the man in the moon

what you expect when you look up.

to home of the big shiny

in what is otherwise dark,

nearly black, but yeah

there’s color and i’m an artist, even we,

including Michelangelo Buonarroti who didn’t pump

red like blood under the sculpted fine Tuscan

Carrara marble  skin of the Pieta -

the  Madonna and dead Christ,  

have a tendency to round things off.

like i‘s saying, it was dark,

the pale  moon bright near white

or there abouts.

and low you have it

creeped down on the side is the face

as drawn in olden times, in antique mysterious hue 

as per the season, moisture content in the air,

time of night, cloud drift in the way, all of the above

come together, perfect, scary and complete;

needed only dreadful music, wind blowing

and black cat leaping, shrieking, but this is life

not hollywood remembers, not even a mouse

so, that’s how it goes

and went leaving

an impression on my mind;  

like an inside job wall brain stencil.

the air that i breathe

the air that i breath

thankful i am for the invention

and skies above

another fine intention

ground to walk on

amid the clutter of people

in city hub bub

seemingly without direction

as birds soar above

fish swim the sea

waters rain upon us

streams flow

frogs jump,

nearly hidden cats lurking, see all

here, where we can, on good days,

nap in the sun

Morning, noon and night doesn’t cover it.

It’s all before, during or after a meal.

columbus nimbus

columbus nimbus

first day this year in our skies

only one sky, really, but could have been fifty,

seems years since i’ve seen them like this

bursting, flaming red,orange,yellow, early morning gold

combined in rolling dough balls - like inflated balloons

over clowns and jugglers in the big new York city parade,

twisting, changing shapes as i watched;

the ropes holding them were city wires on poles

so they weren’t tied in the sky,  just added flavor.

fat, wonderful cartoon characters

sun- lit, puffy tumblers, changing shape;  practically on fire,

background blue sky patches,  white clouds too,

 oh, my,  yes.

love divine,  so fine,  all mine.

mornings like this do take me along.

of time

what is time, the time, anytime?

a second is not a heartbeat or a blink

for elephants, people, whales  nor  canaries.

suppose seconds were made too quick or slow,

then we really never know

what time it is.

days and nights you can bet on,

you see it light or dark;

but right about the time, are we?

how can seconds tick the same

when winter days are shorter

and summer days are longer.

yet different at the poles, you know,

depending on the time of year.

(there is time again, the walking shadow)

the world  not perfectly round in shape or orbit, spinning, leaning.

as much as we depend on them

clocks are overvalued and  underdeveloped.

when this world agrees on little,

who declares what is an hour; how many in a day,

a month, in a year?

and everyone shaking heads in agreement?

convenient, for sure, but is it true?

while baseball is something you can depend on,

of that there is no doubt,

no matter how quick or slowly it goes -

three strikes and you’re out.

friendliness of the sun

there is friendliness  of the sun

when mornings parting clouds,

pouring in the window,

a glowing yellow beam,

leaning the same spot

on the wall

feeling the floor,

slowly stretching  like a cat

shifting as the hours pass

until gone from east window glass

doing sky work for the day, then back again

wakeup  time tomorrow

circle me darling with your arms;

i’d say morning to night,

but it’s really hard to walk around that way.

frog vision

desiring to do it right
i didn't want to gamble
training these new frogs
M. said they are the same frogs

i don't know how she's so damn sure
for one thing they're bigger
she said they grow like a tomato
maybe she means they soak up rain like a sponge

anyhow, M. reads quite a bit, like a sponge
so i asked her about f rog vision
is it 20-20
she thought a second
then said: 50-50

well, i put an eye chart out there
it floats
they lie on it
and seem to like it
i'd grade them high
for floatability

their vision is still a question
so even if they grow and
could reach the pedals
i don't think they're ready
for the keys to the car

on the Internet it says they can see clearly
for about six inches
if they can't see any better than that
i'm going to quit waving at 'em

frogs are

in a manner of speaking - frogs are green

but are not rookies.

two, three, four, five, six  out there,

count ‘em.

they aren’t watching TV

don’t read the paper

or catch info on the Internet.

so  how do they  know what month it is?

do they note the stars as the Mayans did?

they do react to the seasons;

and so how do i know what they’ll do soon?

cause i know.  they’re predictable.

oh, no!  i have to watch it . . .

cause poetry shouldn’t be  full of questions,

should it?   but full of frogs is okay.

isn’t it?

a little night mystery

middle of the night

the window was open

two lots north the little white dog barked

nothing  unusual about that

i know the voice

the clock said three

when seconds later, - to the south

and one house west

it was the old dog with the muffled voice

who sounds like he barks into an oatmeal box.

it didn’t end there.

as then, in our backyard pond, the main frog

who had been quiet for several hours

suddenly took up the call.

i never knew what got them going.

i don't care

i don’t care how tough it is

and no,  i don’t like it rough

i’m not that way;

i like it easy.

ok, so i make mistakes,

everyone does and i’m included,

but  taking what life gives me

i’ll work it around until it feels good.

you don’t have to tell me hard roads happen

but i won’t give up,  never have, i’m not that type,

not when i can see the light,

not when with work i can make it right.