not by the clock

not by the clock
nor sun’s final ray
the arch of the moon,
or shadows of what others say

will i change pace
for what I write
tumbling, veering, loose in space
off to places beyond sight

freely setting it’s own course
running when and where it might,
a sleek dark horse takes me where i go
with no remorse, I sleep well at night

dreamed i was

i dreamed i was someone else, you see
i said my name
and it wasn’t the same
when i looked she was where she ought to be

it never before happened to me
cause i was in the right place
it must have been a case
of mistaken identity

intention

friend Tom called to mention
i didn’t post a poem that day
well, he’d missed mine, i’d say
and every day was my intention

it had been a year then i forgot,
simply, other things were going on
i wasn’t playing the sleeping pawn
a prognosticator i am not

i missed a day without remorse
now i’ll hop back on track
and write a stack
of poems, you see, i will, of course

Walker - one wholey knight

Walker Texas ranger in Italian
with the volume down
no messing around
the man’s a stallion

the show starts with a mess of guys
getting beat up by the ranger
and other helpers, no stranger
than the fact that no one dies

the old man sneezes
they take him to hospital
where he wears his hat, sitting tall
in bed, i mean, Jesus,

he stays there until he mends
walker beats up more of the bad
fellows, and i’m glad
i don’t watch until the program ends

i know the final score
Walker beats up everyone bad
and of this i’m glad
i’ve seen the show before

how can i best explain

how can i best explain
the trees and trails
the woods with clean water hills
that i knew in my youth

oh, somewhere there is a partial picture
that shows a wooded area
but it doesn’t taste of seasons
it doesn’t show the turtles in fall
the thin ice of winter
pollywogs in spring
or sasafrass roots in summer

when we were ten we listened to the frogs
in the forgotten pond
we dug forts and swung on vines
walked over the creek on the trunk of fallen giants

our highway was an overgrown remnant of
the old street-car bed
we knew it well, we read its signs
a garter snake, a portion of broken tie
the occasional bend

i may never mention it again
but hope some day to take you there

teach the children

if my kid’s kids lived next door door
instead of next moon moon
i’d stop in and say hi or they would
i’d teach them to do and quietly enjoy

to notice birds watching them
even the cat who sometimes isn’t really sleeping
keeps an eye on them
i’d try, i would, but example is the only way

for kids do as their parents
mine are destined
to continue the line
of doing lucky well

they have grown middle aged now
with families of their own
and live far away
my teaching is over

click, click

i'll put it here for you
once in a while we’ll click
you and i click. . . click,
click, rolling the same track

there is no order
no turning back on the blog
keep sifting drifting through
find something in the fog written for you

too bad it’s not leather bound
so you could hear the click of turning pages
and feel the weight of thick
paper on your fingers as you leaf

until then, brief poems will continue
to fall like drips from a faucet
into a pan – dap – dip –dap
scroll on down the hall amici, you can