here now

here now, this is Roma, this time.
the Buddha said -
all life is suffering.
maybe he had been here.

from a downtown bus i saw
a disheveled old lady on the sidewalk
seated legs out, smoking, drinking a beer,
talking and no one listening.

passed an old coffee bar,
where we had many coffees.
transformed, now it’s called Bali Way,
selling the true meaning of tourist junk.

the two old ladies in their eighties
who lived twenty years with shopping carts
outside, on the corner, by the train station,
are gone with no trace.

a decade ago taxis numbered four thousand,
now there are eight thousand.
is this why there are so few buses?
i walked, not for health, merely to get me there.

stopped where a friend
will open an art show in January
the owner gave me a ficus leaf.
said it is for luck.

the weather in Roma is like Ohio
much of the time.
then, there are other things
that are different.

i could cry.

i don't know these fish

though i see them everyday.
we’ve nothing to say
i don’t know these fish.
not personally.

the sight of them brings me joy.
enough to smile a hi.
to expect reply,
is not my wish.

they’re in my pond
where they were born.
here they live in relative safety.
for a fish, that’s living - big time.

this morning it was above freezing, barely.
they were drift floating
in sun- lit clear water,
low, by the stems of the water lilies,
taking the appearance of
orange and white ornaments
on the tranquil filaments
of an underwater holiday tree

no motion.
i don’t blame them.
a living still life
with nowhere to go.
a happy day for them?
would they know?

winter is a month away,
when it will be frozen Ohio cold.
yes, the fish will be fine.
it’s nice of you to ask.
and when water warms
they’ll wake to swim again.
i’ll see them in the spring.

Kindled Spirit

so long used book sale at the library
you won’t have me to kick around,
for i’ve a Kindle. i think that’s how they spell it,
i’ll check and let you know.

ok, so, now i’m all out head down walking,
cause i’m reading.
going along without wires
like the circus aerial performer without a net,

only it’s not glide-walking overhead,
it’s normal reading.
all right then, not exactly like the circus.
so never mind,

except it’s great.
now, step aside,
i’ve a Kindle,
and that is how to spell it, exactly.

so long now, I’ve got to sink into it.
oh, by the way, M. got it for me.
it was very nice of her
to belly flop me into the 21st Century.

i'd rather write of specifics

i’d rather write of specifics,
where i’ve been, what i’ve seen,
like places on Blue Mountain
where walking’s so serene.

have i ever mentioned Crystal Spring
where rushed the clearest water ever?
the cleanest taste, the greatest feel,
it made my ankles cold to play in.

my thoughts must hold for minutes there,
for every where’s distraction,
calling me, calling me
for just an hour’s action.

fix my shingle screams the one,
then i think i’ll fall over, sites another,
i’m sure i’m a good idea, calls a third
and you’d better plan for me, recites one more.

take a note: i’m sure i like four lines best,
they tuck neatly in the nest.
to right a line until it's tight, and then another.
sister sight, sister smell, and sound the brother.

to me alligators

to me alligators don’t slither
they bask, in sun sleepy tired.
i’ve seen that in round moats at the zoo.
them, being admired.

Frost

i figured something out, a little, i did.
my blog comments are out of order,
i think i didn’t reset something from Rome time.
don’t know what, or how to correct this.

so Annie’s second comment on that post
way back, that mentioned Tom, got ahead of mine.
either i’m slow, or she’s swift and nibble.
maybe both.

you got’a watch these little people.
and never trust a librarian anyway.
Oh, Annie, i was teasing you.
you know that, don’t you?

okay, now a story to tell.
i have a college professor friend, Rob Smith, who won
the Robert Frost poetry contest three years ago.
wait, i just remembered something . . .

Howdy Dowdy, the TV puppet –
his best friend was Buffalo Bob Smith,
no relation i suppose. anyway,
i’m sitting on a frost-like poem.

a poem more like Robert Frost than Robert Frost,
so if his mother read it she’d yell,
“Robert get home, supper’s on the table getting cold,
and wipe your feet a’fore you come in.”

well, this year, fifty years after i wrote it
i submitted my poem to the Frost Foundation contest.
unfortunately, there are no letters after my name.
so scratch me up simply as s.o.l.

now, the following is the poem.
it wasn't acknowledged in the contest,
but for me it’s a winner.
printed here for the first and maybe the last time.

Geeze, i wait a life time
and now here it is:

Knowledge: is what i call it


Since man’s meager time on earth
A period quite concise
We’ve sought to find our collective worth
And never are precise.

It seems that none who’ve suffered birth
Have been able to entice
Knowledge to enter at full girth
Or, to take one’s own advice.

the sugar maple

the sugar maple
in lemon lime,
will change to gold,
pointing up leaf toes

to float away, away.
scattering and running,
skidding brittle rattles
on brisk wind in sun.

the season’s begun
an extravagant show all,
yielding full colors.
the wonder of fall.

plunder seekers

it was Squirrely Girl
eating nuts fast as she can.
packing on a little weight,
getting ready for winter.

reminds me of the way
my wife goes through
the sales table at the clothing store.
head down, no looking 'round, all business.

we give her peanuts now,
the squirrel i’m talking about,
she has a long winter ahead.
then, so do we all.

at least M. & i don’t live outside
with no soft blankies,
riding out blowing snow storms
somewhere high up in a tree.

crosses on the side of the road

crosses on
the side of the road
mark the spot
where someone died.

as old as earth is,
if there was a cross
everywhere a death occurred
the world would be
packed with sticks.

you could hardly
walk or drive anywhere.
it’d be tough to get from
here to the bathroom.

so how are you
supposed to
have a nice day
?

you are the winner

the biggest award i can imagine
is about sixteen feet long
shaped like and made entirely of ground hot dogs
you could put wheels on it

and roll it into a bonfire
and eat it with mustard
or wrap it up, stand on top, wave to all
and call it “have a nice day”

using Palin

they’re using Palin
to jump-start the GOP.
she’ll do whatever, for
cash, check or money order.

with new faces upcoming, the GOP
doesn’t want to be left on the outside,
the good old boys want business as usual,
cash check or money order.

money is the game & money breeds power.
jeeze i write this stuff and
it gives me the willies - i’d prefer
cash, check or money order.

old stuff

some of my old stuff is special,
that’s why i keep it, plus -
i may need it someday.
that’s a possibility.

for sure, once i liked the objects,
enough to pile them around, pack ‘em in,
mixed with decoy common items.
that way my good stuff doesn’t stick out
and look obviously valuable.

it waits huddled in drawers.
including bells, knobs, hinges,
screws, levers, nuts and springs,
buttons, rope and wires,
wall hooks, unidentifiable gizmos and rulers,

in boxes, wooden, or cardboard.
on shelves, or piled in dark corners.
there’s chipped obsidian arrow heads,
beach shells, stones, bits of bones.
admittedly, some objects better than others,
all have been around the block.

souvenir pottery from Mexico,
old brushes that will be okay
if and when i clean ‘em some day.
worn shoes i may never wear again.
maps to locations i once thought to visit,
books, pamphlets from places no longer in business,
an old cowboy hat once treasured,
though i doubt i’ll ever have a horse
or be that young again.

yesterday i came upon two wooden coins,
one good for a beer at a bar burned down years ago.
on the other wooden coin is printed "one vote",
i know nothing more about it.
they are coins of equal non value.

the line between the good
and junky miscellaneous is fine,
a delicate distinction of subtle reason.

some objects that i hold
i’ll decide the fate of
some other season.

most things squirreled away,
though unimportant now,
evidently, upon a time,
once, had significance.

someday

someday entertainment
will be a lifetime,
a multidimensional movie.
viewed from beginning to end,

the whole, walk-in, big screen enchilada.
from birth, through baby time,
holidays, family, school, playing,
growing up, dating, marriage.

family again, see 'em grow,
middle age rush,
old age creeping in,
and then the final curtain.

take it with a soft drink
and box of popcorn.
chew slowly,
digest a lifetime.

cell phone dilemma

major red alert,
cell phone is missing -
the pulse of my life line.
gone but not forgotten.

went back where i had coffee.
questioned everyone repeatedly.
most seemed honest in their replies.
evidently i didn’t leave my phone there.

staggered home dejected.
instead of crying right away,
dumped big trash can in the drive.
two cops driving by stopped to watch.

i put it all back,
took a half hour,
searching the sticky mess
a piece at a time.

then brilliant idea
struck like lightening. wow.
i asked the cops to call my cell number
and put it on speakers in their car.

if the rat face sleaze at the coffee place answers
i’ll recognize his wheezy voice.
from the squad car they let me dial,
misdialed my cell number several times.

chatted with interesting people,
talked longer with the nice ones
a few wrong numbers were angry,
cops were growing impatient.

i suggested, “Lend me a dollar, i’ll call
for a medium pizza, split it three ways,
if you drive us to pick it up.”
cops were unhappy.

head down, i kept dialing.
finally got the right number.
two seconds later
my pocket rang.

one branch

one branch, some leaves
still green, connected
one trunk, some roots
unseen, inspected
by me, one day
still young, and aching
for answers, to questions
one moment, then nothing

why is there symmetry?
my eyes make it so
why is there hurry?
with no where to go
why not be nameless?
can there be formless?
sand grains all different
no snowflakes repeat
rain drops the same
each circle complete

in wood times - reprise

in wood times i've spent walking
gathering colors, tasting sounds
by ferns, tall grass, and animals
under the forest canopy, making rounds

flushing pheasants as i go
they streak off in a line
then to stop, a place i know
amid green berries on the vine

wild white rolling clouds above
reflect the light, contrast the blue
in nature's time i touch the love
and symmetry by which things grew

the wind plays light and sweet
with mint and closer scents
honeysuckle and wildflower complete
the multicolored firmament

at a small creek bank i pause to drink
and there, witness life within
a small plant reaches water's brink
the shoots are young and thin

where hours pass i cannot say
the sun marks shadows on the land
little voices beg me to stay
i promise trees, i'll come again

reprise

the writer's life, both of them

the little woman is telling me
a writer’s life’s too narrow
sighted only on what he can see
i see it like a winged sparrow

while the powerful princess whacks away
i’ve got to write my own, you see
let’s lift our hats to the writers work
without the Mcmurtrys where would we be

the saga ends all to soon
give me the great stories and actors to play
winter’s gone, it’s nearly June
be content writers know what to say

the words fly on like a wounded sparrow
as thought lines soar, rush and dart
nearly downed by the random arrow
coming to rest, so near the heart

i’ll labor on long as i am able
the ship goes down while runs the rat
i hear her say, “supper’s on the table”
now tell me, how’d she do that?


Tuesday, April 08, 2008

just riding

M. driving, just riding i am.
only an hour.
feet up, back seat down time.

rain barks the glass. wipers beating,
sweeping water like sawdust chunks
and it takes me away,

under a dark arch of rain.
to the right a lonely fragment of blue sky.
behind us now. bye bye.

rolled into a service station. found:
a packed full, third- world construction zone,
where at the pumps the customer does the service.

major concrete cutting- saw noise
and white cement-dust clouds
blanket everyone and the dozen cars gassing up.

take me out,
lay me face up
toward the stars at night.

no wonder why i daydream
po box Wyoming, big sky country,
instead of living the reality.

to escape within the city.
tumbling along,
a little pretty, a little gritty.

it’s the kinda day makes me wanna
put my pen and notebook down,
buy a TV, fall into it, frown,

then close my eyes.
and hum my head off an on, in tune
with the background static.

1876

my first eighteen years
i lived in an old house across
from the old town hall, erected
the later part of the 19th Century.

the tall stone structure was planed,
erected and engraved with the year,
one hundred years after
the signing of the US Constitution.

along the line, i am sure,
people worked hard, even
fudged a bit with the timing,
and were pleased it came out that way.

1876 was carved in stone
for all to see, prominently
high on the face of the building,
just below the roof top towers.

from across the street i saw it
everyday i looked.
of course, it was there
even days i didn’t look.

though years have passed, and I’m sixty-five,
my feelings for that building haven’t changed.
i respected that old place.
they knew what they were doing.

now the house i lived in and that town hall,
along with the rest of downtown,
since, have been torn down.
urban renewal they called it,

and got new police fire and city quarters
a new post office out of it, and the old bank.
things like stores, several restaurants
many bars, two drugstores,

ice cream shops, newsstand,
parking, the movie theater, the dairy,
public restroom and benches,
the old hotel, things for the little people

were taken away,
not to be returned.
now there’s space
in their place.

after my forty years away,
i’m back, one street over
and a few blocks down,
living in a home dating from 1838.

in 1876 a prominent citizen and minister
was halfway through the
forty-one years
he had lived here.

the town hall was called the opera house
where shows and meetings were held.
i know the Reverend Samuel Marks
co-founder of the Mason’s Lodge

buried under the tallest monument in
the old cemetery,
i know that Marks
had visited that beloved hall.

thus giving new significance to me,
for a once-prominent building
in this town,
that isn’t anywhere.

suddenly, i’m old
and among the last
to remember the village,
and that beloved old building.

i will fondly remember
the old town hall and the life
the way it was; until i too, wash
into wherever memories go.

in what i've said there is nothing new.
it’s what old people always, have done
and do holding dear to precious history,
bringing to mind how it used to be.

same fields

same fields
different crops.
roads have grown,
they’re wider.
lots.

and lots
fewer stars at night,
so many cars
more trucks,
stacked double- deck trailors.

a freeway goes through now
the middle of where farms used to be.
where i knew green
so long ago

when my friends family
plowed long days.
where Indians lost arrow heads
right over there
and years later just walking along
we found them.
it was so easy
a kid could do it.

at dusk we helped
and closed the gate
when good dog
brought the cattle in from pasture.

we drank fresh cider
from great barrels
and slept between hay bales
in the barn

now in those same fields
the farm is gone
a golf course has come,
new houses have popped out of the ground
quick as mushrooms in the spring.

a neighbors’ dog
barks at night inside the house
to be let outside to pee.
if he’s a guard dog
he must be guarding the TV,

whatever you do -
Don’t touch that dial!
blink and you could miss
what is coming next
in these same fields.