugh –
I shake my fist!
Christmas Cove
From high on a massive thrust of stone,
I hear the tugging waters of John’s Bay,
See in flashes of overdue sun the rising filigree of spray
Break on the far side of Hay Island.
The incoming tide surges and gurgles at bedrock –
Granite, pegmatite, feldspar, quartz.
This has been mine for a week:
The osprey tending her nest on a white chunk of rock;
The gull perched on the chimney top next door;
The bearded blue heron posing on our ledge;
The goldfinches nesting in our birch;
Pink blossomed sedum patching over slate;
Lobstermen circling their pots,
Sturdy boats chugging and churning the waters,
The polka-dot pattern of buoys on the bay;
Living rich with binoculars, sketch book, bird guide,
And books to ponder on foggy days.
Tomorrow, in sorrow, I’ll leave this behind,
And in joy, carry it away.
Biographical Note:
Kate Lydon is a storyteller, writer and editor who at times hires out as
an
adjunct professor. She grew up along the rocky coast of Massachusetts,
but has lived most of her life amid the trees of Pennsylvania.
Daughter of a man who made the best donuts in the world and a woman who
acted out Macbeth and read poetry for her children, Kate is the oldest
of five, and thus is prone to giving advice. However, her husband, two
children, two cats and one dog, independent souls all, pay scant
attention, and so she writes. Kate’s
satirical murder mystery, Off
Center, is now available through Amazon’s Kindle Store.
She is currently working on another novel, as well as a book of
stories about visiting her grandparents Papa and Eva. See the Author Index for Prose L-Z and the Author Index for Poetry for more of
Kate's writing.
Photo by Tom Varley
