Around Three A.M.

A croaking frog;
A yowling cat;
A dog that just has to howl;
The hair-raising,
Eerie outcry
Of a tiny screeching owl.

A rumble of wheels
Jumping the curb;
An engine tuned needlessly loud;
A skein of geese
Honking away,
Somewhere above the cloud.

The long, distant squall
Of a diesel’s horn,
On tracks at the edge of town;
Hissing of steam
As engineers
At the mill blow boilers down.

A couple of clicks
And a little whir,
As the heater fan starts to spin;
Rustling murmur
Of cozy sheets--
Then I try to doze off again.

Sam Trinca, 1923

Reads the stone above the doorway;
But there is no door there now,
No windows, or stairs, or floors,
Or roof, or partition walls.

There’s just a masonry shell here,
Two stories high, still standing
After nine decades of seasons;
The old masons’ hands built well.

In a second-story window
I see, from my low point of view,
A triangle of pure blue sky,
Balanced by another of brick.

Through the doorway a stretch
Of wall in shadow, with here
And there golden rectangles
Cast through empty back windows.

For decades the local citizens
Walked in and out of doors,
And upstairs, bought and sold,
And passed the time of day.

Now the Trinca building stands
Ruined as any Egyptian temple,
While a block away its brick kin
Remain in use, still living for now.

My Mother's Sword

I remember one evening when Mom
Left it on the bench, then stopped
On the way out, and returned for it,
And laughing said “I forgot my sword!”

Fifteen hundred pages of print,
Containing text, notes, and maps,
With a built-in ribbon bookmark,
All between dark leather covers;

Descendant of collected works
Written over centuries, now
Millennia old, endlessly debated,
Translated, presented and handed down.

In one of its own passages likened
To a sword, alive and powerful,
Sharp enough to slice through all,
And lay bare the inmost thoughts.

It told her to do to others as she
Would have the others do to her,
To turn away wrath with soft words,
To care for those crushed by need;

That you save your life by losing it,
That your enemy is someone you bless,
That your treasure is what you give.
She has lived her life in those beliefs.

She has taken her sword, and with it
Cut a wide swathe of love, and care,
And mercy through a dying world
That has far too little of these things.

Dad carries the sword as well,
As do many others I’ve known,
The only weapon we’re allowed
To carry in the journey of life;

A journey through a darkening world,
Of cold hearts, and fear, and hate,
Ambushed by powers beyond man
That would stop us short of the goal.

My parents’ fight is nearing its end,
While mine has a long while to run.
I’m in no hurry, but I do look forward
To a day when I safely reach home.

Meanwhile I carry the same sword
That my mother and father wielded,
Hoping to give a good account of myself
In the world’s broad field of battle.

I've never been a big fan of poetry, but I enjoyed this one very much. It's been many years since I participated in "Sword Drills." Brought back lots of memories as well as reminded me that I don't read it as much as I should anymore.

Daphne......*applauds*