Saturday, June 1, 2019




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.


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


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 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.

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