Given and Taken

 

 

Quandary, if obvious and necessary,
is not quandary but matter of fact.

Ponder:
how breeze be more vast than its meadow,
yet meadow be much more than its wind;
how river be greater than valley,
and valley greater than water within;
how mystery multiplies within and around us
if in science we explore each nook and space.
And roommate, classmate, teammate,  friend:
how our embrace holds far more than meaning,
yet meaning holds all we embrace.

I plan to scribble this week:
both a picture and a poem.

Read this week:
something neglected
and sitting around.

Study this week:
language and science,
new and forgotten.

I plan:
to prune and weed—a little,
coddle a fresh egg and some older scribbles,
cobble a little table,
do a little healthful exercise.

This week will likely:
surprise me
at unplanned time
with something and someone new,
take me over sad-but-noble miles 
to new ashes of old friend.

Give me a moment or two
for these thoughts and thoughts of you.


At a loss for words it remains our privilege to use them.
To both describe good fortune and mourn good friends
To remember that a rainbow
needs both warm sun on our back 
and weeping cloud over head.

We were in so many ways green,
strangers, somewhat strange,
thrown—by good choice—together.
To survive and to thrive.
800—give and take.
800  individuals.
We picked up a longer than long long rope,
pulled together—and won.
pulled together—as one.

Onto this green place from disparate places.
We spoke surprisingly different dialects
of what we thought was the “King's English”.
We shared personal stories as we shared a new life.

Did I ever tell you about the postal clerk,
a nameless hero.
Seven blocks from my home,
seven minutes after closing,
he heard the panic in my phone call,
took a nickle from his pocket,
found my envelope,
gave it the stamp and postmark
that put me here with you sixty years ago—
puts me here with you today. 

Did I ever thank you
for your having the flu during fall final exams
and then a beer on our train to Chicago?
Because of you,
an angry-attractive stranger attacked me in the aisle:
“I want you to move your drunken friend off my seat!”
A few years later that stranger became my wife.

And which of you 
did we roust out of bed on a snowy morning, 
because the bond we had formed in our classroom 
made us less than whole without you?

At a loss for words it remains our privilege to use them.
By our shared choice and individual fates
We are here
to remind ourselves 
and to tell the world:
Remember us as 800—give and take.

Fort Collins © 2025 :: Bob Komives :: Given and Taken  :: 2505

 

 

 

Personal Note: I had the honor to present this at the Memorial Service of the 60th Reunion of the class of 1965 of Dartmouth College, in Rollins Chapel, on June 18th, 2025. "Given and Taken" weaves my thoughts and feelings of that day with three poems I had written earlier: "Quandary ... ";  "Scribbles ..."; "Inspired ...".

 

Humid Morning on Arid Land

Is this that now hovers

the awaited rain
that will soon descend
to draw our thirst
before refreshment comes to ground?

Or is this no more than past rain that rises
and lingers a while to taunt our thirst
before our fertility departs? 

Humid Morning on Arid Land

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2020 :: Humid Morning On Arid Land :: ,8004

When I Need a Visitor

When I need a visitor:

     By day,

     by season,

     with no qualm

     no hesitation,

     with license from all authority,

sun comes into my home

to play a play that gives me joy.

      

When I Need a Visitor

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2020  :: When I Need a Visitor  ::  2001

Beauty and Tragedy

http://komivesiangraphics.blogspot.com/2019/02/pecs-1.html

I felt this among the traces of so many people
in the streets and museums of Hungary:

     beauty and tragedy
          in a roman catholic church,
          once a mosque,
          once a christian church,
          built on more ancient foundations;

     beauty and tragedy
          in the stone and mortar
          of a music school
          once a synagogue.






Beauty and Tragedy 


Among the Traces, a Feeling 

Bob Komives 

Fort Collins © 1996  ::  Beauty and Tragedy  ::  ,0x34




.

.

Hope Cemetery

Do a double-take.
Read this sign again: “HOPE Cemetery"
—clear, bold, and large.

Is it not true?
With death, unanswered questions become answered questions. What remains for hope's good work? 

Hope Cemetery

Bob Komives

In life, hope has much to do.
I can live with hope to lose weight, but pallbearers will know: I did or I did not.

You and I might hope to get rich.
Will we?—a boring, unanswered question. Did we?—More interesting, perhaps, but—simply—"no" or "yes." If alive and already rich, we hope to stay that way. Yet, beneath a tombstone, such hope likely turns to smile or frown.

As to afterlife
(no matter our belief and hope) we can agree nobody looks around heaven and says, "I hope I get to be here."

In quandary I asked clear-thinking friends for help. One suggested I misread the sign, but I have faith in the quality of my double-take.

"Perhaps the message in the name is for us—not them," said others. “As we pass by we remember those who have passed away, but we should also remember to treasure each day, appreciate our ancestors, our heritage, the continuity of life.” I like these thoughts but have difficulty calling them hope.

“It is obvious”, said another, “the graveyard is for jerks, scoundrels, miscreants. Our hope is that they will stay dead.” I try to be open to this view, but—as a city planner—I think of how such intentional land use would destroy tourism and real estate value.

I warm more to a suggestion that resident graveyard hope need not be profound. “Mundane items that haunt us while alive may persist into our grave. For example: 'I hope I remembered to turn off the gas on the stove.' " That thought may well hit coffin-nail on the head.

But yet another suggestion 
allows me to puzzle no more:

  In HOPE Cemetery, hopes do co-mingle.
  Both the living and the dead hope
      to be remembered well,
      to be remembered clearly—
    remembered
      by those who once explored and opened paths
      that remain open before us,
    and remembered
      by those who will advance or retreat
      0n paths we leave behind us.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2018 :: Hope Cemetery :: 1613 

Out My Backdoor

You'll hear me say

it takes three days

out my back door

to the middle of the wild,

And so I did,
as he cleared my way to his grinding wheel.

Out My Backdoor

Bob Komives

::

You'll find that among your new neighbors
we borrow and lend in a neighborly way.
No payment offered and none accepted,
yet, you might say,
one is always expected.
The price to borrow one thing
is to remember to ask for two.
We lend a tool freely
where we can send along our wisdom.
Your question may be short or long,
as fits the subject,
but the answer should never be so short
as to end before you turn to leave.
Thus, our advice will often run full limit—
just twice what the fetching and lending need take.
After my first winter, and half a summer,
this custom had already served me well.
Being the youngest and the newest,
I lacked tools and had need for everyday advice.

::

A few houses over,
the pruning saw hung near his head
as I walked through the workshop door.
“How long does it take
“to get into the back country from here?”
He said nothing
until he had lowered the saw and put it into my hand.

Well, if you want to hear how I figure it,

(I paused near the door to listen.)

it takes me no more than an hour and a half; 

only the canyon sits in my way.

::

Across the alley,
she walked with me to her shed
to fetch the garden fork.
“How long does it take
“to get into the back country from here?”
She may have wished I had asked about her tomatoes.
We inspected them going and halfway back.

'depends on how you see it.

But I suppose I'd say, it takes me three hours 

out my back door and into the wilderness—

to close the door, 

drive up the canyon,

put on my pack,

and trek a few miles up the trail.

She reconfirmed as I latched the gate.

Yes, I guess it's three hours that join this place, 

my chosen life,

with my mountain escape of choice.

::

I needed only to go next door
to sharpen my mower blade.
“How long does it take
“to get into the back country from here?”
He had just begun to change the spark plugs
in his pickup on the far side of the garage.

You'll hear me say it takes three days 

out my back door to the middle of the wild,

And so I did,
as he cleared my way to his grinding wheel.
With several minutes of grinding ahead of me
he could afford to confuse me in the beginning.
Of course, I hinted that among his neighbors
an hour and a half, or perhaps three hours,
were thought to be enough.

Those are honest folks,

but, you might say,

I speak in the sense of senses.

Now, my sense of smell and my sense of taste,

they could agree with those lower estimates.

One breath of mountain air 

inhaled deeply through my nose

places me right back in the wilderness.

There, any food, lightly carried,

tastes as good as I care to expect.

But, ear, eye, and touch do not fit in so quickly.

I hear beauty; 

I see it; 

I touch it—

even before I exhale that first mountain breath.

Yet those senses flit about,

not always knowing new from old,

nor together from apart.

They  keep referring back here to this life—

enjoying so much the difference 

that you might say,

they miss out on much of the difference.

Then, some moment 

(expected but briefly unexpected)

around a trail bend on my third day out,

I make it all the way back 

to the middle of the wild—

all of me,

five senses,

together in one place.

While he got lost in thought
I finished up my grinding
and put the clutter back where it had lain.
Then I sent back a nod of understanding
as I took away his final words.

Now, before you reject my estimate,

let me tell you, it is not all bad.

On that last day,

I put on my pack 

and walk down out of the back country,

leaving that back door wide open.

Then I drive on down the canyon 

knowing that for at least three more days 

parts of me will stay up there

in the middle of the wild.

::

So, welcome to our neighborhood.
That yard sure has needed care.
Ah, there's that damned long-handled spade!
I'm sorry for the delay.
'haven't used it since last fall.
You can see it is still quite sharp.
It will always be here when you need it.
And, before you leave,
since you asked my advice,
I'd say you should take that hoe of yours next door.
It could use a little sharpening
to tame those weeds in the alley.
I see him there in his garage tuning up his van.
He came back down just yesterday.
Go on over,
but take care in what you ask.
He may still lack a few of his senses.

Fort Collins (c) 1994 :: Our My Backdoor:: ,9413

Special Places

Special places

are where I always go

for my peace,

for my excitement.

They are places

I have yet to be

that yet wait to grab me,

and places to which I cannot return

—except in thought.

Most sit fixed;

some float free;

home need only be my family.

Special places

are sometimes spaces,

some places time,

sometimes wine,

someplace lonely in this mind of mine,

sometimes everyday,

sometimes new,

sometimes little,

sometimes much,

sometimes solely in the touch of you.

Special Places

Bob Komives

Fort Collins (c) 1995 :: Special Places :: 9506

Ode to Bollard

Oh, Bollards; Oh, Bollards.
Pillars of my community.
Through old-town alley and downtown street,
past art and fun,
in winter cold and summer heat,
you guide me,
protect me.
For my comings out and my goings in
you keep me out of harms way.
Ode to Bollard
Bob Komives 
Yet,
do I notice?
do I say?
“Thank you, Bollard,”
or even:
“Bollard, good day!”
No, Bollard; No, Bollards.
At least,
not until this morning
when you helped me walk 
to museum (that has genius on display),
to old town's square, 
then
by that place of playful children.
You kept me from 
traffic's hazards,
ugly's dumpsters,
then guided me on 
to hardware store for errand of the day.

Oh, Bollards; Oh Bollards.
Where buildings loom tall and cubical,
(where straight streets abound)
you too stand straight, 
but
short,
humble,
round.

Oh, Bollard; Oh, Bollards.
While you are too noticed and familiar 
to
Canis 
lupus 
familiaris,
you are visibly invisible,
unfamiliar,
ignored,
alien
to
Homo
sapiens 
sapiens.

Oh, Bollards; My Bollards.
Pillars of my protection.
Please take notice of my notice;
please accept my affection.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2015 :: Ode To Bollard  :: 1504

Benches of Hercegkút

           Yes, these are pretty flowers.

Does not every village have such flowers?
We have two hundred simple houses,
two hundred root cellars,
three hundred wine cellars,
and two simple churches;
but no castle,
no museum.
Everyone will wonder why you wandered by.

           
           

           Yes, this is my bench.
Does not every village have such benches?
We sit in front of our houses,
in front of our fences,
facing out,
along the walk,
looking over our flowers to the street,
looking after each other,
watching for you.
Can there be village without benches?
Why have flowers but no bench to sit on?
Why have neighbors but no benches for them to
      wander by?

           Yes, I sit here when my work is done.
Should not everyone have such a bench?
I sit here to rest,
speak to my neighbors,
enjoy my flowers and today's best story.
I speak here from my wisdom,
from my prejudice.
I sat here with each of my babies on display for
      all to see.
I teach each grandchild to sit here,
say hello,
and kiss an elder's hand.
I watch,
and I remember to tell my neighbors who has
      come by while they were hard at work.
I return your smile,
answer your greeting,
and wonder why you would have no bench yet
      have interest in mine.
Here, fifty neighbors pass on bicycle and foot
while the others stand hard by their work or sit
      upon benches to look.
They will wonder.
They will wonder until I tell them why you wandered by.

Benches of Hercegkút

Bob Komives

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1997 :: Benches :: ,9716    

Cyclist's Reflection

Datelines
Place-lines
Signs

... September twenty-nine ...

"Brandon Gap"

"Nine Percent Decline" 

Precious are moments and places

where

when

agony turns well to pleasure

Cyclist's Reflection

Bob Komives

                          Fort Collins (c) 2016 :: Cyclist's Reflection :: 1612

Damp, Morning Walk

On this damp morning's walk,

as storefronts open beside me,

sudden sunbeams confront me
to illuminate a path before me,
and my day approaches nine o'clock.

Upward
from rain-drenched, puddled pavement,
glimmer and sparkle welcome me
while at play with new-made shadow.

Damp, Morning Walk

Bob Komives

To my deaf ears
dumb sidewalk whispers loudly
in colorful language
of tiny, wondrous rainbows
broadcast by spreading ripples
in concert 
with the drum-hiss-drum
(moistened step)

of morning walk.

Drum-hiss-drum.
Drum-hiss-drum.

Storefronts open beside me.

Warming sun is upon me.
A path reflects before me.

My day passes nine o'clock.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2016 :: Damp, Morning Walk :: 1611