Bill's Art Box

"Other Poets ..."

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Sales Tax           Abraham Lincoln gazes ahead, toward the future                and all that it holds,               his bow tie the golden color of his beard, his nose.           Passed through millions of hands, rubbed smooth                by fingers more concerned with sales tax               than the sixteenth president of the United States.           Slipping, spinning, tumbling down; escaping through               a rip of fabric in a pair of faded designer jeans,               landing without a sound in the cool, tall grass.           Soil smudges the phrase E. PLURIBUS UNUM.           Dirt begins to cover Abe's features,                smearing the well tailored suit, getting in his ears.                And yet he remains static,               trampled into the earth by children with their water                 balloons and guns,                attempting to stay cool on a humid day.           Later, piles of amber and magenta leaves are tossed skyward               and let fall to the ground, swaying in the wind               and finally landing gently on his cheek.           A white sensation descends from the heavens               and settles onto his hair, the first flakes melting,               until eventually he is blanketed by sparkling crystals.           Forts are built of snow, and tiny projectiles thrown                  through the air at the enemy,               huddled together, their marshmallow coats                insulating them from the frigid air.            Abe watches silently, his vision returning                as the whiteness dissolves around him,                convinced he will lay here until the sun               rains down upon the earth               and his once noble copper melts, disfiguring his face.           The breeze warms, flowers blossom once again.           Small, active hands grasp his lucky nose,               clearing away years of grime from the proud face.             A gleeful squeal proclaims that this treasure                has at last been found               and the proud mother pats her child on the head                and walks away,                her faded designer jeans swishing in the tall grass.           The daughter gazes down at the copper disk                  held dearly in her fingers              and laughs as age old lips curl into a smile               in the palm of her han          - Daniel Torrington, 16 The Witham Wood Walking in Witham Woods Takes one back Into Fairfield's past. Near the round lake Stands a red piece of stone With a small square plaque glued on Which states That Lloyd Witham lived between 1911 and 1983. He devoted his life to Iowa's native trees And donated his tree nursery for public use. So now people can enjoy hiking In the shade of the oaks And see the bitter hickory And the pecan nuts. So the mighty elms and aspen grow. On the trail leading down to the creek I once saw cows grazing in the Woods, Escaped from a neighboring farm. Now I find a new fence built on the edge. Looking down to the near dry stream I hear some hidden frogs quake loud. I turn to walk along a narrow deer trail Which leads me right into the wild undergrowth. Then on my hike, I reach a fresh cleared path With high thrown walls and filled up dips. This must have been an old railway line Abandoned a hundred years ago. I follow the line to the other side Wondering where it must have led. This was once the best, fastest link. I find remains of an old bridge over the creek, A hidden wall built of square rocks, Precisely constructed To carry a heavy load.                ~ History is coming alive in Whitham Woods Where old Lloyd Witham planted his nursery -- Now gigantic trees revealing a heroic past, With a small square plaque Glued to a red piece of stone.  - Emo Baer, 87 ...................................................................................................................

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