My photo
ALBERT B. CASUGA, a Philippine-born writer, lives in Mississauga, Ontario, Canada, where he continues to write poetry, fiction, and criticism after his retirement from teaching and serving as an elected member of his region's school board. He was nominated to the Mississauga Arts Council Literary Awards in 2007. A graduate of the Royal and Pontifical University of St. Thomas (now University of Santo Tomas, Manila. Literature and English, magna cum laude), he taught English and Literature (Criticism, Theory, and Creative Writing) at the Philippines' De La Salle University and San Beda College. He has authored books of poetry, short stories, literary theory and criticism. He has won awards for his works in Canada, the U.S.A., and the Philippines. His latest work, A Theory of Echoes and Other Poems was published February 2009 by the University of Santo Tomas Publishing House. His fiction and poetry were published by online literary journals Asia Writes and Coastal Poems recently. He was a Fellow at the 1972 Silliman University Writers Workshop, Philippines. As a journalist, he worked with the United Press International and wrote an art column for the defunct Philippines Herald.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

TREEHOUSE POEMS: PLANNING FOR A TREEHOUSE and MARIE IN THE TREEHOUSE




PLANNING FOR A TREEHOUSE
(Voices from Three Generations)


(For my Grandchildren)

1.
Come summer, we will build
another treehouse on an oak
overlooking the creek, there
is more of you now to gather
remnants we can put together.

Nothing bigger, but higher,
maybe closer to the clouds,
nearer to the stars, away from
the giggling girls next door.
We will see less of the world.

2.
Or more of it below: yelping
dogs lining up for the lift-leg
tree astride our river bank,
are easy slingshot targets off
stouter, steadier branches.

O, and there is soldier-boy
doing it with the wife round
the clock since he came back
wounded from Iraq, Libya,
and all on the eastern crack.

3.
Shush, buddyboy, that’s not
what treehouses are for. What
are they for, gramps? To espy
on sparrows, robins, jays, owls
talk to each other on sundowns.
 
So, if we build it a bit higher,
we can also build a treehouse
for God, can we not, gramps?
Why ever for, laddie? He is
everywhere. But nowhere near?

4.
Cool. A treehouse for God on
the river bend. Then, maybe,
just maybe, we can visit him
anytime, gramps, ask for help
for starving kids in Somalia.

Hook him up on a telephone
line, strings and cans and all,
and maybe Dad can provide
Him with a Bell Internet link,
alert Him on the Facebook!

5.
So he can stop all killings and all,
and punish priests who molest
altar boys and girls, and...Whoa!
Whoa, boys, we are building a
treehouse, not His jailhouse.

Could we build one for God,
anyway, gramps? We got boards
and plywood and shingles and
nails, and...borrow mom’s cross,
to protect Him in His treehouse.

--- ALBERT B. CASUGA

 


MARIE IN THE TREEHOUSE

It was the prayer he chuckled about,
that he make it intact to the top
rung of the rickety ladder: writhe,
ride on the wind, old man, be stout
heart, bring her up to His little shop.

She let out a shriek of eager delight.
Abuelo with the creaking kneebone,
gramps of the war room treehouse,
catcher on base, top worrier on site,
cradled her, still as a graveyard stone.

A lass let loose in a toyland’s house,
she skipped and twirled and looked
around, her eyes darting from wall
to wrapping wall, wondering perhaps
what was grand about a dingy nook

emptied of a dollhouse.  Why crawl
through an elfin door, or bother at all?

--- ALBERT B. CASUGA

 

 

2 comments:

Hannah Stephenson said...

Aah! The cuteness of that photo! :)

I love looking at treehouses, even if I'm scared of heights and don't usually go up into them.

ALBERT B. CASUGA said...

Isn't she, though? My Marie.