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.

the electric company

spot lights on the site
of the twin towers in NYC
confused migrating birds.
had to turn the lights off
so birds would quit circling.

in these times
anything happens
my first question is
who’s making money on it?
cause what ever it is, in these times
the main objective is not the good of man.

easy into it

a few minutes talking
at the table
quiet Sunday morning
door open

as always, robin on urgent business
doves calmly sitting in the yard
air still, no breeze
autumn’s on the corner

night rain dampness lingers
inside our clocks tick away
gray Sunday morning beginnings
an easy start of another day

believe

if you don't smile
you don't believe
in flowers.

party notice

headline in the paper,
read it over a guys shoulder.
43 million viewers watched Ken Burns
throw a baseball out at a game.

this is an opportunity.
if readership stays the same
i will have had 43 million
hits on my blog

in 21 thousand, five hundred
years, seven months
and three days.
that’s a Wednesday.

i’ll have to have
to have
the party that Friday.
BYOB




now in 21 thousand years
if i forget who Ken Burns is
remind me
remind me

test of endurance

cut my beard off - way.
left mustache mine,
trimmed like Hugh O’brien
as Wyatt Earp.

driving down the lane,
the city rescue truck
large as a wingless flying box car
pulls out in front of me
going 23 in a 35.
i exhaled slowly.

behind me, swoops to my bumper,
the milky white, lights on, Battle Star Galactica.
a sporty, bushy - bonde Klingon at the helm.
chewing either a wad of renegade rhino
or gum.
close as she was
i could hear her poppin’.

passing the golf course
the earthly remains of Euell Gibbons
in a large black late-model boat of a car
pulls out in front of everyone
going slow –w –w –l - y
obviously looking for flowers to eat.

thus i learned
why the marshal in the old west wanted everyone
to check their hardware,
instead of riding through town
packin’ loaded six-guns.

September Eleven

sold our tv
years ago,
a few days after
we had seen enough.

got up late that morning.
as i entered the living room
m. had the TV on -
terrible news.

a newscaster on the street in Manhattan
a plane had hit . . .
that instant behind him we saw the second plane
soar into the tower

September Eleven
i recall the terrible day
planes excluded from the sky
after the event in Manhattan

i went outside to look
because there was one plane
unaccounted for
coming our way

and it was there, nearly overhead,
over Lake Erie,
the only thing in the sky.
halfway between Cleveland and Detroit.

i saw the large commercial jet turn.
that never happened before, never.
the only plane in the sky
and it looped completely,

made a circle
over the lake
and then headed back East
toward Pennsylvania.

no dogs

no dogs, no friends, no air conditioning.
make a note: no friends this season.
they don’t know these closet poems exist,
it is no rhyme, for little reason.

let me cover what i’ve written
with my hand so no stranger sees.
pretending i am - doing this at the library
in air conditioned leather arm chair comfort.

no time for dogs.
no need explain,
had one before,
don’ need one again.

there is heat going on,
and one more thing:
also there is plenty
of no air conditioning.

our unit is down,
away mechanically, and electrically,
imploded, internally squat ,
no boom.

could have gone to air conditioner school
i’ll day dream about that
while i wait in line
to take out a loan for a service call.

now if i were writing this at the library
i’d be in absolute comfort - way!
and maybe that would make all the difference,
words would flow and not stick together either.

sweet corn is very good this year,
thought i’d tell you a good thing.
had more today with plenty of butter.
envy me,

and while your at it
do me a favor - envision me
eating warm fresh sweet corn lightly salted,
seated in cool conditioned air comfort.

another space between

another space between
on a bus way out again,
way up denial, 27 march,
one month into chronic birthday digestion

make a note
sound waves, light waves, ocean waves
slow waves, fast waves, wet waves
more stuff you don’t have to Google

on the bus with folks from Nigeria
the six year old kid was quiet and observant
obviously not a TV junky, make a note -
dots of sun light from a board with holes - do it

not thinking of you, like the two end to end
parking spaces open and a one car pulls in the middle
and essentially takes two
he was not thinking of you either

deep up denial again, but it’s all true
i could tell we were far out of the city
when we saw a guy leading two camels,
at least they were on the sidewalk

sometime notes i make on the bus
can’t be deciphered because of the jiggle
but i know what i saw
about the camels i mean, i do so verify

note: when Italians count on their fingers
unlike America where one is the index finger
here, one is the thumb
just thought i’d let you know

m. just read a news story online
about a man arrested for trying to revive
a road kill possum
with mouth to mouth resuscitation

then TomC writes to say
he couldn’t digest his cornflakes or something
cause i skipped a day
pshaw! maybe when i was ten

i could have skipped all day.
what i did was lose a day just like
Ray Miland in Lost Weekend, Billy Wilder, 1945,
in which he played an alcoholic

and i just saved you more Googling
maybe Google lost some money then
and/or will make it up
somewhere else

note - if i wrote this in paragraph form
and you printed it, it’d waste money
on ink for big letters and periods
or space there of


(reprise from march 2010)

brushing teeth, mine

brushing teeth, mine
i fell asleep brushing my teeth
thinking how my grandmother used to like
Saturday TV with the midgets wrestling

"Your mother's mother?" she asked
"Yes," I said.
"That figures."

now what was that supposed to mean?
i gave her a sharp look, i did
you should have seen it.

anyway i didn't really fall asleep
zoned out into brushing land
more like it.

a mild trance state
perfectly normal
it happens, right?

(reprise from March '08)

these are the Amish

neat and country clean,
shiny faces,
bowl cut blond hair boys,
girls heads white wrapped,

chin to ankle dresses.
hand made clothing
neatly pressed.
brains stilled of the noise.

save click brush sweeping of the brooms - whisk, whisk.
and heavy clip, clop stepping horses
pulling black carriages.
the family is a unit.

we turned in at the hand made sign
but they were fresh out of eggs.
notice also said donuts.
girl said they had ‘em.

gave the nod, she left her push mower,
to kitchen storage out back.
walked barefoot the length of the gravel drive
in her ankle length gray swaying dress.

returned with an assortment in a plastic bag,
seven or eight doughnuts for a stiff five bucks,
weighing in slightly less than near a pound apiece.
puffy fresh, sticky sweet, tasty mighty good.




why wasn't there a coma after tasty?
cause the rule is: you write 'em any way you like.

simplify

occasionally friends tell me things
and i recognize the words
that i told that person
some years before.

now a good friend has told me
he remembers and benefits
from something i told him,
“Simplify”.

i thought a credit to his intelligence
for him to remember who told him.
then i had to look it up
to see where i read the thought.

It was Henry David Thoreau who wrote in Walden -
"Where I Lived and What I Lived For"
“Our life is frittered away by detail... Simplify, simplify, simplify! ... Simplicity of life and elevation of purpose.”

Walden Pond was on land owned by Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Henry David Thoreau once wrote
to his friend and mentor, Emerson,
"Simplify, simplify, simplify."

Emerson wrote back,
"Don't you think
one 'simplify'
is enough?"

my fortune cookie said

my fortune cookie said
well, it didn’t say
it read,
that is to say, i read.

should i start over?
that’s not what i in the cookie read,
but it seems a good idea,
starting over.

if we have a choice,
if we’re not rich enough, healthy enough,
or have loved enough,
food to eat, place to sleep.

let’s work on it.
make our own cookie fortune.
print it by hand,
send it to ourselves

with insufficient postage,
then act surprised when
the postman returns it to our door,
i mean, to my door.

it’s not our door
cause we don’t live together.
well, we may,
but not you and i together.

you may live with someone,
that is possible,
but, if you’re not M.
you and i don’t live together.

but then, i am me,
you are busy being you.
now give me
my fortune cookie.

you have to make out
as best you can.
make it up.
make it out.

and i know you will
because we all
are doing the best
we can.

i don't have
to read that
bit of truth
in a fortune cookie.

ten o'clock in london

ten o'clock in London
BBC radio reports

fifty dead, suicide bomber in Bagdad,

Israeli soldier posed on Facebook
with blindfolded, handcuffed old Palestinian women,
under the caption life is good,
said she was doing no harm.

scientists estimate
four thousand elephants
left in the wild.

also, to keep you listening
a tease about the Beatles in Germany.

you know that’s not a recent event,
the beatles left germany fifty years ago.

that story would come at the end of the news
to keep you listening.
they’ll promote it several more times,
stay tuned.

our time

in the comfort of home
while reading a story of American Indians,
a scene where others watched
from an open tent flap,

a brave arrived in camp
left his tired horse
then laid prone at the stream
to drink clear water

in pure air
under heat of the sun
quiet all around
ripples of the stream.

it occurred to me
that now
is not like that anymore
and we each have our time.


I have reworked this many times, although still not entirely satisfied, the point of it was important enough that it superseded an attempt at art. We each have our time.

Honey, I'm trying to keep it simple and say it how it is.

bee

What did I find, the Queen of Queens? This fat bee was large with a black rear end the size of a refrigerator light bulb, no kidding.

I see my account here doesn’t differ much from the poem, so there you have it - I’ll put a wraps on this so you can proceed to the real meat of the bee.


bee

from the porch
i see a bee
large and in the flowers
had to walk up close
to get a good look at

yellow body
a swollen back end like the hood
of a shiny old black Buick
jeeze o’pete
zip on, big buddy
zip on

nxt!, notes on heaven

First is nxt, a strange mechanical piece, I put on this site August '08. I was looking through my files, found it, and brought it back. Recycling is good.

Also back a second time is notes on heaven from November '08


nxt!
giraffes have the same number of neck bones as humans
nxt, yr nxt
sorry, machine I was just reading . . .
nxt!
make your selection and insert coins in slot
nxt!
give me a minute, i was reading the instructions
out of order!
wait, I put my money in
nxt!
you took my money
nxt!
what is the disturbance here?
oh, nothing, officer, but this machine just took my money
machines don’t make mistakes, come with me, civilian
don’t handcuff me, is that a taser, bro?
pick him up and drag him to the wagon
nxt


notes on heaven

notes on heaven
cobblestones are laid smooth
with grass growing between,
all rivers shall run clear,
here i noticed the Tevere yesterday
golden brown, like a shiny pie crust,

back to heaven,
if you have to park the meters will
give you money. all birds and animals
and people speak the same language,
sounds like Chinese but isn’t