Good 'ol summer days (god, I love 'em)

Good ‘Ol Summer Days

Fireworks, hot dogs, hide and seek in the dark
Slope shouldered willow tree, by the lake in the park

Lightning bugs rising, living sparks in the skies
Prisms of light, reflected in toddler’s amazed eyes

Sausage and burgers, hickory smoke and barbecue smells
Ripe barnyard odors, sounds of far-off church bells

Redolent richness of honey locust, saturates summer air
Summery scents, like bramble burrs, seemingly glued in ‘lil girls hair

Short lives of dainty mayflies, mating dance o’er slow muddy rivers
Skinny dips, swimming holes, warm winds, goose- bumpy shivers

Coppertone lotion, peeling nose, wraparound sunglasses
Hangin out at the library, summer-school catch-up classes

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poem by David Whalen
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Most Memorable Valentine

I would see the old lady in the halls where I did volunteer work.
About eighty plus years old, with the bent over shuffle of the very old or very feeble.Pushing her walker laboriously, yet with determination as she went to her appointments.

I stopped often to talk to her, usually in the cafeteria where she had her favorite spot.

During one of these chats she excitedly told me the doctor had told her that very day that her cancer had seemingly gone away. felt good for her, and had a warm feeling the rest of that day.
I didn't see her for quite some time and began to think she might have died, so I was relieved on Valentines day to see her slumped down dozing in her customary seat in the cafeteria, her walker folded
Beside her.

I didn't bother to chat her up since she looked so peaceful, eyes half closed, head on her breast.I sat down in a booth just across a divider between us. No more than three feet separated us from
each other as I worked my crossword puzzle and had breakfast.

My attention was taken by the voice of a bus girl replying to the old lady, who asked again if she could get her another coffee and a cinnamon donut. The bus girl said 'of course, but it would be a
few moments before she could get it.' After a moment, I got up and approached the bus girl and told her 'never mind, that
I would take care of the ladies coffee and donut.'

I bought and paid for it and then tapped the old girl on the shoulder. She recognized me as the man who chatted with her occasionally and gave me a tired, friendly smile. I told her that today was Valentines day and I didn't have a Valentine to call my own, and that It would please me so much If she would be my Valentine and gave her the coffee and donut. 'just for today, okay? '

At first she looked taken aback, and then smiled broadly and said 'of course, of course my dear! '
I put my hand on her blue veined, withered hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. She put her other hand over mine and gave the squeeze right back. As I took leave I said 'don't forget…today you're my Valentine' and she smiled, winked, and said 'and you'll be mine.'

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poem by David Whalen
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The Man At The Bar

The Man At The Bar

I saunter toward the bar of my neighborhood tavern
For my weekly libation and some solitude in reading.
Tinseled ads dangle down like stalagtites in dim cavern
In this dark refuge, where world’s woes, no one’s heeding

At the bar sit’s a man alone, o’er long necked bottle, working-mans hands hover
Eyes unfocused, staring unseeingly, deep into space
While I, a book in one hand and cash for my pint in the other
Wait for my drink, when I sense his sad gaze drift round to my face

The palpable pull of his gaze makes me turn, nod politely and say “hi”
And his eyes slowly shift down to the book in my clasp
“Sir, “ said he, “might I have a peek at your book? ” A reticent request, soft as a sigh
“of course, ” said I, and placed my dog-eared edition in his work-calloused grasp

A quick, cursory page riffling, then a wry wrinkled look
The tattered book proffered back to me with a sad sibilant sigh

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poem by David Whalen
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Emmaline Conner room 101(contest winner writing.com)

Lids slowly closing, aged eyes rimmed with red
Blue veined hands clutching sheets to her chin
Fond memories, old boyfriends, gaily dance in her head
A Time traveler, scanning archives, sequestered within

My knock brings her back to this time, here and now
With a start she awakens, closes softly memory’s door
With a smile I approach, place a hand on her brow
Gently bringing her back to the present once more

Tucking a bib beneath her chin like an infant
Huge Breakfast tray pulled close to her breast
Eyes mockingly wide in jesting amazement
Solemnly promises to give it her best

I sit by her side, uncapping and helping
With the soft pureed breakfast I provided
A few birdlike bites, her resolve quickly melting
She’s really quite full now, she’s decided

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poem by David Whalen
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Dinna' be tellin' me friends!

I’m goin’ to tell this story to ye, if ye can keep it a hush
Since I canna’ be telling’ me friends
Twas the Saturday past, I drank a wee too much
Before me usual trek home thru’ the glens

I was steppin’ quite proudly, at least so I thought
Til I stumbled oe’r a root and fell flat on me face!
With my face to the airth, in this spot I’d been brought
A nap seemed quite timely, and in this very place!

To tuck my tam neath my head, to serve as me pillow
Struck me as such the smart thing to do
For to be takin’ a wee nap on the airth neath a willow
Made a sod such as meself, feel mellow through and through

Seemed na more than a blink, of a bloodshot eye
sure and couldna been no more than a minute or two
Thru a dim sodden fog came a sound sweet and high
Like the taste of fine whiskey and cool highland dew

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poem by David Whalen
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Seemed an eternity

The minute of failure

The little boy’s body stiffened, then relaxed. Stiffened then relaxed. Eyes wide open, staring fixedly, and unseeing at the ceiling.

The young doctor grimaced with the effort, pumping intensely with his hands as if trying to pump water from a deep and long dry well. His hands moved in cadence with the old “Bee Gee’s song Stayin Alive” playing unconsciously in his mind.

The E.T.s that had originally answered the call to the lad’s home with the always dreaded “possible drowning victim” still sounding in their ears, stood uneasily in the doorway watching the frenetic activity.
Their usual M.O. was to end their vigilance when they had delivered the patient to the Pediatric E.R., and return to their truck to await the always: soon to come “next emergency.”

This time they couldn’t pull themselves away with the usual detachment that was expected of them. It shouldn’t have been that way, but when the victim (unfairly or not) of whatever the trauma ‘du jour’ was, was just a kid, they seemed to feel a guilt or responsibility that wasn’t truly theirs.

They had given the first ‘breaths of life’ to the bluish lips at the family’s swimming pool. Had done the first compressions to the unrising chest, and now seemed vested somehow in the boy’s welfare. They couldn’t leave. They felt obligated to stay. As if just by their presence, somehow the lad would be helped. Failure was something they didn’t accept very easily in their profession.

The doctor nodded to the R.N. assisting him and then stepped back rubbing his tingling, aching hands and arms While the R.N. seamlessly picked up the Bee Gee beat, brow furrowed in concentration.

The video screen above the bed showing the boy’s vitals blinked with red and green lights. The screen would show green, (which was good) for a few moments… but then would return to the dreaded red. Hopes rising and falling with each change in color.

With the red screen returning more often, and more often, and the green less and less so, faces turned more grim. Eyes started averting others, as if there were a mutually shared shame that was spreading contagiously among the caregivers and the spectators. The mother sat stoically, staring almost without blinking, straight ahead at her son.

It was as if the grim reaper stood back hidden in the shadows, patiently awaiting the inevitable moment of concession of human effort and futility.

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poem by David Whalen
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