to the child

life is a sleeping bear
for which you must prepare
asleep on his belly
your head in fur
don’t pull his hair
be ready for when he moves
he may laugh or eat you
don’t push
it’ll get there
just be ready to react
on your toes

poetry identification

a woman i am closely associated with
call her my wife for sake of argument
wanted to know why
what i write is poetry

i responded with the old adage
that by comparison if it looks like a duck,
waddles like a duck, quacks like a duck
then it’s poetry

frog winter

scooping leaves from the pond
where the sugar maple deposits them
there is a plunk in the water
it’s forty degrees this afternoon

who did I disturb but a frog
how can they live like that
sleeping in a plastic flower pot
submerged in the bottom of the pond

making a home for the winter
be solid as the ice through the snow
then come back chirping in the spring
well, rent is free, that I know

keys

Keyman made two keys for me
I looked him in the eye
guaranteed they are, he said
however, they didn’t work

not the guarantee I expected
but it would have been easier
i drove back with my receipt
laid it on the counter

looked him in the eye again
2.53 is what I paid
he also worked the cash register
after checking my receipt very carefully

he gave me back 2.83
i made thirty cents for my efforts
then knew that’s why neither key worked
Keyman needs a glasses tune up

the pool

we found a house to make into our home
near the local swimming pool
a year round facility
so far, so good

at the pool i spoke to the boss
who explained the moderate fees
his open smiling face content
as I gazed at my reflection

in over sized fogged windows
enclosing the grandiose pool
where water temperature is constant
at 88 degrees Fahrenheit

so much for that, i was hoping
to use the pool for swimming
i’ll place a kettle on the stove
if i want to make chicken soup

sweet dreams baby

sweet dreams baby
i’m on your side
hang on tight
for the nighttime ride
close your eyes
and you’re on the way
good night now
tomorrow’s another day

fortune cookie

all decisions you make today will be fortunate
my fortune cookie said that to me
that’s good, I’m up to here with gloomy
right now

this cookie’s a clear sign for me to put on my shoes
I’m leaving to buy my ticket for the lottery
pitching hard luck like old cracked pottery
right now

so, you been reading my poems, you see my style
then go ahead, write stanza four
there’s my other shoe, I’m out the door
right now

the horseback preacher

now and then in the backyard
i’ve found some things
worked up out of the soil
remnants, rusted tools,
fragments of bones, tarnished spoons

rubbing a piece of an old porcelain cup
i wonder was it Sam’s?
did they drink from this?
was it on their table?
a keepsake, a wedding gift?
to Sam and Emiline

our house was home
more than a century ago
to that horseback preacher
who lived into his eighties

when upon a time he rode
to country towns around
in all seasons
including beautiful falls like this one

sometimes in a buggy she went with
to see her family at the next town
making visits, they had little money
but, oh, friends were plenty, all knew him

he’d chat with them, stop at farms
inquire of families new animals
offer what consolation a preacher can
making the rounds

on the way in fall he and Em
would share a special apple, talk together
about the passing years, what they’d seen
their joys, heartaches, their fears

the great events, old times
and mention how seasons so quickly pass
he'd rein up, look off, then turn to her to say
my dear, it seems like only yesterday

until one day he closed his eyes the final time
and they came from miles around
to tuck him under
what is now the tallest monument in the old cemetery

next to his friends, town founders
just across the train tracks
into the shadows of the great trees
at the north border of our town
above the river

by the edge of the woods
and the end of the Indians
for his remains to spend new seasons
at his quiet spot
marking another bygone era

though even now, somewhere out there
with sweet fragrant light wind at his back
and golden sun on his smiling face
rides the spirit of the horseback preacher

some cloudy black moonless

some cloudy black moonless,
don’t be walking bumping
into trees or buildings,
wait, cities have streetlights

the electric companies
lay the wires, put up the poles, put in the bulbs
not 70 watts for illumination
1,000 watts every 200 feet, you pay for it

hey, they have a board of directors
and CEO’s and fine houses and servants and staff
and obligations and golden parachutes and
country clubs aren’t cheap, you know

even freeways toll booths are lit like a circus
forget that cars have headlights to find the way
there could be a crook walking around
hit one, go to jail and then get sued

someday they may light up the remaining forests
so bears don’t bump into trees
don’t worry, the complacent public will pay
anyway, more light gives confidence to drive faster

an explosion of color

an explosion of color
leaves to the ground
woke up this morning
that’s what I found

wet or dry red, yellow and orange
have your pick
this month only
take it quick

in farm Ohio
seasons explode
flowers, fruit and vegetables
patches loved, cared and hoed

and the sun goes round
makes light to dark
hear it, see it, taste it in nature’s park
so I’ve found

and I can read a book
eat a peaceful meal
sit back and praise existence
love is what I feel

zipping

like a dog in a car
riding face first
hanging halfway out the window
what a highway we’re zipping

on a ball sailing through space
throttle to the floor
don’t need a pedigree
any mutt can do it

this is big fun
i wanna do it often
my cheeks are flapping
hey, is anybody steering?

the beginning

In response to a comment to my post/poem from a few days ago called “began writing poetry” I thought - and thought is always such a good beginning - I thought to say more. The aforementioned little poem alluded to my start of writing poetry. Contrary to what was said in the blogged poem, I was not taking notes while watching a movie. It sounds good, and that's what poetry is about.

I began writing poetry exactly fifty years ago. Incredible.
Boom, boom, time passes.

A half century ago at this time of year I wrote a little booklet of 33 poems that I scribbled into a one edition volume and folded and stapled together. It seems a grandiose delusion to name that bit of hard paper cover and folded typing paper a volume. My friend Roy saw it and liked it, probably encouraged me. I had better quit my reminiscence before I bind the volume in my head in deer hide and put a brand on it with an iron I forged myself in shop class.

The sole surviving poem in my volume is the opening verse that served as explanation and introduction.

words with rhyme
that go
sometime
or not
which is to be
of course
the other way

That piece in the renown beat poetry style was the beginning from which I have not drifted too far, more or less.

worked in cleveland

two and a half years
worked in Cleveland on the lake
rode a gray commuter train
with season bundled sneezing strangers

looking out windows saw steeples
houses, factories or reading mostly
no one usually saw each other
or an overload of graffiti, i made notes

until train stopped under Macy’s
everyone crush-rushed bulb lit darkness
hung on, up the bouncing escalator
clamored into shopping central

passed the popcorn wagon, could smell it
waited a minute or two, snatches of conversation
caught a bus, the rapid, from the corner
got off on 30th, every day

big city
for this former small town guy
stone, steel, crowds and pretty
oh my

ufo

a researcher/author
approached an x- military man
who reportedly helped pick up ufo wreckage
at Roswell, New Mexico in 1947
the former officer wouldn’t talk

gave a tight-lipped grin
and shook his head
kept his mouth shut
he had taken an oath of secrecy

fifteen years later
when the former military man
was near death
he talked to the researcher

what he said
if taken to be true
exhibits how far ahead
the future may be

the man said find out how it flew
the crashed ufo
that they examined
had no moving parts

drive around

driving around late in the night
with nothing inside me
alone on the highway
headlights blind me

planning all the things i can do
with no one beside me
alone on the highway
the radio finds me

late at night i'm looking into space
with nothing inside
i still see your face
i cannot hide

as i ride around
in my worn out
beaten down
late model van

it was green and tan
i painted it blue
to match the sky
i don't know why
it reminds me of you

began writing poetry

at the local theater
when i was a kid
saw an old nineteen thirties movie
black and white, not great quality,
who knows where it was stored
an epic production, all so new then

filmed at dusk
the golden hour
with hundred of extras
and catering trucks

as the villagers, the Vandals
and an invading army
fought inside, over and along ancient castle walls
of course there were towers

no animals were hurt during the making of this
memory of when i began writing poetry
popcorn on the floor, i had fourteen years
before that i wasn’t at all serious

googlebot me

the googlebot has my number
i can practically look out through the blinds and see ‘em
flashing lights, sirens, scweaching tires
that’s the worst kind of tires, incidentally

but they can mail order a fix for
your home computer, only twenty-nine
ninety-five, this week only
cod, member f.d.i.c., r.s.v.p.

but they’re too sophisticated for that . . .
blam, blam
scuse me, someone is beating down my front door
with what sounds like a telephone poll

“come out with your hands bup.” it roboticized
oh, pshaw, do get your google butt out’a here, i screamed,
learn to depend on your Spell Check,
was that me or the robot talking?

Bad Poetry

Writing bad poetry is good conditioning.
You wonder if I feel bad when my poetry is lousy, no way.

If Tiger Woods put the ball in the hole every time he took a shot
they wouldn’t let him play any more.

leaves

a favorite page on the calendar is open
snaps, skips
clink trinkling down the street
see them skidding,

lifting, twisting, flying
hear changed colors run in ripples
an invisible toreador's cape brushes
bursting particles,

sound rushes golden on yellow
and reds,
green subdued or gone already
blue sky sunning, melting over

bursting particles
sticking in fences
sailors swept from the deck
rushing brushes like tossing seas

old tree witch silhouettes clawing to the clouds
shiver on winter’s cusp
cold cries warning
as October scatters on the wind

raking early

each year i plan the good plan
to wait until they all fall
let ‘em bleed red and orange,
rolling yellow and gold on the wind

it has only begun, any fool knows
there's more to come but i start early
clean every crackling thing
stay ahead of the game

until worn finished, sweating
then look back to see
every thing is a total mess
i scratch my chin

it’s a test, can’t let it be
the rake’s in my hand
the joke’s on me
i'll start again