About Charles Larsen
And God was Happy
The boy, dark haired, swarthy skin
wrapped the cummerbund around his
skinny small boy waist
tightly
Tightly
His father, eyes wet with grief for
the changes in his little boy of ten
helped him as a father should
as a father should
Should
Dark, black orbs were the boy’s eyes
to match his father’s and mother’s
and sister Fata, so frail who was
now gone
Gone
And few words were spoken at the be
ginning as his mother kissed the top of
his head, christened it with a tear and
murmured a blessing to him
a blessing
To him
Then she left the room and stood watch to
be, to be sure no one interrupted the sacred
in this consecrated humble home so sworn
to honor and to so much higher things
to higher things
Higher
God go with you, she said, one day to Fata
who wore a cummerbund too not this
one, but one for a girl so small, frail to
carry out such honored
acts of valor
Of valor
So gingerly they completed their efforts
to be sure the fit was right and he felt his
boy’s heart swell at the thought of what
was soon to be
soon to be
To be
Then his outer robe was carefully fitted over
his head, and it draped loosely over him and
he remained a boy but plumper looking than
before he was
to be
Or not
Father’s rough hands, mason’s palms,on each
cheek, now was not a time for hugs and the boy
stood straight and looked deeply into father’s
eyes which smiled
at him sweetly
Smiled
On leaving the house, his only home, he wandered
small streets, came upon some boys playing
Jacks and could not bend to play with them
and thought it would have been fun to do one
more time and now could not
now could not
Not
Then his heart leapt with joy as he saw the Humvee
slowing down and he stood there with left hand out
to the pink faced boy in uniform who stepped
on the street raising a cloud of dust and the
boy said candy candy
and the soldier
went to the
vehicle
reaching
In
The boy stood by the open door of the vehicle and
his right hand squeezed the plunger and it was done
and the pink faced boy and he were no more
and his father and mother grieved proudly
and God was happy
God was happy
Happy?
The boy, dark haired, swarthy skin
wrapped the cummerbund around his
skinny small boy waist
tightly
Tightly
His father, eyes wet with grief for
the changes in his little boy of ten
helped him as a father should
as a father should
Should
Dark, black orbs were the boy’s eyes
to match his father’s and mother’s
and sister Fata, so frail who was
now gone
Gone
And few words were spoken at the be
ginning as his mother kissed the top of
his head, christened it with a tear and
murmured a blessing to him
a blessing
To him
Then she left the room and stood watch to
be, to be sure no one interrupted the sacred
in this consecrated humble home so sworn
to honor and to so much higher things
to higher things
Higher
God go with you, she said, one day to Fata
who wore a cummerbund too not this
one, but one for a girl so small, frail to
carry out such honored
acts of valor
Of valor
So gingerly they completed their efforts
to be sure the fit was right and he felt his
boy’s heart swell at the thought of what
was soon to be
soon to be
To be
Then his outer robe was carefully fitted over
his head, and it draped loosely over him and
he remained a boy but plumper looking than
before he was
to be
Or not
Father’s rough hands, mason’s palms,on each
cheek, now was not a time for hugs and the boy
stood straight and looked deeply into father’s
eyes which smiled
at him sweetly
Smiled
On leaving the house, his only home, he wandered
small streets, came upon some boys playing
Jacks and could not bend to play with them
and thought it would have been fun to do one
more time and now could not
now could not
Not
Then his heart leapt with joy as he saw the Humvee
slowing down and he stood there with left hand out
to the pink faced boy in uniform who stepped
on the street raising a cloud of dust and the
boy said candy candy
and the soldier
went to the
vehicle
reaching
In
The boy stood by the open door of the vehicle and
his right hand squeezed the plunger and it was done
and the pink faced boy and he were no more
and his father and mother grieved proudly
and God was happy
God was happy
Happy?
Spare Time
People ask what I do
in my own spare time
and I wonder what they
mean, this spare time thing,
this phenomenon I’m
supposed to use to do
good works or use in
some productive fashion
and it seems to be
contrary to call any time
spare unless you’ve got
some on reserve for
when breath is gone and
cold is what you are
since spare time is not
like the spare change
after going to the grocery
store, or the dime in “buddy
can you spare a,” or any
other thing that comes
to mind, and time is
just time, not spare, not
anything but time itself
and my experience of
it and if you don’t believe
me just go out in the
cemetery and yell out
who’s got some spare
time, time, time
People ask what I do
in my own spare time
and I wonder what they
mean, this spare time thing,
this phenomenon I’m
supposed to use to do
good works or use in
some productive fashion
and it seems to be
contrary to call any time
spare unless you’ve got
some on reserve for
when breath is gone and
cold is what you are
since spare time is not
like the spare change
after going to the grocery
store, or the dime in “buddy
can you spare a,” or any
other thing that comes
to mind, and time is
just time, not spare, not
anything but time itself
and my experience of
it and if you don’t believe
me just go out in the
cemetery and yell out
who’s got some spare
time, time, time
I’m a semiretired psychotherapist who has lived in Florida for over
thirty years. I’m a veteran of the Korean War and the “troubles”
in Ulster. My first day there in 1973 sixteen car bombs went off, and,
after three months, with a death sentence awarded me for living with an
IRA (political) person, I returned to Mallorcda where I was then
living.
My recent writing credits are a source of great satisfaction. I
received third place in the Martha C. James Short Story Contest, as
well as the second place in the Mystify Your Mind contest at
Storyteller Magazine in 2003. The Hurricane Review published my
story,“A Very Short Visit,” in their 2003 edition. Sunscripts,
Writings from the Florida Suncoast Writers Conference of 2004, recently
published my poem,“A Grunt’s Ascension.” A two part memoir,
“View from the Deck,” was published in 2004 & 2005 in Logbook Magazine. Two
short stories won a place in the anthology, Writing on Walls, in 2005. Two
poetry chapbooks have been published, as well as essays, memoirs and
articles. Robert West of BTF Agency is currently marketing a novel for
adaptation for the screen. The sea is another passion, especially
scuba diving in the Gulf of Mexico and Florida Keys. My wife is a
school teacher in St. Petersburg.
thirty years. I’m a veteran of the Korean War and the “troubles”
in Ulster. My first day there in 1973 sixteen car bombs went off, and,
after three months, with a death sentence awarded me for living with an
IRA (political) person, I returned to Mallorcda where I was then
living.
My recent writing credits are a source of great satisfaction. I
received third place in the Martha C. James Short Story Contest, as
well as the second place in the Mystify Your Mind contest at
Storyteller Magazine in 2003. The Hurricane Review published my
story,“A Very Short Visit,” in their 2003 edition. Sunscripts,
Writings from the Florida Suncoast Writers Conference of 2004, recently
published my poem,“A Grunt’s Ascension.” A two part memoir,
“View from the Deck,” was published in 2004 & 2005 in Logbook Magazine. Two
short stories won a place in the anthology, Writing on Walls, in 2005. Two
poetry chapbooks have been published, as well as essays, memoirs and
articles. Robert West of BTF Agency is currently marketing a novel for
adaptation for the screen. The sea is another passion, especially
scuba diving in the Gulf of Mexico and Florida Keys. My wife is a
school teacher in St. Petersburg.
| Three Poems by Charles Larsen |
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GaHoo
(A villanelle written about my sometimes
teacher, GaHoo, a 25 year-old Great Horned
Owl I met in 2005 as I toiled cleaning aviaries
and caring for raptors each week.)
When we met you could no longer see
Sitting on your perch, talons grasping wood
And yet your head slowly turned toward me
Owl with one eye sewn shut, the other milky,
Yet proudly were you teaching me those days
When we met and you could no longer see
Month after month I went into your aviary
As you sat there looking sad and proudly blind
And yet your head always turned toward me
One day you bent your head down for me
And I reached over slowly to touch your skin
Although when we met you could no longer see
Gently scratched your head, just momentarily
You sighed a bit and gave me a gift of sorts
As your head so very slowly turned toward me
Later, your talons weak, you hung on to your life
Yet proud, stoic bird of prey did finally let it go
Although when we met you could no longer see
But still I seem to sense your head turns to me.
(A villanelle written about my sometimes
teacher, GaHoo, a 25 year-old Great Horned
Owl I met in 2005 as I toiled cleaning aviaries
and caring for raptors each week.)
When we met you could no longer see
Sitting on your perch, talons grasping wood
And yet your head slowly turned toward me
Owl with one eye sewn shut, the other milky,
Yet proudly were you teaching me those days
When we met and you could no longer see
Month after month I went into your aviary
As you sat there looking sad and proudly blind
And yet your head always turned toward me
One day you bent your head down for me
And I reached over slowly to touch your skin
Although when we met you could no longer see
Gently scratched your head, just momentarily
You sighed a bit and gave me a gift of sorts
As your head so very slowly turned toward me
Later, your talons weak, you hung on to your life
Yet proud, stoic bird of prey did finally let it go
Although when we met you could no longer see
But still I seem to sense your head turns to me.