~found on a slip of paper in the wastebasket, after the hunt was over

Pray for the dead and fight
like hell for the living.

Mary Elizabeth Sheldon Graves Eliza Platt
Clara Blanche Knapp

Daughters of Sarah
Cathedral Age
Trinity News
Ang His
Living Church
Xn Century
above the vestments
sliding doors

8 or 9 (check)
Acts 6
sacristy, near office steps
!! 2 office (Susie’s) kitchen
Front Hall 6
C Knapp

Donald Ferland
Nov 23 Dec 21, Oct 26 etc.



I think this was “found” in last  April’s “Prompt” poems–bits and pieces of poems the Spring St. Poets wrote. If it isn’t, I have no idea where it came from, or what it’s about.


Where did I hide when I was ten?
That was the year I stopped feeling solid,
the year I broke things I liked.
I tried to fly away, but could not
with the mass of gravity holding me in.
All that November I sang
like a swamp sparrow.

Must I apologize for my life?
My Ideal Muse expired last year;
my Actual  Muse will never show up.
My favorite sound is the pulse of poets,
though I would not say that in mixed company.
To my favorite god, I offer my favorite globular fruit,
concealed in my favorite hand.

O, favorite hand!
Could you please write this down now, else
the nightmare will continue:  I shall leap around
with the rest of the condemned cattle
until it is finished. The time
will never be more auspicious.

O ye dead poets!  Leave me alone!
I grow old and dare not peel a peach.
Your botched cantatas are stuck in my head forever.
I’d rather sit in my kitchen,
and talk to the microwave.
Damn my grandmother’s premonitions,
her endless Old Sayings!
Damn you all, and your endless noise!

Astonishing, isn’t it?
All this thrumming
has turned my throat to stone.


the umbrella that stands up spread
to show that there is a restaurant in the cellar

the manna-food that grows on the rocks
and holds up its hands in the Indian sign
of innocence so all may know how good it is

the vine that climbs above the sedge
to whisper on the wind
there are cocoanuts in my basement

the rabbit puts his hind feet down
ahead of his front ones as he runs

the squirrel buries every other nut
and who it was that planted
those shag-barks along the fence

what the woodchuck does in midwinter
and on what day

the pale villain of the open woods–
the deadly amanita–for whose fearful poison
no remedy is known

poison ivy that was once so feared–
now so lightly held by those who know

the balsam fir in all its fourfold gifts–
as Christmas tree,
as healing balm,
as consecrated bed,
as wood of friction fire

the wonderful medicine that is in the sky

the bread of wisdom,
the treasure that cures much ignorance,
that is buried in the aisle
of Jack-o-Pulpit’s Church

what walked around your tent
on the thirtieth night of your camp-out

Found in The Girl Scout Handbook, 1920