on writing a poem

consider what you’ve  been thinking,

 wheel it around;

 sit and think about it more

and then a bit  more, until  it’s okay.

so then you write some parts,

and then add a little more.

do it all in a day

or kick it around for a month, either way,

then it all comes out

like the washing machine when it stops.

open the door and  sort it,

folding and stacking pieces together,

and that’s  why you write a poem.

why?  that’s right, of course.

to put the pieces together

and if you do it right there’s nothing left over,

mostly nothing.  the truth is you’ve got the

rest of you life left over, so it may, more than

likely,  occur to you to do it again.   another day.

don’t ask when,  and if it rhymes, that’s ok.

remember, you need some luck

and if it quacks

you’ve made a duck.

some say – well, Emily Dickenson alluded that way.

message no bottle

hand on my chin, gazing through the window pane

a letter by hand, quill dipped in ink

envelope, delivered via horse

this house to that

pen becomes a throwaway,

then, type written ,  i grew up that way

with letters sped away by aero plane

changes as with spelling

now about to skype call far

face to face we see and chat

imagine that.  we again seem near,

by extension it seems there is  here.

some day you’ll walk through the gate

and be there.

i imagine grandma will be able

to bring some cookies along.

a great pyramid

to construct the  great pyramid in Egypt.

is moving 2.3 million blocks

 weighing  as much as 70 tons

 from  as far as 600 miles South of Cairo,

they did not have the wheel or pulleys.

how many slaves to push one?

and you want them stacked how?

to build the great pyramid it in twenty years

you must move 800 tons a day

feed ‘em well.    what, a million of ‘em?

tell ‘em not to crowd.

are you sure it makes sense? 

 it’s what slaves are for.

wait - can slaves do miracles?

wrap me in pathetic

wrap me in pathetic

a thin coast will do

and dunk me like a doughnut

it’s up to you

and as the italians say

non e culpa mia, it’s not my fault

we’re all doing the best we can

my crazy friend john barlow told me that

his grandfather invented the Barlow pocket knife

and that wasn’t his fault either

me free

me free, M. too, there you go.

 it was easy this time

the way it ought to be

to enter the modern art museum.

recalling the ancient city Herculean

near Pompeii two years past where

the young man at the desk shook  his head.

he checked my Italian id document – American docs. won’t do.

then it was  three days before my  sixty-fifth birthday.   

no way;  he wouldn’t let me in for free.

i knew at the time an older clerk would

know by my eyes the wear of years;

 and thus bequeath me three days.

three lousy days short of 65 years.

and welcome  me  enter -  freely.

“please do enter.   welcome,  new senior citizen.”

i should have told the kid
to tell his mom and dad about his victory.

dry robin

 

felt weather was coming, finally;   

saw it on radar.  we needed it

and it took all day to get here,

then quickly most of it passed

until late afternoon the old dry robin

came out in the sprinkles

on the promise water’d get more.

waiting he was as we were.

set up position,  it did.

to see if a worm’d  come  out

an before there was much to talk about

light rain that came in went on its way.

bird in the path

morning sun up and golden

summer daybreak  warm and still.

inside, from the open window

my first glance caught it there

a lone baby bird sleeping

standing up,  hunched over.

no doubt comfortable as all get out.

ruffled feathers, head under wing,

leafy plants all around, it was right in the middle of a path.

not hidden somewhere  off to the side.

didn't pay attention when mama said keep cautious,

stay out of sight while your dreaming.

t-shirts

seeing you i’d be cautious
as a duck crossing the street
i’d tip my hat, let you chat
and tell me how your doing

their  t-shirts got my attention. i read,
then  asked them where they were from,
“margaretta”  they replied.  
that’s a small nearby village

high school girls, of course. 
i don’t know if they just graduated
or this fall will be the new seniors.
they wore identical  blue t-shirts

it must be this years class slogan.
printed on them were the words,  
“the world may be ending
but we’re still here – 2012”

m. worked the yard

m. worked the yard early this june morning.

i ran drag on cord as she edged the pond,  

along a  stone block wall surrounding flowers beds,

low on the wooden back porch in sugar maple  shade;

the electric edger whirred,  getting all neatly clean.

she paused, changed cord.   i saw her wipe her brow,

slowly, casually check all around.  a survey of the situation.

 still frogs alert were quiet,  ready to jump if necessary.

might have mentioned 

her great granddad was first sheriff of Abilene.

it’s in her blood to get the job done.

my advice is keep out of the way.  don’t mess around.