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

house at isn't der

I’m working to enter poetically into the sound and rhythm of the 21st Century, for that I’ll sacrifice conventional grammar.
Face it – “down to da ground” and "do dee dark" have poetical swing.


house at isn't der

when a haunted house
gets torn down,
down to da ground,
where do dee dark night spirits go?

would dey stay up der somewhere
in thin air,
ones formerly of creaky stairs
dat wandered upper floors by night,

dose dat whisper talked,
den easily walked
through solid walls,
like dey weren’t der? or were dey?

an tell me, can ghosts be
able to see
to remain in a house
dat isn’t der?

as light
by night
as a whiff
of scented candles.

poof!

driverless cars

With the latest technology, engineers are taking a journey from Italy to China in driverless vehicles! The 8,000 mile trip will take about 3 months!

They are making the trek with two orange vans, and each is equipped with an actual person for when instances arise that the automobiles can’t handle.



latest technology
driverless cars
give me a blue one baby,
send it to the drive through

call ahead, roll down the window,
have the attendant throw in a loaf of bread
toss in a cold beer, put it on the tab
then honk me goodbye, baby, i’m going to China.

uses the computer

uses the computer
to play solitaire.
i ask what web sites he looks at
and he puts a silly look on his face,

guessing it appropriately condescending,
arrogantly feigning intelligence,
to cover ignorance and indifference,
then puts black eight on red seven.

barbeque in the country

picked up Darrel at his farm,
first saw work he’d done,
talked a bit, checked the time
then hit the road.

off out there we drove,
a country parcel north o’ the village,
parked in grass at the part tin clubhouse
for a Sunday good eatin’ chicken barbeque

the American Legion put it on,
country eatin’ fun, for all’d come,
at the intersection of parched long fields,
on a rise by rail road tracks.

men fired slow baked glazed golden chicken,
cole slaw, barbeque beans the ladies made,
plus chocolate sheet cake frosted,
with as you please coffee and lemonade.

under yellow sun, very still this hot July noon,
doors and windows were slung open a mile,
an electric fan hummed a welcome summer breeze
in our rural, out of the way, little town Ohio.

not always the hero

ok, so, just to show I’m not
making myself always the hero,
i got off the crowded bus smiling,
saw a flash of white

flapping large as a napkin
right on the front of me.
my zipper half way down,
my shirt was sticking out.

oh, darling you'd think i hardly hear you

for me
no mail for decades.
nary a post in the box,
only cobwebs on my cobwebs.

no need for an in box.
that space by my door
could be permanent no peddler signs
for every holiday occasion.

and now this,
my sixty-fifth birthday year,
i have already received
more than sixty-five solicitations,

not from a chick
to walk me across the street
down to the corner bar
and whisper “watch both ways” into my ear.

what arrives is another offer
for an inexpensive hearing aide.
i’m sixty-five - they’ve got my number
and must be selling it door to door.

Bee Gone

You best bee learning . What’s a bee for? Bee's wax. What do I call this poem? Is it Bee gone or just Gone. I’ll work that out later. The next part concerns you.

Because you're dead doesn’t mean you have nothing more to learn. Let's start there.

You don’t just die and get angel food cake with ice cream and a gold beanie. No, seems there’d be a school for the dead to teach what they didn’t learn on earth.

Straighten ‘em out, work ‘em a bit to make saints out of them; or do you think they just get sent back to earth, recycled stupid. I suppose it could be. Let ‘em stumble along again on their own, and see if they can do any better. I don’t know how it works.


Bee Gone


sitting on the back porch
smoking, having morning coffee
a small bee came zipping around
persistent, wouldn’t go away.

i thought perhaps it could be the spirit
of my dear friend, or my uncle
coming back this warm summer day
checking out how things are going.

staying near
making circles
all alone
going fast.

i blew smoke on him,
brushed him on his way,
not to be disrespectful,
but, he’s got to learn.

The BP oil leak in the Gulf of Mexico began late May or early June.
I guess I may be stuck there.


tough time

tooling down the road
a wild turkey on the right,
standing where you’d be
if you were thumbing a lift.

i blew past him doing fifty plus.
geeze, he was big. big as a dog.
had he heard of the oil spill, do any of them know?
is that why he was out walking? was he stunned?

this is a tough time
appalling, unequaled.
great damage has been done
to the waters, to the life, to the earth.

and we are the caretakers.
oh, what we have we have left for our children,
this legacy we’ve created,
all for pieces of silver.

i thought to continue to write here, to divert attention
away from thoughts of great sadness - disaster.
let me tell you - it isn’t easy, it is sad.
nothing is easy now. so sad.

time machine

standing on the corner
watching all the girls go by
listening to Dean Martin sing that
in 2010 Ohio.

i’m in a chair,
93 degrees outside,
M. in the kitchen,
Dean on the programmable radio station.

a 1908 Saturday Evening Post short story on my lap
that’s takes me back to the old West.
and I’m in a chair in 2010 Ohio, M.’s in the kitchen,
Dean is on the radio singing for us.

you want a time machine?
pick up a book,
turn on the radio,
92.8 degrees outside - so says the Internet.

the son also sleeps

it’s a doggie dog world
look it up.
that cracked me up when I read it,
you know it has the clang of truth.

it’s a doggie dog world,
that’s why my son is having therapy
for a shoulder he took on a bad job of rock climbing
and that doctors sewed upon.

taking naps is safer.
his daughter sees summer slipping away.
he denies the truth,
however, being father makes one old

and consequently forgetful.
i don’t think he hit his head.
hope the old fart remembers
to brush his teeth and change his shorts.

daughter is right,
summer is slipping along at high speed.

m. is locked in at high speed warp factor,
and worries too much.
i worry if she is too tired
to make something good for dinner.

last week she picked blue berries
while i waited,
sat on a bench, read,
and between customers talked to Pseudo Farmer

who lives in Ohio two months each year
in a house built in 1822, fantastic, huh?
and the rest of the time is in Montanna,
no relation to Hannah.

Ohio is 90 degrees,
has been for a month
and will continue warm.
sweet corn is good.

i am too.
half as good as her blue berry pie,
i ate it.
these are words to live by.

solar eclipse

beneath tall ancient sculptured stone monuments
a half hour past noon, waiting.
excited anticipation from crowds gathered on Easter Island,
for scientists proclaimed that Pacific island on the path.

then murmurs hushed, eyes opened skyward
as a moon blanket covered sun, brought five minutes
of daytime solemn darkness and stars.
earth’s seventh full solar eclipse of the 21st Century.

i am old and have yet to witness a total eclipse.
that it good, for it means
there is an event ahead, both moving and spectacular
for me to look forward to.

paper in my pocket

paper in my pocket
making note
preparation for doing
like setting the table

dad did it.
inadvertently, he taught me,
jot thoughts down
afore they get away.

time ticks quicker

notice what’s going on?
mowed the lawn two days in a row.
usually it’s right to wait a week.
we're moving in quick time.

tell someone please
turn down the gas
on the time machine,
obviously it’s running too fast.

many flowers blew into bloom
within a pair a days.
now don't be thinking this is paradise,
life is more like a rolling pair of dice.

blowin' across the highway

political division of the sexes
an obstacle in long standing tradition
the world may someday surmount
or complacently continue to avoid.

like a garbage can
blowing across a highway,
you better stay alert.
try not to cross paths.

continue to not think about it,
most times you may be lucky,
or do right and change your ways
before one has your number.

teeth is all

brush my teeth is all
she asked me what i was doin’
teeth is all i'm doin’
teeth is all

then seven-thirty and we were driving.
she wanted to pick blue berries early
before it got 90 plus humid degrees.
many, many, a record many pickers had the same idea.

through a heavily wooded area on the way,
the guard rail ahead at the crossing came down.
oh no, a train, i moaned, then zip - like that
a locomotive and one train car flashed by.

forty feet ahead of us a buck deer crossed the road
from woods on one side to woods on the other.
two small young deer came out undecided on the road.
we waited 'til the adult female rushed them across to the woods.

at another bend in the road
was a large wild turkey in the brush.
right at the side of the road's where he sat.
a big guy, geeze he was fat.

back home after berries, a blue jay had hit our kitchen widow.
looked open, too clean? don't think so, more than likely
he was thinking distracted and flying too fast.
was lying dead when we arrived. m. got the shovel, buried it.

and the day began
with m. waiting in the car.
only needed a minute to brush my
teeth is all.

mocking bird hill

came out of a song, the name did.
skipped in on the wind, stuck like discarded paper
beyond the fence where Hoppy lived in a shack
at the town dump, on a knoll above Mud Brook.

he was resident care taker, barroom dart baller,
and sometime crossing guard downtown.
a tiny fellow in second hand clothes, worn seaman’s cap,
one leg way shorter than the other.

we’d examine approachable edges when we went dumpin',
finding some old wood piece, or metal gadget,
antiquated discards, to pick up, cart off,
recycle and transform into inventive service.

a busted end table or a bicycle,
an unbroken bit of colorful depression glass,
an original period lamp in need of rewiring,
a long, long time before anyone spoke of toxins.

today not a trace is left of that place on that knoll,
plowed and replanted clean. the dump's been moved,
gone with Hoppy, as are most of those who remember,
the rise over the creek called Mocking Bird Hill.

train 28

that’s the date in June 2010.
i want to differentiate
cause see i’ve talked of trains before.
in absolute way quiet three a.m.
that’s when they come, you know.

with first a subtle vibration in the tracks
from twelve to fifteen states away.
then i got up ate, slept and ate and drank and slept again.
three days later Goliath Machine approaches town,

of course total darkness.
not a star out tonight,
they only come like that, at night you know.
steam rolling vibrational thunder.

with a whistle
a warning
hear it

You
You there
I mean you
Take warning - Watch yourself,
I am coming.

shakes ducks eggs in the marsh
corn kernels rattle off cobs in the fields
and homes from their basements trough foundations vi-
vi-vi-vib—vib-vibrate.
god o’ mighty it’s Heavy Metal son of a bitch
clobbering everything.

i’m three blocks away from the tracks
and total down to dust destruction,
every home, bird’s nest and dog house
tween here and there destroyed
by the merciless rattling shakathon.

yet, like a mystery,
somehow
sleep comes,
deep mellowing sleep.

and then magically
when first bird tweets,
all is rebuilt by dawn,
everything, up and down the streets,

including fillings, crowns and molars replaced
and neighborhood groundhogs back in their burrows,
robins eggs return to their nests,
no cracks in the sidewalks, no more.

all is well again, healed by sight
of first morning light
when i awake and go to the window
and look out that way
to see what happened.

summer storm

summer humid, you can't believe.
oven hot and closet still.
something brewing west,
thick heavy sky darkness rolling.

rain races, beating, hail, high wind - boom,
lightning cracks a quarter mile away.
what’s hit’s on fire
or gone blown to hell now, i’d say.

half hour later, all’s still again,
a bit cooler, lone wren cries loud,
accounting for it's family.
with that we’ll end the day, show’s over.