M E R I D I A N     M A G A Z I N E

Poetry
by Jim Richards

Editors' Note: Meridian readers have submitted scores of poems to be considered for publication. We have learned that the poetry talent among our readers is considerable.

After my grandfather's death, I remember standing next to his coffin, staring at his lifeless body, filled with emotions that I couldn't express. That same word-stopping feeling has arrested me while walking up a hillside through a grove of aspens. Amazingly, Gaye Jones Willis, and Steven Thorley have found the words to express their similar, yet unique experiences.

Jones' poem, "We Buried Dad Today," offers a tender, and well-crafted treatment of a difficult subject: a father's funeral. Writing about such a trying moment poses a real challenge. I was touched by Jones' quiet and hopeful tone, and the emotional control that emerges through her clear language and subtle repetition and variation. The refrain, "We buried Dad today" tenderly suggests the stark sadness of death, and each time it is repeated it echoes in the mind like a fact that one does not want to accept. The refrain is bolstered by clear, simple images, that neither over- nor understate the event: a satin pillow, a concrete vault, a red rose, ice cream, etc. These particulars bring the father "to life" for the reader, as they seem to do for the author, and suggest a hope of resurrection and renewed relationship.

Thorley's two poems, "White Logs, Old Bones," and "Tree Graffiti," are quite different from Jones' and yet equally as wonderful. Thorley's poems revolve around the image of aspen trees, and are painted with strokes of tenderness, humor, and an attractive western voice. In both poems, the trees become infused with meaning, and tell us much about the growth, change, and beauty of relationships. But don't take my word for it; the poems stand strong on their own, and will speak uniquely to each individual reader. Take a look, and enjoy.

One Poem by Gaye Jones Willis

We Buried Dad Today

We buried Dad today.
Well, at least we buried his body...
Pillowed on creamy satin,
Enshrouded in sturdy bronze,
They lowered him into a concrete vault.
I threw in a red rose
And sadly watched as they filled the hole.

We buried Dad today.
Well, at least we buried his body...
But his memory lives on
In the strains of "Stouthearted Men,"
In the taste of every ice cream,
In the sweat of honest work.
I'll miss his advice and counsel,
But he left his example to help fill that hole.

We buried Dad today.
Well, at least we buried his body...
Because I know his spirit still lives.
He's busy now teaching, lifting up, sharing,
Serving as always wherever needed,
Waiting for resurrection morning
When his body and spirit will again be made whole.

Gaye Jones Willis was born and raised in Michigan, but now lives with her husband and three terrific children in Juneau, Alaska. She put aside teaching 4th grade to be a full-time mother for the past 21 years. Gaye is a school volunteer, a sucker for a good cause, and a family history addict. Perhaps her attempts at poetry reflect her Welsh roots and a penchant towards writing poetry inherited from her father and grandfather. This poem was written in memory of her beloved father, Edwin Boyd Jones.

S. R. Thorley

White Logs, Old Bones

I built a fence of white barked logs (when hair was on my head),
"To keep the cows from wandering," or so my Grandpa said.
He hunted the best fencers out, tall against the sky,
I brought them to the earth below, and made them long, not high.

He called the Aspen "quakies" when a breeze would touch their leaves,
But their trunks were ivory pillars; they were solid sturdy trees.
At summer's end a great white snake lay frozen in the sun,
Across the meadow and through the trees, and back where it begun.

The logs showed little care for time, except their bark which shed
And hung in strands the first few years, as if just newly dead.
The snows would come, more summers go, and I could hardly see
The subtle changes in the wood, and changes wrought on me.

The bare wood tanned and turned to brown, a seasoned golden glow,
In time the logs once straight and strong, were pulled into a bow.
The fence is cracked and splitting now, the brown wood turned to gray,
And yet it stands, and still it guards, the place where it was laid.

The bark's long gone a top my head, my bones seen better days,
Grandpa's gone and rooted now, and I miss his rugged ways.
But I'll stand firm and guard my spot, I have no mind to move.
You might call me stubborn, but my builder would approve.

Tree Graffiti

A hillside, not far from where I go
to escape the race below,
holds a goodly stand of Aspen.
Up that high, their bark is parchment white,
stained by the snow that buries them, chest deep,
in all but the summer days, when I come puffing.

But I'm not the first of my kind here,
on two legs walking, not by far.
The tree skins wear the marks of other walkers
who wrote a memory, and moved on.
You must have seen it in your own place;
the Aspen's bark is everywhere a tempting canvas.

Tree graffiti, like the urban kind,
invades the soul, but be resigned to it.
Neither you nor I can cover old word-scars
with a whitewash of living bark.
Anyway, when the wind moves a low branch,
like the swing in an empty school yard,
I want to know the diary of the place,
to hear the echo of its laughter, and tears.

Who else puffed here, in summers past?
Read the trees.
Frank Williams did, in nineteen fifty three.
In a later year, so did Kathrine and LaMar,
and they walked in love.

Tom writes he saw a cougar here;
we can assume that it saw him.
There was snow on the ground in nineteen-something seven,
when young Bill Tanner got his first buck.
Over here, inside a heart, are Helen and LaMar.
LaMar, again.
I wonder, should we mourn or cheer for Kathrine?

Frank and Adam and my old friend Willie
also signed in, just to say they were here.
Other names are hard to read,
their owner's not knowing the art of signing.
To be remembered, make your letters deep but thin.

No, I'm not the first of my kind here,
but glad for the company I keep.
For we walk our groves, not to be alone, but to connect.
Like the Aspen that sprout from the roots of older trees,
Tom and Kathrine, and you and I,
all share the same root, underground, just out of sight.

And as one, we, like the stand, are ancient,
and greater than any single walker
that ever came puffing by, up this high,
on a summer's day.

-----
Steven Thorley is the father of three, the husband of Kennedy Corbett Thorley, and a Professor of Finance at the Marriott School of Management, BYU. He was raised in Southern California, but spent summers as a teenager working for his Grandfather in the mountains of Southern Utah. Professor Thorley received his Ph.D. in Financial Economics from the University of Washington. He is widely published in various academic journals on financial markets, and is frequently quoted in the Wall Street Journal and other financial press.

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