A star-studded Christmas on the bus

Christmas 2003

Strange is this place in which we find ourselves,

From parents’ hearths we two have traveled far.

And yet a home of sorts we have made here,

Still guided by same sun, same moon, same stars.

                               

What fate has spun this unexpected thread?

What weft in some design will our skein fill?

Does Adonai our lives manipulate,

Or do we choose this course of our own will?

Pattern unknown to us, we can but trust,

The gentle weaver’s hand, our Lord divine.

Regardless of what space may separate

Our thread from yours, we’re ever intertwined.

And so with you, our friends from far and wide

We share one hope, one love this Christmastide.

Christmas in Fairfield, OH, 2003

Obviously I had a sonnet in mind that year, but came up short on the rhyme scheme.  Still, it isn't a bad little poem, and it does mention stars, per the Poetry Bus prompt from the Weaver of Grass.

A Christmas Tradition Rides the Bus

The Bug and I were married December 15, 1990.  That first Christmas our friends and family were lucky just to see our smiling faces - we were, among other things, busy writing thank you cards, not Christmas cards.  The next year, 1991, we wrote personal notes in select Christmas cards, and we think our notes were fairly poetic.  Foolishly, we did not keep a copy of what we wrote.  Who knows - it might have been pure genius!  In 1992, we began a tradition that we continue to this day - sending out a poem with our Christmas cards.  As for the writing, some years have been far more challenging than others, and yet we try.  We alternate, for the most part, who is the primary author (The Bug keeps a score card - of course!), and style can vary significantly.  Some poems get heavily edited by the non-author and are true collaborations, while others go out just as they were first written.  At this point in the game, all we really remember is who wrote the first version.  In any event, with our 20th anniversary just around the corner, I thought I would share with you the Christmas poem I wrote on the occasion of our 10th:

The tree is not so big this year,

A compromise, nothing near the size

Of the behemoth it succeeds.

Hard choices must be made,

Not all our old familiar friends

Can nestle in its finite boughs.

Remember Wake Forest, 1991,

A tree much smaller even than this,

Yet big enough for gifts we shared.

Sitting on the bed, one year wed,

Writing notes in some, not all, the cards,

Who knows what we said?  Please tell us!

House, tree, bed, old friends, now gone,

We hold on to memories, mellowing

As they age in the cellars of our hearts.

“Our First Christmas” couple, as then,

Will swing in their heart from a limb,

Midst penguins aplenty, rest assured.

Foghorn Leghorn and Snoopy

And Hallmark keepsakes, by the score,

And souvenirs from far and near

And balls and beads and bells

And bows, red, gold, and purple,

Will trim the tree once more.

Other treasures we’ll set aside,

The joy they bring deferred,

Boxed up but not discarded.

How could they ever be?

Look at them, they are forever

Part of you and me.

Humbly submitted by an exhausted Dr. Linthead as a ticket for this week's Poetry Bus, driven, of all things, by Titus the Dog (thanks, Joanne!).

On the Bus to Old Uncle Woody's

That Guinness-loving Poetikat is driving TFE's Poetry Bus this week!  Along with being one of our favorite poets, she is a wicked good driver, and she wants tales of pubs, where a fabulous time is had by all.  Now you know I seldom frequent such places, but I thought, since she asked, I would give it a whirl. Here's my ticket, Kato!

Uncle Woody’s

I remember an old pub

That served beer, and some grub,

Where we gathered at the end of exams,

Where Babette and young Bill

And ol' Clint, Ted, and Chill

Transformed from staid scholars to hams.

We talked much of Marx--
There sometimes were sparks--
While the smoke swirled thick from Barb's Camels.

Kev and Steve hung about,
One with Coke, one with stout,
As we fretted over grad conference panels.

We drank, by accounts,

Ale in copious amounts,

Sometimes walking out with pub glasses.

Too oft some drank more

Than their wits could endure,

Until loudly they showed off their asses!

I confess, more than once,

Having imbibed too much,

I left there in great disarray,

But The Bug was forgiving,
I'm still among the living,

Though I had hell to pay the next day!

And did I mention the Loo,

Where the moldy stuff grew,

And the tiles sometimes got mighty squishy!?!

From that place oft arose

An offense to the nose,

Akin to a dead, rotting fishy!

Though in that Necessary

One did pee in a hurry,

Lest the smell make one lose all one's goodies,

Still it was such good sport,

To carouse and cavort

In the pub known as old Uncle Woody’s!


Photograph temporarily purloined from the Interwebz (I'll put it back, I promise).

Wrestling with God

This week, TFE has entrusted the Poetry Bus to my wife of almost 20 years.
What were ya thinkin', lad?

"I'm sure you have wanted to argue with God," The Bug says sweetly...

"Breath of Heaven"

Done knocked me

Into a cocked hat,

Laid me flat out,

Made me shout:

"God? Dayum!

What kinda plan

You got workin'

Here anyway?"

I think Someone's

Got some 'splainin'

To do!

 

Check out the other, most excellent Bus tickets proffered here!
"Loosely" inspired by "Breath of Heaven (Mary's Song)" by Amy Grant.

Finally, here's an add-on that I want to share, from our Christmas poem in 1998:

Far off, distant, beyond:

Divine clockmaker, piecing

Together our universe, setting

All in motion, then hiding?

How strange to build

A clock so grand

And not attend the grains

Of sand as we pass through.

Yet it still rings, Creation’s song:

Listen!  Ere long you will hear it:

A song, carried by the wind.

Did it all begin with God singing?

And look, there, low

In the twilit sky, a strange new star

Signals us with its twinkling light;

We must not fight its call.

But where, how long?

The song does not say.

It only beckons:

Come, follow me and see.

And so we walk, alone, but lonely

No longer, for the song and the light

Grow stronger and brighter

With each passing day.

I think, this time,

We might find the long-awaited gift:

The Promised One whose love

Will lift our hearts and souls to God.

This Sunday, LC presents a proper ticket, if an older one

The Poetry Bus is being driven by Chris at Enchanted Oak this week. She has asked for:

Poems that address your existence on this earth. Good, bad, or indifferent, tell us something, anything, about your life here.

I am too beat right now to compose...I present as my bus ticket and for your reconsideration the very first "Sundays with LC" offering (Getting to know me):

The Desert, I
By Lemuel Crouse

The barren desert of my heart lies scorched
beneath a soulless sun. Now burnt, what love
grew there is dust, blown to and fro on winds,
once friends. By them I am now pushed away.
A famine dry and fierce once pierced my veins.
That drinker, dark and lusty in his thirst,
too deeply drank from teeming pools of life
and sucked away my future. I am dead
or dormant, which I may not learn ’til, ’wake,
I spring from sun-bleached bed or, dead, I rise
no more. If I but sleep, then why can I
not dream? If dead, can I not hope to be
reborn? I do not dream. I cannot hope.
Sous le soleil sans âme je suis, je reste...

Photo from http://www.usnews.com/science/articles/2009/11/05/mystery-of-the-mojave.html

Pinch-hitting for LC: The Roads I've Taken (Poetry Bus)

The Poetry Bus is being driven by Karen at Keeping Secrets. She has us thinking of Robert Frost and forks in the road, and so the challenge for passengers this week will be to write about one of the following:

(1) a time you had to choose between two clearly divergent paths; (2) a time you were called to walk a path you didn't choose for yourself; or (3) a time you refused to travel the path you were called to follow. If these won't work for you, write anything about a choice you made.

Here is my ticket:

The Wrong Way Home

By Dr. M

 




Why, given the choice,

Do I so often take a turn

I know will lead me down

A winding path that draws

Me far away from home

And you?

I need to rush right back!

But no, I turn and drive

Past the buffalo

And his goat companion,

Past the big red barn

And the silo covered with ivy,

Near where that old house

Once stood, neglected curtains

Flapping through the open windows,

Where life and hope and love

Once dwelt, but now

Only emptiness abides.

The house, the shell,

Its curtains are all gone now,

Only tumbled stones remain,

But the memory of what was

Still draws me down that road

As surely as thoughts of you

Draw me back, no matter

How far afield I’ve roamed,

No matter how many barns

And farms and cows and sheep

I’ve seen rest or play or graze

On any given rambling day.

It is my way, it seems,

To take the wrong path home,

To dally, drift, explore,

Like a poem that meanders,

Yet remains ever faithful

To the one who inspires it.

This Sunday, LC Repurposes for his Bus Ticket

Dear Readers:  I do apologize for the confusing names.  I created this blog with the notion of maintaining a certain distance from my real-life persona: the history professor and (relatively speaking) solid citizen with a growing reputation as an academic (not that the History Channel has come calling, but my work has been published in major journals and I have a book coming out in the near future).  In adopting my blogger persona, I chose a name from my heritage: Carolina (where my people have lived since NC was a British colony) Linthead (a once derisive name for cotton mill workers that became a badge of honor).   

That label is confusing enough, but then there is the matter of the dark and brooding poet, Lemuel Crouse.  I fear I have spent too much time studying the past, as I have adopted rather arcane nuances regarding putting my work before the public eye.  As you may have gathered, much of my poetry is written through the eyes of the mysterious Lemuel Crouse.  I will only say that he was born of trauma severe enough to permanently burn itself into my physiology and psyche.  He walks alone in darkness so I can walk with you, my friends, in the light of day.  He accepts his fate, and all he asks is that you give his work a fair reading.

This week the Poetry Bus is being driven by Jessica Maybury. She has asked us to help her compile a "collection of poetry about bathing. Or the sea. Or swimming pools. Or the layout of your bathroom. I want senses and unwound feelings inside."  Lemuel offers this, an almost lost bit from an old email, thankfully saved by The Bug.

Always to Dream

by Lemuel Crouse

Do you know what it's like

Always to dream?

Oh, not at night,

When mortals dream,

But always.

To dream of making a difference.

To dream of a better world.

To dream of horrors, too,

Past, present, future.

Dreams unceasing,

Sometimes overwhelming,

Always vivid, visceral, evocative.

How easy to lose myself in them.

How hard to know what's real.

How very hard to push them aside

And do what needs doing

Each day.

Without you I am lost,

Adrift on a sea of dreams,

No land in sight,

Slowly taking on water

Until I sink into the void.

This is a Sundays with LC reprise from here.

The Halloween Bus: Pardon Lemuel While He Screams!

Liz from Musings has given the Poetry Bus a Halloween prompt this week.

Why I Believe

By Lemuel Crouse

Like
A fool
I did not

Believe. Vampires?

They could not exist,

Said I.  But then one called
On me as I lay dreaming,

Unsuspecting, safe in my bed,

Or so I thought.  I ought to have screamed;

I could not even cry...just swoon and die.

Quiet, unsettling cold crept through my veins

As the fiend, sated, smiling, withdrew.

Swift he flew then, lest someone see

Him lingering o'er his prey.
I lost my soul that night.
Hollow, here I stand,
An empty shell,

Living hell,
Undead

Proof.

LC's On the Bus with A Tale of Two Brothers Magpie

The Open Door

A Sonnet

By Lemuel Crouse

The day grew cold; the moon eclipsed the sun.
I took the Shawnee warrior's path toward home

Through shadowed lands where buffalo had run,

And restless spirits from the past still roam.

The whisp'ring waters sang of one who fought,

His name became a terror to his foes.

Tecumseh, valiant leader, bled for naught,

His dream had died, not so his children’s woes.

They sang of little brother, clumsy lad,

The Noisy Rattle, much too fond of drink.

His wife had watched him waste, her visage sad,

As long he lingered nigh unto life’s brink.

But from death’s bed the Open Door had ris'n,

The Tenskwatawa, prophet for a seas'n.

A Magpie Tale, inspired as always by Willow's prompt.
To participate in Magpie Tales, or to read other entries, just click the link!
Greetings to fellow Poetry Bus riders, as well!  The Bus is driven this week by NanU, who inspired us to get out of the rut.  I kinda, sorta did...I haven't been on the bus in awhile!  Check out the prompt and the other Bus passengers here!

This Sunday LC is on the bus again, contemplating a long-ago transformation

Pure fiction is driving TFE's Poetry Bus this week (click the link to read some great poems!), and the ticket is "a moment of transformation."  In this poem, Lemuel reflects on such a moment.  The first draft of this was written over twenty years ago about events that occurred a dozen years prior to that, so please don't think I'm about to step in front of the bus...I'm simply presenting what I hope is a worthy ticket.

Hunted: A Poem from The Nadir

 By Lemuel Crouse

The sun is cold today--
cold and penetrating--
an icy arrow shot by him
who hunts the frozen winter sky.

Cold, too, are faces
that seem to look intently
but do not see within the silent man
the whimpering child.

Today I am hunted--
haunted, some would say--
but they have not seen the smiling terror
that stalks my dreams.

The sun is cold today--
cold and glowing--
an endless bright night
devoid of blessed, concealing darkness.

                                                         Cold, too, are lungs
                                                         that burn but still
                                                         are not consumed by flames
                                                         from the longed-for final fire.

Today I am running--
avoiding, some would say--
but they have not been served
a draught from the well of hell.

The sun is cold today--
cold and unredemptive--
a puppet knight crucified on the clouds,
unable to save himself, let alone me.

Cold, too, are words
which sound the hollow knell of faith
and smell of bitter ashes
blown down from hope’s cremation.

Today I am alone--
selfish, some would say--
but they have not felt this searing sting,
this thrust from a trusted sword.

(Images: stock photo of the Orion constellation; my pic of winter sun setting)

The Bus goes back to school

Karen at Keeping Secrets is driving the bus this week, and it's a school bus!  Her prompt, aptly enough, is to write a poem about school or schooling. I give you a poem I wrote when I was in the 10th grade.  I tweeked it a little just now (I was going on memory, anyway), but for the most part it is true to the words, and certainly to the thoughts, of the high schooler who wrote it many years ago.


My heart longs greatly
For a love long lost in time,
A love I searched for
Too strongly ever to find,
A love sadly lost for aye.

The love I needed
Lay before unseeing eyes,
For the blinders of
My fantasies and desires
Hid your eager heart from me.

So I live without
The love I did not notice,
The hope you carried,
The gift you wished to give me,
A love sadly lost for aye.

This Sunday, LC rides the Poetry Bus to the Gulf

Welcome, One Stop One Shot Wednesday visitors.  This week I'm sharing a poem I, er, LC posted on Sunday.  I will let it speak for itself.

Chiccoreal is driving the Poetry Bus this week!  I have chosen prompt #2:

Write a poem about the first song that POPS INTO YOUR HEAD IN THE MORNING. It could be your favourite song, or your least favourite song, or a song that keeps replaying over and over again in the breadbox. This is called an all-day EARWORM and you need to find a good dewormer. It is music in the making and over ripe for writing a poem about.

Lemuel insisted on writing this one, and he has given you a sonnet:

Gulfsong

By Lemuel Crouse

On salty sands where once we played in light,
Slick shadows crawl, as I, now still for good,
Lie mired 'neath the spewing, endless night.
Gulfsong: “Forgive…forget…not sure I could.”

For good…a ghost-laugh leaps from withered throat
At such a backward phrase, for evil wrecked
With zeal my birthing beach, then paused to gloat,
Some years before his well unleashed the dreck.

The dreck, this crude effusion cov’ring all
That once was home to life and hope and bliss,
Now clings and lingers deep inside my walls,
Consuming, burning with its lethal kiss.

The ghost-heart silent ‘neath my carapace
Will ever be “not ready to make nice!”


(Image courtesy of AP; for the relevant Dixie Chicks video, click here)

Riding the Bus

This week's poetry bus is driven by Chris at Enchanted Oak. She has given us two photographs from which to choose as inspiration for our bus pass.  We chose this one:

Le Petit Bateau

By Lemuel Crouse

A

pond

lies frozen

in my memory:

perfect stillness, glass

surface smooth, reflecting

with the passive love of one

who sees all...yet feels nothing.

An illusion of calm...a lovely pond,

perfectly hiding the tangled wreckage

resting just beneath the liquid mirror.

A little boat once floated right there,

no oarlocks marred its gunwales.

From shaded,  grassy shoreline

it nevermore will be cast off,

for now the boat is gone,

carrying with it one

who loved it

but not

me

!

Where's the Bus?

Jeanne Iris is hosting the Poetry Bus this week, and I'm trying to get onboard.

I chose the third option: What is your favorite summer sensory memory?

The aroma of honeysuckle? gardenias? sweat? s'mores?
The sounds of tree frogs? block parties? a favorite song? the beach?
The touch of summer romance? itch of mosquito bites? poison ivy? breezes?
The taste from the Good Humor truck? BBQ? salt water? apple pie?
The sight of family reunions? long car trips? a first date? summer rain?

Here's mine:




Fort Caswell


I sit on the porch with Beth.
Rockers click-clack
on tongue and groove
like little river-waves
slapping the sea-wall along the Cape Fear.

The gospel of peace,
now fervently preached here,
belies crumbling forts.
No guns remain to bark out
bitter words of war.

I walk the beach alone
and think I can see forever.
My eyes, not yet wizened by age,
do not note the hurricane that lurks
just beyond my warm sand world.

I buy cheap souvenirs,
trinkets for my friends.
Pelicans in tight formation circle overhead,
denizens of estuaries alive yet putrid.
Like me, they seem carefree this day.

I am content as I rock with Beth
at Fort Caswell on the Cape Fear
where river and ocean rush to meet,
a boy adrift on the edge of thirteen,
feeling safe for the last time.

(See http://www.fortcaswell.com/ for
more on the NC Baptist Assembly there)