Sample Poems by Mark Thalman

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The Holy Trinity of Light Revival Church Bus


This big old ark, the color of heaven,
going around a corner
heaves from one side to another.

As though a wave catches us from the side,
our singing slides up an octave,
"Amazing grace how sweet the sound . . . "

We rumble down a hill and struggle up the next,
engine coughing like an asthmatic. Topping the rise,
the motor dies and we coast, everybody silent
as in an elevator.

Eveline, the driver, turns around and mutters,
"End of the line." We look at each other,
then out the windows: wilderness,
not a gas station or phone booth in sight.

Up ahead, a neon sign (the kind they never turn off)
flashes: Tavern, Tavern, Tavern . . .

The reverend stands up in the posture he uses
to give sermons and tells us to remain calm.
No one is listening. They are all scared as house pets.

If he does not ask for volunteers,
we could be here until Easter.
Judging by the strain on their faces,
I answer the unspoken question, "I will,"
the voice in my mouth
not sounding like it was me
but somebody else.
Stepping off the bus into the blast of afternoon heat,
the cicadas clack in the high grass, cards
we clothes pinned to slap against the spokes of our bicycles
when I was a girl.

Their eyes follow me. I am an actress,
but I don't know if this is "Daniel in the Lion's Den"
or "Jonah Swallowed by the Whale". Some picnic:
the potato salad already spoiling, the vanilla ice cream
half melted.

When I reach the gravel parking lot,
music drifts between the cars.
For a moment, I believe my hips swayed
to that old rhythm, the tribal beat
trapped in the jungle of my bones.
Dancing with that soldier from Granville,
these hands, not wrinkled then,
fingered the ribs of his back
all summer long.

In the air-conditioned darkness, my eyes blink
to clear yellow circles which float like balloons.
I press a quarter into the slot
for that electrical hum to ignite in my ear . . .

The man said it would be an hour.
I lay a dollar on the counter.
When my beer comes, I close my eyes
and sip it slow . . . we should have gotten married
before the war turned him to dust.
I missed that bingo,
because my number was called
and I was fool enough not to be listening
to the melody inside.

I pop a breath mint, slide off the stool,
and out the door. The bus sits on the side of the road
like a dead slug. Those old women are singing,
but the only words I can make out
are "O' Lord," so that is how I start my prayer
to get us home again.

---

Where Water Laps the Shore
for Ralph Salisbury

With sunbonnet and green plastic watering can,
the little girl is too young to understand
that her grandfather's hand she holds
was once struck by lightning-
signed air force induction papers,
so he, under age, part Cherokee, could leave
the Iowa farm where he hunted
and have enough to eat,
ride in the bellies of bombers,
a gunner, fingers flexing triggers
to blast a Zero or Messerschmitt.
Behind his back racks of bombs ready-
a different thunderstorm.

All this matters . . .
but to her having enough water is important.

The liquid she holds is like time. (Deep moving currents
take thousands of years to circulate around the globe
and flow into her pitcher.)

She knows grandfather's grin
beneath the gray trimmed mustache
and begins to rinse his sandy feet.
Their histories like water converge, mingle.
What better present could either of them ask?

---

After His Golden Retriever Died


For years,
he carried
her collar
to hear
the soft
reassuring tone
of tags
chime
delicately
as though
she was
walking calmly
beside him.

---

Family Photos: Waitsburg, Washington, 1910

In the photo, eight Belgians have harrowed the field
smooth as a calm lake. Great-grandfather, still young,
guides the team, riding a gray behind them.

In the next one, Wilfred, my grandfather, age 12,
who died from a sad marriage,
long before the valve gave out on his heart,
stands on top of a mare's back
like an acrobat in the circus.

The last picture has faded brown.
Near supper time, they are on the front porch
of a rundown homesteader's shack,
while their two story farmhouse
is being built next door.
Clement and Sadie are both holding cats,
while Wilfred sits beside them
with his arms around a border collie
named Shortie.

Even though their faces are not clear,
it is easy to tell from their body language
that they are happy to be a family,
even though they don't know
that two World Wars and The Great Depression
will occur, or at 91, Clement will be walking with me,
a great- grandson, and he will smile,
smelling the freshly plowed earth.