the whittler

sun shines on a small diner
built a century past
on what is still a quiet off street
in the little town
we enter, take a table
the business is slow

two quiet women are at one table
three happy workers lunch at the counter
they are having a good old time
we hear the youngest tells the others
he is going to whittle this weekend
then shows his new large very sharp pocket knife
they all marvel

then the older says what ever you do
be sure you don’t cut off your thumb
of course not, the younger says, but why say that?
cause the guy says, you’re going to need it
to pick up your finger
much laughter filled the room

Mexican food

Mexican food at a roadside diner
with a chic-latin name in Somewhere’sville, Ohio
the stucco outside painted red and blue, looks right
with food prepared by Mexicans
from ingredients,
though available locally,
were probably frozen and trucked
across long American highways from anywhere

pleasant low volume music was authentic
as I imagine were the workers immigration cards
I ordered three enchiladas stuffed with
some kind of white cheese - gooey
in a sauce once based on tomatoes
currently based on grease and memories
of how it could be somewhere
the beans and rice were good, so was the coffee
the cost reasonable, the food wasn’t terrible,
it also had precious little to do with Mexico
hey, you want good Mexican food
better go to California

the shallow cove

the shallow cove narrows
by brushes and thickets
our old row boat sparkles
under sunned running waters

when spring floods the low lands
all return and rebuild
for memories run deeper
than fat fish go up stream

papoon

papoon, the Iroquois called it
when they gave it to settlers
along the Susquehanna river
around 1779

knee high by the fourth of july. we say
the Indians probably had a version
or made a motion with their hand
it was special for them also

it’s planted in fields prepared and well tended
now an American tradition
seeded in good long rows
they’ve got the procedure down pat

and hope for rain
the sun does the rest
tall and green with wispy tassels on the stalks
then pick it at the peak

old timers made pipes from the cobs,
you clean the golden vegetable, cook it
every one runs to devour the feast
sure tastes good

add butter and salt the way you like
I sure do, since I was a kid
means it’s really summer
sweet corn

sunday my brother

Sunday my brother
now an old fisherman
took us in his boat
up brown river

through turns and trees
years fell away in ripples
as in seasons long ago
when humid air was still

turtles, fish, mossy fallen painted signs
by snags from leaning, half sunken trees
a heron tall in the branches watching
the river course changes
from flood and growth
always changing
water up and water down

a golf course where a farm used to be
now many new houses
old shacks fallen
a corner where we camped
another where we fished
duck blind in the marsh
a spot we had ventured to
paddling a canoe up mud brook creek
by jumping fish, sleeping deer and water birds
some sweet summer ago

river fest

this morning
while meandering quietly at the piano
i paused and heard the patter out side
not raindrops this time

it was runners in a something k event
we went out to see them go by
then later came youngsters in a little k
only last night from the front door we saw
fireworks boom over the river
and launch high golden,
red, flashes sparkles blue dripping fire
booms to shatter the evening sky
filling the night for revelers
to open hearts
hello the neighbors
hear the music

today the boom was thunder
a real corker, rain in buckets
seemingly a never ender
that finished in the nick of time
for the start of the parade

sunshine for the floats, the twirlers,
fire truck and the marching band
then off to the firehouse for a barbeque,
and the library for the book sale

tonight it's bands again
rides and games
food booths and fun
for children of all ages

make some noise
hold some events
and the town will turn out
to unify and enjoy
another fine summer weekend

face lift for an old village

a bed and breakfast
all decked out, not moving
like a ship in dry dock
the owner’s husband split
so she dressed the place like a dollhouse
lacked only a key to wind it up

my wife liked it, but does more shopping than I
not into pastels and ruffles myself
ok, little wrapped chocolates in a dish
no oil lamps I understand, electricity is fine

but I missed the manly respect to history in detail
give me a hammer, saw, raw wood and cigar smoke
let me walk old boards not puffy carpet

on the street I hum obscure half melodies
watch stylish girls window shop
and startle to the loud music booms
from SUV’s cruising slowly by

an old town in new times
caught twix and tween
undecided which way to go
leaving tourists to wander

pond '09

the day before spring really began,
five or six feet tall when stretching,
the long neck, long winged blue heron
got twenty of our fish

tore heck out of the pond in his frenzy
a neighbor saw it on our roof, damn invader
Big Red and Reddy-Whitey gone, among others
for ten years they’d been here,ours to enjoy

the pond now runs anew,
with the remaining nine,
the fortunate few
that made the cut

Frank, the angry bluegill, record size for sure,
and fifteen, or so, inch-long tiny baby fish are hiding
in the moss usually, occasionally swimming round
and around in the summer sun, and growing,

a small water snake will go
when I can get him,
hopefully soon, before he’s any larger
let’s call him Slither

then the good surprise, baby frogs
two I saw yesterday, smaller than I would have imagined,
only a half-finger’s length each, arms and legs,
with eyes, protruding dark spheres, tiny above the water

the small pond is teaming growth, new associations
water bugs - many, but don’t count
cause they’re too varied, small and quick
to tell apart and name them

woodpeckers, black birds, sparrows,
wrens, orioles, robins, of course,
and others, dash around for a drink
or a splash in the small falls,

giant bright red and pale orange blossoms
of the lily, with pads that cover
two-thirds of the water’s surface,
like the book says they should

as guardian for this while,
I’m checking on it
pour in some biological sauce now and then,
mostly leave it be, keeping peace

while M. gardens around,
an eye out for the serpent
and as if there isn’t enough for them to eat,
she feeds the fish, but they like it

we’re caretakers,
for this dot of time,
on this lovely tiny plot
tucked back, in what was the center of he old village,
behind our home built in the 1830’s
where the preacher lived over forty-two years,
and then he died, then she did too

as the earth spins
some things end
others begin
sun goes up
sun goes down,
hey, it’s nice to be around

come on, summer
give it your best shot

a descended larynx

a descended larynx
is why you speak
and your dog can only try
sadness, though, is more common
many animals can cry

highway 80

on highway 80 across Pennsylvania we saw deer
not houses, barns, towns, people, cows or barking dogs
occasionally in the distance a town
rooftops and a steeple in the woods, jammed under trees

incredible, and true, passing through
there is only green leaf wilderness to be seen
roll on trees on rolling green in morning dew
hill after hill, rolling green and on

highway not filled with greyhound buses
their time gone in the passing lane
where large 18 wheelers pulling three
and private vehicles, SUV’s, roll on

early in the morn heard portions
of three songs on the radio, only three
get down, get down, cocaine, ho, ho, hosanna and
from a half century ago jerry lee lewis - great balls of fire

radio off then, we rolled on with the rest of them
up and down long hills, in silence, and on through green
road hum the beat and the accompaniment, and on
they could have called it treesylvania

open to the passionate long green and misty air
mysteries under leaves by summer deer
hills, rivers and long cloud sky abound
once indians, then pioneers, first walked this way

all the while we sleep

Chew this one slowly. Taking a pause. Be back later.


all the while we sleep
dancing in dream
someone is watching

over long fields of grass
through the great forests
lonely small animals search
for food, or the way to water
for a drink

in stillness the trees
hold their arms up
protecting those beneath
without question
the center of that world
the one unobserved

news sources don’t explain
that an old oak is near death
outliving its usefulness
because a child’s swing is gone
and no one will again
climb that high to tie new ropes

or that a great rock has rolled
for eons until the flaked gram is mistaken
for another piece of sand castle

while we sleep it goes on
in the personage of the milkman and baker
i remember the horse-drawn wagon
used once in a while,
painted red, and crawling down our main street
so that half-pints of cream would be there
chilled in the morning by
crisp, nose-pinching air

a stump has given way for a babe
a green shoot, that given half a chance
could grow larger than the parent
but probably won’t because of what is now
a poor location for a tree

june bugs and fire flies
not in number that we knew
no longer are they swept from the sidewalks
grasshoppers and dragon flies
aren’t about quite as they were
and violets, unceasingly underfoot
are less frequent

the hand-crank telephone
that slept in the shed
is gone to a collector
and given a price

the one-armed man
who rolled his own cigarettes
isn’t at the gas station in the afternoons
to tell us his stories
and his son has moved to the city

two-laners are multiplied
one-laners are grown over
and the last remnants of the old street car bed
are just gone

while we sleep one truck
slows in the snow
as furious windshield-wipers battle
to clear the glass
someone is looking, looking into a blue
and motionless night

glowing red barns
sporting tobacco leafs picture
and larger than life yellow words
are dirty grey between wide gaps
from board to board
the wind uses this place now
to hum through

but the grass still grows
short, thin and tireless to trampling
amid papers bags and candy wrappers
no matter
the unknown, never mown glen
harbors a curious ant
enjoying a climb up
and around
to seemingly nowhere

and the river still flows
where my brother and i
took the great canoe in search of ducks
but just as much, in search of adventure
that went with the south river brook

all the while we sleep
someone is dancing over our dreams
with you and i where we were
or might have been
another time and altogether

one day you will do the same
forever and forever ‘til forever

ninety degrees

ninety degrees, humid and full up on robins
plus four eggs on deck in the nest
no one sits on the them today
must be plenty warm enough

one robin in the bird bath
one waiting, looks like he’s sweating
bird family’s sharing water space
most of the time, or too hot to argue

one this side of the pond
one’s in the water falls,
one waiting
everyone’s wet, ruffled and cranky

‘cept the eggs
they’re getting
their newbie brains
cooked in the shell



went out to check the nest
a bird’s back with the eggs
took five minutes for it to sit down
must be hot on the bird’s bottom

a billion

the other day I wrote about chocolate
a pleasant thought for us,
this morning on the BBC I heard
the World Food Organization announced
the number of hungry people in the world
is now estimated to be a billion

that’s one of every six people
who don’t have enough to eat
among these are parents
needing food to feed
their hungry children

like you, i have no answers
other than doing the best we can
in this world
with each other
one person at a time

jungle fish

This is a poem i posted in April. I put it out again for no special reason;I just felt like it.

jungle fish

you and i
haven’t seen it all
don’t say you have
don’t think about it
no need to

not all the world caresses
some hurts
and dumps upon us
in papers and magazines
the news of course, they call it that
the video, the Internet that brings pieces
bam banging slapping sounds
pumping games flashing colors into children's heads
Marshall McLuhan was right the medium is the message
now i add, TV did more to destroy the world than educate
I have seen Guatemalan jungle natives in see-through straw huts
watching far away New York soap operas
on TV powered by a noisy gas generator
the soap opera had NYC folk
in nice clothes and makeup
drinks in hand and the natives,
ready to throw a spear through a monkey,
were sitting women breast naked in
a rag covering their crotches
and I’m walking by their hut and
can look right through it
and see them sitting glazed over stuck to the screen.
maybe they flashed me the peace sign
and maybe I gave them the finger
cause they were screwed

media chunks show how people dress and hold their heads
how they clothe their pet animals
while city buses so full
those at the door exit to let others on
dead fish are laid to rest in tins and wait consumption this way

passing by are the rich and famous in their rings and finery
with guards tagging alongside
lest reality get too close
best they remain cushioned
aloof from commoners and dirt poor

on the street notices are
handed by strangers to strangers
pasted across shop windows
stuffed in trash cans or
dropped they litter the streets
are stepped upon, pushed along
where the head count clashes with
the clean, pressed white shirts and latest ties
and we, hats on backwards
in over sized sacky things to cover how fat we are
that resemble sports team garments,
wrinkled sweat stained bags with a bright bold number on it
the number of a hero on the squad
named for a predatory animal
as a sweaty tourist screams at the counter waitress
give me a coke before I die

and I see them sun glassed now
all the while quick stepping alone
bumping into each other
unaware, as if stoned
talking on cell phones
while the senseless talk to themselves
and need no phone
who is changing the world?

for all the while
the sun goes up
the sun goes down

past eleven

past eleven we read
then went to bed
had earphone on my head
listened to jazz

seemed only a moment later
she said, “mnff enofff mnevff”
“good night”, i replied
then with one eye

i glanced at the clock
it was 4:22
one of us must have been talking
to the sand man

chocolate

wait, don’t get up, nothing else will do,
if we don’t have any, that’s okay,
i won’t eat any, chocolate, that is

there’s more that way for the rest of the world
and others may really need it
consider it practically a good deed

I ‘ll get by just thinking about it,
not all the time of course, just now and then
like now, when I really would like some

earth angle

we’re on an angle here folks
whether you’re north or south
a peak happened yesterday - 21 June
not a moment too soon

you could tell by the moon
the slant of the sun
or a shadow on the wall
what season’s begun

which one we’ve lost
and has started to run us
all the way back
the other way
from which we’ve just come

or do you live in a cave maybe
and see in the dark
with eyes in your butt?
if so, how's your wireless?

the boys on the garbage truck

the boys on the garbage truck
specifically, on the leaves and sticks truck
yard waste they call it, somebody named it that
well, they’re out there this morning, on schedule

i walked out to retrieve our cans and heard their chatter
one lad laughed when he told me he was giving grief to the driver
having fun they were, keeping it light
while doing a ton of work for everyone in town

house to house they pick up heavy containers
and throw the stuff on the giant truck
i don’t know if the same crew switches trucks for the garbage
and return for the recyclables

but they keep going
every day another route
picking it up, throwing it on,
and on and on

are they paid well, or are they convicts on work parole?
hard to tell because of how young people dress these days,
returning every week, in all weather
we’re all mighty fortunate they do

sunday morning at JC Penny

Sunday morning at JC Penny’s
quiet with no confusion
the stately tall elderly man in the bow tie
has come out of retirement to work a bit

he’s the cashier in the men’s department
it’s what he knows how to do well
can assist, chat if you want, and he gets contact
with people, he’s good at that

a long time ago on my first jobs
i worked Sundays
guess when you’re older and alone
that’s also a fine way to end

mission to the moon

as in the Wizard of Oz,
pay no attention to the man
behind the curtain,
no need disturb the flow of thought

the U. S. government announces
returning to the moon
to look for water
a space craft is going there,
up and away

in no unfamiliar logic
the best minds available in government
boasting the world's most sophisticated technology
have decided this scientific endeavor,
so we'll be bombing for water