Passing the Flag

Passing the Flag

My two sons, now men in their prime, smile proudly into the camera.

Wear khaki colored shirts covered with embroidered patches, they

sewed on scout shirts years ago.

One of them holds a homemade Stag patrol flag  attached to a Madrone pole.

Made of a branch soaked and formed in a circle,

 the center an animal pelt held taut by leather laces.

A deer antler perches on top of the flag

Under  the flag, hang yellow and blue ribbons won by their Patrol.

They learned to lash elaborate structures together,

to tie all kinds of knots, to devise a lean-to sleep under one night.

.

They camped in the rain, forgot raingear.

Ate ramen noodles and hot dog dinners,

barely cooked pancakes with lots of Aunt Jemima syrup.

 that they cooked over Coleman stoves and campfires.

Washed dishes, packed their gear or tried to borrow someone else's.

 Swam in lakes til their teeth chattered.

Slept in snow caves leaving boots outside tents to fill with snow.

 Hiked 50 mile treks, by the coast and in the Cascades and got blisters on their feet.

Found a decomposing whale carcass on the beach.

Their favorite game was to play capture the flag anywhere.

My sons Scott (left) and Carl (right), at the 100 Year Anniversary for Troop 1

Scott next to the Stags Patrol 1 flag he and his brother created as boys, next to a 12-year-old troop member

My grandson, age five, wears his Cub Scout uniform and smiles proudly into the camera.

My Poem for the week

The hopper lies empty on the coffee grinder.

Beans'  rich scent linger only as a hint

 from the dried residue left in my cup.

An empty pill bottle sits on the windowsill.

Dried geraniums stand like sentinels

one  on each side of the porch stairs.

Brown grasses collapse on the field beyond the window.

I hunt for shoots of green ideas

 among dry hollow stems of forgotten stanzas.

Like a cat holds on to a ledge,

I hold on to watercolor.

With gratitude and only in my mind,

 I trace the shape, plan the design, mix the paint.

 That joy and mystery of color, line, and shadow

 ignites a spark to a hidden dry tinder of

words piled in a corner of my mind.

I begin to write again.

Lichens in a Windstorm

Lichens  lay, clothed twigs

everywhere  on the driveway,

Tortured forms in scattered  pieces ripped from their branches,

by buffeting winds.

Like soldiers on a battlefield.

Our country's Capital

Security men, crushed and beaten

 by a rampaging mob.

Splintered glass and wood,

torn from fine finished doors that opened to world dignitaries.

Still ...

lichens also lay

 amidst newly emerging stems of the Spring's daffodils.