Dr. Ralph Stanley

On the Death of Dr. Ralph Stanley

All things fall into place

Eventually

The reading is over

The book is closed,

And put back on the shelf

Where parting is no more

Where no storm rages.

Oh, the rock of ages.

You were not spared,

But you shall have your

Reward

Sit down at the picnic

Dinner on the ground

Catch a cloud

And go

On up to that high atmosphere.

We'll sing here,

Spared for another year.

Goodnight, hallelujah 

Goodnight

Amen.

- Jeni Hankins 

The Ants, a poem

The Ants

The ants have chosen our fingernail brush,

the wooden handle shading the worn

bristles – a dandelion leaf cooling blades

of grass.

I wish they hadn’t chosen us.

First, I tried running vaseline

along the crevice between the

wall and the window facing.

The ants were confused, but

undeterred. They spent days

finding the weakness in my

petroleum wall.

Then I took to smooshing them

into the bowl of the sink, which

made my stomach turn.

Mary Beth, our neighbor, says she read

that ants are thirsty this time of year.

Crushing them into the porcelain,

whooshing them down

the drain, made me feel a potentate.

The old ceramic sink, my fiefdom.

So, I stopped,

curious to see what would happen,

how many of them would come.

Would we be overrun?

Once a few scouts determined

I had retreated, they scurried

into the crevice to alert their

compatriots. And in an orderly line

the

ants

made

their

way

along

the

wall

down the cool backsplash

to their home under the fingernail

brush, which, I admit, was mainly

ceremonial before the ants arrived.

Now, I take care when I wash my hands

not to splash too much water. I feel sorry

when they about face and start climbing

back to the crevice, nervous at my shadow.

After all, I have room for the ants, and the

fingernail brush looks suddenly useful

with these settlers raising committees

among the bristles.

– Jeni Hankins, April 18, 2016

Written while waiting for a checkup at the doctor’s office.

The ants were out to lunch when I got home, so I couldn’t take their photo.

Las Vegas in the Rain

Report from I-15, heading to Los Angeles:

Las Vegas in the Rain

by Jeni Hankins

This is the kind of weather 
gamblers love.

Stormy weather doesn't laugh
at them the way the hot desert sun does –
with all of the smiling tourists making pretend 
that this is a kind of Disneyland.

This is getting down to business weather
where gamblers shape-shift into a spoke of
the wheel of fortune – so married to the roulette
table that they become an arm, leg, or head.

Dealers and gamblers hunker down for a
long battle of wills. There's the air of Thanksgiving
Day about the Mirage Hotel – a day where other
people have a heavy dinner on thin china, pray,
watch football, and yell at their kids to stop running 
in the house. But gamblers and dealers give
tacit thanks on Thanksgiving that there are no
distractions, no kids, no strollers, no bachelorette
parties, but only each other, the table, and the cards.

Today is like that. A free day where the tourists are 
watching Jimmy Cagney or Storage Wars on satellite TV
or trying to get last minute tickets to Cirque de Soleil
or Celine Dion or Wayne Newton, to some comedian who
will probably use foul language in front of the kids.
Anything to get out of the hotel room that seemed so
big and where the towels seemed so fluffy, with a lofty pile
that seemed mythical and impossible to replicate at home.
But the towels have turned sour in the endless dripping rain.
And the kids are bored.
For this, they could have stayed in New Jersey.

But the gambler, he has his shoulder against the wheel
and the dealer – a cross between Fortuna and Marilyn 
Monroe in bleach blonde hair and fuchsia lipstick
with a terribly knowing set to her jaw –
she pulls down her visor like a blindfold and spins. 

Poem for a mustachioed woodpeckker

Our friend, Susan Hankin​, is an animal lover and a brilliant teacher of animal law, but she also happens to take photos worthy of National Geographic. She has a plethora of birds just around her neighborhood in Southeastern Pennsylvania. Sometimes, I can't help myself and I have to write a poem to go with her photos. This one is about a male pileated woodpecker. Brilliant photo by Susan Hankin.

The Bird with the Red Mustache

I saw a bird with a red mustache.

He was dapper and dressed in grey.

Never a bird with such panache

has knocked on a stump, I say.

He is the pinnacle of the wood-pecking set

and I’m honored he graced our yard.

No there never was a gentle bird yet,

who pileated with as much charm.

by Jeni Hankins​