as passing time ticks "loss. . ."

Ann Dickinson Beal

in the southern heart of Kentucky,

a second child, a daughter, is conceived

by a gifted doctor and to her who made the home,

born in Texas just before her father left to repair ravaged bodies

of those who fought in World War II in the Pacific,

he who was gone so long she didn’t at first 

recognize him as father when he came home,

always Ann has joyed in life--

fine food, fine drink, fine music, Bob Dylan,

the fine culture of heart and mind both open to revelation,

and to a natural brilliance she cultivated well,

a good crossword puzzle, an engaging mystery novel,

even working on writing one herself,

mysticism drew her, too, as she worked with a colleague

to bring the gifts of William Blake forward into culture consciousness,

poetry and art intertwined together, both Ann and her father quoting Blake:

“To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 

And Eternity in an hour.”

Ann, at heart, a teacher who loved to help others discover literature and themselves,

in college at Eastern Kentucky, Wisconsin, and around Greensboro,

in high school at Chatham Hall where many young women

learned even more deeply how to love learning along with her,

nothing finer than to be in Oxford, researching,

John Rogers increasingly the topic,

he who worked to bring the Word into English,

so that the truth of the Bible could be accessible to all,

Ann in a long tradition of the Christian Church,

where the spirit of Jesus is more of the church

than the small-minded doctrines who live the rule and not the Word,

her children more important to her than life,

and her joy in her grandchildren was wondrous to behold:

the annual week at the beach

a great place to enjoy them, the surging ocean,

and fresh seafood to grace the table,

she has lived with grace throughout her life,

despite the body blows that life visited upon her,

the need to find her own way when her marriage dissolved,

yet the loss of her son last year,

plus the cancer that came into her, and ravaged,

was too much for even such an indomitable will,

like her mama, Ann lived a life of love

and joyed in her family

and in the brilliant clarity of her mind,

even when the burdens became too heavy,

Ann persevered as best she could,

until the spirit called her home.

by Henry H. Walker

May 29, ’14

lest we forget

from Dachau to Durham

a simple wooden box

in a small deep hole,

about 70 years ago

thousands of precious human beings were slaughtered,

their bodies incinerated at Dachau,

the ashes from an unknown number of those denied a future

were given to an American soldier, whose family finally found a way

to inter them, with respect, here in Durham, NC, USA, today,

with each handful of dirt we scatter into the grave

we remember the loss of the smiles, the gifts, the people,

who were killed in a mad dream called The Holocaust,



we work to remember lest we forget.

by Henry H. Walker

May 25, ’14

what just has to be said

the artist will out

what is worth writing?

what can slip past the defenses of lethargy and of avoidance?

past those sweetly sour voices that tell us to doubt ourselves,

that others are of worth

and that we just don’t really get it?

when the artist within my students 

wakes up and slips past their defenses,

what they notice, release, and build with their words

can shiver my spine and reawaken the artist within me

to find even more ways to express what just has to be said.

by Henry H. Walker

May 22, ’14

a salamander in her hand

the gifts all around

every moment is a present to us,

and within each present are countless other presents

ready to be opened and enjoyed if we can but see them,

I watch my wonderful middle schoolers

play in the water, adventure through the woods,

marvel at vista and waterfall,

and work hard to see and open what present is given to them,

while, at the same time, distractions pull them this way and that,

as if by magicians who want to keep them from seeing

the simple miracles that abound,

I love it when they slow down and learn to see,

and hole the moment sure,

like a salamander who visits us in one student’s hand.

by Henry H. Walker

May 21, ’14

process versus product

the waterfall and the hike

I’m always confused by process versus product--

for example, how kids learn versus what they learn,

today, it’s the getting to and from a destination versus being there,

the process of hiking is work: effort, sweat,

overcoming the frustration of coming round a bend in the trail

only to find another bend in the trail ahead,

every moment I stop and notice the flowers, the stream, a tree,

I’m not moving so am I in another process?

the product is the waterfall and it’s worth savoring:

resting, hearing, writing, photographing, eating, exploring,

when we get to Ramsay Cascades

I hear one student feel overwhelmed and exclaim

“Oh, my God!”

how much work is necessary to be able to feel such awe?

by Henry H. Walker

May 20, ’14

ready for the prom

the forest as teenager

like readying itself for the prom,

the forest has put on its finery,

the greens so new they look like they’ve been washed,

and they pose and bow and stand full and tall

to capture the sun as if it’s a photographer

who wants to record how perfect this moment is,

meanwhile, I know insects want the food cornucopiaing forth,

and they will provide another bounty of food for the birds,

I’m drawn to savor the perfect fullness of a tree

and the almost casual perfection of a blossom,

upcoming months will find blackberries where flowers are now,

cherries and nuts upon the trees,

for now, though, it’s time to be young and ready for the prom.

by Henry H. Walker

May 21, ’14

from the hidden to the found

Centered at Max Patch

from the beginning the world is hidden from us

as we are secure in the womb,

every revelation is again the coming forth from the hidden to the found,

our vans climb up the road

while feeling swallowed by valley and forest,

until the ridge opens into meadow

and the world enlarges to far more than anyone can hold,

mountains ripple and snake across the land,

as greens yellow from light to dark

to blue on the Appalachian ridge itself,

this view makes me think I’m at the center of the world,

and I read from that, not my importance,

but rather how large and wondrous 

the world is around and beyond me.

by Henry H. Walker

May 19, ’14