Zero Degree Apple Tree

Zero Degree Apple Tree 

Winter tide,
  Our fireside tales have all been told,
The great log’s ashes
  Have long gone cold,
You, once so vibrant,
  Froze under a spell,
No sap runs now,
  For your annual wassail

As if a lamp lit cat,
  The moon climbs through your knot-finger branches,
So fridged,
  Even your shivering leaves have left you

The Sunrise – just a moment earlier
  Tomorrow,
Lamp moon, float off,
  With all old aeon’s sorrows   

Three Stooges on Camels

Three Stooges on Camels

  (aka My 2017 Christmas Card)



“Twinkle twinkle Christmas star,
  East or west, we travel far,
  Where ‘ere you go up in the sky,
  Could you please stay still,
  We’re on camels, not in cars!”

Larry: "Hey Moe, who’s that flying guy?”
Moe: “That’s an angel, Larry, in the sky,"
Curly: ”Do angels always look like girls?”
Moe: “Sush you dope, joy to the world!”

Angel: “I am the angel Gabriel, bringing tidings of joy,”
Moe: “Oh yeah? Who from?”
Angel “For a babe has been born in a manger, who is
 Christ the World,”
Curly: “Are you honest? Who’s the Father?”
Angel: “He lay just over there, under that star, oh come,
 let you adore him!”
Larry: "Oh no, we go to the pictures on Christmas!”
Angel: “Would you want this infant babe never to have
 known Santa Claus on Christmas?”
Curly: “Who sent you?”
Angel: “Your agent, and I just happen to have these three
 Santa Claus costumes,”
Moe: “Sir angel, for your blessings we are truly grateful,
 but when we book with goyim, we’re strictly cash!”
Angel :“Ok, Deal!”
All Three Stooges:“Deal!”

 

In the Mist of Snow

In the Mist of Snow

In the mist of snow,
  Gold sparks fly below the blade
Of no fantasy warrior,
  But hard steel on the flint of road,
A rumbling plow,
  Behemoth in the night, is gone

She is in bed,
  Wishing to skip the long dark night
By closing her eyes,
  Pulling blankets up over her head,
And saying, “I want to cocoon,”
  The restful sounds of sleep come soon

Cold steps outdoors, on the horizon
  Picket trees frame the low clouds glare,
Lit above lamps from the unseen city,
  Skyglow snow, its sushing grows, 
It hushes every sound I know,
  I am the black white noise of snow,
At peace,
  With neither mirth nor woe

A Poem of Whom Awaits

A Poem of Whom Awaits

In boxes, Ecclesia lie in wait,
Their leather thongs spaghetti together
  As all were one,
Waiting to be given away by volunteers,
  Chaplains on the Way,
On Tremont St, Arlington T, the Common …

Commuting home, my first stop
  A hop on the Green Line,
It lay looped there on the floor with it’s thong,
  It did not look waiting for me,
This … curvy mod cross,
  An art deco church key,
Intrigued me waiting for my ride,
  ‘Ecclesia’ carved in its side

I looked about and finding
  Nowhere convenient,
I hung it on the metal fence
  Dividing the In- from Out- bound tracks,
High enough for its intended to see,
  Then caught the next car up line D

It meant no more to me,
  Although, being acquainted
I’d say hello in latter days
  While waiting on the platform for the T

Twice the muddy river flooded the tunnels,
Twice the station had been cleaned,
  When I left work that last time,
There it still hung, despite three years,
  It never crossed my mind on whom the cross awaits,
If not for you,
  Then perhaps me?

And on twelve more years, in my car,
It swings upon a radio knob,
  It’s cowhide thong a leather fob,
A talisman, itself not great,
  Of whom yet for me still awaits

A Moral Compass

A Moral Compass

On the eternal hike over God’s great green,
A friend and I each took measurement
  Of our direction so far taken, and where we’d yet to go

We each, with separate instruments in hand,
Deduced our bearings did not agree,
  Something dyslexic had crossed our compass’ eyes,

When holding his on the left and mine to the right,
We saw our paths would soon cross, near enough in our sight,
  Yet to swap them opposite,
We’d surely part ways divisively

We agreed, each needle, tempered of sound iron, 
Magnetized the same, was true, yet by degree they disagreed,
  And which was false, we could not see

For who asserts their facts exact?
Bluster and brag prove only bodacious might,
  No single eye can claim true sight

We could have waited, out in that wild park,
Until night had fallen and all gone dark,
  Then to check our bearings by the charting stars

Yet even old Polaris cannot lay claim to a fixed truth,
It spins inconstant ‘round earth’s axis
  By a known degree of a smidge or two,
Thus, what worth does any compass’ have, but to
  Fix friend against friend in rude quarrelsome views?

We returned home by the path we came,
Agreeing both that that way was the same,
  And have since promised, making our amends,
Never to judge upon the path of friends, until
  All has been seen determinedly through,
   All the way on, to its natural end

Nekomata Cats

Nekomata Cats 

When kittens,
They do not know their meows
  Resonate like a baby’s cry,

Yet they learn

In time they do acquire great skill,
Though too often rhyming
  Fish with dish

See,
These three cats write magic poems,
You’ve read their work,
  Time you knew of ’em

One researches things profound,
History and mysteries,
  In old volumes bound

One plucks songs from shamisen strings,
Parsing meter, rhythms,
  Rhyming things

The third sets down these characters,
Distilling people
  Into words

Though Nekomata write of men,
They dictate we bring fish,
  And when

You wonder, why need you know this?
  Well,
It’s supper-time,
  And here’s their dish

Ever you wonder, who owns who?
  ‘Meow,’
Once read this poem, their spells
   On you

Hello, Old Friend

Hello, Old Friend

I was eight in sixty-nine,
A cub scout trip to the reservation,
  All those taxidermy animals in the Nature Museum

The Park Director, a John Denver nature man
Called ‘Safronas,’ (whom we all called ‘Sassafras’)
  Had a wide brimmed ‘Smokey the Bear’ hat 

He told us it was magic, and it was, ‘cause
“If you wear it, put seed on the brim, and sit out quietly there on the rock,
  Birds won’t be scared away no’more”

To prove it, he picked me out of the troop,
(I was raising my hand to ask a question when I ‘volunteered’)
  He sat me on the rock, under the hat

While all the scout kids watched gawk faced, back inside,
I saw them mouthing “Sush!” and “Shut up!” though I couldn’t hear,
  Behind the glass door, in the museum window

Sure enough, nuthatchers, wood peckers, pine sickens,
A whole page of the North American Field Guide swirled over me,
  Landed, pecking seeds off a my head

‘til one shit on my sleeve and I freaked

Thirty five years on, off from work, back in town,
Taking care of my Dad for the week, days open
  While he’s in day care at the Alzheimer’s place 

And I’m back again, the reservation, the museum
Closed, dark, same old stuffed glass eyed critters lookin’ back,
  No sprig of Sassafras, too quiet

I’m used to being here with family, scouts, school groups,
All those no-bodies now more present by their absence,
   Made the day much colder, gray

I sat again upon that rock, lonely, by myself,
When soon I’d acquired a gray-flutter halo,
  Scratching at my scalp, I wasn’t wearing a hat

Holding out my hand,
A squeaky chickadee let on my thumb,
  “Hello, old friend,”

And regretful, I saw I’d done wrong,
The little bird was riled indeed,
  “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten seed”

It’s Like Honor Among Thieves

It’s Like Honor Among Thieves

There came a rapping at my door,
  late this October Saturday,
Much like the many come before,
Which I’d vowed answer, nevermore!

“Hi, Hello, I see you already have a lawn sign in your yard,
 But I thought I’d knock anyway, I’m also running for city council”

It’s true, our lawn had already a sign,
  from a greasy man named Ellinor,
He’d run incumbent, three times or four,
And of whom I knew nothing more

“I was wondering, you’d like to talk,
 About the issues of today?”

Two weeks ago came Ellinor,
Foreboding, knocking at my door,
He said he knew my Father in Law,
   then, lugubrious, 
“I’ll leave you with this large lawn sign,”
That’s all he said, that Ellinor,
He left his sign, said nothing more

“I don’t care much for Ellinor,
 He staked that sign, and nothing more,
 You too could place a sign out there,
   for Ellinor I little care”

We talked of Councilmen in town,
Our mutual churches, town playgrounds,
  his was a short but friendly stay,
On this late October Saturday

After a while he had to go,
I offered sign space twice, you know,
  he bent a curdling ominous lip,
Which, if waxed poetic,
  the ‘mot juste’ simply wouldn’t rhyme

That night storm winds blew the old sign away,
I emailed the new guy, “You’ve got free space”
He wrote back saying that he would,
  but not today,
A week later was election day

I don’t know why he stayed away,
  so what if my lawn sports two signs,
Whose made this arcane un-writ rule?
Honor among thieves, possibly

Guess what became of Ellinor,
  he was re-elected anyway,
Now I’ve not seen him these last two years,
And who’s that knocking at my door?

No no, it can not be,
  Ellinor!

Nihon Gaki No Halloween

Nihon Gaki No Halloween
  ( にほん がき おｆ はっぉうぇえん)

Japanese Gaki know Halloween,
The night we give, in ritual,
  Food for hungry ghosts

Gaki haunt, unheard, unseen,
Skinny arms, needle necks,
Breath that smells of rot, or turd,
Thank God they can’t be seen or heard,
  Yet they are there

So hungry, they cannot eat,
Food burns - hot flames - leap in their mouths,
So thirsty, they cannot drink,
Tiny throats to narrow even to let drip,
  Their pain is real

Building good karma,
  We can help,
The Buddha made one magic act,
  By his generosity,
We shall give them ritual leftovers,
  Thanksgiving seconds,
  Christmas dinner on boxing day,
  Communion wafers after mass
 
Our children will dress up and play,
Go tricks or treats at dusk today,
For the Gaki’ sake we feed them too,
Tonight, adorable childhood mayhem
 
And when that’s done,
After midnight,
  When the last horror movie’s run,
We think of you,
  So tragic the death,
  The horrible injustice,
  Endless roaming without rest

And Halloween is a ritual feast,
Look, I’ve some leftover treats!
  For all the good that it can do,
With prayers and hopes, this ritual food,
  I place out on the stoop for you

Foilage

Foilage


It starts a far off buzz,
  Louder than any hive or wasp nest,
Yesterday it was down the road,
  Sounds today as it comes from up

It isn’t something we need fear, 
  It‘s a normal noise this time of year,
It’s an orange box pulled by a truck,
  The city sends to take loose leaves

Oh, but first you gotta pronounce it properly,
Here in New England, its called foilage,
  Not foliage, ‘cause
"Guy, you sound like you ah really quee-a,
  Learn how to tawk like yer from hee-a"

I have a poet writer’s physique,
  (Meaning raking leaves takes me two weeks)
And once I’ve brought all to the curb,
  The wind blows more in, “Just Su-perb!”

Now the truck comes humming down our road,
  Shit! This last tarp load - to the street!

Wearing ear protectors big as headphones
  He yells at me,
“You know, we won’t back by again this year!”
  So I yell back over the unholy orange din,
“I know, (between breaths)
  That’s why, (between breaths)
  I’m dragging these here!”

I watch as his elephantine hose sucks,
  In but a few short moments, up
My weeks of work,
  Into this voracious orange box

Great! Now I have to stuff all the rest in tall leaf bags!

Our cat reclines on his sunny porch chair,
  His new coat repels the cool the autumn air,
He deigns to watch me as I rake,
  Gold headlight eyes, so brightly wide, he stares,
My autumn leaves? He does not care,
  He licks his butt, that he rakes clean

Amateur Poets

Amateur Poets


Time came I’d writ about a dozen poems,
Some comical, some dire tomes,
And I thought they’d want to publish me,
If even only just for free

So I showed my poems to
A writing group friend,
  Named Owen, who said,

“I could help submit them for you,
   I know some people,
 I’ve been at it longer than you,
 I know a few things about this”

I’d thought he’d give a friend’s review,
I hadn’t thought this’d be what he’d do,
I thought about it for a sec,
  Then hedged and took my poems back

“Well, there certainly are better agents out there
   Than me, but will they take you?
 That’s the thing, poets, agents, publishers,
 They’re known conveniently not to have
   A lot of extra time, when asked”

So I sent my poems to magazines,
Waited some weeks, what will be seen?
  I collected rejection letters,
Compared to my work, each written better,
  Nice, but no

So I took my poems back to Owen,

“Naw, I don’t have time for this”   

Qui Gong

Qui Gong


I can see why cat likes his porch chair twilight,
The moon has painted his whiskers silver,
  And above the tenor crickets
The wind makes wind chimes rhyme in time
  With the purpling evening breeze

  Qui Gong,
  Qui Gong – ley
       
So we sit and open mind
  Not contemplating koan,
Waiting while star-lit wind marks time,
Waiting on the wind, our doan

  Qui Gong,
  Qui Gong – ley

Two Poems of Love and Trees

Lovers Leaves

Upon the moss one leaf
  Seemed split in two

You can see the spines,
  The top leaves

Was two, both curved over,
  Warm oak taco shells

Once cleaved as one,
  Both stems

Still one at the twig,
  Holding hands in the branch

Two fallen leaves,
  A gap to see

So seems my sleeping love
  To me

Naked Elm 

In a distraction, 

  The elm lets fly her yellow leaves. 

Each burst of chaff to draw my eye away

  From her nakedness

Though it only leaves her more so, 

  This dance of the veils to maintain her innocence, 

How coy she is, a mistress, to undress so before

  The chapped raw winds of winter’s lust 

My Girl and I, we add on blankets, 

  Then den ourselves as bears do in a cave, 

Sharing lover’s loins before only God, 

  Who Himself has promised not to peek, 

And nightly visits welcome from 

  Our own warm pussy-cat

But the elm, she stands out, naked, 

  All her innocent leaves taken,

Over frigid months, her apetalous buds blue, shaken,

  Until warming spring winds return, 

    And staminate

Scene Unseen with Magazine

Scene Unseen with Magazine
  (a poem of living with MS)


Her hand holds up her magazine,
  Its page turned back along its seam,
Her eyes focus upon a line,
  Which sends her back to sleep in time,
Her magazine falls on her face,
  She wakes and re-reads the same place

Dialogue;
  “I want to hold your hand,”
  “Your warm paw,”
Thinking;
  “Heal woman, heal”

She reads she says to fall asleep,
Though what she reads won’t let her keep
  resting,
    so it falls,
      and then,
She wakes to read once more again 

Dialogue:
  “What time is it?”
  “Quarter after, thirteen,”
  “I should get up”

Her hand holds up her magazine,
  Its page turned back along its seam,
Her eyes focus upon a line,
  Which sends her back to sleep in time,
Her magazine falls on her face,
  She wakes and re-reads the same place

Indian Summer at the Mown Lawn Arcade

Indian Summer at the Mown Lawn Arcade

Since we’ve mown the lawn,
  Last ‘back ‘n sides’ before the leaves,
Brown tails are seen
  -  dash scurry -  ‘cross the green

One running from stump to drain,
Another zipping opposite,
  Ten yards on but much the same

Our neighbor’s tomatoes have taken a wilt,
Season’s frost brought that result

Watching the tails, I feel I’m at a Harvest Carnival,
  -  the shooting gallery –
Perhaps if I pop some off with a BB gun,
  The barker will give my girl a pink elephant

But seventy degrees today,
  (and I’ve got no gun)
Let chipmunks hoard acorns away

A red tail hawk I've also seen,
  No doubt his eyes too spy the scene,
This time last year he’d caught them all,
   Must not be too hungry this fall

Owed to a Step Cat

Owed to a Step Cat


I’d wanted on this day to feel grateful,
  When you, the cat her ex gave to my wife, died,
Living with you was antithetical,
  Like her having lunch with him every second Tuesday, or
I didn’t know where she was at night,
  Although she didn’t

But I couldn’t,
  You being such a sociable cat,
I’d tell you something nice, you purred,
  Or not nice, I’d tell you,

“Hey, the litter box is a foot to the left…”
  Purr pup-purrr,
“See my foot? What is that?“
  ‘Meow,’
“Oh, it’s ‘meow’, and how did it get there?”
  ‘Meow,’
“So, it’s ‘meow’, and it got there by ‘meow,’”
  Purr pup-purrr,
Who can stay angry?

And it wasn’t your fault,
  You had no more choice in the matter
Of who chose you, and
  Whom he chose to give you to,
Than I did when you came along
  With her CD’s and her furniture,
And, like the old shoe lace I dangled for play,
  You tied us together

Such as nights it was she was away,
  On business trips and I knew where,
It was you who she left to care for me,
  Her warmth redolent in your fur,
When she’d return, I could not mind,
  She’d pet you first, then me, in kind

I owe you,
  No more ‘Meow,’ no more purr?
You look to be sleeping,
  I wish you were, 
Good night, step cat,
  Good bye is far too final

The Name Of this Poem Is 8^P

The Name Of this Poem Is 8^P


Cindy Sally Mary Lou,
Walking on the road with you,
Throw a stick and off you go,
Bring it back covered in snow.

Walking out in Pound Ridge Woods,
Exercise fresh air is good,
German shorthairs tails are docked,
Leave a poopie on a rock

When you got tired or it rained,
You’d run off, always the same,
Leave me to walk home alone,
You warm and dry when I got home

That's loyalty for you
  8^P

(photo credit: ('borrowed' from) Daniel Parkoff)

PS : 8^P is an emoticon. Look at it sideways.
It means I wear glasses and I stick my tongue out at you.
It is properly pronounced (raspberry) Ppppfft!

Your Blue Bike

Your Blue Bike

I thought you’d like to know
I loved to ride on your blue bike,

Both tires on mine blew,
  What then was I to do?
When I remembered you
  Left your bike in our basement

I loved to ride on your blue bike
I thought you’d like to know,

I went down the basement,
  Wiped off the dust and spider webs
Brought it up the wooden steps,
  Banging the metal storm doors

It had a lowered top tube,
  Welded to the seat tube just above the pedals,
It was a girl’s bike,
  You were a girl

I thought you’d like to know,
I loved to ride on your blue bike

Giving it a low center of gravity,
  I could ride it with my arms
Before me, embracing like a lover,
  Or folded on my chest, behind my head,
A country road twist I only had to lean in,
  And up straight again after the turn
 
Look, no hands!

I loved to ride on your blue bike
I thought you’d like to know,

I rode your bike all over, 
  To work, to the horse tracks,
Summer nights, August days,
  Back and forth and any way,
I rode your blue bike
  All summer long,
I could ride your blue bike anytime,
  Would you like, I’d ride your bike all blue again

I thought you’d like to know
I loved the ride on your blue bike

The Man On Radio Row

The Man On Radio Row


Christmas Eve, Nineteen-Sixty Eight, Dad said

“There’re going to knock those buildings into sticks,” 

We saw from his Vesey Street office view,
Wrecking Ball Dinosaurs smash Radio Row

“A shame, you could get anything you need, 
  Tubes for TV’s not produced anymore,”

He bought a clockwork electric timer,
Housed it in three ply-wood and plexi-glass,

“That Old Man could find you anything there, 
  Last time I saw him he held up a sign, 
  Read, ‘Save Radio Row, No Twin Towers Here,’
  I guess that’s progress, the way things go,” 

New York City tore down that part of town 

-

Dad narrated the summers of our lives
While showing guests our family picture slides,
When we came to those three slides, those taken 
From that same window, of Radio Row,
Leveled, streets remained, gray herring bone blocks,

“I took these last spring, right out my office,
 They’ve already begun digging the pits
 For the World Trade Center, the PATH station,
 It’s going to be big, but it’s a shame, 
 An Old Guy, could find anything you want, 
 Electronics, tubes, contact cleaner, stuff
 That’s all gone now, that’s all gone, that’s progress,
 If they keep digging, they’ll find, smack dab there,
 Remains of Dutch New Amsterdam, right there,”

-

Work moved Dad uptown as the towers went up,
His plywood clock got passed along to me,
I plugged my record player in, queued up
Beatles songs to wake me at 6am

You know my Mother died in ‘79

Dad’s homemade alarm clock lasted until
My College Senior year – poof – ‘83,
It finally broke, buzzed it’s last, and died, 
While mourning I recalled my Dad talking;

 “He could find you anything, I went down, 
   He had a barrel of clockparts,  just out, 
   He told me how to wire it up, easy, 
   That guy he’s gone now, that’s progress for you,” 

His legacy’s gone too, Rest In Pieces

-

After the old clock died Dad ran down too,
He met his widow girlfriend, retired,
Moved in with her, and in his seventies,
He caught Alzheimers, it was she told me,

“The last few years, he’s been telling stories, 
  Rambling, I don’t know what he means sometimes,
  We went to the doctor, they ran some tests,”

All this explained a lot over past years,
I asked her questions about how they lived,
Hers had been his home since my mother died,
He knew where he was here, she loved him too, 

“No, taking him out of our home? Not yet,
  He listens to me, I can handle him,” 

Adding,

  “You should know, it’s just all so sad,”

-

I recall my Dad’s stories from those years,
As a kid, he took horse-riding lessons,
The horse farm close by Idlewild field,
Where men flew experimental airplanes,
It’s now part of the JFK airport,

“And the horse knew the way home when we’re lost,” 

Being a Marine, on night guard duty,

“They would make a pot of strong black coffee,
  They’d come out, I learned to love black coffee,”

And there was the day he got sinus pills,
During the New York City garbage strike,

“First time in years, I could smell the garbage!”

Also, snippets from the radio store,

“In the back, he could find you anything,”

-

Spring ’02 and they went to Ground Zero,
The building he once worked in had survived,
The window we once looked out, once blown in,
They and another couple walked the ramp,
Down into that pit of great tragedy,
Down with the Dutch of old New Amsterdam,
She told me later,

     “It’s sad, your Father,
  The Verizon Building across the street, 
  The World Trade Center and 9/11,
  He had no idea where he was, poor thing, 
  No one knew what he was talking about,” 

Behind her, him mumbling, now as normal

“On my lunch, in the back, he’d be quick back,
  It was wonderful, that’s progress for you,” 

Cat Bowling

Cat Bowling


When he was young and before he got fat,
We’d play a game, both me and my cat,
  Good times gone by, when we would play

I’d stand empty beer cans in a triangle,
Up on each others shoulders, like stunt water skiers, 
Didn’t matter how many,  ten was best,
  No matter

For a laser light, he’d crouch, wiggle and pounce,
And I’d lead him in circles ‘round the room,
Him stamping at the light beam like a manic buffoon,
  Then I’d lead him on the hallway alley down,
And Clunks!
  Empty beer cans all around!

But I could never coax him to make the split spare

Now he’s grown big, he’s 16 lbs!
No beer can alley, he won’t run down,
I think he’s figured I wasn’t laughing with him, but…
  No matter

He now likes to stand on my lap,
And lick my nose when I scratch his butt,
I guess he’s settled the score with that,
  That’s our new game now, me and my cat

Three Ladybugs’ Rondelet

Three Ladybugs’  Rondelet


Three Ladybugs’ in spring,
  Crawling from their winter tombs,
Three Ladybugs in Spring,
  With laughter in the new year sing,
Green flowers sprouting, new bright blooms,
  Anticipating summer soon.
    Three Ladybugs’ in Spring,

Three Ladybugs’ in summer,
  Host the season’s garden party,
Three Ladybugs’ in summer,
  Making friends with small newcomers,
Invitations for aphids, green and hearty,
  Dance with then dine on their conterparty,
    Three Ladybugs’ in summer,

Three Ladybugs’ in fall,
  Once they’ve thrown their last cotillion,
Three Ladybugs’ in fall,
  As Nature casts its autumn pall
They dig a hole, all pile in,
  Until Spring Sun returns again,
    Three Ladybugs’ in fall

Sweatshirts in October

Sweatshirts in October


Moon at quarter noon,
  Hallowed behind gray clouds

Mist rain,
  Droplets walking to the drains

There was to be a conference,
  About what’s not been referenced,
That I bet was likely some offense,
  To be made now known was in defense

Yet here,
  Love, You Bring a Surprise!

Two cups ‘a steaming ginger tea,
  Dispels all cloudy dread!
At least it’s sunny somewhere, now,
  If only in our heads

American Neighbors

American Neighbors

You are not required to like me,
  You are not obliged to thank me,
But you are encouraged, God bless the right,
  That you might, the least, requite me

I am the boy in the girls room stall,
Asking that I might be loved,
  Though I may never bear a womb

I am the latin in your school home room,
Only asking ‘me dejas aprender,’
  Not fearing deportation soon

I am the woman with my wife,
The man who’s husband bears your strife,
  Whom you lie tactfully to your kids about

I am the black who’s your new boss,
I’m the woman whom you sit across from,
  How is it you make more than me?

Perhaps I’m odd, not in your style,
Yet must you set you set my bar so high,
   To keep me broke, awaiting trial?

Your ancestors, once too were new,
Though proud, were told, need not apply,
   When were they white-washed clean for you?

We’re in the house abuts your land,
  We whom you use to fear and mock,
If should you need a neighbor’s hand, 
  Would you want my door also be locked?

The Church Yard Round Around

The Church Yard Round Around

Aggression is the easy vibe
When homeless camp on the parish lawn,
How can compassion be applied?

One keeps his bags by the drain pipe,
They come and go but they’re never gone,
Aggression is the easy vibe

The shelters wake them after five,
Quick showers then they must be gone,
How can compassion be applied?

Five vodka bottles I found hid,
Ah needle too, five inches long,
Aggression is the easy vibe

No loitering signs have arrived,
Now police can move them on,
How can compassion be applied?

My children ask when we drive by,
These people make the church their home?
Aggression is the easy vibe

I want to help but more arrive,
It torments me deep in my bones,
How can compassion be applied?

He wandered with a homeless tribe,
Who would drive off an orphaned lamb?
Aggression is the easy vibe,
How can compassion be applied?

The Onion Phase

The Onion Phase


It’s not like an onion, there’s nothing in the center,
It is like an onion, when cutting in, tears can come,
  Old ear-worms in the knots of a tangled mind,
  Soon are squirming to unwind,
Teasing a reaction, sometimes feel-good endorphins, 
  A natural high you can’t recreate tomorrow, 
Or as often, snotnose, tearful ghosts,
  Makyo in the Buddha Hall, absent of distractions

In this breath, out this breath,
  And again

I never wept for my Mother, even at her service,
Leaving, my Father looked to the clouds and burst,
  “She’s up there now …”
Brothers hugged and held him,
  I stood aloof, alone

I never cleaved to my High School girlfriend,
  My first kiss,
Whom I prommed and dry humped at parties,
Then I was immune from a lover’s remorse,
  When over terms we grew apart

I never changed my major from that hobby,
  I let my guidance counselor off too easily,
I avoided, un-acknowledging,
  This degree will lead to no career

Silent in my borrowed ash robe,
  I am sorrowful now,
Remember what they say of chopping onions?
“Don’t wipe your eyes, it only makes it worse,”
  With patience, the old fuses sparkler out

Sparrows spit in the bushes, framed in the open window,
  My humpback neighbor noses windfully,
As a drying wind blows through,
  In one ear, out the other,
    And again

Was it real? 
  Could it be there was no onion?
    Can I just sit with what comes next?

Rhymes with a Raw Red Nose

Rhymes with a Raw Red Nose


I lift our Mr. Cat,
  Warm and soft,
Pliant as a favorite plush toy,
  I scratch him on the hips,
And out comes from the lips
  His pink tongue to lick upon my nose,
Should some day his rough barbs wear
  (I not minding his cat food breath)
Through the skin, to leave me open skeleton faced,
  Nose exposed nasal cartilage,
His affectionate and kindly grace
  I could never disparage

Yet, this is a behavior to ponder

Why, only when I scratch him there,
  Does he counter with such curious care?
Is it being since he’s gotten fat,
  He has given rear end hygiene pause?
Could it be he thinks I clean his butt
  That gives his reflex habit cause?

Murmurations

Murmurations


Walking, half a block before my bus stop,
  A woman, near my age,
Head crooked looking to night-hood,
  Where by I stopped and watched

  “What d’jou see?”
  “It’s that cloud, among the sky, swirling round?”

Above us swam a spinning mass, as much
  A scribble, a pen’s crossing out,
Rolling forward, tail erasing,
  A windless tornado, a black cotton candy,
  All spun in the dusk,
Its pixels a dense winged smoke,
  They were birds

“They’re Starlings,” I said, “European, introduced,
  They come from Europe, Mozart had one,
  The bird would sing back his recitations”

They squeaked a rusty magic high above us,
  Mass chattings, their cacophony of love,
  (or perhaps “Migrate, migrate, migrate,” it coming on Fall)
Some forward, teasing others nowhere,
  Those behind, trying to cut up the arc before them,
None arriving anywhere first,
  None remaining anywhere last

After a moment she walked on up the street,
  I turned on down to catch my bus home,
She did not dart back like the birds, teasing me,
  I did not cut up into the arc before her, courting wise,
I thought she was nice, I scribbled her out,
  I whistled a song she never heard

We each went home, I’ve not seen her again

Murmurations pas de deux,
  Love flies above on Starlings' wings

Myron

Myron

When Jerry Lewis died, I told Christine
  My favorite joke of his, was,
In an old film with Dean Martin, he told a girl
“My mother always called me Myron Myron,
  First she’d call ‘Myron,’ and if I didn’t come
  She’d call me again (yelling) MYRON!”

This was September, 2017,
I’d thought her clutch had failed in the autumn chills,
  Grey and rainy New England
Gets the patchwork remnants of
  America’s tropical hurricanes and storms

Until the day out the kitchen door
  There’s Cleo (I’ve wrote of Cleo)
And her nest that bore a little head,
  Black and white as Jerry in old movies,
She feeding him crop milk,
  He pecking at the lip behind her beak for more

A week on, she’d often be gone,
Wherever, gathering more formula for crop milk,
  He growing on the rim of the nest,
His head bent back to remove the sheaths
  On pinfeathers, like a plastic wrap,
Reaching out stiff wings,
  As if to catch a wind had not yet come,

Past the time migrating birds had flown,
  Leaving us only the wintering Jays and Cardinals,
Far too late for a fledgling in the brush,
  (Cleo’s first clutch fledged in June!)  
Yet now our mourning nest was empty, amid
  The rains of another named storm

Beside myself, I flew off on out the driveway,
  Seeking, whispering, then boldly not whispering,
To all the flailing brush and trees;
  Myron, Myron,
    MYRON!

Fish Guts

Fish Guts


As Cuttyhunk tourists we are cautious,
  Seaside townspeople watching us,
Seagulls watching us,
  “Why you watching us, Seagulls?”

Fish Guts

At the only store, she bought me this t-shirt,
We walk up to the old WWII bunker,
  Saw no U-Boats through our glass,
Walked back to town, the tide’s still out,
   Oh God, what’s that aroma? …

Fish Guts

Blue Stripe Fishing Tours ties up to the dock, all tanned
Wealthy family stepping out,
   Helped with the Surly Captain’s hand,
Next Popeye Skipper takes their catch,
   ‘Cause he’ll make every buck he can, … cleaning 

Fish Guts

Slap on a plywood board nailed to the dock rail,
He slides his knife into each belly,
  Pulls the white paunch sides so wide,
Scoops with his hand red fresh pink jelly,
  Next thing he’s throwing to the tide, … fresh 


Fish Guts

It dawns us how come it is everyone looks this way,
From everywhere at once they come,
  Descending from the sky,
More seagulls than you thought could be,
  Each squawking hearty seaside cries, … for

Fish Guts

Ropes of fish intestines wrap around their yellow beaks,
The Captain minces giblets,
  Then he tosses them in reach,
Of a hundred squabbling seagulls,
  Who now rule the dockside beach, … grab

Fish Guts

Our boat arrives, departure, now we’re on a queasy ride,
The catamaran we’re on takes
  Every wave from side to side,
When we get back to Oak Bluffs we’ve decided we will, we’ll
  Rather get ourselves a pizza, thoughts of fresh fish make us ill,  … bleh!

Fish Guts!