(After the William Carlos Williams poem ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’…only longer)

For my father, who taught me how to ride my first bicycle.

So much depends
On a black bicycle
Resting serenely against
the overflowing petunias in the window boxes
and the rain drenched cushions
on the comfortable patio.
The cushions are sun- dried now
The cherry tomatoes will soon be red.

I may lie down on the patio
with a handkerchief over my eyes
like my poet father did on his bed,
and wait for words,
Or dream of lines like his.

In the garden of my childhood
I sense his hands holding the bicycle
Then the letting go
Falling repeatedly.
Finally Death took over, as it must do
The permanence of the letting go.

Now, life deals me different falls,
As I watch the purple pansies
With their faces upturned
To meet the sun.

I no longer ride bicycles.
Without father,
The balance is difficult,
Yet, the poems of childhood
Drift in and out 
In solid shapes.

Sometimes, I sense
His invisible hands
Guiding my words and lines.
                        

Between puffs of a Menthol Cool cigarette
Left to curl in the glass ashtray
The folded handkerchief carefully placed on eyes
He lay silently still for the Muse
To bring him the lines.

The delicately-crafted glasses 
Set aside on the cluttered desk
The faithful typewriter in the centre
The forgotten cheques for depositing 
Becoming bookmarks of a different kind
The turtle shaped coin box for ‘loose change’
All forming a part of the familiar scene.

In set rhythmic pattern 
He moved from bed to desk
Writing words and lines
On pieces of paper, blank or lined
Whatever could be found
Then back to the bed again.

He breathed deeply.
Or deep ‘breathely’
(His coined phrase)
Perhaps invoking the Muse
For the rest of the poem
To take shape.
Breathing gave pause to the poetic process.

Pacing up and down the sparsely furnished room
Reading the words aloud
Inviting me in
To be both audience and critic
The ceremony completed.

Daddy typed with two fingers
On the old clickety typewriter
The manuscript ready
Delivered to willing or critical eyes.

Daddy wrote often
Into the early hours of the morning
I would have to creep into the room
Mouse-like, Cockroach quiet,
Remove the handkerchief
Turn off the light
Tell him he must sleep
It’s late, Daddy!

Standing outside his room
Until I heard the familiar click
Of the old wooden latch
I knew he’d get a few hours
Of fulfilled slumber.
                        

—For the children killed in Robb Elementary School in Texas

I want the willow tree to weep no more
I want peace from shore to shore.
	Lines from my poem ‘Peace’

This day of sadness,
All the willow trees of the world weep
for nineteen children and two teachers
Brightly burning candles snuffed out by insanity
Families mourning sons and daughters
Celebrations of graduations and wedding days
Buried in too early graves.

Not so long ago I stood
in front of a group of elementary children
in a Spanish class
wearing sombreros dancing to the Mexican Hat Song.
This is the stuff of childhood
Toys and games, movies and friends. 

Instead, I hear a funeral dirge
I see crosses with names of the dead
I hear fathers and grandfathers weeping
I weep with them, their stories, their memories
Bubbly children, kind and loving
Dreams to be teachers and lawyers,
Could have been my own children.

I become the teacher once again
I have been through that drill
for the imaginary intruder
Hiding under a desk with the children, 
far from the windows in complete silence
No coughing no breathing
Behind a locked door.

The earth cries
It wants the children back to their beds
with their teddy bears and blankets
Fathers reading bedtime stories
Mothers preparing warm milk.

Children, I’m told, are a gift 
May it be the gift that keeps on giving.

The willow trees weep
This summer twenty-one flowers will not bloom.