Marker
—Poetry by Vern Fein, Urbana, IL
—Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA
ASHES/PARADISE
I will be cremated, instead of buried
in a pine box. Just plain less hassle.
My ashes will lay in a small box,
resting on the mantle of one of my children,
who will sadly go to the funeral home
to pick it up and notice the surprising heaviness
as I did when I picked up my Mother’s,
feel squeamish when running their fingers
through the first time, like sifting shells on a beach.
My children will scatter those ashes
at the places I asked—
the Little League field we won city,
Wrigley Field, the food bank I started,
the lake we fished on, our garden—
as many places as they will.
Staying in that box is one outcome.
The other whether a future
for me, beyond the ashes,
beyond that small, decorated box,
say a resurrection, or a reincarnation
or an absorption by the Oversoul
or something I don’t know about,
something more, something other,
something eternal, an afterlife.
If I am so privileged
to muse on my deathbed
instead of just dropping over
like my parents did,
will it just be a box of ashes
or a paradisiacal future?
Before I lie on that bed,
if I even get the chance,
I figure I better think now.
I will be cremated, instead of buried
in a pine box. Just plain less hassle.
My ashes will lay in a small box,
resting on the mantle of one of my children,
who will sadly go to the funeral home
to pick it up and notice the surprising heaviness
as I did when I picked up my Mother’s,
feel squeamish when running their fingers
through the first time, like sifting shells on a beach.
My children will scatter those ashes
at the places I asked—
the Little League field we won city,
Wrigley Field, the food bank I started,
the lake we fished on, our garden—
as many places as they will.
Staying in that box is one outcome.
The other whether a future
for me, beyond the ashes,
beyond that small, decorated box,
say a resurrection, or a reincarnation
or an absorption by the Oversoul
or something I don’t know about,
something more, something other,
something eternal, an afterlife.
If I am so privileged
to muse on my deathbed
instead of just dropping over
like my parents did,
will it just be a box of ashes
or a paradisiacal future?
Before I lie on that bed,
if I even get the chance,
I figure I better think now.
KICK THE CAN
My foot kicked a random can
on the sidewalk.
My old mind filled it with gravel
and threw me back to my neighborhood alley
and my 11-year-old self.
Stacked the cans, knocked them down,
ran back to our team with hilarity.
Kick The Can for hours
into the fading dusk because TV
and video games did not exist.
Shot hoops,
cold or shine,
on our garage driveway court
till all hours.
Played Wiffle ball
at the American Legion
gravel field,
more important than
the Majors.
Hid atop
the garage roof
to shoot BB guns
at passing cars,
the irate drivers
unable to find
our hidden selves.
My foot kicked a random can
on the sidewalk.
My old mind filled it with gravel
and threw me back to my neighborhood alley
and my 11-year-old self.
Stacked the cans, knocked them down,
ran back to our team with hilarity.
Kick The Can for hours
into the fading dusk because TV
and video games did not exist.
Shot hoops,
cold or shine,
on our garage driveway court
till all hours.
Played Wiffle ball
at the American Legion
gravel field,
more important than
the Majors.
Hid atop
the garage roof
to shoot BB guns
at passing cars,
the irate drivers
unable to find
our hidden selves.
Is that world really gone?
PRIMARY COLORS
If you got it right,
your children are primary colors,
blue, red, yellow, mine.
You don’t color
the sun blue,
the ocean red,
blood yellow.
That goads, nettles Nature,
angers that Mother.
They leave and come home,
leave and come home.
Blue joys.
Red hurts.
Yellow needs.
You set up the canvas before you.
You paint the sun yellow,
the ocean blue,
blood red.
As you age,
primary.
If you got it right,
your children are primary colors,
blue, red, yellow, mine.
You don’t color
the sun blue,
the ocean red,
blood yellow.
That goads, nettles Nature,
angers that Mother.
They leave and come home,
leave and come home.
Blue joys.
Red hurts.
Yellow needs.
You set up the canvas before you.
You paint the sun yellow,
the ocean blue,
blood red.
As you age,
primary.
NO SENSE OF TIME
Fellow glorious fools:
We have no sense of Time
but this I hope—
in the Time of Waiting
will be no Time.
We will wait after death.
I pray for a marvelous sleep
till we wake.
What is Time now?
Waiting when we don’t know,
embracing the drum roll of anticipation
—both joy and pain.
Waiting for the birth, the doctor’s call,
the death, the good or bad news
every minute before we pass on.
Hope for a quiet peace
not knowing for a Time—
eternity leading to all eternity—
until the Time comes
when we will know
and Time no longer matters.
____________________
Fellow glorious fools:
We have no sense of Time
but this I hope—
in the Time of Waiting
will be no Time.
We will wait after death.
I pray for a marvelous sleep
till we wake.
What is Time now?
Waiting when we don’t know,
embracing the drum roll of anticipation
—both joy and pain.
Waiting for the birth, the doctor’s call,
the death, the good or bad news
every minute before we pass on.
Hope for a quiet peace
not knowing for a Time—
eternity leading to all eternity—
until the Time comes
when we will know
and Time no longer matters.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WHEN I PUBLISHED MY FIRST POEM
—Vern Fein
I could not sleep that night.
I was in a room
With hundreds of vases
Of various shapes and sizes,
Labyrinthine designs,
Hues to defy rainbows.
Commanded to compose verses
To inscribe on every one,
Like straw into gold.
I slaved feverishly all night.
Hundreds of lines,
Thousands of words.
I cannot remember a single one!
Am I a poet
Or was it a dream?
_____________________
Today we have a new guest in the Kitchen: A retired special education teacher, Vern Fein started writing poems and short pieces about five years ago and is pleased that over 200 poems have been accepted on over 90 different sites, such as *82 Review, The Literary Nest, Bindweed Magazine, Gyroscope Review, Young Raven's Review, Ibis Head Review, Soft Cartel, Spindrift, and Former People. His first poetry book—I Was Young and Thought It Would Change—was released by Cyberwit Press. Welcome to the Kitchen, Vern, and don’t be a stranger!
Poetry in three venues in our area tonight: Concert and Poetry on the Patio in Cesar Chavez Park in Sacramento; Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Café, also in Sacramento; and the online reading for MALDEF, hosted by Escritoires del Nuevo Sol and Sac. Poetry Alliance. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
_____________________
—Medusa
WHEN I PUBLISHED MY FIRST POEM
—Vern Fein
I could not sleep that night.
I was in a room
With hundreds of vases
Of various shapes and sizes,
Labyrinthine designs,
Hues to defy rainbows.
Commanded to compose verses
To inscribe on every one,
Like straw into gold.
I slaved feverishly all night.
Hundreds of lines,
Thousands of words.
I cannot remember a single one!
Am I a poet
Or was it a dream?
_____________________
Today we have a new guest in the Kitchen: A retired special education teacher, Vern Fein started writing poems and short pieces about five years ago and is pleased that over 200 poems have been accepted on over 90 different sites, such as *82 Review, The Literary Nest, Bindweed Magazine, Gyroscope Review, Young Raven's Review, Ibis Head Review, Soft Cartel, Spindrift, and Former People. His first poetry book—I Was Young and Thought It Would Change—was released by Cyberwit Press. Welcome to the Kitchen, Vern, and don’t be a stranger!
Poetry in three venues in our area tonight: Concert and Poetry on the Patio in Cesar Chavez Park in Sacramento; Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Café, also in Sacramento; and the online reading for MALDEF, hosted by Escritoires del Nuevo Sol and Sac. Poetry Alliance. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
_____________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
