strange how we've made God

strange how we've made God
into our image and likeness,
when we were definitely taught
it was the other way around.

tough time

tooling down the road
a wild turkey on the right,
standing where you’d be
if you were thumbing a lift.

i blew past him doing fifty plus.
geeze, he was big. big as a dog.
had he heard of the oil spill, do any of them know?
is that why he was out walking? was he stunned?

this is a tough time
appalling, unequaled.
great damage has been done
to the waters, to the life, to the earth.

and we are the caretakers.
oh, what we have we have left for our children,
this legacy we’ve created,
all for pieces of silver.

i thought to continue to write here, to divert attention
away from thoughts of great sadness - disaster.
let me tell you - it isn’t easy, it is sad.
nothing is easy now. so sad.

first squirrel time

out on the back porch
saw the mother squirrel
for the first time this year.
didn’t recognize her, they look the same.

in the center of the back yard
her back to me,
sitting up, chewing something.
i went way around right so as not to disturb.

around the pond,
then saw the frog.
the big one, on a lily pad,
watching me.

i said he was there
to meri on the other side,
who saw the red squirrel,
and went inside to get some nuts.

was soon feeding the squirrel
who i noticed was very pregnant
but stayed one foot near.
remembered us evidently.

both returnees from last year season.
as we fed nuts to the squirrel,
big frog made his noise,
wanting a little attention also.

the frogs use a good calendar

the frogs use a good calendar,
cause right on time they’ve begun.
all last night the big one did a low “earp”
on the average of once every thirty seconds it sung.

at 24 to 36 second intervals
average 30 seconds between each “earp”.
window open, while lying in bed,
three a.m. i was counting it off.

it is temperature with crickets that
determine the number of chirps per minute.
cricket chirps in 14 seconds plus 40
equal the exact temperature in Fahrenheit

with no external ears frogs either hear well
or the subsonic particles of their call travels far.
the nearest other pond is a quarter mile,
and when it rains they come and go a hopping.

number of cricket chirps in 8 seconds
plus 3 determine temperature in Celsius,and that's it.
frog croaks per minute change with temperature, however,
Celsius or Fahrenheit formulas can't determine jack shit.

at times i wonder - Reprise

I've over a thousand poems on line now, a thousand was my goal since I was a kid,
so I'll be slowing the out put now, and will concentrate on some other creative endeavors.

Thanks to everyone who has stopped to read a few and offered support.

Here's something I put on the web Wednesday, October 15, 2008, It's lyrics to a song I wrote in the late 70s, but never did anything with, but have played it for my friends. The words still hold water.

To all, continued best wishes, Jack Sender


at times i wonder how the old boys are doing
and the ladies i met along the way
we had our moments and our pleasures
seems like it was just the other day

there were some good times that i thought were never ending
sometimes i think just like a child
they say the nights are colder when you’re older
i guess we’ll find out in just a while

take good care of your self you’re a lot like me
take good care of yourself you’ve been good company
and when i thought it wouldn’t end
there’s nothing now like there was then

once in a while when a cold wind is blowing
i’ll ride off on some memory
i may visit you when you're sleeping
don’t mind it’s just a fantasy

the gears of time are always shifting
there’s nights i wake in dreams so real
like the tide i keep on drifting
just telling you now so you know how i feel

take good care of yourself you’re a lot like me
take good care of yourself you’ve been like family
if my life was a book too torn to mend
i’d flip back to see how it would end
and if i never see your face again
here’s wishing you only good luck 'til the end

THIS IS BIG POND

What d’ya got?

Read ‘em an weep,
four frogs up, partner.

Tell M. to get inside.
‘N somebody git the sheriff,
tell’m they’ve holed up in da pond yonder.

I seen that big’en before,

Big frog looks like an outlaw.
A renegade.
Holding steady, hands set to draw.
Easy – easy – keep your hands where I can see ‘em mister.

Tell M. to get inside.

Ah, I did already.

Tell her again.

Hell, look at that, all four sit hunched like gunmen.

And women!

Women?

Hell yes. They don’t hold no count to who’s what’s men and who’s what’s women
cept’n during courtin’, then all bets off!

look - They all dress the same.

It’s a gang.

murmer, murmur, murmur.

The medium aren’t as threatening, and the widdle widdle
tiny one is . . . well, cute.

Back in the house, M.

Earp!
Last night I heard ‘ that big one
was callin’ Wyatt out, all night.
Earp!

quick, Wilbur. what month do you have?

eh. Month is May.

May?

S’ what I said.

Was just repeating . . . May ? . . .
We gots us a month and a half a’fore a courtin’s over.

appears they’re a fixin’ fer a hullabaloo!

anyone ever call you Sherlock!

To be convoluted. . .

a rural ohio spin

like slippin’ into old shoes,
i know the feeling, know the place;
for sure a different pace
in the spin of the entire human race.

take this sunny weekend afternoon, for instance –
a drive, only two cars, me and another
out there in the wide open rolling way-back.
window down, country wind in my hair,
and this guy's ahead of me.

i tell ya, out there is where you find
those who drive like . . .
like penguins waltz.
hang on, baby, it is the Nutcracker.

for as speed marked fifty-five,
plain as day on the sun lit sign,
the guy in front of me thinks thirty-five is doin’ fine.
that’s what i was talking about - a real Nutcracker.

umpteen miles later, we came finally
to a welcome v in the road,
thank god and pumpkins he goes the other way.
adios and Umgawa, may the force be with you Farmer Who.

oh, and road sign now says reduce speed to thirty-five.
ok then, i’m used to it, been warmed up doing that
for quite a while now; only now
there’s another guy in front of me, a new one.
he is doing twenty, i kid you not.
evidently thinks that’s plenty.
sakes alive. stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.

divert him, that’s my wish.
someone please - throw him a fish.
just pass him by and lob one out the window.
when he sees it bounce on the road
i know he’ll stop and go for it,
at least for a Smell Check -
that's what critters do.

this reality

this reality
as i see it
is ours
to gently mold.

each piece
a part of the whole.
remember to walk easy
as our lives develop.

you and i decode
the day,
whether wet
or cold

or ray of sun,
softly caressing our cheek
and behold -
the whole human race

taking parts
like flower petals
unfolding to become,
as wishes truly are our horses.

misdirected

I.

the seasons are variable.
don’t know if it is warmer before colder,
or colder before hotter.
close the window anyway.

hah, and you think this is a diary?
it is: of disinformation and the like;
with possibility to forecast severe weather, predict
elections and ball scores. still working on horse race results.

wait a minute, the window sticks.
i know it is the weather;
any weather will do, or won’t
– as in: window won’t open.

II.

the aggregate outlook remains unpredictable,
as churning beach sand under pounding waves,
turning clouds belly up, masking out the stars.
so dark now i have to count on my fingers.

III.

hah, and you think this is a dairy; nearly so.
we drive by a field with sheep each day
where the new ones are a plenty now.
we saw a mother lick off a tiny lamb just arrived.

good for the farmers and the 4H club.
they still have a hand on the soil, thank goodness.
rains are good for them
in reasonable measure.

IV.

you think maybe I just pull these poems out of a box
ha – a thousand times ha!
i grind this stuff out
the way someone grinds bones

okay, so i don’t know who grinds bones
but i’m sure where there’s money to be made
someone is doing it. so in warning:
watch your bones.

going, going

while taking the whistling graffiti marked train
the grey way across town, clack clack,
the exasperated bald headed man ten rows ahead angrily barks,
i hear every word of his cell phone conversation.

then from someone beyond,
through the door open to the train car behind,
paint peeling blaring terrible mechanical music
the kind of Steven King’s mad amusement park

got my attention;
redirected it inward, whir, clack, clack,
recalling bygone days when civil people
respected others space and tranquility.

what am i telling you for?
you don’t appear unaware to me,
you must have a modicom of sensitivity
hell, you’re even reading poetry.

robins - a lesson

I.

May isn’t easy.
not for all
as i saw
from the kitchen window.

chill wind blew as
wet slicked mother and father robin
work diligently in hard late afternoon rain
taking turns, to and from

the partially sheltered nest
to keep the kids protected,
parents fly off in turn, and then return.
dad just gave a worm to the young .

i watched as it
grew darker and cooler.
the rains slackened,
the robins didn’t.

II.

i would guess the two birds met recently.
i have no idea when or where.
maybe they were having a drink somewhere
or pulling on opposite ends of the same worm

they aren’t related, though maybe with robins it
doesn’t matter. genetically they aren't going anywhere.
from their dedication to each other
you would think they are star crossed lovers.

they have no religious ceremony, in fact,
no known religion, art or music.
only small nothings to each other,
and the humming of the earth.

no games or TV, can’t read. their apparent entertainment
is activity. seeing what is around, and the work they do.
they are here for the complete apparent purpose of
finding food and caring for their young.

salt and bar - my song

mr. safety town i am
but let her drive anyway,
and put my arm out for additional signal.
it rained well this May morn.

contractors said it must be done to code ,
electrical outlets every 2 ½ feet,
enough room heating ducts to fry bacon
cooling sufficient for a polar bear circus.

notes on life start with a B flat.
my times and observations,
write that down, some are joys
and, yes, aggravations. stay with me.

reviewing a few of my league deep of poems,
(that’s six feet in terms of water depth)
surprised myself, there are more than i recall
but the stuff is me, and i like water by the way.

make a note: sometime when i was a kid
i told myself i’d write a thousand,
figured it’d be about the number and it is.
so if the kid was a wiz – well, what the hell happened?

then the cell phone rings and they’re telling me
i win free digital hook up that is going to be required by law,
and M. is telling me to hang up cause it's costing money
on the cell phone; but they said we won something.

i guess i shouldn't trust telephoning strangers.
did they have my number
or was it a just lucky chance call that they got to me?
where was i? about here, i’d say:

you can find pieces and make more
but a thousand poems is a fair guess
at the total number, more or less,
overall, i did my best, so did i pass the test?

note: i like the funny
always have
and the running like the river ones
makes me glad. oh, there’s water again.

i thank my mom and dad for not stoppin’ me,
and all the blood generations for centuries down;
and if i had another choice i think i might’a
been a red nose, funny hair, big shoes clown.

oh pshaw not really, forget the clown thing.
that didn’t last long.
to paraphrase my friend old Lonesome -
what i say you better divide by two.

and whatever time you put into reading this
is your business, i think mostly monkey business,
but i’m grateful and other things , etc. etc.
okay, now let’s go sip something refreshing

say, did i ever tell you
you remind me . . .
oh, never mind. M. would say hang up now
cause it could cost us both money.

age of technology

could get a new TV
sit for hours
take popcorn showers,
go dizzy spinning channels.

or in this era of inquisitive technology
forget about watching TV
go about my day
and let the box view me.

may and it's cold out.

may and it’s cold out.
winds and stormy rains i expect,
but the lawn and the flowers and the frogs
. . . waiting for the warm, so are we. we are.

yeah, they’’re years like this.
mark this down, one o ‘em;
not as what we want; nothing we’ll remember fondly.
don't plant til end of may is what they say.

so i drove her to the store.
waiting at the red light, waitin’.
they won’t turn on red.
i wait three lights to get on with it.

in the parking lot see phil,
tell her go on i’ll be in a minute.
caught up with phil, we talked, yeah;
good to see the old man.

heard about neighbors from back then,,
jus' caught up sayin’ nothing.
n ‘our heads we ‘valuate, and it’s'all fine.
old guys saying hi.

so, we went to the store
and we went home.
still cold.
saw Phil.

the all new plan

whatever it is,my wife finds anything out of line,
anything at all, she’ll be pissed
doesn’t matter what it is.
hope there’s nothing i’ve missed.

i’ve got to anticipate, that means
clean up after myself, not make a mess
and keep her kissed . . . well, at least amused.
no one gets a free ride round here,

not even the frogs. not these days,
and make them damn robins pay
for all the worms they’re taking;
those dirty dirt peckers.

and i’m turning myself a new leaf, sure enough,
starting first thing tomorrow if i can,
well, tomorrow afternoon at the latest,
you can bank on it, cause that’s the plan.

so you may not recognize me,
cause i’ll be the one all the time head down an working, an I’m not
jerking you around, that’s for certain, well, that is the plan.
i’m the new man til they pull the final curtain, practically.
wa ya'think?

pilgrims cry

was a file
kept with my others.
title looked intriguing,
opened it,

nothing inside,
only a title.
i thought it would grow
from that small beginning

it didn’t; so what does that tell me?
writing beginnings can sit for a long time
unlike buds in spring or leaves in the fall that let go.
i made a sandwich to stall and consider.

had a model of the mayflower when i was a kid,
from the bar in a restaurant my folks took me to.
don’t remember ever playing with that ship
but i had it for a while, or at least i think i did.

now, pilgrims,
you're not usually thought about in May,
you are a story, seems from forever so long ago,
and should be remembered more, 's what i say.

you were before trains, TV, traffic,and airplanes,
when our country was land full of trees,
a lot of rolling earth, Indians and lightening bugs,
and many down sloping clean, fresh running streams.

good night kisses and motherly hugs,
that’s how it was done. now don’t you cry, pilgrims,
you did yours starting out and getting us here. thanks
from the generations that followed in the Mayflower's wake.

there’s still trouble with religion, war, and government,
the same old woes do go on; and like others in their time,
you know, we too did both our job and made a bit of mess.
patching, between accomplishments, an living with the stress.

guy problems

icebergs are melting,
great globs of trash are floating in the oceans,
the universe is expanding or shrinking ;
scientists have conflicting notions.

is it hotter
or colder,
what’s going on;
and what about the economy?

more than i can handle sometimes.
though i can squeak by knowing two things:
is what i have on okay?
and, what’s for dinner?

i thought chili peppers were hot

i thought chili peppers were hot,
that was the story, just hot.
then i ate a few,
okay, maybe more than a thousand.

not all at once, you know,
only if you add them up. a lot of them
in my lifetime, you see;
and what i got was an understanding

and an appreciation
for peppers in general.
sounds like a civil war commander
General Pepper,

and i did work for an old Pepper too.
Bill, he was from Kentucky.
Waddy, Kentucky to be exact.
How would i possibly remember that;

except that he wrote a song and
wanted me to help make it a hit, no kidding.
he called it - Move your Body to the Waddy.
and i thought i was making this up.

well, maybe with the Internet
and who know what all,
Bills words will live long, on into dark nights,
down rolling hills and by bushes where animals call;

but i swear it is true as clear water
gushing out of a mountain stream;
tasteless yet refreshing,
but no way a hit, you know what i mean?

all this takes us back to peppers
or at least me, where i began, it does.
i’ll sprinkle red hot ones on my food
cause it gives my mouth that happy buzz.

they were eating pepper five thousand years ago
in the Americas, that’s a fact;
and they stayed cause they are good,
but i don’t have to tell you that.

come on Bill, let’s make a song of it,
for the mountains and the trees and the birds
and the new people who came over and started
this up, along with and especially for, the Indians.

on Pasquali's family business

daughter.
good cooking daughter
satisfied to be there,
smiles when she sees us,
serves us well and plenty.

son.
son seems content in his labor
finding his own self,
following his father’s way;
stays on task throughout the day.

husband.
Pasquali is the quintessential good guy,
out there, friendly and happy,
he’ll stop and talk;
sits down with us if it’s slow.

wife.
don’t rush to pay if you see her,
now here’s the real score,
when old wifey takes the cash
it always costs a little more.

as a measure of time

as a measure of time,
tables - use old wood to build them,
or poems that i scratch out;
the tables aren’t much.

just made a small one
to hold my keyboard nicely,
the computer keyboard,
not the piano.

the piano sits well enough already
on the floor in the other room
where it ought to be,
like you, like me,

in place where we ought to be.
can i measure time building tables,
make a clock of it? there are pictures
to paint, engravings to do, and writing, eh.

all comes from within like breathing country air
and i let it out as it happens.
need i direct it more, control
and make a neat scene

or continue to write poems at random,
then build something,
paint something,
read or write when it happens?

at least, at most,
i am happy about it,
like life in the city
and many people to talk with;

what they do is their affair.
i keep head down with what i do,
although she has mentioned that
we don’t need another table.

rising early in the morning
in stillness, alone,
far trains passing
clocks ticking, tripping silence.