The Praying Mantis

There sitting on my window screen

I saw an insect dressed in green:

her appearance I found gracious—

no hint that she was quite predacious!

This is a very hungry beast

always looking for a feast:

at sight of her all will scatter,

or else they’ll be on her lunch platter!

Her husband must take extra care,

or she’ll eat him, then and there!

Six legs are laid out in a form

that defies the insect norm:

four will take her on her way—

the other two will grab her prey,

and unlike most her head can swing,

for hunting it’s a helpful thing—

but we will always wonder why

though she’s a bug she cannot fly! 

The Mule Deer

Among the mountains way out west

it’s here the mule deer likes it best.

In summertime they need to forage,

and eat a lot for winter storage,

for when the snow begins to come

their dinner time may be most glum:

they could be left to chew a twig

or face the need to paw and dig!  

Like most deer they are gregarious,

and do not find a herd nefarious,

but a family bunch of friends,

where each and everyone depends

on help from all against their foes,

which protects the fawns and does.

They do not run and do not trot,

but have a leap that’s called a slot,

and know a trick that makes us smile--

they wag those ears with lots of style!

The Cardinals

When day begins to conquer night,

their songs will bring us pure delight—

for when it’s near to being spring,

they feel an urge and start to sing.

The boy’s a charming scarlet gallant

who has a lot of vocal talent,

but the girl can also croon—

they do their courting with a tune,

and sometimes, if they’re on a date, 

the boy gives seeds to his sweet mate! 

They build their nest with special care:

this is a busy working pair,

and when she settles with her brood,

it’s he that rustles up the food.

In winter feeders in our yard

will help them through a time that’s hard—

and for this good and lovely neighbor,

we are glad to do a favor!

318 Nassau Street (1982)

 A center entrance colonial from 1920,

set on a secluded one block street,

spacious and newly decorated

with a large yard and lovely trees,

it seemed the classic home

until we tried to turn on the furnace

and made acquaintance with the bats.

At last we found a friendly roofer

who plugged the holes along the eaves,

the first in a parade of artisans

who installed a modern heating system,

remodeled the Eisenhower era kitchen,

dealt with the antique wiring

and solved a number of plumbing nightmares.

The trillium came up every spring,

but we found that we did not have talents

for the creation of beautiful lawns,

nor an interest in large scale entertainments

as practiced by socially ambitious neighbors,

but it was a house with lovely corners

where each of us could be at ease.

The children learned to drive and date,

one career almost foundered as another began,

we managed to civilize several puppies,

and we met people whose friendship

has lasted for the rest of our lives,

all in a place of generous shelter

during years of continuous motion,

when everything was happening at once.

Property Abstract

Linn County, City of Cedar Rapids,

Ridgewood: SE 15' LOT 44 & NW 60' LOT 45

Once it was a place to pass over,

a high point between the river and the creek,

a spot for a traveler to get some bearings,

until a young man from upstate New York

heeded the call and served his country in 1812 ,

receiving for his service 160 acres of Iowa land

which he owned for 30 years, but likely never saw.

His heir, a nephew, sold the land for ready cash,

and later, there may have been apple trees.

The railroad crossed the river to Cedar Rapids,

the 6th and 13th Iowa held the line at Shiloh,

the town expanded out to 10th Street,

and the enterprising Grande Ave. Land Co.

began to carve out choice building lots.

The streetcar came along a block away,

industry and commerce reached new zeniths,

and the city had now crossed 19th Street.

The Bohemians crowded in beside the river

and died in the explosion at the Starch works;

and having wrapped up the Great War,

the town was ready to let loose.

A lovely center entrance colonial went up in ‘20,

four bedrooms with lilacs planted in front,

plenty of space for hope and children to grow

in the American century to follow,

but in those brittle yellowing pages

prepared by Cedar Rapids Abstract and Title

we find, interspersed, the disquieting notes

of death, foreclosure and unlicensed dogs.

830 Lyman Avenue

Two blocks west of the city limits,

we joined the ranks of home ownership,

adults at last in the eyes of the world,

settling into a Chicago shotgun bungalow,

a 1903 classic clad in white stucco,

its lot 125 feet from stem to stern,

one tenth of an acre of shady paradise.

Thirty houses crowded the block,

two tight rows marching down the street,

almost touching eave to eave,

separated by runways leading to the rear,

each yard a tiny box defined by cyclone fencing

where flowers struggled to find the sun,

and ancient garages faced the alley.

We learned how to paint and plant,

shoveled snow and mowed the grass,

hung wallpaper and cut mitered corners.

I mastered cast iron sash weights

and the other mysteries of ancient windows,

managed a few electrical tricks,

but plumbing remained a realm beyond. 

Room by room, plans were laid

and set into motion if we had money,

which was always scarcer than energy,

but after nine years of unending projects

we moved to a new town and a new house,

each leaving behind a favorite corner,

a window from which to watch the world,

a place that was forever home.

Note: A picture of my son Jon back at the old home in January, 2015

Patricia M. (1959-2005)

  

A six foot farm girl from Clayton County,

she was steered by ambitious older siblings

and grew up immersed in duty;

whether chores, basketball or studies,

she was a person who took careful notes,

considered each detail from both ends

and aimed to correct every error.

As an earnest trainee at our office,

too modest to recognize her own gifts

and entirely unaware of her beauty,

she was everyone’s favorite apprentice,

guided by surrogate brothers and sisters,

though the office aunties had no help

as several long term romances fizzled.

Her approach to the job was pure Iowa,

careful stewardship and steady yields,

but her results got little notice,

and when the avalanche of layoffs came,

revealing her name on the wrong list,

Patty called it a blessing and a new start,

and set off for a future in the Cities.

In due time there was a wedding,

her groom gamely bearing the scrutiny

of her protecting host of family and admirers.

Each year the cards and messages arrived

from the woman who never forgot her friends;

then suddenly, it was that July afternoon,

the secret treason of a damaged heart,

and what remained was grief.

Francis X. O’Reilly

IBM Branch Office 097, 1975

Our sales team leader was six foot leprechaun

with blue eyes, white hair and a red nose,

whose idea of customer entertainment

leaned to scotch and stag movies,

but observed certain fixed principles.

His jacket was never unbuttoned

and he never left the office without his hat.

However, FX was rarely away from his desk.

He did the planning and we did the work,

his name never attached to any assigned duty.

Wagging a piece of chalk like a baton,

he directed the weekly review meeting,

bemoaning the fate of his excellent strategies

in the hands of such a clumsy bunch.

In good years, befitting his rank,

he was equipped with an acolyte or two,

and fist wrapped around the receiver,

he would repeat the answers out loud

while one of us took detailed notes.

In leaner times, dignity had to be shelved,

and he would reluctantly search for a pencil.

Francis hated efficiency and measurements,

an excuse to hire accountants,

those parasites on the body corporate,

and counseled us that management and clients

had little (if any) need to know.

He believed in the founding gospel of Watson,

the magic combination of sales and man,

and never wavered, a proud fossil to the end.

(A memory of the early days in my 34 years at IBM)  

The Reindeer

The reindeer live among the Lapps,

way far up north, beyond our maps;

and near the pole, around the globe

are found the lands for their abode;

though in Canada, it’s true—

their name is changed to caribou.

They’re built to last through winter’s season—

for that thick fur, there is a reason:

the reindeer manage ice and snows—

they even have a furry nose--

but by March perhaps they’re cross

after months of eating moss!

I know you think I am a tease—

but people make a reindeer cheese:

some beasts are wild and pull no plows--

others tame and milked like cows;

but their big job, it could be said—

is when they’re pulling Santa’s sled!

The Wasp

Imagine the fuming and the fuss

when a wasp was trapped on the bus:

everyone would start to panic

at the thought of stingers titanic!

Because these guys are rough and tough

we put their name on lots of stuff—

from sporting teams and motor cars

to navy planes and cheap cigars!

I must, though, pass on this zinger—

most wasps do not have a stinger!

Some are single and like to roam

but social wasps can build a home,

a place where they are pleased to stay--

ruled by queens they must obey.

At killing pests they are the tops:

they help us save our valued crops,

and since they eat those nasty bugs,

let’s give these wasps some great big hugs!

Easter Week in Pennsylvania

In the high near summer heat

the anemones quickly disappeared,

and though spring and April

were barely under way,

we built castles in the sand,

picked small boy bouquets

of dandelions and violets,

and saw lilacs ready to bloom.

How wide the world had become!

We could not believe its arch,

how much there was to see

of blue and green wonder:

a Carolina wren sang all day,

the woodpecker tapped his notes,

and all of us, the young and old,

joined in the ancient round.