Houston Rec Center dedication

 Building

 

I’ve driven by this space before, 

And scanned it with careless eyes: it held

a building like any other--

bricks and doors and windows 

opaque to the disinterested gaze

and meaningless until it was

brought to earth and built again.

 

 

So it is with this new place,

The casual passer-by might not know

the name, its function, its namesake:

Charles Houston, a man of law, a teacher,

bearer of august honors; 

a school at Harvard, a professorship, 

a place in history.   

 

This foundation is like his work—

a solid base for this building, 

the living that surrounds, 

and is nourished by it,  

It fills a need, a gap, a city block.

It is a rock for the community,

that stands in its shadow.

 

Academic brilliance is for the few; 

honors and history are elusive.

but this community belongs to us. 

Home is something we all should know.

Family, friends, neighbors are the foundation 

that holds us safe and strong. 

This place grounds us. 

 

Charles Houston would be proud.

 

 

Lives Illustrated

 

 

You can never have too many walls—

or bookshelves. 

Books and pictures, maps and stuff:

bowls and baskets, plants and pottery

telling the stories of all the years

we’ve spent

reading, studying, traveling.

These walls, these shelves are

remembered locations and conversations,

past connections, past lives.

These are our connections,

the string of events that led us here

to this time, this place,

this relationship:

you and me and the network

of ties that bind.

 

Birthdays & Valentines

 BIRTHDAYS AND VALENTINES

 

It’s unfair

that your birthday

so closely follows Valentine’s Day:

two occasions celebrating for me

the same person, the same love.

One occasion for all the years,

and one for what you’ve done with them.

Unaccountably, you have loved me,

have shared so many years with me,

have laughed and (maybe) cried,

have celebrated, have been together or apart,

have raised our daughters,

have been happy.

 

It’s unfair

that these two days 

are united, are back-to-back,

are crammed together in time—

with space too small to give

significant credit to each,

to pay significant attention.

You are my life, my love,

my past, my future,

deserving so much more

than two short days,

two inadequate days, 

a double universe of love.

Valentine's Day 2025

 

Valentine’s Day

 

Flowers and chocolates,

hearts and love,

pinks and reds

and lace and ribbons,

cards and messages

reminding us

of what we hold dear,

of what and who we love,

reminding us of who we are

and how we connect

in this chaotic world

that divides us at every turn.

 

In spite of all that would separate us,

I hold tight to love, to truth,

to what is real, to what is good.

I hold tight to you,

my valentine.

Henry

 Henry

 

Bearded and bow-tied,

from his portrait on the library wall,

Henry surveys his collection

begun in the ‘30s, continuing today..

and finds it good:

comfortable and at home,

rubbing shoulders with Garrick and Macbeth,

with Juliet and Falstaff

and the various incarnations

of the man of the hour—

William Shakespeare.

 

 

Painting

 

A scene from a horror flick—

three creepy women

presiding over a pot of writhing souls,

pointing gnarled and knotty fingers

at their latest apparition:

the arm-ed head of Macbeth’s rival.

Eternal Life

 Eternal Life

 

When my untidy ball of words and emotion 

finally rolls to a stop, so much will be left unsaid. 

And it will not matter if I was black or white, 

brown or yellow or rainbow-colored. 

It will not matter if I am Christian, Muslim, or Jew—

or any conglomeration thereof. 

I will not be—

at least in my present state—

and what is left will be disposed of   

by those who come after me.

 

What do I leave behind? 

Evidence of things I hold dear: 

piles of ordinary books, china, cut glass, crystal , 

turned wood bowls, particularly lovely old books,

maps and pictures, and precious photographs...

all the things I found beautiful in their own way. 

Will they mean anything to anyone 

after I am gone? Unlikely.

 

What do I do with my accumulated life? 

The casually gathered items 

that fill my house and brighten my days? 

Who is willing to accept my memories? 

Dare I even ask that of someone? 

I am reminded of a book 

(is there anything that does not remind me of a book?) 

whose hero has a sixth sense for antiques. 

Somehow, he can feel the love and emotion 

a craftsman expends in the creation of an object. 

Might there be some person 

whose heart can sense the loving touches 

I spend on my Blackwell Herbal, 

my beautiful bowls, my fragile crystal, 

my china, my books?

 

Might I believe, somehow,

in a life for them

beyond my own?

Chosen People

I think I can read God’s mind

and know what He thought 

about his people in the desert:

“What’s WRONG with them?”

They had a heritage (enviable,

an actual promise from God!)

that they didn’t care to uphold. 

They had so much, and yet,

it was not enough.

They turned away, and

He drowned them in a flood,

sent them to Egypt as captive labor.

He led them out and fed them in the desert—

and they built a golden calf to spite Him.

 

What’s WRONG with us?

America: the light of the world?

hope burning bright in the harbor?

the golden door, promising

work and reward and peace and safety?

It’s not enough that we have so much—

we need to hoard it, to hide in our storehouses,

to count our wealth, to shut others out,

to be the greatest.

Here is what we know

(whether we acknowledge it or not..)

We can’t be great while others starve.

We can’t be great while others drown

in pursuit of freedom.

We can’t be great on the backs of others

if we are ever to have peace,

if we are ever to achieve greatness.

God knew that then. 

He knows it now.