A Buzz Climas Lament

A Buzz Climas Lament  From Ken Johnson

As I watch West, from my Waltham home,
  There is a lifting mist, a warm fog rising
  Over Connecticut’s ridges and hills,
A pillow cloud, now a beard, under
  The parting blue sky’s two eyes,
Having waited too long to reunite, I see
  Your face, serene, whom I can no longer touch,

My childhood friend,
  Farewell,
May our Earthly tears bear credit
  For God in Heavens’ Gain

My Second Wife’s Cat…

If you want to know what prompted me to write this you can ask me. But it's a long story would be a bit of a give away...

My Second Wife’s Cat…

My Second wife’s cat is a serious cat,
He hunts mice and rats all the day,
My Second wife’s cat is an ornery cat,
I recommend all keep away,

When we married, you knew, as widower I,
My last love had long since passed away,
Now as I die soon, my new wife, I must say
That she still owns my heart to this day

When my previous died, I laid her in a plot,
Where was left a particular spot,
Big enough for all which she deserves,
Thus I ask you with her – please bury my heart

My Second wife’s’ cat is a scheming old cat
No matter whatever you say
My Second wife’s’ cat is a mischievous cat
What will he get up to today?

Once the doctor pronounced, next according to plan,
The coroner carved out my heart,
And before my corpse went to the funeral home,
He trusted my wishes with you

I think not you meant ill,
Maybe doing my will,
When you left my heart close to the door,
Though your thieving old cat,
Proving he’s a true rat
Then he crept in, and did as we all know…

My Second wife’s cat is a thieving old cat
Who stole in and ran off with my heart,
My Second wife’s cat’s a rascal forest cat,
Where he hides my poor heart, to this day,
And my second wife’s cat ‘s a deceitful old cat,
   Damn sure to me,
Whom she still pets and loves to this day

A Christmas Eve's Dropping...

A Christmas Eve's Dropping...

We go roundabout to church on Christmas eve,
   drive by-ing and gawking at lawns and stucco porticos,
Where blessed Mothers and Fathers all praying
   that the sleeping babe won’t wake,
Who are also posed to sush the Three Kings in Law
   who’ve just arrived, doting, bearing spoiling gifts,
While the shepherd and his sheep,
   are content to remain uncounted this easy dreaming night,
   all aglow with the warm incandescent bulbs of this Naitivite's’ Holy Spirit

An hour plus later, roaming home, we intrude upon them all again,,
   and, still not wishing to wake the foretold blowmold babes of this silent night,
Then roll quietly on, into our own drive,
   ready to brace the cold, to preheat the oven,
And there to bake our own Chirstmas Eve frozen pizza of the seven fishes,
   and to eat it with anything but communion wine
   as the Pope comes on at 11:30

Comes now midnight,
   when the neighbors light timers each switch off,
   first this yard then that one, electric candles blow out,
And only the moonlight’s glow now shines
   on the white Harry Potter ‘expecto patronum’ reindeer,
While too, Home Depot fans desist
   in further inflating the stout bouncy Santas
   and those Frosty round air snow men,
   who each peacefully collapse under purple Van Gogh’s starry starry night,
Happy now, only to be seen from now on only by Waltham’s bleary eyed dui revelers,
   who, shut out after last call, drive by without headlights, and too fast, 
Soon too to collapse on couches, chairs, the floor, their beds,
   with their heartfelt blessings of the Church of this Holy Night’s Noel Drunkards,

It it peace?
   We’re asleep, no more tonight,
      Good Night

 

 

Jesus Hates Half Baked Fruit Dumps

First of all, to whomever has been checking back every second day over the last week, Thank You!
Secondly, it has occurred to me that much of what I write is unpublishable.
And I also resent fruit cakes. Thus, 1 + 1 = this;

Jesus Hates Half Baked Fruit Dumps

Have you ever made a fruitcake?
  They’re not all that hard to make
Just mix Banana Bread with Gummi bears,
  Then you put them in to bake

Some people prefer candied fruit,
  Like me, the Germans say "not gute,"
For going back to old time ways
  Just ain’t the way to do it,

We need a cake for modern times,
  Not gum sweets from bygone years,
Maybe instead bake an easy dump cake
  And they do take lots less time!

Yes, if you must bake, so it be,
  Though the things bring no one glee,
Yet, if you must send them to your friends
   Remember –
    Jesus hates half baked fruit dumps,
So do not send one to me!

I’m Planting Lightbulbs…

Tired of the same old Holiday carols?
Need something fresh and new to spark you out of this dark season?
Here's a classic old traditional carol I wrote just for you 2 minutes ago....

I’m Planting Lightbulbs…

(refrain)
I’m planting lightbulbs for Christmas,
To brighten Chrismas eve,
I’m planting lightbulbs for Christmas,
That they, my love, may please

In Fall we planted tulips,
That they may brighten Spring,
In March we planted Dahlias,
That Joy all summer bring

Yet in Winter dark comes early,
We’ve all got S.A.D
So I plant Christmas lightbulbs,
To see you still love me

(refrain)

Late hours under clear stars
We’ll sing carols ‘till midnight,
While all the bulbs we’ve planted sprout
With sunshine gay and bright

(refrain)

Mergansers

For I few weeks in the Spring and again in the Fall, for years I could mark the seasons by the returning ducks. This year - nothing. I'm pining for my ducks...

Mergansers

Upon this pond our ducks will ply,
Mergansers they are called,
But no, they have not come this year,
I’ve not seen them at all

May they return one temperate day,
Between the seasons, snow and rain?
I’ll keep my vigil on the gray cloud sky,
Until the ice grows back again

They’ve paused here their migration flights,
To take some fish, to rest their wings,
As they flew from the North in Fall,
Or North again the warming Spring

Coming in winging circles over our small pond,
Then landed with out stretched webbed feet
They rent the waters calm,
He’s the coal black drake who will rise and shake,
She’s the phoenix fire dam

I have watched her dive for minnows, while
Ceaselessly he courts his mate,
She’ll bob up again some yards away,
But until she does, we’ll wait

He’s a white blaze on his buffle head,
Can be seen from miles away,
She’s the rustic hue of Autumn leaves,
And just as quick, they blow away

May they come again some temperate day,
Between the seasons, snow or rain?
Or shall I cease my Autumn gray cloud vigil
Until the pond ice breaks again?

Scooter Back to Front

Ever have a cat who scoots on the rug?
One of ours has his very own solution...

Scooter Back to Front

I have noticed, between howls,
Scooters’ new taste for paper towels,
  whether Bounty, Brawny, pick a size,
  he chews them all, prefers two-plys,
  He knocks a roll down on the floor,
  then Panther pounces to settle the score
As he seizes the roll with his savage claws,
  chomps right in with his untamed jaws,
  and gnaws it along in typewriter rows
  like an ear of sweet summer corn

There’s must be a reason, perhaps it’s that,
  Scoot’s not the cleanliest of cats,
For his fur gets stuck, with only what
  we'll call " ‘duh poops ‘dere" on his butt,
Relief from which makes him desperate
  enough to squat on the carpet,
  to raises his back legs in the air,
  and whether we watch, he just don’t care,
As he drags his rear by his strong front claws
  defying all known household laws!

Determined to put a stop to that,
  I found his comb, I caught the cat,
Then while I combed his tough poop knots
  he decided he’d jump - with all he’s got,
But I didn’t let go the comb,
  I just held him up there, suspended,
  until the fur pulled out,
  (and he didn’t land on his feet)

Still, he must conceive some efficacy
  to eat paper towels as a delicacy,
Perhaps he’s cured what ails his croup,
  by
    inventing new self wiping poops!

A Tree Bear

From out back porch you can actually see this...

A Tree Bear

The top o’ that tree, it sure seems to me,
  is the face of a bear, take a look, can you see?
The tree top’s a crown, it’s a head of bear hair,
  with those ursine short branches, rounding out for his ears,
While from a lower branch his nose respires,
   and that thick tough low bough to a stern jaw aspires,
Hollow cheeks and bare eyes, while they seem empty space,
  are the places that most animate his bear face,
And he speaks through the breeze,
  lowing in the wind he calls to me,
  then bestills for my answer in the calm,
"I thank you, Sir Bear, yet I ask may you see,
  once my Mother taught me
   ‘Son, do not talk to trees’"

‘Night Deer

‘Night Deer

When I was young, we lived the other way ‘round,
  so it seems not right that a child like I
  should bid good night to my Mother,
Who would kiss me on the cheek to dispel nights’ fears,
  turn out the light with a ‘good night, dear,’
  when I could count on the one hand my every year

Of course she died,
  the cause of that’s already known,
And she was not so much buried as sown
  upon the hillside with my Grandmother,
  with neighbors, friends and community elders attending,
  each coupled or single with headstones of their own
Then I could not say farewell,
  I pined, if asked I claimed allergic eyes were swelled,
  only stopping when I could no more abide,
She won’t return to my bedside,
  and that’s as much as I will tell

So on and on ‘till after thirty years
  our house had long been sold,
  my brothers and Dad long moved away,
And funny I called it ‘going home’ to return to a town
  where I had not lived for longer than the time I had lived there,
And at our house, which I could but drive by,
  comes the return of that conveniently scapegoated pollinosis
  to see our old driveway full of others’ bikes and toys
  with which I could not play
Yet I did recall that venerated yard of ground,
Unchanged, calling to be revisited
  before the setting of the sun,

When I parked upon the hill, walked up the gravel drive
  with eyes near swelling, on I strived,
When I saw - my surprise!
A fawn there, nested, curled asleep,
  cradled in an unmown nest above my mothers’ plot,
  her nose, covered under cloven hooves,
  I stood awe-staring, daring not a move,
Then she sniffed, and flaring my silent scent
  the fawn blew up in the air and with a turn
  dashed over beds where other’s beloved’s’ slept,
Her hooves resounding on the turf
  as would a bolting schoolgirl in two pairs of clogs,
Off to find her mother? I guess, where hallowed,
  I knew not where, but I knew somewhere,
And as the white blaze of the tail of the fawn disappeared in the shadow gloam,
  With her receding to Sheol,
    I caught me, whispering,
      ‘Good night, dear’

Why I Don’t Use Periods

Why I Don’t Use Periods

When the period tumbled off the page,
  I felt no distress, it brought me no rage,
It was as a bug, a shed old leaf,
  no matter to wrack me in pain or in grief,
I watched it pachinko down these same coupled lines,
  and then it swan dived off a well chosen rhyme,

As for why it did, I’m no grammarian,
  I can’t explain punctuation,
So I just wrote my next couplet,
  with words alive and fresh and new,
  which I doubled to a quatrain – meaning two, (couplets)
On, on I wrote, until I’d almost done it,
  I’d nearly writ a fricken’ sonnet,
When I saw that absent those absurd dots,
  a line is more that just one thought,

In a world where eddies bend and blend
  my thoughts a stream that never ends,
And just to justify ink blots unkind,
  does it make sense I must stop my mind?
No! I choose to write on in my way,
  exploring Natures’ naivete,

In birds a flutter, in mice who mutter,
  in falling stars and peanut butter,
By chickadees who sneeze with ease,
  by cats who scout them as they please,
So read on friends, no poem ends,
  just pardon me if now and then
I leave you with a gap, 

You’ll forgive me, I’m just round the bend
  to buy more notebooks and some pens  

The Long Eared Solstice

Here's another, posted out of season. I started writing it on the solstice, but it took me until now to finish as a decent first draft. Yet I think it's deserving.
And, come next Spring, I know some amateur poetry mags I can send it to, in plenty of time for their upcoming summer issue(s).

The Long Eared Solstice

On his hind legs he trims my lawn,
And as I watch him chew, I am bucolically amused,
  for this rabbit seems a bit confused
  as to who’s the rabbit and who’s the man,
Drowsy in the summer light, I think it better this
  than that I should wage this war, I Man,
  on the lawn with these arms;
  my electric weeding whip, and my tractor drove gas mower
Now, here at the dusk of Spring,
  he’s brought an appetite for the ready seeds borne by the green grass,
  sun toasted and gold atop the fine green stalks, tall as asparagus,
No happenstance our grass’ so lengthy,
  on this our longest day

Perhaps, should the rabbit like,
  I could craft him a little scythe,
That while he hays, he may make play
  at being our long eared solstice Father Time, 
  here for his yearly reap and sow,
Soon to leave his harvest standing tied in sheaves,
  left to dry here to a gold malt brown, before comes Autumn leaves, 
  which he’ll then carry to his burrow for his Winter lay away
And I laugh, no rabbit’s ever worked that hard,
  no, he’ll eat here ‘til he’s full enough,
  or he can no longer stand the stuff,
Then he’ll lope off to another’s yard
  where the clover blooms today,
Yes, that’s more the rabbit’s way

Tonight, when this our half past years highest sun
  has taken to bed under the waxing black cloak of night,
  our backyard rabbit will no more be seen,
  excepting his by his lamplight eyes
  should I catch him in my flashlights’ gleam,
So we’ll leave him, as it looks to be a cloudless night,
   and soon we’ll spy a rabbit I know revels in his toil,
For tonight the full moon burns, and there, when high,
  in that searchlight, in that gilt silver mirror ball,
  we’ll catch instead the old illusive rabbit of the moon!
As he’s compounds pure mirth’s elixir,
  the spice of life and love on Earth,
  from the curdles of the milky whey
  in his old wood butter churn

Ol’ Cats’ Friend

Ol’ Cats’ Friend

There, that chipmunk just ran along the porch ledge again,
  thin an edge as it is, it’s wide enough for him,
He runs there often, mostly ‘cause he wants to know,
  Ol’Cats’ not here
  and he knows the porch’s screen is strong, if Ol’ Cat were,
  he has no fear,
Yet still he hides behind the cedar beam,
  with his tail held in view, twitching, tempting,
  
I know what to say, watch,
   "Hey Mr. Chipmunk, how you today, looking for someone to play?"
Ol’ Cat, hearing me, strolls out on the porch through the open slide door,
   "Hey Ol’ Cat, shhh! Look, shhh1"
I tease and point toward the twitching brown worm,
  the bait on the end of a line,
Ol’ Cat just stares at my finger,
  "No, behind the post, see?"
And he takes the bait, Ol’ Cat lunges ahead,
  as chipmunk runs back along the ledge,
  pretending fast flight to the hedge,
While Ol’ Cat collides again head first into the screen,
  …if Chipmunks could laugh,

And would I’d kept a mark for every time
   I’ve seen them do this and thought ‘Ouch!"
Then chipmunks’ score would look like all
  of Ol’ Cats’ scratches on our couch

Is this a Rectory?

Ever notice how who you think you often isn't what you turn out to be?

Is this a Rectory?

Are you ready?
Who believes believes in
  the service of the extended hand,
  the retrieval of a sentient soul,
Sure you know what it means,
  yet are you ready?

Glorious morning,
  I delight in greeting on the front steps, I jest
"Good morning, program? Can’t tell the sinners from the saints without a program…"
  and, "Good morning, program…?" see?
Sunday morning smug is fun!

And we get them too,
  several appear just before the service ends,
  there’s cookies and coffee,
So when she walked up,
  her weathered sunburned face,
  her unwashed hair in need of Prell,
  the plastic bag under her arm,
She seemed no exception to me

"Good morning…"
  she interceded, verging on tears,
"I’m homeless, I’m hungry, Is this a Rectory?"
"There’s a mass about to start, a coffee thereafter, come back in a hour,"
   I watched her back as she turned and trod back the sidewalk, chiming
"God bless you, bless you," her voice a Victorian urchin,

Not until she was past the Post Office did I have the thought,
   I could have given her $5 dollars,
   pointed up the street where’s Dunks and Mickey-Dee’s,
I could have told her - there’s a food pantry, here, open Fridays, for Seniors,
   she likely was one,
   I could have… I'm standing here alone,

Over crackers and cheese I described her to the Warden,
   watching, attendant, though she didn’t come back…
I still believe I could have…
I know next time, be ready…

Now, forlorn, my Sunday smug bygone,
   may I see my self anew? 
For no poem is a moral,
   but the pain of self assessment, and
     the shrive of all conceit

The Thistle King

Who likes to see August Goldfinches tearing at the thistle plants? I do!
Of course as colder weather moved in, in revision this one became more about preparing for Winter than a celebration of late summer. Oops, oh well...


The Thistle King

The warm August afternoons
  heat the spiky thistle globes, unbound,
  spritely, their spiders of down take flight,
As you, the Goldfinch called The Thistle King,
  sing out upon your rounds

Successively, you mill the ready seeds,
  granting that the wind may take those
  which you have no need now of,
They fly away, those gentle gleanings you deign spare the future
  which next Spring will you sprout, and brood, and nurture
  
Yet now, as in the way of all our summer guests,
  you too shall soon retire to the naked trees of Fall,
  whose sun warmed high gold crowns are your Balmoral,
From whence by acclamation you shall process the anthem
  that conducts us in our hallowed Autumn prayers,
That, for your having prior ginned all that snow white thistle down,
  we too may bless it to become the coat, blanket and bedding
    for our Winter dormant Garden Lares

Acceptance

I’d like to dedicate this poem to the Rev Sara Irwin, Rector of Christ Church Waltham, good friend, spiritual leader, and also the one who first suggested I help with the local homeless day care center periodically, and who also is a character in this poem.
But I think I know what she’ll say, likely something of a "No, it’s not like that," or
"That’s not what we’re doing here."
So, may I apologize in advance?

Acceptance

What dwells within an honest man
  who contrives false witness on himself?
For me? I left suit business years ago,
   not a quitter, not a slacker, nor was I fired,
Yet I’ll not confess that I’m retired,

On a snow blanketed morning, Jorge approached as I dug out my car,
   he held his own shovel in his pink and chapped hands,
  and his face wordlessly spoke this wasn’t his first driveway today,
‘I help, I do, I do that?’
‘I only have a ten. Sure, you just stop when you think it’s ten dollars worth.’

On a Sunday morning the Orange Jacket,
   arms devout in a resting cross,
   warmed himself in the back most pew,
See, shelters close at seven, with no day center until two,
   thus cold Winter mornings boost Church attendance,

At coffee hour, Gray Coat was comfortable enough to help himself,
   "No cheese today?"
   I replied "We’re not mice"

That Thursday I brought a pasta lunch to the homeless center,
  where there, I saw a face I knew, I’m sure, a face I’d seen before;
It was Jorge at the shelter’s table,
   ‘I remember, you once helped me dig out my driveway.’
   ‘I no recall,’
   ‘I know you,’
   ‘I no shovel’

Also there, Sara, our Rector, recognized the Orange Jacket,
   "I think I know you, I’ve seen you in the pews at our Church,"
   "No, I don’t think, no,"
   "Are you sure? I know it’s you,’
   "No, that can’t be me,’

Gray Coat was content to eat the pasta,
   I said "No cheese today,"
He looked to me with neither eyes of fear,
   nor threat, nor denial,
   nor one who acted as on trial,
"At the Church last Sunday. you told me ‘No cheese today,"’
   he simply took his plate and walked away,

So I stand, a blank with just acceptance,
   for there once again was drawn those curtains of obscuration,
   they that cover the windows into a man,
Which all we draw before our neighbor’s grin,
   to hide what timorous souls we are, again,
   so by denying that whom we are without, is whom we are within,

And I …. I ?
   in forbearance of this human vice,
   I never heard the cock crow thrice

Spring Robin

Began writing this last Spring. One of those one’s what ended up in the ‘finish later’ file, which I’m now trying to clean on through.
Still deserving, though I need to grow beyond this plodding rhyme scheme.
When I arrange my first poetry collection (working title, "Cats & Birds and Other Words) in order by Season, this will place about Mid-April..

Spring Robin

Looking odd, eyes there, the Robin cocks his head,
Does he note the marching ant,
  the pulsing earthworm under plants?
Or may he gladly hear, attendant with the other ear
  those blessings which puff clouds high might grant?

A scuttle on, he turns his head,
  to take in what Nature has spread,
Stays long enough upon this stop
  to peck at fresh grit for his crop,
Or what he takes of insectivorous fare,

He hops again, eye to blue sky,
   one wonders does he wonder why?
Might he ponder Hawking’s physic laws,
   or good old Nature’s ethics flaws?
Does he conceive blue Heavens dome
   as a partner to our Earthly home?

My guess is he, but just my hunch,
   is devout to
     his fledglings lunch

Our Sexton

Even these 2 days later, I still reminisce on Paula’s service (Saturday). These thoughts are like the trailers after a college LSD trip. Call them post funeral trailers.
Might you wonder what the those PFT's may look like?
They look like this:

Our Sexton

I walked past the choir room closets
  where the pressed altar garments all lie still,
And the wobbly standing ironing board
  where she straightened the white collars
  with soft sprinkles of water distilled,
The room was too quiet,
  no angelic choir practice sung today,
And it struck on my just how quickly
  these soundproof church room do grow old

Away I saw the Sexton,
"She should be here"
"She’s gone now"
"She was just here…"
"She’s in the garden, I can take you"

We walked past the beds where fall flowers were planted,
   which she cut for bouquets that, presuming the altar guild granted,
   she placed in the chancel on Sundays,
I saw each scissor cut had healed
   spurring on shoots with new blossoms blooming,
Growing wild in their glory abandoned,
  The benefit of her compassionate pruning

"I can see she was here"
"She’s in the garden"
"This isn’t the garden?"
"I’ll take you"

We walked on past a tree under which bark mulch had been spread,
  where once she told me she buried a pigeon she’d found dead,
There she dug a little hole,
  put the soil back in place
Bent her leg and took a knee
   And coo’ingly spoke pigeon grace

"That burial was very like her, really quite understated"
"I know she’s here…"
"She’s in the garden"

Next we walked through a gap in a split rail fence
   to a yard hedged with thorns, burning bush, trimmed and dense
As he pointed to the ground he said
   "There, she’s down there"
Where upon I looked seeing only
   a smooth polished granite square,
By which I could only squat and feel the carved letters,
   cold as the iron in the choir room,
   cut off as the flowers she placed on the altar,
   out of the way, as the pigeon beneath the tree,
Here are all the attributes, that never were as she,

"This is our memorial garden," next,
"I planted her. Sextons’ garden too"

I returned to my welcoming Church knowing she had died,
Yet who sojourns to a beloved one’s grave
  without believing
    that there
     we would meet again…?

White Page

White Page
(a meditation after Paula’s service)

   
Death is she’s not here any more
   only the outline of her form left in her chair gives shape to the empty she left
As an Archie Bunker, the chair is both
   memorial and wherein she yet resides,
   that not oh so holy of the not so holies,
At least until a well meaning guest or the cat sits there.

As most would I prefer to think on
   Jesus welcoming before Heaven, or
   Buddha ascending with us the karmic elscalator of transcendant planes, or
   wherever the Shinto or Zoroasters go,
   even the Agonstics nosts, for
Don’t we love to believe there is a magic behind that Rosicrucean eye?
   we can handle "the void," just not void
   we can understand "Nothingness," just not nothing

While I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
   cannot I keep my soul?
   if not in my head then where?
Will I do the spacey ghost float?
   my Father never did the spacey ghost float
   my Mother never did the spacey ghost float
  did Allen Ginsberg do the spacey Ghost float?
If he has he’s never wrote me

Death is she’s not here any more,
   only the sound of her speaking in our head gives voice to the empty she left
We cannot disbleieve that the Wizard behind the screen will grant us visiting rights, even if we don’t sincerely return with the witches broom,
   I can grasp "the empyness," just not empty
   I can write on a white page, just I cannot write ‘white page’

We delight that final croak of breathe is soul,
   grasp you that precious air!
   with cupped or clasping hands treasure that precious air!
Look upon those naked palms, No! Don’t blow on it!
  eventually, the sigh, and so our own breath blows the fantastic spirit away

Death is
   she’s not here any more

September Jesters

Ever walk through a yard or meadow, and seen one of those black and gold butterflies that vanish when they land?
It's not paranoia if they are out to get you...

September Jesters

While Grasshoppers may fly on wings,
His Cricket Cousin with them sings
  by chirping both together in a cheep
The Cricket is invisible,
  ever out of site he keeps
While the ‘Hopper and he
  plot conspiracies, to tease

As I walk on through the grass
  a Brown-Black Butterfly appears,
  with gold gilt wing tips shear
He flies away and flings himself
  in a grass tuft yards ahead

I’ve often seen perched butterflies,
  as tall gay sails they hold their wings,
Yet where this Merry Prankster’s gone
  I do not see a thing,
Although there’s Cousin Grasshopper
  who regards me with a grin

"Oh, have you lost your butterfly?"
"Why, yes, have you seen him?"
"Oh no, no no no no no, no!"

I walk along and then I see
   Gilt Butterfly again takes wing
While cousin Cricket plays along
  his off tune autumn violin song

Yard Work

Last summer, instead of mowing and doing the yard work I started writing a poem about the benefits of not mowing and doing yard work

Yard Work

He looks a fat finger above the green and dandelions
  under a pointed peak,
  his face a black thumb print,
  with a nail yellow beak,
With which he pecks at crickets and grubs
  to feed his fledgling flock,
  those quiet now but soon squabbling nestlings in the shrub,
Thus, as a blessing for him, we’ll lay no grub killers in our yard
  for so we welcome the Cardinal

True the dandelions may have made our yard invalid
   yet the Woodchuck brings an appetite for salad,
She’s that same Whitey B, who once notoriously
  slept in on straight through Groundhog Day,
Now she moves her head from head to head
  consuming leaf and seed and shred,
And so too are we blessing her, all weed killers we'll defer
  as landlords we deign ‘Whitey, feed you free…’

In Bun-Rab haven births last year
  increased them by great numbers dear,
Where each of last years bucks and does
  raised at least two litters, maybe more,
Thus when Winter snows buried lawn and fodder
  the rabbits raised last seasons’ girdle mark,
By foot long barks on our euonymus stalks
Yet to contemplate the damage done,
   I do not hate them, not a one
So we’ll bar the poachers from our place
  and grant Bun-Rab’s a blessed grace
While I admire the Coyotes’ trace
  as he spies the deer red conies run,
  silhouetted in the setting sun

A Poem of Mountains and Pants…

A Poem of Mountains and Pants…

Somewhere,
  neither at the beginning nor the end of time,
I guess mid the balance,

Stood The Mountain, overlooking
  mounds and hills that danced and played
  in their rumble-tumble geologic ways

Once I had climbed up on his shoulder,
I told the Mountain of when my Father died,
  I fit his pants, so too his shoes, I wear them now,
  And his bonds have since been transferred to my broker

Was my need for old worn pants and shoes so dear?
  had I not already bonds of my own?
I was bound at the time by only this idea,
  Thus I asked the mountain ‘Why we die?’
As tear drop stones rolled from his eye
  I heard him say ‘It comes to mountains too,’

                               - 

Below a cool running stream
  before the jag that made a dam
There was a round shouldered fish pond
  where slowly bubbles paddled around
Which the King Fish called ‘The Whirled,’

There the King Fish taught his children
  to escape the heron wading in,
  which were the good plants to eat and why,
  how not to sink to the bottom,
  and never to trust a craw-fish

As that summers' drought progressed,
  and bore strong on in a way they rarely do,
  no new water streamed within,
None neither splashed over the dam,
  which grew higher with each days sun oppression,

When soon they’d eaten all the greens within the pool
  the King Fish saw the peril they were in

‘Eat your children,’ his hunger said,
‘That’s not a Father’s love,’ his reason bid
As instead he lay his body down,
  that his children may survive 

 

A Cat at Ease

Who likes dumb cat poems?
Me! Me! Me!
A Cat at Ease
Here rests our cat with his head turned upside down,
Logically, his smile inverted,
  should now become a frown,
Yet here he beams and purrs the happier
  to see me stand upon my crown

Over his expanse of down tummy fur
  up and down my fingers dance,
As his white paws knead in the air
Contentedly, and without care
  like dandelions, once gone to seed,
  they rise and spread, then disappear

I find; a naval,
That secret kitty hara,
  where coursing stomach muscles come to a round,
I feel it with my finger,
Were he a vinyl pool toy,
  then here is plugged that impressed rubber nipple
Where by fur farts on that omphalic orb
  or by a few sound breathes within
I think that I could blow him up,
  like a beach ball, widen him,

Yet I best not too much tickle that space,
  for should I scratch too hard that place
I could only watch the disaster I’ve caused
  as he, with a hiss, deflates

We Dancing Wood Divas

The Buddha thought that Gods, while transcendent, were all the same no different from us, desirous, foolish, and mortal.

We Dancing Wood Divas

Would we were wood carved divas
  Who dance on transcendent planes
We’d love as glow lights, me and you
  And have no care for shame

Could we be wood carved divas
  We’d be a kind but not the same
For caste within our classes we
  Can know of fire yet make no flame

For like Brahmanic Gods we’re fixed
  Our ways are set, I cannot rove
Including that, broke-hearted I
  Have sworn another’s love

PS: Yes this is a re-rite of something posted last Spring. The original has been deleted.

An Argyle Sock

Post - I just read William Allingham’s ‘the Faeries,’ and was quickly inspired to give the world something derivative.

An Argyle Sock

Twas in the gloam of a night as such.
  Our bonnie Bridie stept oot fer a swim,
She dressed down into those same humble clothes
  God saw her born with, and stepped in

Was not by a hand of Man nor God’s
  That cruelly dragged and pulled her down,
It may not e’en be known by she
  What reason there was by which she drown,

She drifted ghostly in the lake,
  Then late she nested in the silt,
What tears she shed the lake washed away,
  For her death were no Man’s guilt

Was then the silver faeries came,
  They alone knew of her fate,
By a moonlight silver they flashed about,
   For to aide her sure revival, they would wait,

At morn when golden sun arose
  Wee faeries returned to fish,
Tho’ t’see her rise and live again
   Was their one soul honest wish,

And so for 13 years they kept the vigil
   Yet as they’re fishies who no canna’ breathe,
None of' schools' still nae yet t’ ken
   As to why it is she canna’ leave

My Loona McGoon

Another Vineyard memory.
One of Chris's and my favorite haunts is the bar at the Ocean View Restaurant. (There's no view of the ocean from there, btw...)
But real Islanders come round there, and if you're friendly and have a minute they'll tell you stories....

My Loona McGoon

"So, do ya not believe there are hand prints on the moon?
  you buy me a pint and I’ll set tell you straight son,
Sure, some say astronauts left foot prints on it,
  but I can tell ya that’s all fake, Government propaganda shit,
Ever notice there ain’t no stars behind Neil Armstong?
  ‘cause he’s in a warehouse, Ya never seen ‘em…,
But I gone too far, I skipped ahead a few parts,
  thanks guy, for the pint, I’ll go back to the start,

I’d been clammin’ on the outer banks, you know, the shallow ones anyway,
  when I got back to ma boat at the end o’ the day,
It’s never too fun, returnin’ to Nantucket,
  the seas very big and me boat’s just a bucket,
Then a storm blew up strong and it blew up right quick,
  but I’m an old clammin’ man, an’ I don’t get sea sick,
As the swells increased, the boat leaned up to starboard with each wave,
  she leveled off up the top o’ the swell, leaned to port on the downside,
  to level again bottoming a ‘tween the last and the next,
Over and over, this rolling motion,
Over ya know? ‘Way-O’, and over ‘Way-O’ we’d come,
  ‘til I felt as I’d never been sober, like too much strong rum,
‘Way-Ooo-Ooo-Woah…

An’ all the time the swells grew up higher an’ we rolled to top,
  (I say we, I mean me boat, me clams in the hold, and me)
Then I noticed, up there, clear above the mist, could see stars!
  we was in the heavens, the inky black heavens, pin-poked by starlights…
  (Ya never saw them on those ‘moon lanidings!)
Then we rolled down the lee back in the mist
  only to roll up, stars and stars again,
Was then I noticed the moon rising,
  not while deep in the waves of course, just when crestin’ up top,
An’ it were coming closer and closer with each time we rised, and with steam!

That old cheese meant to ram me, like a ship that won’t stop,
So I climb up on the pilot house,
  not so concerned with the wheel as preventin’ a collision
And as the swell rose up and we saw stars again
The moon herself were straight above, and I’m the only thing
  between her and smashin’ my boat.
So I put me hands up an' I steadied an' fended her off,
  these hands, see! These hands! pushed off from the moon!
Then we rode down and up again the next swell
I could see she was past,
  though we were lucky not to get caught in the wash of her screws,

Naw, I can see you don’t believe me,
  buy an old salt a pint, and he pays you back with a yarn,
Yet I can prove it, it’s true!
When again back at port, and on land,
  I noticed there was Moon Dust under me fingernails,
I scraped it out with me pen knife ‘n put it in a jar for me girl,
She wears it for eye shadow, Moon Dust is good eye shadow,
You ask around and she’ll tell ya,
  she’s my girl, she’s my Loona McGoon!"

  

The Gleaning

This time of year, in years past, Christine and I would spend a week or two on Martha’s Vinyard.
We have some memories.
In retrospect I have come to regret this, as I think that caterpillar may have made an interesting pet.

The Gleaning

We stepped into a garden store
  where waterfalls of flowers poured,
  from the ceiling to the floor,
Where cement Saints and Buddhas adored
  a bushel basket full of corn,
I said to Christine;
  "Corn meant maize to the Indians, and wheat to the British,
  although no one ever calls Indian corn British maize,
  like maize were corn and corn were wheat,
What loco in parentis taught our forebears how to eat?"

Now they were sandy, the corns,
  as if picked up from the ground,
  like a rutabaga or carrot,
  not as wholesome corn is found,
True, stalks will bend in a strong wind,
  to grow so on at an un-right angle,
  too low to greet the combines tines,
And the imagination easily minds,
  of wagons overflowing their bins,
  or the bump of a wheel spilling excess yield back again,

I said to Christine;
  "By ancient law these are the right of the poor,
  who come at dusk to glean their score,
  that they may know harsh hunger something less, ,
So how they come to this bushel basket here?
  could one poor soul have sold these ears to the shopkeeper,
  from what he had of his rightful share
  in deference to himself ever shucking another cob?"

Since priced by ear and not by weight,  
  I didn’t mind sand in my freight,
And there and then bought two, by the front door,
  which transformed me into a fantastic thing,
  for while as any of God’s made beasts I’d two ears before,
  I now left an unnatural, an Argus audientes sporting four,

On our way home we pondered;
  "Who is this, ‘the poor?’
  who desires gleaning corns no more?
  I live on a budget, so I could be needy, doubtful though,
And I’ve met homeless who deny it still,
  the need for charity and good will,"

Once home I washed the ears and shucked
  then stopped, declaring ‘Oh my, yuck!’
As the sight of a caterpillar, green the size of my finger
  digested me of all Christian thoughts,
Once showing Christine, I did not linger
  to march those ears a quarter mile,
  past where by roadside farmers piled their compost,
To a field, once a maze of corn, having since been shorn,
And invoking Our New England Yankee God
  chucked the gleanings back from whence they came

July

I know it's August.
In Japanese, especially in ancient Haiku and Taka collections, they arrange their poems by season, Spring - Summer - Autumn - Winter - Love - and Miscellaneous. 
We don't often do that in the west, though I wish I could with this blog.
But then it would be hard for you here to find the latest.

July

July the goldfinch perches
  upon the tomato cage which stands
To be crawled up by runner beans,
  towards his remembrance of last summer,
The nasturtium, zinnia and sunflower,
  not yet Goldfinch, it’s not your hour,
Young rabbits chase about the hedge,
  other birds’ nests have hatched and fledged,

But you, petal yellow with white piped wings,
  you wait until late summer to sing,
Then thistle and seed cones past sprung will have hardened,
  including these, the flowers of my oak barrel garden,
In time their petals you’ll pull and shed,
  then pluck the grains from every head,
So summer friend, please come back soon,
  it’s just that now we’ve one first bloom

The Dunmore Rock

I promise, as July ends this is my last moon and spoon about either Vermont or Lake Dunmore (for this year anyway). Yet here is an interesting character, for as all it's bliss and terror is ascribed by us it is deserving of poetic immortality.

The Dunmore Rock

I know whereof, in depths unknown
  up from the brown green a thing renown
  that mocks how mountains rent the level sky
In the mouth of South cove it tickles the serene lake,
  radio waves it casts in droves
  from the head, that stone pate unseen,
  except those said ripples sent from what’s hid below,
  an immobile coursing pretender of muskrat or monster,

Somewhere is a picture, an old sixties polaroid,
  of Uncle Charlie who stepped out of his boat
  and stood upon that rounded rock,
  mocking he can walk on water…
Oh Charlie! Are you Jesus?
  the places you will go to tease us!

Yet I know the Dunmore rock in a different vein
  it’s lurking deception and danger just the same
As you run the mid lake eastside, far past Watherhouses,
There, beyond the emerging point,
  before you pass to port of the island,
Tip up your engine, pull up your dagger,
  for you may not see it,
That circle of wavelets gets lost in the breeze,
  and you must keep watch, do not run through at ease,

I of course, when I pass through, must find it,
  it vexes me, it’s my Moby Dick,
How like Odysseus Sirens or the Gorgon Herself ,
  I am compelled to wonder and stare,
See the jagged scars from it’s tearing of hulls,?
  see the white paint dents, with shag lake algae waiving between?
  they invoke the image of shred seal lion meat,
  gore in the jaws of the Great Shark,

No, I do not avoid, I paddle to it,
  I reach out with a kindly hand and I avast me to it’s crown,
Peaceful, I so anchor with this pet rock, 
  for fear abates, phrenology divines a kinder presence,
  you tame manatee, you simple submarine Saracen,
Spirit of the lake, all year I contrive to return,
  to float in your timeless current,
  to offer benedictions at your altar,
  to lap in the waves of your prophesy,

And now our time has come, again, and gone,
Wonderful obelisk, set by the glacier lang syne,
  I must hove on, yet I push off wistful,
My hope we’ve not met our last time

Hooooooo-wwaasshhh!

Still in the midst of summer, I'm pining for the lake in Vermont.
Here's a memory of something Christine and I saw fly over Moosalamoo one night...

Hooooooo-wwaasshhh!

(Note - at the end of this poem, the reader is invited to shout out the name of the title)

Not a falling star, for parallel to the Earth
  a thing unpinned to Heaven wreaked,
  and over the mountain brightly streaked,
Of these, the largest which dash above our peaks
  are fireballs, stones that circle earth for ages,
  then gouging through the atmos at perigee they rage
  flaming out once they’ve broken through the turn, again,
  and yes, rare times some explode…
Now this was a diminutive and momentary sun,
  matching on it’s course the ridge upon it’s run,
With curly-cue’s of fire flash lapping on behind,
  wagging it’s tail all a spray, the night’s fiery fountain
  as it arced over tonight’s velvet mountain,

This brilliant chameleon bore an ever re-growing tail
  of orange, red, yellow, blue,
  each outgrowth sparking bold and briefly through,
  as by an invisible hand each suddenly picked,
  and blown out as quickly as a kindling click,
Ask me,
  was it consumed by or did it exit our sky?
  for answer I’ll not even try,
As then just as briefly as it came
  the ball smoked out above the ground,
  naught by but starlit ash and my memory to be found
Then seeming all was dead – it spoke!
Can you imagine what it said?

 

A Ripton Sunset

From Lake Dunmore, if you climb Mt Moosalamoo, go past  the snake point, past the mountain peak, the path comes to a ledge, from there you cam see Bread Loaf, on the north shoulder of which Robert Frost had his summer cabin.
If you choose not to climb a whole mountain, you need only drive up the Middlebury river (road,
Rt whatever), past the gorge, halfway to the college on the left there's a picnic stop and then just a few yards on there's a dirt road. Park at the white house, walk up a path about 100 yards. It's up there.
I visited too many years ago. I need to return to Vermont more often.

A Ripton Sunset

There never was a sound from this cottage but one,
  can you hear it? the wind is a scratching pencil,
  the etching and revision of natural verse,
Share with me the sunset cowl arising behind
  Moosalamoo, enshrouding Bread Loaf with the dusk
Here, the oak tree he leaned against and sat before
  while poking fire embers with a walking stick
  given him by Tatoskok, used so every night,
  until burnt and blackened to such a pencil lance
  that he might write upon the landscape, sparing scrap,
Sit here on this scone of stones where he scratched his crown
  (perhaps) while college undergrads attend around,
Tally here, the score, in this field we well know,
  the mown grass he scythed, made hey, neat parsed six foot rows

My 2nd Amendment Bomb Pop

I have about 2 dozen poems in various states of completion. Some on summer themes, some not.
The easy ones need little more revision at this point, but the longer, more meaningful works will take more time.
Case in point - here's this, best described as a satire of the bane of warm weather porch time; Electronic Ice Cream Music.

My 2^nd Amendment Bomb Pop

If there ever was a reason,
  for a civilian like me
To own his own bazooka,
  it’s a truck like thee,
With your electronic Ears Hung Low
  all a blasting from your horn,
As on you roll, again, again,
  by day all day and morn
With your Doppler shifting music
  you change into second gear,
You go round and round the neighborhood
  you are both far and near,
With your ebb and flow acoustics
  you sound royally most queer,
And nobody buys your ice cream,
  so please go, get out of here
I see you selling cherry pops
  and also chocolate bombs
I’d like to pop your tires
  or have you run over my bomb,
But as I said at the beginning
  a bazooka would be best,
So you can sell ice cream in hell
  and finally let me have a rest

Fa-Pooom!
   Ahhhhh!

Humble

Humble

In the purple morning rising
  as we start our day of work
We greet a dozen sun portals
 topping tall green flower stalks,
Behind the petals from suns’ beams,
  a bee’s crawled in, and dreams,
Rests the cold and torpid Bumble
  numb at rest in his camp bed
The cool weather of evening
  has yet to leave his head

‘Dare you to pet it,’

Do not pet him on the wings
 for he’ll not like that kind of thing,
And don’t touch him on his stinger
 although he’s cool don’t risk your finger,
See there the hair upon his back,
 in that short golden hair, right there,
Just point out your index finger
 touch him gently and with care,

‘It feels like velvet, warm sunny velvet,’

With that the drowsy bumble
 waived a lazy flailing leg
As if to press the snooze bar
 on this digital clock, he begged,
Yet Bumbles are diurnal too,
 once he’s warmed up he’s chores to do,
So up the Bumble hummed away,
  and we began our working day

On Choosing A Cat

Today I received my first ever fan letter, writ by Mary R (can't read her last name) Treas. of The Cat Connection, the same cat rescue group from whom we adopted Max and Fluffly
Arguably it did cost me $50, as with a donation of that sum I also enclosed an earlier draft of 'On Choosing A Cat.'
She tells me they even read it at one of their board meetings. Yay exciting board meetings!

On Choosing A Cat  (for The Cat Connection)

You, you may think that you choose the cat,
  But the truth is quite reverse of that,
For cats bear aloof cattitude, and it’s
  The cat who chooses you

That scowling clowder, let them be,
  Sit on their floor, who’s at your knee?
When one inquires how might you be, could be
  The cat who chooses you

Sure, Tom will chase your bright shoelace,
  And Molly sits in Bast Goddess Grace,
But who’s this greets you face to face? embrace
  The cat who chooses you

Who takes your lap without a fear?
  Who makes this purr you’re pleased to hear?
You’ve found your friend, for year on year, take up
  The cat that’s chosen you

Such dear friends are for all nine lives,
  More faithful than husbands or wives,
Just wait for whom loves absent strife, 
  The cat that’s chosen you

PS - Yes, this is the picture they ran in the Waltham Tribune, in 2009, of he who was soon to be adopted and now known as Our Max.

The Black and White Johnson’s

After reading too much Langston Hughes I got a headache

The Black and White Johnson’s

I am the son of Madam Alberta K Johnson
 Who had her name spelt
Not in English or Roman
 But in American
‘Cause American was good too

I was named after a Barbie doll
  And my middle name is a Barbie doll too
In 1961 Barbie met her boyfriend
In 1961 Midge got dated too
In 1961 my birth got dated too

When did we become white?

My Immagrant Nudge Mamma
  Was told she need not apply
So she went back to Hungary 
  Relived how bad it was
And immigrated back again
‘Cause "At least the babies don’t die"
  Still she need not apply

After my Grandparents divorce
  My Dad went into the Marines
Came out and the GI Bill sent him to
  Syracuse University
Like a white paintbrush dun de-Minstrel Showed him
  And there he met my Mom

The name Johnson comes from the Ireland
  My Grandfather was a Hugh, and my Dad a Hugh too
Peoples used to call and dey’d say
  "Hello is Hugh dere?"
And we’d say "Yah I’se hee-yuh!"

After a revival Church sing
  We hosted a tenor in my brothers bunk bed.
Said the brother,
"I hopes I crawl in da right bed
"Cause I don wan a crawl inna bed wid no spook!"

Whenever I fill out forms I
  Always cross out () WHITE
  And write in the margins
Modern American melting pot need not apply son of a no club member mongrel,
  And a proud one too!

The Ice Maker

Every have one of those days when you just don’t remember turning it on?

The Ice Maker

Tap water hisses up the tube
In an esoteric spurt
And silently pools in the tray
With an equally mute squirt
Then crack a brack like everyday
More ice cubes in the tray
I know nobody has turned on
The ice machine today

It certainly was never me
It’s 35 outside
And Christine could have not done so
March requires no iced drinks
The cats are playing coy, of course
I asked and not a mew
There’s mystery afoot today
And I have yet to get a clue

Look, there’s water at the kitchen door
See it slides across the floor
To right before the fridgidaire
Where frozen things get stored
And, down the outside kitchen steps
New snow tracks have been made
They traipse the walk and cross the yard
Where to The Snowman stands unbowed

As a jest we made him yesterday
When the sky was cast in cloud
We’ve a clear blue dome above us now
And the sun shines high and proud
It melts my heart to know of one
Who can’t welcome warm Spring
I’m powerless to change his World,
Or hush what Nature soon may sing

Retreating in to where it’s warm
I’m heartsick of his fate
Then crack a brack like everyday
I see compassion’s way
I took the tray and cubes to him
I laid them round his feet
And said to him, soul without out sin
Pray these forestall the heat

Whitey Still Sleeps In

For the uninitiated, Whitey B is our resident Woodchuck. We named her Whitey B as, with a white muzzle she resembled that infamous Whitey B- who now wears orange and is soon to be played by Johnny Depp.
We thought she was a male, until the first litter.


Whitey Still Sleeps In

Whether six more weeks of Winter
  Or that Spring starts in Mid-March
There’s just been laid three feet of snow
  Like cotton sheets, flat starched

Our woodchuck Whitey dug her nest
  Beneath our screened-in porch
And as you’d think this time of year
  We have not seen her much

We’ve heard from Phil, he’s seen the sun
  Gen. Beauregard has too
Yet Whitey’s threshold’s all drift snow,
  One guess what Whitey knows

Today we ask Groundhogs to tell,
  When will our Spring begin?
But we’ve no answer poking forth,
  Our Whitey’s sleeping in.

This snow cloud day of overshade
  Will cast no silhouettes,
So what’s her grounds for stirring out?
  She’ll see no shadow,
   Anyway…

020415

While writing yesterday, out the window I watched a hawk soaring. But not for long.
Decided to call this '020415' 'cause at New England Audubon centers they don't believe in giving wild birds pet names.  

020415
That kettling Hawk circles like a marionette
  Strung from the grayclouds flyspace

A dip, a wing, a curl, and a stoop
  Open toes first fore his feather rudder legs

He dives behind the neighbors house,
  Have you seen the woodchuck?

I don’t even see the Hawk.