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.

dappled

taking a shower thinking i am dappled.

oh, i know feeling groovy thanks to paul simon,

the only time in my life i was dappled, possibly,

not sure; also then, feeling groovy definitely

was not happening in our neighborhood.

maybe, given time, it would have happened naturally,  

if we would have slowed down and thought about it, 

but in our parts that would have been asking a lot.

slow down?  thinking?  feeling? hah! 

paul, before you said it, only horses were dappled.

over time

on my desk i have ten beach pebbles
no function to explain
yet reason enough
to remain and remind me
what cannot be put into words
only feeling

and to pick them up
is to hold the smooth
of time ages and the sea.
rolling, turning
worn in time, over time,
over and over again

doesn't even have a name

doesn’t even have a name
no shoes, no clothes, no house
sleeps where he can, where he wants i suppose,
never seen him eat

always alone when i'm around,
just a big green frog, another one.
the leader. Herb was the first one;
that was some years ago.

he’d call HERRRRB; we would too.
that’s how he got his name.
we learned our frog ways with him.
don’t know exactly what he picked up from us.

every year there’s always a king pin,
the boss of the pond - stays for two years or so.
then a new big one comes in and the old one is gone.
New takes up in a favorite spot, to his liking.

a few we gave the sobriquet to honor the orginal Herb.
now they're nameless.
call him the big frog.
we know who we mean.

it’s a full house this year
five frogs in the pond
and sure we can tell ‘em apart
we’re not frog stupid

different sizes, different colors
the thing on the ear, where they sit,
a lot of indicators as to who’s aboard.
and yes, they do keep an order.

today i had the camera ready to film him
first pushed the motorless mower around
to get him warmed up for talking
works every time. i don’t know why.

He spoke up and i egged him on with my frog word or two.
then got right down in front of him,
two feet away, camera rolling
and he swelled up like a balloon.

was the star of the neighborhood, no doubt.
major frog noise coming out of him.
i was proud of the frog;
that’s our number one.

transferred the pics to computer
all stills and only one video.
it was the short vid before he got going,
nothing of the great talking scene was captured. nothing.

but i was there and he was to. and we had a time of it.
now these words will remember;
how happy he and i were;
why - he done us proud, his day in the sun.

advance

progress from walking
with a stick
to riding a horse -
an advance beyond the past.

then over fields through clouds to some long faraway,
that is where we are right now
look around while you
take off your shoes for inspection.

then, walking through an arch
and instantly be in another place,
oh, wow it is as yet, somewhere else,
and someday soon.

on the back porch

on the back porch
heard tires rolling on the by pass
near a mile away;
wind from the west is coming our way.

talked to a friend with a mountain place.
recalled our two years on another mount
when in quiet the only sound, the only sound
was of the earth itself.

how was that sound? indescribable.
beyond reach of words or imagination.
something other it was.
private. complete.

and now the grandmother clock
swung low and steady
was it the tick from two rooms away
or the house expanding that i heard?

it’s not the frogs
they sit silent in the pond
waiting passing hours
as slow rising sun rays approach

erasing sharp shadows with gleams,
bringing the warmth to our day.
what do you know,
what do you say?