Showing posts with label john. Show all posts
Showing posts with label john. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Common Things



On our first morning in the house
our new home not yet cold
from its last abandonment

we tiptoed on our thin young legs
down to the cool cellar
heavy with the scent of stone and earth

we found a workbench with a few hand saws
tinged with rust in this electric age
and on the floor a 12 pound sledge

useless      with a splintered handle
that could have easily been replaced
if anyone had cared

half way down the basement was
a heavy timbered room
about ten feet on either side

whose door barely responded
to the pull of a ten
and an eight year old

but when it did and when we groped
to find the switch
a single hanging bulb lit up

to reveal a large square chest
a room within a room
a poultry incubator six feet tall

varnished oak with frame and panel doors
drawer after drawer of wire mesh
brass hinges and latches with long thick handles

handles that pulled easily
handles cast without a care
for a bit of extra metal

handles as long as a young boy’s arm
with graceful curves to welcome the hand
and a thickening at the end

to signify nothing but the maker’s sense
of how such a simple metal piece
should look to the eye and feel to the touch

good for nothing now except
to fasten closed a wooden door
if there was something left to seal inside

good for nothing but to teach
a little boy the feel of common things
and help him understand what beauty is



© 2015 Frank Kearns



Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Basement Photographs




In the cellar
you      and I your older brother
construct another project

the trains of childhood
replaced with a model race car track
built by us from wood and foil

in the picture you and I
heads bowed in concentration
don’t seem to feel the need to talk

but as we planned
the roadway slope
and the spacing of the track

we must have talked
and though I never was a dreamer
we must have talked of dreams

the photographs
are black and white
like shadows     like my memories

and I have spent a lifetime
searching them
for fragments of your voice




©2015 Frank Kearns