Hope

What floated by
Invisible to the eye

Was hope -

Hope on its way
To cure poverty

Hope on its way
To cure misery

Hope on its way
To feed the hungry

Hope on its way
To disband armies

Hope on its way
To destroy tyranny

Hope on its way
To heal humanity

Hate

A finger
Pointing,
An eye
Glaring
back

The Mythical Sharpening Man

He came some summers
But not others -

Emerging from
the wavering mirage
of late afternoon heat

Driving up and down
The suburban streets
In his beat up
workshop truck

Ringing his distinctive bell -
Announcing his arrival
in a casual zen like way
as though calling monks
to temple

Ping-ping
Ping–ping

Ping-ping
Ping-Ping

To a curious boy of ten
this mystery truck
needed a closer look

And that summer
I summoned up the nerve
And asked my mother
to give me something
that needed sharpening
anything -
And hurry -he's coming

she fumbled around in the junk drawer
for what seemed like an eternity
and finally handed me a pair
of her old sewing scissors

I ran to the truck
And made my offering
barely tall enough
to see over the side opening

Without saying a word
the sharpening man
turned on the grinding wheel

And the increasing RPMs
of the wheel spinning
produce a pleasant humming

until he put the scissors
against the stone wheel
and they began to squeal

Sparks flew everywhere -
I remember one
that flew up into his smoky gray hair

And in less than a minute
He was done
and I handed him a dollar

"No charge kid," he said-
"this ones on me"
Pointing to a sign that read -

No job too large or too small -
but if it's too small it's free

and he gave the dollar
back to me

Fifty years later
I can still see the sparks
Flying off his grinding wheel

I can still remember
sitting in the shade
of the old oak tree
sequestered from the
hot August sun

Eating the ice cream
with the dollar I had made