the beatles era

they sprang up on the radio,
came from long away.
there was a lot of talk
about their haircuts

and they knocked us out
with Hard Days Night and so many other songs.
John, Paul, George and Ringo;
we even knew their names.

acres of words have been written
about them and their wonderful music.
oh, they were big, so very big
we sang their songs and loved them.

from my window

seen from my window
a blackbird with nerve, now swooping,
chasing a young, small squirrel.
relentless in pursuit .

in my life i have been content,
consistently. others have noticed,
commented on my optimism;
somehow always on the sunny side.

that was once upon a time,
though now i am sad, without purpose,
finding this cloak of darkness
difficult to wear.

though i would not be a burden.
there are no friends to care. in dread
i’m lacking in the experience of,
I find this heavy sadness hard to bare,

squirrels come and go with seasons
the blackbirds never are their friends
yet they nearly get along at times,
you’d think their story never ends.

time has passed since i wrote the lines above
rain and snow’ve both come and gone.
as sleep and food and time
have moved us right along,

and i’ve rolled in the waves of mirth.
rode out storms, i’m back from the dread.
now there is sun, by gosh, i feel it
once more; i’m ready to take wing and fly along.

m.

she’s good.
real damn good
cooking, cleaning, sewing,
her gardens, flowers, vegetables.

can work harder, longer
sweat more
do it right and better
than i can.

so why do i
have to walk around the house
turning off all the lights she leaves on
in the morning?

now there’s heat in the kitchen
m. making corn chowder
this after she turned bushels of tomatoes
into chili sauce.

i‘ve spun the globe seeking a site
to erect a monument for her.
when i asked she said she wanted a tree
in front of the library .

that seems reasonable;
in front of the widow
lined with cookbooks
and stories of survival.

i guess she could not think
of a solitary place from which
she could keep an eye on me.
then again, she may change her mind anyway.

though, hooking up with the library,
i know how her mind works,
always staying on the good side,
she thinks it’ll help erase any fines she may accrue.

middle of the night

went to the bathroom, middle of the night,
something was different in my mouth
turned on the light
my missing tooth was back in place

it looked fine and new.
behind me in the mirror
was George E. Russel played by buddy Ebesen
he was with Fess Parker in the Davy Crocket movies.

put his long rife against the wall and looked at my teeth,
shook his head and smiled in disbelief,
said no worry, my teeth were fine.
but Buddy Ebsen’s not a dentist, never even played one on TV.

seemed i needed a second opinion.
went back to bed, forgot it all
when i woke the tooth was gone,
the hole was back, right where i left it

dreams may take us many places
through blocks, into new spaces
in hollow earth and under glass
don’t cha know, this too'll pass.

winter

the bleak, dull ugliness
of the frigid season
is well noted.

on the bright side,
consider it God’s good planning;

winter days were made deliberately shorter
so you don’t have to look at them as long.

what it will be

what will it be,
which one do we take?
got on the 87
a guy was itchin’ his head

and we road out
and well beyond
to the Southside overlook of Rome
way out of town

many got off and on the bus
while the sun went down
and we rode along
to the very end

and the guy never stopped
it was dark as we rode
to the end,  he was no kiddin'
non stop itchin’ his head

glass wings

reminders of flying
and objects of art?
i could think about it later
though it perhaps does not matter.

when so keenly graced,
need objects function?
won’t beauty alone suffice,
being an elegant subject matter?

for not only me,
for the many as well,
home you can tell
is where the art is.

the poets, did you notice

reading the great
and the unknown,
i notice, above all, variety.
a myriad of blizzard snowflakes.

while standing by the pond’s edge
watching frogs, thinking, i am
– what the hell,
there’s life going on in the pond

not even human, will never write a book,
march on parade,
make a movie seen in Bedouin tents,
or circle the globe, be reported in the press;

and i’ve seen poor families, or a word less than poor
living in filthy ruined cardboard boxes
on the hill, the inland side
of Acapulco, the side never seen, not talked about.

their love, hope, dreams and pain,
swirl together in heat, cold and rain,
and they won’t write anything for posterity.
some can’t write their name.

good words somewhere, for you and i,though,
good songs of life, there are.
that’s how it goes, variety,
in these days we have,

tumbling together,
some better than others.
as it goes rolling on and on,
and on and us with it, and on.