ARTHUR TURFA

ARTHUR TURFA

WALKING HER DOWN

SOUTH FRASER STREET

Black softness blankets dimly-lit streets.

They slumber undisturbed in the evening.

Occasionally, a star glistens briefly

In a wispy-clouded velvety sky.

To one side, the silver disc heralded

Either an ending or a possible dawn.

Fingers entwined creating a tapestry,

Warmth-retaining, tenderness caught

And clutched; therein we walk.

Our footsteps, our voices, the

Exceptions to tranquility. But

No eye renders witness.

Our eyes meet, my hand strokes yours

Content to feel the softness. Instantly

I gaze at you; moonbeams bathe

Your face, glistening drops stream

Over your forehead. Your cheeks moistened

As a meadow laden with dew.

You shone; my eyes watch you flame

When the beams tenderly kiss your face

and I look on, unable to add my own.

THE PIPES PLAYED ONCE MORE

Kilt-clad, reed-playing pipers

In a circle arranged between-

The trees there- lightly played

The drummers, softly touching

The drum skins, stroking them

As they would a child’s silken hair.

Around them all, the trees’ tartans

Falling downward. Suddenly,

There between branch and ground,

Wrinkled leaf did meet\the highland tune

And for an instant- danced, gaily skipping-

Before falling down, ever down, until

Touching ever-increasing piles.

A charmed moment appeared to me.

Once again I am three feet tall.

Wooden palisades, oak and maple-

crested mountains  glowing in October sun.

The melody-laden air cuts sword-like

Memory’s thread and I clutch my book

And depart remembering the tune

Remembering the tune.

Arthur Turfa, copyright 1974, 2019

WEARING MANY HATS

When I was a boy, there was a box next

to the back door with hats I wore when

at play. A coonskin like Crockett’s, a blue

Union Army one, a plastic helmet

for World War II adventures. No matter

we had been  in America less than

60 years; their adventures were surely

mine. With friends or alone widely I ranged

over our acre and beyond until

mealtime came or the darkness descended

and I placed all the hats back in the box

until the following rain-free morning.

When no longer a boy, three clothing racks

replaced that box of hats. In the basement

and closet hung everything I needed

for school, military, or religion.

Sometimes clad in one fashion, with a bag

containing another I left the house.

As I drove miles over mountains

or high desert I realized that the

early play prepared me for everything

that would follow , far and wide.

Arthur Turfa, copyright 2019

ARTHUR TURFA

ARTHUR TURFA has been published in US and international print and online journals. Four books of his poetry have been published, the most recent being Saluda Reflections © 2018 form Finishing Line Press. From his native Pennsylvania to his new home in South Carolina there have been many places and adventures. He has had successful careers in the Lutheran Church, US Army, and in education.