sung to the tune of The Wellerman
(there are many recordings, check out Nathan Evans to get the song going in your head)

There once was a boy who knew was he
The strongest pirate there ever would be.
The wind blew in, the sun beat down
But no, this little boy, knows. (huh)  

Soon may this Withenbury come
To bring us kisses and hugs and fun
Since one day when he’s grown and done
He’ll take his leave and go.  

On his bike he’d leave his home
When toward the park he’d always roam
His dada called him on the phone
To say he missed him mo’.  

Soon may this Withenbury come
To bring us kisses and hugs and fun
One day when he’s grown and done
He’ll take his leave and go.

Da-da-da-da-da
Da-da-da-da-da-da-da
Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da  

And before the boy could reach the park
Dog Ike-Ike met him with a bark
As Mama ran to meet her mark
And she grabbed him from below.

Soon may this Withenbury come
To bring us kisses and hugs and fun
One day when he’s grown and done
He’ll take his leave and go.

And so now the pirate ship’s been caught
But the pirate’s struggle’s not for naught
This boy listens to what he’s taught
With his dog and bike in tow. 

Soon may this Withenbury come
To bring us kisses and hugs and fun
One day when he’s grown and done
He’ll take his leave and go.

Da-da-da-da-da
Da-da-da-da-da-da-da
Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da  

Only two years old, already is he
The smartest pirate in the whole wide sea.
He swims and kicks and dances for me
And neither leg’s a peg, no!

Soon may this Withenbury come
To bring us kisses and hugs and fun
One day when he’s grown and done
He’ll take his leave and go.

So, back home the boy will race
To dock his ship back in its place
And sing his dad on Father’s Day
The Withenbury pirate shanty!

Soon may this Withenbury come
To bring us kisses and hugs and fun
One day when he’s grown and done
He’ll take his leave and go…

Happy Father’s Day to my brother, Alex,
who is one heck of a dada!

Love, Pirate Ben & Poet Em

Summer heat warms my bones
Fries my skin
And flips me over
For crisping
Just like I like it
Poolside with no sunscreen
Because I live life dangerously
Cold water that soon becomes stale
Chlorine eyes and bright red legs
A walking beet
A cast iron skillet’s butter
On pavement-burnt feet
Jelly plastic lounging chairs
And nachos with peppers

In a Shaker Friends’ Meeting

The things we carry . . .
time,
bags of cement,
estranged family members, loved ones who bring sorrow,
we carry . . .

we carry . . .
jokes,
humor, salve to lighten the load,
hugs, to dissipate the numbing pain,

thoughts like squirrels racing in our heads . . . sometimes they take a nap,
and trees who want to stop us . . . and hold us in a healing embrace,

we carry . . .
hurdles
excess baggage ~ rocks, back breaking boulders on the steepest climb,

forgiveness releases all transgressions, lightens the burden, sets victim and perpetrator free

i am a dancer in the dance
’round and ’round the self criticism prance

i am the witness, the observer, the one who knows she knows
i don’t have to carry any thing
in fact, i can be carried . . .

I scrounge darkness for
poetry only to find
clothes to put away.

Like a car doing 45 over

I feel like everything is going by so fast,

Blurry— blink and it’s gone

My mind never slows down to smell the flowers

I have no time to think

Except I never stop thinking,

I crave a slow, and simple life

As well as an exhilarating one

I love being on the move,

But damn, gas is expensive

My eyes are starting to droop,

I’m unsure of where I’m going

This is exhausting,

Maybe I’ll call a friend

Or supply my caffeine fix

When I finally make it to the couch

To fill my tank up,

I’ll think of everything I haven’t done,

Haven’t seen,

What I should be doing instead

Maybe I’ll just grab my keys,

And go for a drive just to think

barely
barely

i say unto
you & 

you
& you

sometimes i
am afraid

not just for
myself

but for all 
of us

each of us
future trippin’

past stricken
immobile

the hammer is
raised & we

pretend we
do not know

who holds it
instead

we dip
& dodge

we duck &
weave

we run away
& toward

we tell our-
selves

we do what 
we can

right up 
until

we are 
asked

to do
better

                    Untitled

            call it a heat wave,
            moving north from Texas,
            southwest to northeast Kentucky
            or call it a love poem
———–
            the last time we made love
            rushing through my memory
            like water in old seventy creek
            after three days of rain
———-
            or call it a daffodil
            or an indian, colorless flower
            few have ever seen in forest leaves
            but I have seen one
———–
            I dedicate my words
            to that white translucent
            pipelike plant off green three
            at the country club

They say don’t meet your heroes

but maybe don’t meet your friends either

because they can be assholes too.

Rows and rows, so many closets 
Of assorted dresses, gowns
Women’s suits for every occasion 
Drawers chocked full to the brim 
Vintage love letters still stained 
With yester year’s tears
That Stouffers candy box was the only thing 
That held their love together 
Long after both wars were over 
One that raged within her mind 
The other overseas 
Her negliges lay discarded in the trunk
Remnants of the love they made 
Frozen in time like the second hand 
On a clock no one bothered to wind one day. 

i am from new york
and kentucky
from fireman’s pond
and the kentucky river,
from long drives on
sunday after church
along a winding river road,
from long roadtrips 
late at night in the back
seat of a pinto, or comet
or the camper of a ford truck
to averill park, new york.
i am from aunt nancy’s magic bag
and eleanor’s birthday cakes in 
the middle of the night
upon arrival to grammy
and grampa’s house by the pond.
i am from fried catfish and 
cornbread with thick slices
of tomatoes from opal’s garden
corn on the cob smothered
in homemade butter and
green beans fresh from breaking.
i am from motorcycle riding
uncle ken laughting with
my dad about navy stories 
and jerry clower records
around the table with cups 
of coffee and glowing 
stained glass light.
i am from cousins catching
crawdads in the creek,
making mud pies in the
dirt driveway after summer rain
weaving cattails into placemats
and singing around the organ
while grampa plays happy birthday.
i am from fancy aunt betty
with stylish clothes and scarfed
hair high on her head,
scars up to her elbow from
the fire that burned her daughter,
the one i thought so beautiful 
with long black hair and fake
eyelashes whose scars i never
saw until mom showed me
her school pictures and i 
couldn’t imagine how strong
she must have been.
i am from north and south,
from river wading and ocean
playing, shell collecting and
rock skimming, barefoot 
all summer, camping in maine. 
i am from strength and weakness
sadness and joy, artists and fishermen,
teachers and writers, farmers 
and dreamers,
so many came before me
i carry them always, all the stories.

6/17/24
KW