Buff Whitman-Bradley’s poems have appeared in many print and online journals. He is the author of several collections of poetry. His most recent book is Crows with Bad Writing. In addition to poetry, he has written for education, travel, and parenting magazines and has written nonfiction books for young readers as well as a handbook for educators on teaching poetry writing to children. He co-produced two documentary films, Outside In, with his wife, Cynthia, and Por Que Venimos, with the MIRC film collective. He was a founding member of the Courage to Resist organizing collective, producer of the Courage to Resist Audio Project, and an editor of the Courage to Resist oral history book About Face: Military Resisters Turn Against War, based on his interviews with soldiers who refused to fight in Iraq and Afghanistan. He and Cynthia live in northern California.
When compasses grow old And can no longer be certain About precisely where north is And wouldn’t recognize South-southwest if it bumped into them At a party And knocked them Into the punch bowl There is a place where they can go To live out their lives With the kind of companionship And dignity they deserve After a lifetime of faithful and selfless service Pointing the way For all those seeking the trailhead Or the buried treasure Or the palace of the beloved
At the Home for Elderly Compasses The residents spend their twilight years Reminiscing and perhaps boasting a little About heroic adventures In which all appeared lost Until they saved the day – Although the particulars do seem Increasingly elusive – And when someone’s nephew A shiny young GPS just out of graduate school Comes to visit They gather around And listen politely to his tales Of satellites and microwaves And other wonders of new technology Although they are utterly baffled By what they are hearing And after the nephew leaves They shake their heads slowly and cluck to each other About how easy kids have it today
Like ours the sleep of elderly compasses Is not always untroubled There are nightmares about Torture by naughty children with horseshoe magnets Or being mistaken for pocket watches And smashed to bits For failing to tell the time Or tossed into the back of a dusty drawer With a tattered topographic map And a rusted pocket knife To be forgotten forever But morning does come And as the old compasses take their toast and tea And winter light washes into the room Through east-facing windows The bad dreams fade And recalling as they gaze into the pale cold sky How they helped so many navigate their way Over howling mountain ranges Through tangled woods and swamps Across trackless immensities The compasses feel no urge themselves for new journeys Content now to be just here Where all directions start
Runaway train
I have a vague recollection That they mentioned Time would pass more quickly As I grew older But I am dead certain no one said anything About a runaway train Hurtling along the tracks At terminal velocity Through the days months years remaining With me inside Lurching from coach to coach Searching in vain for A red lever behind the windowOf a small cabinet labeled In Existential Emergency Break Glass Pull Handle
If you forget my name I will become a window Facing the sea A raised window that The light will blow through Like a warm wind You will be walking In the sand Near where the waves Exhaust themselves And slide back out To the big water You will be looking down As if searching For a lost piece of jewelry Perhaps it will be my name You are trying to find I will call out to you It’s me I will shout I am here And I will say my name You will look up and See in my polished panes Flashes of sunlight Blue squares of ocean and sky Tiny reflections of yourself You will smile And say Of course Then walk to where I am And like a young girl Hike up your long skirt To lift yourself up over the sill And step inside
The job of memory
When I cannot recall the title of a book Or the name of a lake in northern Minnesota I try to resist the Google temptation And instead set my aging neurons to work Doing what they were hired to do
What they lack these days in alacrity They make up for with tenacity As they methodically search every closet And cabinet and shelf in my brain Often for long minutes, even hours While I fidget and squirm and stew With mounting frustration But almost invariably one of them Will finally burst into my office Waving a piece of paper and shouting We found it, Boss! And when that happens There is great rejoicing in all the cubicles Dancing on the desks Tossing confetti Everyone so happy to still have a job
I hope that when I die My old pals and chums Will adopt a highway A stretch of two-lane road Somewhere out in countryside I loved Where they will meet Once a month To collect roadside detritus And reminisce about What a pretty good fellow I was
The Department of Transportation Will place a sign on the shoulder: Litter Control Next 2 Miles Friends of Buff Bradley Which is all the memorial I need Or want
These cleanups will go on For perhaps a year Fewer people showing up each time Because of You know Other obligations Until the last two agree That a drink together Once in a while Would be a whole lot easier Although they will never actually get around to it
My sign will come down Stored in some dim back corner Of a shed in the county maintenance yard With all the other signs Awaiting resurrection Or reincarnation Depending upon their affiliations And a new sign Will appear: Litter Control Next 2 Miles Bitsy’s Kut ‘n Kurl Which a motorist who drives past regularly Will notice one morning And will ask himself Didn’t there used to be A different name up there? Although he won’t be able to recall Who it was
The next small thing
Unlike the Next Big Thing That everyone is waiting for To revolutionize For the umpteenth time The way we conduct The same old business The next small one A whiff of onion grass The whispered arrival of light From the Pleiades The streak and cry Of a kingfisher above a pond Will change nothing at all Although it will encourage you To unhook that bucket of lead That hangs from the chain In your heart And to stop for a while By the side of the road For a cool drink of water
In both pieces in this podcast, the poet reminds himself that what remains to him in life is powerful, rich and fulfilling.
At the Driveway Guitar Sales
At the driveway guitar sale I watch old men Heft various 60’s electrics And strike surly-lead-guitarist poses That would surely embarrass Their grandchildren They play snatches of Light My Fire and Riders on the Storm To accompany the Jim Morrisons Singing in their heads And I can see the faded blaze Of their rock and roll dreams In their eyes And the language of their Heavy slightly stooped bodies That says those doors are closed
It is much the same at car shows Where old men display The hot rods and T-Birds And souped-up Bel Airs That drove them nearly mad with longing When they were young And even though the cars Of their hearts’ desires Now park in their suburban garages I can sense a faint echo of disappointment Reverberating in the hearts that beat Beneath their Harley-Davidson t-shirts: But I’m not 16
And me? When this old man was young He wanted badly to be a poet To smoke Gauloises To drink Wild Turkey To swim the Hellespont And utter seismic profundities In casual conversation and Oh yes To write stirring poems And declaim them to a waiting world . . . Which didn’t exactly work out And although he does still wonder from time to time What it would have been like To be a young writer of great promise He is content these days to strum his ukulele To drive his battered old Toyota To pen verses that might occasionally Lay a patch of rubber, ignite a little flame
Afternoon Lovemaking
Afterwards We lie side by side Dozing under the white comforter In our white room My hand resting on her belly Hers on mine To make certain We do not float away Into the sunlight Streaming in through the window, Which is our primary work these days Of our eighth decade, Holding fast, Keeping each other here.
We old folk talk a lot of the hereafter: we walk into a room and say, “what are we here after?” Buff Whitman-Bradley tries to get back to a favorite childhood memory, and then another!
Molecular Biology, by Buff Whitman-BradleyMemory‘s Horses and Tricycle, by Buff Whitman-Bradley
Memory’s Horses
I am hiking a muddy trail In the wooded hills On a brilliant spring morning After many days of rain. Purple and ivory irises, Blue and white forget-me-nots, And vivid yellow California buttercups Are blooming In the long, bright green trailside grasses. The cool, wet air fills my lungs And quickens my spirit As I huff uphill Letting my thoughts loose Among oaks, madrones, Redwoods, bays, And I suddenly realize That I cannot remember the name Of Hopalong Cassidy’s horse. Roy Rogers and Trigger, Dale Evans and Buttermilk Spring instantly to mind, As do the Lone Ranger and Silver, Tonto and Scout, But the name of Hoppy’s horse, A magnificent white steed, Is stuck in some neural cranny inside my head. Perhaps it will wriggle itself loose, I advise myself, If I shift my attention to something else — Glittering ribbons of sunlight Streaming down through the treetops, Irascible scrub jays Complaining on the fly, Banana slugs poking along through the mud – But I cannot for long not think About Hopalong Cassidy’s horse. I remember Rocinante, I remember Flicka and Black Beauty, I even remember Bucephalus for God’s sake, Yet I have forgotten the name Of my childhood hero’s noble stallion. I had a Hopalong Cassidy cup and plate When I was a boy With a picture of the man and his mount Painted on each And inscribed with the words From your pal, Hoppy. How I loved using my Hopalong Cassidy dinnerware Every night at supper, Watching the picture on the plate Emerge from under a heap of mashed potatoes Or a serving of . . . Wait! I’ve got it! Topper! The horse’s name was Topper! Oh, I am a happy man now, Relieved that the memory was not gone forever, That the name has returned to me, That my powers of recollection are still intact, And I fairly float along the trail beside the creek At the bottom of the hill, Where small pines are decorated With light green brushes of new growth On the tips of their skinny branches, Where towhees and juncos and sparrows Hunting and pecking for food Flit away into the trees as I approach, Where the waters babble and tumble Over stones and boulders As they hurry toward the bay And the great sea beyond, And I would pronounce this a perfect day If I could just recall The name of the horse of the Cisco Kid.
Tricycle
It takes courage to give up an early memory in exchange for a present reality that might not be so pleasant. But the poet does it here with great courage and humor.
In a shoe box on the closet floor Among decades of family snap shots There is a photograph more than seventy years old Of me and my first tricycle, A wondrous vehicle I rode at breakneck velocity All over the sidewalks and alleyways Of the ramshackle little community of Carter Lake, On the banks of an oxbow lake left behind When the Missouri River decided to change course And leave a chunk of Iowa Stranded on the Nebraska side. In the picture I am wearing a cowboy hat And cowboy boots As I sit on my three-wheeled speed machine Splendidly fancied up with streamers and balloons For the Fourth of July parade around town, Which is just about to begin. I loved that tricycle surpassingly And as I approach my seventy-fifth birthday I’m thinking it might be just the right time For another one. Not ready yet to give up cycling But noticing myself Having more and more little spats With verticality, I am concerned (and my wife vigorously agrees) That on two wheels I might well become a menace To myself and others on the roadway, So one more wheel could be just the thing. It’s not easy to adjust to the losses That pile up in old age – Agility, reflexes, balance, hearing, memory, dear friends – And a little compensation from time to time Can ward off despair. For example, even now, months before my natal day, I refresh and renew my spirit By picturing a shiny three-speed three-wheeler With its back-mounted basket Full of groceries or library books And me pedaling with mad abandon Past pedestrians agog at the exuberant vitality Of a well-wheeled old codger In his own particular prime, And for a happy moment At the top of his game.
Poems for the Third Actcontains the delightful readings of poet Buff Whitman-Bradley of Northern California, a long-time contributor to The Third Act Project, and a wonderful guy who’s living a rich third act that has included a tough bout with cancer — about which he has written (and you will soon hear) a brilliant poem. His work is lyrical, poignant, often providing a well-deserved laugh. His lead piece is called “Horses of Memory.” Check him out and let him know what you think of his art.
Poems for the Third Actcontains the delightful readings of poet Buff Whitman-Bradley of Northern California, a long-time contributor to The Third Act Project, and a wonderful guy who’s living a rich third act that has included a tough bout with cancer — about which he has written (and you will soon hear) a brilliant poem. His work is lyrical, poignant, often providing a well-deserved laugh. His lead piece is called “Horses of Memory.” Check him out and let him know what you think of his art.
By now your body is probably just molecules spread out all over the place mingling with other kinds of molecules in the earth the water the air and I wonder if that’s what has happened to your consciousness as well your personality your spirit your self all of what was you scattered around the world and if that is the case then maybe you didn’t really die but instead got the chance to go everywhere at once.
I’m thinking this because every once in a while I get a kind of “whiff “of you the way I get a whiff of oranges in the produce section or on a bus a whiff of perfume that reminds me of an old girlfriend it’s not really a scent but a sudden sense of you coming out of thin air the way molecules waft off the skin of an orange or a dab of White Shoulders.
I’ve heard that the olfactory center of the brain is connected in some way to the part that stores memories and that’s why smells can be so powerfully evocative of the past; my whiffs of you evoke instantaneous impressions and vivid 3-D images of the two of us driving down the Pacific Coast Highway sitting by a small creek in the Mt. Tamalpais watershed talking poetry and politics and drinking espresso in a Berkeley café.
So if your body your consciousness your self are now millions of molecules strewn hither and yon then I can imagine some of those molecules ending up in the soil in a field where a farmer plants wheat and I can imagine those molecules working their way into the grain that is then harvested and milled into flour and baked into bread.
I can picture a young couple going to the supermarket to buy apples and cheese and a loaf of that bread to take on a picnic by the lake and I can see those two growing liquid and passionate in the late afternoon and making irresistible unstoppable love barely concealed under a willow tree near the shore I can imagine a child born of that act of love and some of your molecules tucked inside the child.
I hope I will get to meet that child before I die myself I’m sure I will recognize in her your capacious spirit your agile intellect your delight but if I don’t have that chance I imagine myself after death being like you widely dispersed some of my molecules floating to earth in a vineyard in the Napa Valley and getting themselves up inside some Cabernet grapes made into a ruby red medium-bodied wine full of fresh fruit flavors which the child—now grown up—has at dinner with friends one evening.
And there we’ll be a pair of pals—a handful of molecules—sitting on a sunny park bench somewhere in the back of that woman’s brain telling stories about the old days conjuring up memories for her of fragrances she hasn’t smelled of places she hasn’t seen of old friends she has never known.
This is but a short poem by the poet Buff Whitman-Bradley, but it captures, as so much of his work does, those essential moments of life in the third act.
Here, a couple in their “eighth decade” lie beside each other as the sun streams into the room following their embrace. The love is deep, but not the love of the young. And this is such a cause of bewilderment sometimes in the lives of couples who still hunger for the passion of before.
What’s most important to you about sexual romance these days? It’s an intimate subject, and so many people are uncomfortable talking about it. But we all have thoughts about it. Want to share yours?
Afterwards We lie side by side Dozing under the white comforter In our white room My hand resting on her belly Hers on mine To make certain We do not rise into the air And float away Into the sunlight Streaming in through the window, Which is our primary work these days Of our eighth decade, Holding fast, Keeping each other Here.
Some mornings, This one for instance, When I have not slept well the previous night, I wake up feeling cross. However I am already beginning To feel much better Because a word I hadn’t thought of In decades Just walked out of its bachelor pad Inside my brain And took its place proudly up there On the fourth line. I could have said that I wake up Feeling grumpy, or cranky, Or out of sorts, But there’s the word cross, As big as life and quite pleased with itself. When I was a little boy Parents got cross For reasons we did not always understand, Teachers became cross About excessive conversation during lessons, And there was always at least one fearsome aunt Who was never anything else Except cross. When I heard the word I thought, of course, Of Jesus nailed to the cross And felt a terrible gravity, A weight that irascible or irritable Could never bring to bear. Being cross was serious stuff. But after all these years of desuetude The word sounds only quaint, Without the power to frighten little children, To fill them with dread, To send shivers down their spines. Grandpa says he’s feeling cross, My granddaughter will say, He’s a silly old guy.
Cremation “The undiscovered country from whose bourn/No traveller returns . . .” Hamlet, Act III, Scene I —William Shakespeare
Arriving in the mail today A promotional brochure Offering me a reduced rate On cremation. It is not the first time That I have received such mail And each time I make light of it Cracking a feeble little joke About my inescapable demise. But having recently endured Surgery and radiation treatment For cancer This time I hesitated Before tossing the mailer Into the recycling And for the first time thought Well maybe I should look into this. It would be the responsible thing to do Making arrangements and pre-paying For my incineration To save my loved ones The trouble of scrambling around At the last minute To find a suitable crematorium While my body grows cold Lying in a rented hospital bed By the large windows in the living room. It could be my final act of generosity When they look through my papers And discover to their relief – Oh look, he’s already taken care of it. Here’s the number to call. So instead of having to careen Through the yellow pages They would be able To spend a few quiet moments with me In the profound pause Following my final breath Before we head off in our separate directions – They to the bustle of the noisy world And I to the stillness Of the undiscovered country.
Old dogs I sit by the creek and throw sticks For the old great-hearted golden retriever He splashes through the water Like the puppy he was Up onto the opposite bank To fetch each one But he brings it back only partway (He has done this before) And drops it onto the ground out of my reach Then he stands over it panting triumphant Looking me straight in the eye daring me To come and take it and if I try He will snatch the stick away Just as I am about to grab it But today I have outsmarted him (I have done this before) And brought along many throwing sticks And so after each one he fails to return I pick up another from my stash which I throw and he fetches and delivers To where he has dropped the others As his pile grows larger and mine grows smaller I watch the sunlight coming In great broad sheets through the redwoods And listen to the creek tell the stories It has always told And when I throw the last stick We both realize it is time to go I stand up he bounds across the creek one last time And we head back down the trail Two old dogs no new tricks As vertical as possible I place my feet with care in such a world – William Stafford I have fallen twice recently, Once onto the rocks In a creek I was crossing And once on a steep stairway Outside a friend’s house. Neither time was I injured But it did hurt my heart To be reminded once again That my arthritic joints and I Have entered the age Of falling-down-ness Which in my spryer moments Still seems years and miles away. I know I’ve got to remember To lift my feet higher On my strolls and hikes And gaddings about town And always to use a good walking stick. I also know That even high-stepping and the stoutest of staffs Won’t prevent the Big Fall that looms In the unknowable future, My one final tumble Into oblivion’s infinite elevator shaft. But until that happens I’ll do my best To remain as vertical as possible – Be mindful of terrain Wear sturdy shoes Place my feet with care.
This evocative piece appeared in the long-running blog, Time Goes By, created by Ronni Bennett. Melancholy, funny, and tuned in to the small moments of life.
An airplane sneaks through the fog over Lac St. Louis. Canada geese sing homecoming harmonies. I’m in my car, staring at the lake where we swam as kids. The lake ice has melted. The water is high. Another plane tiptoes in. A man sits in his car, reading. We’re two cars, side by side, on the pier. He looks at me, nods and smiles. I smile and nod back. I sip my coffee and think about a jumble of senior words overheard at the local coffee spot. Words like this: “My friend is in the hospital. She can’t move from the neck down. She may never walk again. The doctors are doing tests. I call her every night. A nurse puts the phone by her ear.” “He’s 94 years old, driving without a license. His doctor refused to sign the paper. I should notify the police. He’s going to kill himself or someone else. If the cops pull him over, it’s gonna be game over. Maybe it’s just gossip. What should I do?” “Her world has become smaller since she moved into that senior home.” “No car. No visits. No garden.” “Everything is in the past.” “So listen to this: My three neighbors help each other, even though they are not related. One woman cuts lawns, the other one cooks and the boyfriend repairs stuff. They found a way to age in place.” “Ah, I know who you mean. She walks the ILR halls and knocks on doors. Sometimes she puts her thumb over the peephole so you can’t see who is there. She’s losing it.” A ship passes. It’s going somewhere. But where are we going? More words: “I’m not sitting there.” “I don’t like that man.” “I want to bop him one.” “Now Sam, you know a bop too far becomes a boom.” “Yeah, I know that.”
