509 to 509

Wrote another quasi-occasional poem today.  A Thanksgiving yodel, completed at exactly 5:09 p.m. this afternoon.  I grew up at 509 Arthur St., in the Mendelssohn neighborhood of Edina/Hopkins (first settled in the 19th century by a bunch of young musicians of the Minnesota Symphony Orchestra, hence its name).  & now, after much travail, my parents have moved to the Episcopal Home (senior living) near their old neighborhood of Tower Hill (Minneapolis) - into apartment # 509.  I'm very glad they made it there before Thanksgiving.  "There's a divinity that shapes our ends / Rough-hew them how we will." (Hamlet)


The drizzle of sleet, monotonous
snare drum.  New England gloom
(Nor’easter coming).  To whom
shall we give thanks, U.S.?

Fields furl their cornucopia
to pumpkin horns.  Blow,
milkweed, for Fergus now –
so low on oil of gladness.  Yeah.

Can you loop some snarly comet
with your lariat?  Invite
that hobo down the street?
Unleash the joy in Joyce – the might

in Lincoln’s painful mite?  Mosey
on up with Moses, Jordan
way – beach Promised Land
in Plymouth sand?  Say yes in Yeshuee?

Wampum rests with Wampanoags.
Holidays rewind
red Vinland soil – to bind
the serpent to Kid George’s

fleecy cradle-calumet.  Your eyes
are Mirror Lakes, child;
Mendelssohn’s a neighborhood
for Minnesota symphonies;

the deep stars comprehend our schemes.
The bears all harmonize
& tumble through the skies
their growling round (hearth-beams).


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