First Light, Barbados

Mornin’,

Star that lights all lives,

Even in the darkest places,

And why do I happen to land here

On Harrismith Beach, St. Philip, Barbados,

Alone, swaddled in beauty inexplicable,

At this early hour?
I weep. I smile. I awake.

Too much, really, all this.

Be still here, I counsel myself.
Remember:

See the star rising over the

Unbelievable blue-green ocean,

The sugar sand beneath your feet.

The coral walls, the swaying palms,
The caresses of the tradewinds.

You, uncloaked now,
Standing in those

Thrashing waves. 
Still smiling through tears,

A crazy tourist.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Where are the kings and the angels?

The paupers and the downtrodden?

Why this heaven on Earth for you?

And then the sun rises and 
You recognize this truth 
At the core of all things:

The world is fundamentally good.

Mornin’.

MIA to BGI

Second leg —

And the orangey-white

Twinkling grid

Of Miami blazes impossibly

Beneath the left wing.

We turn on a tilt,

Grinding and buckling,

And thanks to gravity

And that banquet of air,

Make a heading,

Dagger-eyed and tail blinking,

Toward the equator,

Where the planet

Bulges closer to the sun.

The black cuts into view

At the land’s edge,

The sea there below,

And we rattle and rocket —

Just me and God,

And the rivets along the wings.

It’s all a dream state —

The Diet Coke trembling

In its plastic cup on stage left

Of my seatback tray.

The loafers on my feet

That trudged through snow and ice

This morning

Hours from now,

If those rivets hold,

Will traipse the good 

Ocher dust of the West Indies.

I know nothing.
I need to go where
I am directed.

How can I retain

The miraculous?

With this poem.

Sea Song

Swell and stone,
      Movement among movement —
Eddy, spray, tumble —
     Wearing rock,
Light refracting light,
Gradation of sound
      And slide of sky
In the mirroring sheen,
       Glottal rumble of popples,
       Rounded by the grind.
Shimmer, sheen, and foam ...
Speak to me
In the ineffable tongue
         Of your lashings
           And smooth surfaces.
Make me whole again.
          Put me in my proper place:

            On solid ground.

Taken for Granite

Dug.
Blocked.

Cut.

Carved.

Chiseled.

Split.

Flecked.

Polished.

Curbs.

Cobbles.

Pillars.

Steps.

Foundations.
Statues.

Muscular.

Enduring.
Discarded.
Chipped.
Detritus.

Dust.

Remembering Rick

Some people are illuminated from within. You know it the moment you meet them — there is a spark, an essence, a twinkle in the eye, that sets them apart from the rest.

Rick Kaloust glowed with this inner light. He celebrated life. Never one to stay down for long, Rick was always quick with a laugh or up for having some fun. You would never place the word “boring” in the same sentence with Rick Kaloust.

If you were one of the many fortunate to have known him and called him your friend, you know of his big heart, his loyalty, and his fun-loving spirit. In the days since he died on Jan. 9, so many people have come forth to express how much Rick meant to them and the many ways that he touched them. He made all of us feel special. We all know how fortunate we are to have called him “friend.”

My memories of Rick go back to childhood. He was this dark haired, chocolate-eyed kid who played on the Little League team that my father coached in Manchester-by-the-Sea. Even then, he had this energy about him, something special and soulful that you wanted to be around and try to absorb. Later, when he moved to Gloucester, we became good friends during high school. We were all crazy — and carefree — back then. To the consternation and endless worry of our parents, we had a blast. And the memories were forged, indelible and life-long.

Everyone had a nickname that remains with us to this day. Rick was “Kahlua” or “Guido the Killer Pimp.” I was “The Cowboy.” Paul Murphy was “Puddles” or “Francis.” Ricky Schrafft was “Dicka.” Kevin Warde was “The Wonder.” Don Riley was “Don Juan.” What I remember most was the laughter, much of it completely silly and inane, but laughter that would bowl you over and make your insides churn. It was humor that was understood by us, that only good friends can share, like a code or a foreign language to which only we had access and meaning. The banter was constant:

“We are all very proud of you.”

“What up? Cut up! Shut the f—up!”

“My Corp, your Corp, Marine Corp.”

“Give your president respect.”

“It’s Guido, the Killer Pimp.”

“Paco Robano on ice.”

“Eddie’s on the warpath.”

“Wearing the spurs.”

“Gee Sammo?”

“The Mighty Atlantic.”

“Cowboy jumped the marsh!”

“Is the Wonder still doing the Wonder?”

“Dicka’s Number One.”

“Murphy, what is your fascination with Gay Paris?”

“She’s livin’ out on the island. Tell her to come home.”

And on and on and on.

Truth be told, we all benefited from his loving and generous parents, who, like Rick, were always welcoming people into their home. There was love there and laughter. Sometimes the love was tough, but it was good and pure, and unwavering. Ed and Joyce Kaloust are beautiful human beings. If you love Rick, you know why he is such a good soul; he came from good stock. And there are his brothers and sisters, Donna, Kim, John, and Derek. They each have that same spark within them. If you know them, you understand what I am talking about. They are authentic people, with good hearts and a loyalty that runs deep.

In recent years, Rick and I stayed in touch every week, and I visited him a handful of times in Florida. He lived in Tampa and I was in Rockport, but thanks to cell phones, we would check in all of the time. He was there for me, and he gave it away. We would end our conversation with “I love you,” a phrase that is not something I give away freely. But we both knew what that meant — that life was precious and friendships like ours were rare, and life-long friendships ever more so.

I could mention all of the good times in detail, but Joey C., another good soul who shines that inner light, captured it so eloquently in his tribute.

One memory that does come to mind somehow seems appropriate today. It was October in Gloucester in the early 1980s. The Kaloust’s power boat was still on the mooring off Eastern Point. Of course, we all decided, about eight of us, to head down after dark by boat to Salem’s Pickering Wharf for some drinks. We left Gloucester Harbor, and the seas were raging. The boat was a 24-footer with a great deal of horsepower, but we were being tossed about just outside the breakwater near Norman’s Woe. Terrified, I thought we were going to capsize and drown. At the helm, Rick, of course, was laughing and pushing onward, feet solidly planted apart and hands steady on the wheel. Eventually, off Magnolia, the seas flattened and we made our way down to Salem Harbor along Boston's North Shore coast.

Who knows how long we stayed, and how many drinks and laughs we had, but I do remember this: Upon our return, the moon was glowing white on the water and the sea was as still as glass. I stood beside Rick at the wheel. We felt the icy October air in our faces and in our hair and we smiled silently at each other as we flew across the calm water, free and beautiful and full of light, heading home.

For James “Papa” McCloy, On The Occasion Of His 75th Birthday

I want to tell you about my dear father, the Reverend James McCloy.
He is the finest man you’ll find, and he’ll bring you such joy.
He was once known as Dad or Jimmy or Jim
But now we call him “Papa” — and everyone loves him.

Quick with a smile and his eyes all a-twinkle,
He’s steady of heart and can smooth out any wrinkle
You might have with work or a spouse or a friend.
He’ll stick by your side all the way till the end.

Now, you should know Papa is a man of independent thought
Who has said a few things that he shouldn’t have ought.
Like the time we were strolling the Back Shore in Maine,
When he turned to a couple we’d just met, and proclaimed,

“This island has been ruined by attorneys from Manhattan.
It used to be nice here, until all of that happened.”
The husband replied, “Oh, really, that’s funny, we’re lawyers, us two.”
Then his wife chimed in: “Oh, by the way, we’re from New York, too!”

A 100% Scotsman, Papa can’t resist a good deal,
Even if that means driving a car that will squeal
From brakes that need fixing or a fuel pump gone bad.
He’ll tell you about some bargain mechanic to be had,

Most of them an hour away in the Merrimack Valley,
Who’ll fix up your car and when it comes time to tally
The bill will be less than you thought you would pay,
(Of course, you’ll go back several times before it’s fixed the right way.)

Some hot summer evenings you’ll see him headed up Nugent’s Stretch
Leading a long line of cars with drivers who kvetch,
“Who is that guy driving that blue pickup truck?
I wanted to get home for supper and now I’m sh*t out of luck.”

That is our beloved Papa, I would tell them, if I only could.
He’ll teach you a thing about what’s right and what’s good,
Like kindness and loyalty and hope and good courage,
Or the lawnmower he found at the dump that’s in storage.

He’ll tell you about his dark-haired beauty named June,
For whom he would fly all the way to the moon.
He’ll share a story about his grandchildren; his pride it shows.
All the way from Andrew James down to Nina Rose.

For years, he pursued his calling as a Congregationalist preacher
And now he’s beloved as a substitute teacher.
Occasionally, the local church will invite him in on a Sunday
When he’ll always have something profound and interesting to say.

Loved by all from Rockport to California to Barbados,
Papa leaves his unique and indelible mark wherever he goes.
Clearly these words only scratch at the surface
Of a dignified man who has lived his life with purpose:

To keep up the faith and have something kind to say
And loan me his truck to go to the dump on Saturday.
Seriously, though, Papa, you’re the greatest man alive.
Whoopee! Hooray! We love you! You’re Seventy-Five!

From your son, Andrew, with love and affection.

-June 5, 2009

Doing the Limbo

Unfinished business

Below the bar

Lower it

And that’s where it hurts

Between two worlds

Bent over backwards

Between that and this

Incomplete me

God make me 

Incomplete to complete me

In this gap

This space between me and

The bar that keeps lowering

Between this and that

Buckle me backward

As I keep my chin up

Have it grow difficult

Because when I crawl nearly on my back

I learn how to pass on through