face lift for an old village

a bed and breakfast
all decked out, not moving
like a ship in dry dock
the owner’s husband split
so she dressed the place like a dollhouse
lacked only a key to wind it up

my wife liked it, but does more shopping than I
not into pastels and ruffles myself
ok, little wrapped chocolates in a dish
no oil lamps I understand, electricity is fine

but I missed the manly respect to history in detail
give me a hammer, saw, raw wood and cigar smoke
let me walk old boards not puffy carpet

on the street I hum obscure half melodies
watch stylish girls window shop
and startle to the loud music booms
from SUV’s cruising slowly by

an old town in new times
caught twix and tween
undecided which way to go
leaving tourists to wander

pond '09

the day before spring really began,
five or six feet tall when stretching,
the long neck, long winged blue heron
got twenty of our fish

tore heck out of the pond in his frenzy
a neighbor saw it on our roof, damn invader
Big Red and Reddy-Whitey gone, among others
for ten years they’d been here,ours to enjoy

the pond now runs anew,
with the remaining nine,
the fortunate few
that made the cut

Frank, the angry bluegill, record size for sure,
and fifteen, or so, inch-long tiny baby fish are hiding
in the moss usually, occasionally swimming round
and around in the summer sun, and growing,

a small water snake will go
when I can get him,
hopefully soon, before he’s any larger
let’s call him Slither

then the good surprise, baby frogs
two I saw yesterday, smaller than I would have imagined,
only a half-finger’s length each, arms and legs,
with eyes, protruding dark spheres, tiny above the water

the small pond is teaming growth, new associations
water bugs - many, but don’t count
cause they’re too varied, small and quick
to tell apart and name them

woodpeckers, black birds, sparrows,
wrens, orioles, robins, of course,
and others, dash around for a drink
or a splash in the small falls,

giant bright red and pale orange blossoms
of the lily, with pads that cover
two-thirds of the water’s surface,
like the book says they should

as guardian for this while,
I’m checking on it
pour in some biological sauce now and then,
mostly leave it be, keeping peace

while M. gardens around,
an eye out for the serpent
and as if there isn’t enough for them to eat,
she feeds the fish, but they like it

we’re caretakers,
for this dot of time,
on this lovely tiny plot
tucked back, in what was the center of he old village,
behind our home built in the 1830’s
where the preacher lived over forty-two years,
and then he died, then she did too

as the earth spins
some things end
others begin
sun goes up
sun goes down,
hey, it’s nice to be around

come on, summer
give it your best shot

a descended larynx

a descended larynx
is why you speak
and your dog can only try
sadness, though, is more common
many animals can cry

highway 80

on highway 80 across Pennsylvania we saw deer
not houses, barns, towns, people, cows or barking dogs
occasionally in the distance a town
rooftops and a steeple in the woods, jammed under trees

incredible, and true, passing through
there is only green leaf wilderness to be seen
roll on trees on rolling green in morning dew
hill after hill, rolling green and on

highway not filled with greyhound buses
their time gone in the passing lane
where large 18 wheelers pulling three
and private vehicles, SUV’s, roll on

early in the morn heard portions
of three songs on the radio, only three
get down, get down, cocaine, ho, ho, hosanna and
from a half century ago jerry lee lewis - great balls of fire

radio off then, we rolled on with the rest of them
up and down long hills, in silence, and on through green
road hum the beat and the accompaniment, and on
they could have called it treesylvania

open to the passionate long green and misty air
mysteries under leaves by summer deer
hills, rivers and long cloud sky abound
once indians, then pioneers, first walked this way

all the while we sleep

Chew this one slowly. Taking a pause. Be back later.


all the while we sleep
dancing in dream
someone is watching

over long fields of grass
through the great forests
lonely small animals search
for food, or the way to water
for a drink

in stillness the trees
hold their arms up
protecting those beneath
without question
the center of that world
the one unobserved

news sources don’t explain
that an old oak is near death
outliving its usefulness
because a child’s swing is gone
and no one will again
climb that high to tie new ropes

or that a great rock has rolled
for eons until the flaked gram is mistaken
for another piece of sand castle

while we sleep it goes on
in the personage of the milkman and baker
i remember the horse-drawn wagon
used once in a while,
painted red, and crawling down our main street
so that half-pints of cream would be there
chilled in the morning by
crisp, nose-pinching air

a stump has given way for a babe
a green shoot, that given half a chance
could grow larger than the parent
but probably won’t because of what is now
a poor location for a tree

june bugs and fire flies
not in number that we knew
no longer are they swept from the sidewalks
grasshoppers and dragon flies
aren’t about quite as they were
and violets, unceasingly underfoot
are less frequent

the hand-crank telephone
that slept in the shed
is gone to a collector
and given a price

the one-armed man
who rolled his own cigarettes
isn’t at the gas station in the afternoons
to tell us his stories
and his son has moved to the city

two-laners are multiplied
one-laners are grown over
and the last remnants of the old street car bed
are just gone

while we sleep one truck
slows in the snow
as furious windshield-wipers battle
to clear the glass
someone is looking, looking into a blue
and motionless night

glowing red barns
sporting tobacco leafs picture
and larger than life yellow words
are dirty grey between wide gaps
from board to board
the wind uses this place now
to hum through

but the grass still grows
short, thin and tireless to trampling
amid papers bags and candy wrappers
no matter
the unknown, never mown glen
harbors a curious ant
enjoying a climb up
and around
to seemingly nowhere

and the river still flows
where my brother and i
took the great canoe in search of ducks
but just as much, in search of adventure
that went with the south river brook

all the while we sleep
someone is dancing over our dreams
with you and i where we were
or might have been
another time and altogether

one day you will do the same
forever and forever ‘til forever

ninety degrees

ninety degrees, humid and full up on robins
plus four eggs on deck in the nest
no one sits on the them today
must be plenty warm enough

one robin in the bird bath
one waiting, looks like he’s sweating
bird family’s sharing water space
most of the time, or too hot to argue

one this side of the pond
one’s in the water falls,
one waiting
everyone’s wet, ruffled and cranky

‘cept the eggs
they’re getting
their newbie brains
cooked in the shell



went out to check the nest
a bird’s back with the eggs
took five minutes for it to sit down
must be hot on the bird’s bottom

a billion

the other day I wrote about chocolate
a pleasant thought for us,
this morning on the BBC I heard
the World Food Organization announced
the number of hungry people in the world
is now estimated to be a billion

that’s one of every six people
who don’t have enough to eat
among these are parents
needing food to feed
their hungry children

like you, i have no answers
other than doing the best we can
in this world
with each other
one person at a time

jungle fish

This is a poem i posted in April. I put it out again for no special reason;I just felt like it.

jungle fish

you and i
haven’t seen it all
don’t say you have
don’t think about it
no need to

not all the world caresses
some hurts
and dumps upon us
in papers and magazines
the news of course, they call it that
the video, the Internet that brings pieces
bam banging slapping sounds
pumping games flashing colors into children's heads
Marshall McLuhan was right the medium is the message
now i add, TV did more to destroy the world than educate
I have seen Guatemalan jungle natives in see-through straw huts
watching far away New York soap operas
on TV powered by a noisy gas generator
the soap opera had NYC folk
in nice clothes and makeup
drinks in hand and the natives,
ready to throw a spear through a monkey,
were sitting women breast naked in
a rag covering their crotches
and I’m walking by their hut and
can look right through it
and see them sitting glazed over stuck to the screen.
maybe they flashed me the peace sign
and maybe I gave them the finger
cause they were screwed

media chunks show how people dress and hold their heads
how they clothe their pet animals
while city buses so full
those at the door exit to let others on
dead fish are laid to rest in tins and wait consumption this way

passing by are the rich and famous in their rings and finery
with guards tagging alongside
lest reality get too close
best they remain cushioned
aloof from commoners and dirt poor

on the street notices are
handed by strangers to strangers
pasted across shop windows
stuffed in trash cans or
dropped they litter the streets
are stepped upon, pushed along
where the head count clashes with
the clean, pressed white shirts and latest ties
and we, hats on backwards
in over sized sacky things to cover how fat we are
that resemble sports team garments,
wrinkled sweat stained bags with a bright bold number on it
the number of a hero on the squad
named for a predatory animal
as a sweaty tourist screams at the counter waitress
give me a coke before I die

and I see them sun glassed now
all the while quick stepping alone
bumping into each other
unaware, as if stoned
talking on cell phones
while the senseless talk to themselves
and need no phone
who is changing the world?

for all the while
the sun goes up
the sun goes down

past eleven

past eleven we read
then went to bed
had earphone on my head
listened to jazz

seemed only a moment later
she said, “mnff enofff mnevff”
“good night”, i replied
then with one eye

i glanced at the clock
it was 4:22
one of us must have been talking
to the sand man

chocolate

wait, don’t get up, nothing else will do,
if we don’t have any, that’s okay,
i won’t eat any, chocolate, that is

there’s more that way for the rest of the world
and others may really need it
consider it practically a good deed

I ‘ll get by just thinking about it,
not all the time of course, just now and then
like now, when I really would like some

earth angle

we’re on an angle here folks
whether you’re north or south
a peak happened yesterday - 21 June
not a moment too soon

you could tell by the moon
the slant of the sun
or a shadow on the wall
what season’s begun

which one we’ve lost
and has started to run us
all the way back
the other way
from which we’ve just come

or do you live in a cave maybe
and see in the dark
with eyes in your butt?
if so, how's your wireless?

the boys on the garbage truck

the boys on the garbage truck
specifically, on the leaves and sticks truck
yard waste they call it, somebody named it that
well, they’re out there this morning, on schedule

i walked out to retrieve our cans and heard their chatter
one lad laughed when he told me he was giving grief to the driver
having fun they were, keeping it light
while doing a ton of work for everyone in town

house to house they pick up heavy containers
and throw the stuff on the giant truck
i don’t know if the same crew switches trucks for the garbage
and return for the recyclables

but they keep going
every day another route
picking it up, throwing it on,
and on and on

are they paid well, or are they convicts on work parole?
hard to tell because of how young people dress these days,
returning every week, in all weather
we’re all mighty fortunate they do

sunday morning at JC Penny

Sunday morning at JC Penny’s
quiet with no confusion
the stately tall elderly man in the bow tie
has come out of retirement to work a bit

he’s the cashier in the men’s department
it’s what he knows how to do well
can assist, chat if you want, and he gets contact
with people, he’s good at that

a long time ago on my first jobs
i worked Sundays
guess when you’re older and alone
that’s also a fine way to end

mission to the moon

as in the Wizard of Oz,
pay no attention to the man
behind the curtain,
no need disturb the flow of thought

the U. S. government announces
returning to the moon
to look for water
a space craft is going there,
up and away

in no unfamiliar logic
the best minds available in government
boasting the world's most sophisticated technology
have decided this scientific endeavor,
so we'll be bombing for water

squirrel feeding

started feeding the squirrel
the mother mostly
M. was first to hold a peanut
in her hand as Mother Squirrel took it
two younger squirrels are in the nest
but come down only occasionally

then I fed Mother Squirrel, hand to mouth
now a hundred peanuts and a few days later
Mother Squirrel is just as jumpy and quick
as the first day,
does no good to tell a wild animal to calm down

it comes around when we are out, to get us moving
then proceeds with extreme caution
every time, it moves backward and forward lightening fast
unsure where to go, as if half blind
M. says it is because the eyes are the side of it’s head
good point, but i think it doesn’t see well

bit my finger once, and oh so gently
not like crunching something
i felt the teeth rubbing my finger
she was looking for peanut
and got it the second try,
so who’s learning what here?
i guess we're both learning the other's ways

aviary action

all packed with baby birds
here and there are the nests
up and down in trees, on low hanging eaves
then when mostly empty of the first brood
all over the ground the parents guide the newbies

hawks and the occasional eagle are overhead
along with seagulls, egrets, herons, geese, ducks,
swans, robins, doves, black birds, sparrows
wrens, hummingbirds, orioles, woodpeckers
and the lesser known in these parts, unidentifiables on migration,

fluttering aviary teams in lines, flocks or mismanaged irregular bunches
twisting in air, turning, soaring and dashing
a natural world of allusion and distraction,
color, movement, flight, flutter and action,
i imagine, also involved is a bit of birdly satisfaction

in the beginning

how frogs got to our pond in the first place
is an imponderable
the fenced in backyard pond is remote for a frog
a block from the river
a large cove is a block to the north
another cove is a few blocks west
they aren’t taking taxis to get here
no blinking signs written in Frog advertise room and board

a year ago four came late one eve
Herb, our second season frog, called them, I know,
on rainy nights they move,
sought his alluring voice
it was the season of hot frog love

their voices are all alike to me
but it was three girl frogs that showed up, triplets no doubt,
maybe girl frogs croak also, sing that is. or whatever,
that male frog noise to them must sound like a siren to Ulysses,
or Sinatra at the Copacabana, cause they came

now they’re all gone
we’re starting from scratch
so when it rains
who is going to call them?
do they just stumble around the neighborhood,
after a rowdy night on the prowl
until they find the place?
heaven only knows

already mid june

a last look from the porch before bed
a robin, born a few weeks ago, loudly chirps
alone, perhaps unsure of his new life
has returned to spend the night
in his now abandoned home nest

a harmless insect, junebugs, from the lake
Canadians call them Yankee soldiers
on this side Ohioans call them Canadian solders
swarm in from for two weeks each June,
food for the birds, annoying everyone else, they come to die
their corpses make a mess, litter everywhere

today’s the day, the very day the last of them,
they are through living
as I close the screen door to enter the house
a flash of yellow light catches my eye,
it is first firefly,
now it is their time,
my California wife thought they were a Walt Disney invention
never saw a real one until we moved to Ohio
the arrival of lightening bugs is a changing of the guard,
a turning of the key,
like a winding of the clock
summer moves in

south africa

one point four kilometers down
61 dead in an abandoned gold mine
illegal workers
in a part of the mine that was closed
because it was too dangerous

children have been orphaned
and women have been widowed
they weren’t looking to get wealthy
but to eat, care for their families
and perhaps get away
to where they could live

Frog One-One - Reprise

Now in these hollow frogless times, indulge me as I turn back to a year ago for this forgotten frog favorite.



Frog One-One

i got in the car
and drove to the shopping plaza
it was about empty and i was going slowly
driving in circles
in the parking lot
my brain was on overdrive

my turn signal on
it blinked, but i didn't
until i nearly ran out of gas
and then about cried when i realized it was true
cause i triple checked, twice
there was no store called
Frog Aid

i want to explain, dear reader
we saw them, well she pointed them out to me
now there are four
like a Sergio Leone movie
four, tall in the saddle
well, . . . in the pond

and she says they're the same four
"Which same?" i yelled

"Say that three times fast," she said
as she did it, "Which same, which same, which same."

i tried and couldn't do it
once i had to read a commercial for Misses Pauls Fish Sticks in L.A. at KBIG
and i finally turned it over to Dave the Slave in the midnight cave,
another announcer, cause i couldn't say fish sticks smoothly

"which same" gave me the same trouble
as fish sticks

but my gut feeling told me
these are all new guys
four hiding, sneaking frogs
lurking out there
waiting for sundown

i drove home, cause i knew what i had to do

"Frog One-One, may I help you," the voice said with authority

"That's what I want to know. There's four in the pond."

i heard him drop the phone

then, "Is anyone at home?" he asked.

"I'm calling from home."

"Get out of town!" he said.

"I'm on my way."

"No, I mean are you kidding?" he asked.

"Uh, . . . what part?"

dial tone

that was two hours ago
i've been back at the shopping plaza parking lot
driving in more circles
determined to find a
Frogs Are Us
. . . i need to make a donation

four a.m. again

open my eyes to red glowing lights that read four a.m. i’m thinking poetry in absolute silence where words float in then sitting I’ve got jazz passages in my head for Some Enchanted Evening hearing Enzio Pinza sing a few lines i didn’t play anything didn’t hear anything just started thinking about, it’s nearly dawn, street lamps just turned off the coffee i’m putting on good morning world life’s a song isn’t it? how are you doing anyway? waking easy i hope thinking too much is a hell of a way to wake up

oiling

was putting linseed oil on the plank floors of my lab,
it used to be the cookhouse
back when it was constructed in 1838,
as i do, the old place needs tender maintenance

my knees ache from today’s labor
but i cleaned up, and one more section’s finished
M. went out to town for food shopping,
she’ll put a fine meal together by sundown

now sitting here typing, working these words out
i see she just drove in the drive, and it’s a good thing,
though life together isn't always a bowl of cherries
i’d sure miss her if she wasn’t around

too bad we couldn’t just oil up each other,
rub it in slowly with a nice soft cloth
in easy circular motions
until we both looked and felt like new

stronger than steel

after several days parked under a tree
our car developed a spider web on the rear bumper
a massive heavy weave laden with the insects
that swarm a few days every June
when north winds carry them in a cloud
across Lake Erie from Canada

I tore off three corners of the web
and left a major strand holding the load
of snagged Canadian soldiers
and thought of it dangling as I drove
to a nearby store, then home again

as I passed one car I wondered
did he see my web flapping like a pennant
I wasn’t ashamed, oh contraire, i was nearly proud
it was an experiment
what man made thing
could hang tight in a torrent of wind like that?
certainly not me by my shirt
or maybe not me from my belt
strand for strand it is said spider webs
have an incredible tensile strength stronger then steel,

so after a few wind blown minutes to the store and back
I pulled the car into our drive, parked,
then immediately checked the web
it was gone

hyphenation

why do only women do it?
I’ll hyphenate my name
to honor my mother’s family
give me a bigger name
to confuse and aggravate people

wait, instead I’ll do it right
and use a commercial product
and perhaps the company will
send money for the endorsement
call me Jack Sender-Campbell Soup



(cash or money order only)

four thirty-seven a.m.

when I looked at the clock
it was wholly night - totally

big still and darkness
hung air

no wind blew
nothing could be heard

no trains, no traffic
no light
no frog, birds asleep, insects quiet
it had become the meaning
silent night

garage sale

an alert notice bannered the local paper
attention – don’t miss it
the once-a- year whole town garage sale is a happening
and god almighty good glory the sun is shining today

folks in colorful, rumpled, weekend-casual
doin' a bit o'work leisure wear
have unloaded all manner of goods
that pack, end to end, the parking lot
where make-do tables and stacked boxes are set
row upon row
displaying once cherished items
now calling for your money, money, money
just a little of your money
cause these would-be venders don’t
want to store it any longer

more or less recently fresh coffee
and bakery goods are available at a trailer
all moderately priced for the good spirited group
now streaming like buffalo
amid sale items that are overall:
fifty per cent plastic, twenty percent broken,
the rest miscellaneous or generally non classifiable,
including the chipped and rusted
all discounted to rock bottom prices

no music blares, only excited hometown chatter is heard
in the flood of curious meanderers
in sun hats, suspenders, comfy shoes and canes,
elbow to elbow walking proud

including children on bicycles, in strollers, some towed
all in a great moving wave
along the sea of heads down, eyes alert,
hard core bargain hunters,
seeking and assessing under priced treasures,
most destined for little use
or to be packed away
until recycled again
some other day
at a future, as yet to be announced,
be ready when it comes, garage sale

if women

if women are so damn gentle
why does she get upset more than me?
I mean, i swept the porch,
she didn’t see,
only the lousy pile of debris
I left on the other side,
from sweeping the drive
sakes alive and Wah!
so it wasn’t put in a trash can, thirty lashes
we have four days before the trash guys arrive

she works hard and right
I commend her, she keeps all neat
runs her half of the ship tight
my list of good I do includes mud
not tracked in on my feet – how ‘bout that!
am I sweet, or what?

have to remind myself
she sees things her way, not mine,
cause astrologically speaking – we were born in
different places at different times,
must allow for different hearts,
different stops, different starts, different graces
we get things done at a different paces
boys versus girls in the human races
and so it goes

now, if I’m not hard enough
maybe it’s because I wake up early each day,
my skin gets too soft
from gentle morning sunshine
baby kissing my eyes,
she’d probably say the sun light in my eyes
goes in deep alright,
and has dried out my brain

reflection

as i reflect it seems
there are two extremes
beginning and end
with which to contend

my report begins in motion
a start somewhere in the middle
for the real beginning was so long ago
that i don’t hope to know

and beyond my lines
the end will come in view
but more will notice
when the end is past
certainly not me
and i doubt if you

the wall

the wall between us
is nearly transparent
as i can see
we can live within, i have found

and walk around half off the ground
through misty vapors
crowned with windows
to gothic cathedral height

invisible as sweet music
unfolding with the stars at night
treading softly on the grass
all seems so profound

as easily we pass
turning to the sound
with outstretched arms
we circle, around, around and around

enough of this that both
gladdens and saddens me
it is for you too
look around, go and see
i am yours, you are mine
we share the way
it’s ours this day
if we’re so close
why are you always
on the other side?

mourning doves

more than any other bird not on disassembly lines
an estimated 70 million are shot by hunters annually,
while other birds make happy songs
mourning doves emit a plaintive lament - coo coo coo
a favorite sound since mornings of my youth

look for them not in deep woods, but in open fields
and sitting on telephone wires
doves fly a swift 55 miles an hour in straight lines
eat only seeds
their poorly constructed nest tends to fall apart

unlike other birds, doves blink
sad like circus clown Emmet Kelly
who swept the spotlight with a broom,
they are cute,
yet, pitiful