davidjrogersftw

Given the gift of exceptional powers of memory, writers never forget so that they might write years later about events that compose their lives.

 

My Youth:

The Night Racer of My Childhood

I have not forgotten a strange boy who on summer nights
Appeared standing tall and stiff on the pedals
Of his bicycle and silently raced up and down the street
Where I lived, a puppy in a paper bag in the basket yapping.
As he rode the street an eerie train whistle blew plaintively
Although there were no tracks and no trains anywhere near.
The superstitious thought the whistle the cry of archangels.

 

Ice Cream Man

A bevy of children
Proffering handfuls
Of nickels and dimes
To the wizened Ice Cream
Man in exchange for
A delicious bar thickly crusted with
Brittle dark chocolate
Or nuts,
Or both.

 

Giant

Giants are heroes of children.
Every child would like to have
Their own giant, one who drives a car
From the back seat,
Long arms holding the steering wheel,
Long legs reaching the pedals–
A substantial giant.

When I was a boy in Chicago a giant
Sat in the seat next to mine in church
And we talked and I liked him.
He is cited in
The Guinness Book of World Records
As earth’s tallest person.

There is a replica of him
In the wax Museum in London
That I visited, and when I stood
Close to it, I seemed back years before
In church with Mr. Koehler
Towering eight feet two inches.

 

Childhood: A Period of Summer, Sunlight, Flowers

Morning Glories

Sitting on the window sill
Watching people
Exchanging stories
Over white and purple
Morning glories
Growing wild among clover
On the flanks of the hill

 

Jobs:

Public Speaker: Trippingly off the Tongue

I have come far from high school
When I was terrified to give a speech–
So full of fear.
Now I speak to audiences of thousands–
Eight thousand in Paris–and when I finish
They stand and applaud, a shy
Boy who now, a man, has no fear of public
Speaking whatsoever–no nerves –only pleasure, joy
Speaking artfully and addressing audiences that want
To know what I am thinking.
I feel I have accomplished something.

 

Professional Writer:

The Object in the Streetlight: A Writer’s Birth

Working so hard on abstract
Problems–being so sick of them that
My brain ached, I, troubled, anxious, going out
For a walk alone, without my lady love,
Hoping that the cool late night air
Might be therapeutic and could clear
My thinking so that I might decide
Calmly if a writer’s life could provide happiness.
Near the beds of flowers, flat on the pavement–showered
In the white light of a street lamp–was a single
Object which I picked up from the ground:
A book–of all things a book–
The symbol of the life I had been avoiding. I had to laugh.

I then felt this book I had found, which some person had lost
Or angrily thrown to the ground,
Had been purposefully intended for me
By the ineffable wisdom of the stars, by good fortune,
As a sign, a portent, a clue, a key.
And that what this epiphany of the book
Meant was that I could not escape my pre-
Appointed destiny that suited the architecture
Of my genes, the juncture of talents, gifts, desires, qualities–
Not striving to become any of the five thousand entities
Others are suited to be, but that are alien to me,
Becoming thereafter one thing alone–a being gluttonous of words,
A writer-poet-orator-essayist-teacher–a fish content,
Self-possessed, without further anguish,
Swimming in seas of language.

 

Business Traveler: People You Meet When You Travel For Work

Woman of the Night

If I tell you that in the hotel elevator
At two a.m. she touched my arm and said,
“I’ve been looking for you all night”
In a sweet voice and with a friendly face
You would have an idea of her lonely
Profession, but no idea what kind of
Woman she was, nor how pretty.

 

Flight Through a Storm

The plane seated only four passengers,
Two businessmen, a writer, and a nun.
Before we left the ground
I asked the pilot how it was “up there”
And he said “The winds are very bad”
And I knew I was being a fool and
I shouldn’t fly that day. But I was in
A hurry to get home. The plane was
Thrown about in the wind like a toy and
We were all scared. The nun was clutching
A crucifix and whispering prayers. She asked
Would I please hold her hand and promise her that
We were not going to crash. I took her hand
And promised. The winds soon died as though
They were exhausted, and we four–friends now–
Left the plane in good cheer.

 

Soldier: The Trains of Fort Jackson, 1965

There were long trains and some days and some hours longer still.
They came into U.S Army Fort Jackson, South Carolina round the clock,
Carrying young soldiers who were sent there to learn to fight
In the jungles of Viet Nam.  Their families lay behind them
In the cities, farms, and towns of the South. They stood at the open
Windows of the trains, the wind troubling their hair, their eyes large
With astonishment, trying to comprehend the enormity of
What they were about to face.

 

Family Life: Children and Their Fathers

I thought as all children think of their fathers
At that age that he was a great man. He had
Made a life out of little achievements that
Were magnificent to me–had made a paper
Weight, had painted a wagon, could change a tire.
Then he felt he had done something, and so did I,
A man who would live in anonymity, do the best he
Could, be remembered a little while and forgotten,
A father like every other.

 

Grocery store clerk at twelve: Lyric for Angela

At seventy-five cents per hour
I am a twelve year old
Professional bagger of cans
Of pineapples and tomatoes,
Weigher of potatoes,
Stocker of shelves
So the labels artfully frame
For the customers’ eyes
The Gerber baby,
The Scott tissues,
The orange carrots,
The vivid green peas.
When I am near Angela,
The dark-eyed store owner
Who favors me
My heart beats faster.
I cannot breathe
When I am near Angela.
As she works she sings.

Her spirit enfolds and singes me
As with hot tongs.
She smiles with
Such sweetness, gentleness,
And goodness she breaks my heart.
Her hair, her voice, her hands, her
Presence bring
A quality into my life
Which I know to be love.
My youth is purer,
My memories more
Lasting because of her.

Angela’s husband is awful
To her and treats
Her cruelly.
I vow that one day I will
Whisper to Angela,
“Why don’t you run away?”
But I fear she will not
And that after I have gone
To high school and college
And am grown up
She will still be heard
Singing in the aisles
Of this little store
Like a bird in its cage.

 

Adolescence: Racers

My father drives the family
To the beach, parks, and then
Says “Go,” and he and I race.
We race from the car to the sand
Where the family will happily
Spend the afternoon in the sun.
He always wins the race because
He is a racer and much older and
Stronger and faster than his son.

But I am a racer too, and through
Those years of finishing second I
Am growing stronger and faster,
And when I am fourteen I beat him.
Running that race we are even
And then I pull ahead. A strange thing
Happens:  as I approach the
Sand, I don’t want to win. I don’t want
To beat him. I slow down so that he will win again.

When we stop he says, “You needn’t slow down, son.
You are a faster racer than I am now.”
I never forget those words or that race.
I go on to win many races and set
Records, win trophies, medals, and ribbons.
I achieve more in racing than he ever did, and
Perhaps more in life than he did, but in
His prime and my youth he was
A racer who could beat me.

 

At the age of Seventeen riding freight trains across America with a friend for six months and writing about our adventures.

Setting Out

Nothing in this world will burden me.
Fields of crops out to the horizon.
Breathing in winds that rejuvenate like milk.
Waving to hikers come out from the city.
We can go east or west, south or north,
Not caring in the least where we are or where we are bound,
Through experiences we are not accustomed to, some dangerous,
Discovering what we are made of. We will climb onto boxcars
And jump off a thousand miles away and ride the lines with
Strangers with their lives to tell us about, relying on luck to take us
On adventures we will remember forever.

 

Shot at, Chased by Dogs

When our freight train reaches Longview-Kelso,
The railroad police are waiting,
Holding the leash of a German shepherd
In one hand, waving a gun in the other.
Shouting and running, we youngest, running fastest,
Hobos leap or fall from the cars and dash
In every direction, chased by the cops.
As Nick and I run we laugh at how out
Of our element we are and how ludicrous
The whole scene must appear–a hundred
Running hobos and bulls, men firing revolvers,
Other men praying not to be shot,
Ferocious dogs snapping at our heels.

 

Family Life: The Death of My Young Sister

Until I die I will feel the immense weight
Of grief for you, and now you are gone
I ask your forgiveness for any sadness
I ever caused through thoughtlessness or selfishness;
And wish you to know that I intended
No harm and am so terribly sorry.

 

Late Middle Age: Age: Going Home After Long Absence

I will go now where I grew up and visit
The people I miss the most–
My sister Sharon, my parents,
A few friends, all gone now.
I will arrive in the evening as the sun
Begins to set at the end of the street
Above the church where my father sang.
I will smell working class dinners and
Watch the night hawks circle above our chimney.
Neighbors will come home from work.
Children will put their bikes away.
I will remember my younger self running a race
To the corner by the mailbox and back.
(Whenever was I not running?)
Then I will sit on the stairs and listen
To crickets in the hedge chirping
Their praise of summer nights.

 

Romance, Love

“Meeting Diana”, Knowing in an Instant I Would Marry Her
I saw her across the room
And put down my book and went to meet her.
Her name, my name.
Black hair. Green eyes.
Elegant. Exquisite. Young.
The most beautiful woman on earth.

 

Lady With No Needs

D’elia–the self-sufficient
Lady of twenty-five–my age too–
Who has no desire for wealth
Though she is not rich,
And although the most pleasing
Rendition of a beautiful woman–
The eyes, hair, breasts, and face of a beautiful woman–
The mystic bearing and mood of a haunting woman,
Her skin’s softness and its shades, her lingering perfumes
She has no interest in applause, the stage, or film,
Which might be her professions had she wished,
But prefers a life untainted by fame,
And has:
No need of friends. Without friends she is not unhappy.
No need of a father at home in Dallas who disparages her,
No need of a husband she has no feelings for,
No need of anyone, but has never felt lonely.
She has no need of me,
But when I leave her, her lips tremble.

 

Greenwich Village

I saw you
Looking at me
Knowing I had
Looked at you,
No chance ever
To see you again
Or you to
Look at me again
With your enticing eyes,
You who had I
Known long ago
I would have run
My finger over
So carefully
And cupped
In my hand
Like an orchid.

Beauty Beyond Words

Whenever I see Sidney she
Steals my breath. Walking,
Her lithe body sways and
The sun shines bright on her wild, black,
Stormy-looking hair, engendering in me
A sense of her sophistication, and not coldness,
But rather inaccessibility, delicacy, refinement,
And intelligence. For that’s the impression
Women whose beauty is beyond words make
Upon me.

Unfathomable, Troubled
Unfathomable,
Troubled,
She entered
My life so
Suddenly
And I hers
That
Neither was prepared.
Three unexpected
Years together
Seemed a moment.

 

Pretty Ballerina

You danced
For me alone
So beautifully
Pretty ballerina.
Would you
Dance for me
Again
Were I to ask?

 

In the Company of the Most Beautiful Girl

We stopped for coffee one night in a little café
Up in North Platte, Nebraska. Outside it was
Cold and gray. We went inside, out of the rain,
And sat at the counter and waited for service. In a few minutes
We saw the kitchen door swing open and a waitress
About our age come out. She poured our coffee
Carefully, biting her lower lip, her finger on the top
Of the pot, not looking at us, and our eyes large,
We watched her closely. She had long, lovely-shaded
Amber-colored hair that flowed like oil and tossed from
Side to side. She smiled so gently, so exquisitely, that
I was numb. It was my opinion that she was the most
Beautiful girl we had ever seen in our lives and Nick
Agreed.

We stayed as long as we could just to look at her and
Be around her. When we paid up and left at closing time
We said goodbye to her, regretting we would never see
Her again, and she blushed and smiled at us in a friendly
Way, her eyes bright. We were warmed by the sincerity
With which she said, “Good luck, boys.” The thought of
Her would make us happy for a long time.

 

© 2024 David J. Rogers

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