Nova Scotia, first day

Nova Scotia opens to us

down down we drive,

along a peninsula that looks skinny on a map,

but feels prideful and sure of itself, 

as if remembering long ago 

when Pangea broke apart,

and its stones witnessed the opening of the Atlantic ocean,

a rift appeared, magma welled-up,

and the basalt cooled into many-sided columns,

their cliffs remember the Fire,

pine woods, spruce forest, and lupines shout of dominance

on this glacier-scoured land

where granite boxers can’t help but tell

of the great cold smithing of the ice,

they remember the Cold,

tides here shout of how reactive the sea can be with its tides,

a boat can lie on land

and a few hours later float in the risen bay,

great swaths of seaweed

spend half their life below

and half above the surface,

we are intrigued by how reactive cuisine can be here,

celebrating bounty from water and land;

an exquisite harmony that should be how we humans

adapt to what is possible and rings true

to what can be sustained.

by Henry H. Walker

June 20, ‘19
uploaded 6/25/19 just as our ferry leaves Digby, Nova Scotia, for St. John, New Brunswick

beware the edition you buy into

The Story

consider the story as the creator of our power

our ability to weave abstract possibility from the concrete moment,

the emerging coherence of the story unlocks a power

to imagine who we are as true to larger, surer characters,

true to self and plot, our actions have meaning

for we act within the story,

sometimes we find a right way,

sometimes we should despair

when the story we let into us reeks of wrongness,

our stories brought us our gods,

yet Loki came along with Jesus,

Hitler and Trump with Washington and King,

every step forward allows at least an equal movement back,

our species learned how to multiply

and rise to the top of the food chain,

but our species also resists learning the wisdom and love

that should curb our inner Narcissus,

our stories make us who we are,

and we should be careful as to which edition we buy into.

by Henry H. Walker

June 20, ‘19

This poem generated after starting listening to a provocative book:

Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari

CFS teacher Kerry Howard's grandmother, who lived to 103 in Barbados

Miriam Gertrude Wiggins, Mah Mah

as a parent,

as a grandparent,

my great hope

is that the next generations

come fully into their power,

that each finds the way forward

to exemplify traits I value

and seek to live with my own life,

Mah Mah, Miriam Gertrude Wiggins,

was a force of nature,

and, even more so, of her God,

a product of the island:

rich in what it can produce in crops and animals,

rich in community, whose roots reach deep

into the land, the past,

and flower into the future,

her personality forged in the trials

of being rich in faith, yet not in money,

of being blessed with family, and challenged by all the needs,

of being blessed with friends and community,

and called to hold all together,

she had common sense and the wisdom of how to use it,

she led by example, by advice, and by discipline,

she knew how to work with plants and the earth,

raising her own sugar cane to sell for some cash,

her own fruits and vegetables,

bananas every year for the church,

her own meat for weddings,

if a job needed doing, and it wasn’t getting done,

she would paint her house herself,

be a mason and build the step,

work in the fields, direct her children into purpose,

the matriarch of family and village

who knew herself well, and knew you, too,

though she didn’t read, she knew that education,

unlike money, can’t be taken from you,

while she’d cook supper, she had her children read to her,

she had the strength to be fiery, to speak her mind,

to stand up for herself, for what was right,

she had the strength to enjoy herself, bright colors, dancing,

for her 100th birthday she wanted ham and brandy,

generosity and kindness at the heart of who she was,

below it all was her faith,

her understanding that the Church, that the Gospels,

told her clearly how to live, and she filled in for Christ,

to be his eyes, his hands, his feet, to walk upon the world,

told her how to serve all across the island

as part of the Mothers’ Union and Church Army,

how wonderful that I can see her still live in her granddaughter,

who with her life carries forward what she can of Mah Mah,

the mango doesn’t fall far from the tree.

by Henry H. Walker

June 13, ‘19

of celebration, and mourning

Jamie Hysjulien

a woman stands and speaks of her brother,

exploring those almost mystical ties siblings can have,

she KNEW Jamie, from boy to man,

and she speaks of him as still with her, with us,

despite how sure it is that his body is gone,

the hundreds of us in the Quaker Meeting

unite to remember, to celebrate a life,

all who stand and deliver words

are historians with stories,

artists with a sketch of a moment, a time,

that is a part of the truth,

our souls open and listening

to relative after relative, student after student,

colleague, friend, each in awe of that of God in him, expressed,

of his gift to see that of God in others,

and meet it in love,

whether at Minnesota cabin and lake, or in his classroom,

or in Trinidad, where service to those most in need

allied him with other champions

“of the least of these, our brethren,”

Jamie’s intellect dared the deepest questions

and dared to seek the answers,

within himself, with his students, with colleagues,

during the meeting Jamie’s passion for music, is described,

and then celebrated in song:

“I’ll Fly Away,” and “May the Circle Be Unbroken,”

those who are moved to stand

speak of his humor, of his quirks,

of the love that flowed from him,

and then back to him, as connections deepened,

three of his exquisite poems shared by his children,

I know his children,

and how well he helped each come into themselves,

I know of the young who found him in high school,

and of how well he helped them come into themselves,

one former student speaks of his own peers in college,

not getting why the loss of a high school English teacher

would affect him so much,

how sad that intensity and meaning 

within the relationship of teacher and student

seemed beyond their experience,

how wonderful it is that Jamie worked so well to create relationships

that drew the hundreds of us today to a ceremony

to celebrate the wonder of his life,

while crying about his loss.

by Henry H. Walker

June 15, ‘19

our boys are great fathers!

Fatherhood

genetics can say who a father is,

but actions, love, say clearly what a father is,

I am in awe of my sons,

who each manifests what I hope for in fatherhood,

to know both who a child is

and how much a child can be,

to know what to do, what to say,

despite doubt and fear and tiredness

holding down any sureness in the parenting,

I know our grandchildren,

who each is, and the magnificence of that essence,

I honor my sons for how well each is a good father,

who dares to help the best come forth.

by Henry H. Walker

June 23, ‘19

continuing the charge

retirement?

well-meaning friends lovingly suggest retirement to me:

sometimes with a plaintive question of when I’ll take that path,

sometimes a sureness of advice that it works so well for them

that they want me to be open

to the possibilities that fit who they are so well,

right now, I feel a rightness in my work,

a sureness that who I am hears a calling,

and still has the wherewithal to answer it well,

I see my school as a city upon a hill

within which the light that is in us can shine bright,

as long as I can still see the kids, the staff, the mission,

and meet it all with my own light,

my own mirror to gather and help focus the rightness,

I want to continue the charge,

I want to share my salt as long as it still has its savor,

for many, retirement allows travel,

for me, I can already find the way out, mostly in the summer:

Wyoming, Iceland, California, Canada,

even Hawaii and New Zealand once during the school year,

plus vacation time in the Smokies,

where I don’t want to live,

for I don’t want to grow accustomed

to what should reveal every day as wonder,

deep in the night

I worry about how long body and mind will hold,

how long spirit can deny the dying of the light,

for as long as I hear the calling,

and can find true ways to act on that calling,

I plan to continue to help school, student, and staff

find the ways forward into the empowerment

that all of us want for our young.

by Henry H. Walker

June 7, ‘19

mortality: the elves, and us

a bittersweet “gift”

the elves in Tolkien’s Middle Earth

could think of mortality as a gift,

for we humans can appreciate moments

for how very brief they are, 

our treasured time able to compete with our losses,

imagine Gaia and how sad

to watch a beloved mountain disappear toward the sea,

all the goodbyes as creatures, as species, die,

now that I am 71,

the clock ticks “loss” at me more and more,

and I still use a ticking clock,

parents, colleagues, friends pass away into the mists,

what particularly wrenches me

is when I survive the students I’ve taught,

it’s sad enough when a long full life ends,

it’s tragic when a bud is blighted,

when the possibility that should flower dies before its time,

as if a story stops before any resolution,

but an abrupt “The End,” the final pages blank,

this week Facebook released to me

the names of too many former students

who no longer walk the Earth, breathe the air,

connect, build, love,

I feel a need for some closure to deal with it all,

their closure came too soon, too abrupt,

it just feels wrong,

let us honor those no longer with us,

let us connect, build, love,

for them,

for us.

by Henry H. Walker

May 30, ‘19