Poem: Crystalline Flakes Fall Down from the Sky

Crystalline Flakes Fall Down from the Sky

Crystalline flakes fall down from the sky

Melting all colors of the auroral world

Causing men to scurry about to ply

The piles from the roads and the holds

So children can catch buses for school 

And the work of our lives can continue

Making none the wiser, perhaps the fool

That the world is frozen and should be subdued.

Awake from your slumber, plows to prepare

Light the fires to warm the buildings

So that they don’t become tombs so spare

That no one can cause the bells to ring.

We all know it’s true that frost bodes death

Yet here we are alive as ever we have been.

Shine the lights, let them sparkle as our health 

Cannot be frozen like the rain has been.

No, we cannot slumber beneath the snow.

We must dig out, not let this be our grave

But awake to the morning so we grow

Toward the sunlight beyond the cloud’s maze.

Rouse the children, fill them with nourishment

So they stay warm and strong throughout the days.

They must carry on as we know they’re meant

Because when has sun not broken the maze?

Keep the lights shining through the frozen night

And let the children in the snow just play

Because somewhere out there the sun is bright 

And the old man, Death, cannot have his way.

We all know it’s true that frost bodes Death

Yet here we are alive as ever we have been.

Shine the lights, let them sparkle as our health

Cannot be frozen like the rain has been.

So children catch buses for school

And the work of our lives can continue

Making none the wiser, perhaps the fool,

That the world is frozen and should be subdued.

Crystalline flakes fall down from the sky

Muting all colors of the auroral world

Causing men to scurry about to ply

The piles from the roads and the holds.

December 2022

About This Poem

I was trying to be traditional in style in this one while making a point of the joy of winter in spite of what it may represent. While it does forbode death, it can be beautiful and fun. It may take some work to be that, but it is worth the effort and it keeps the doldrums at bay. It is a modern sort of "Snowbound" by Whittier. The photo is from somewhere here on the Palouse.
 

Poem: Slipping Away

 

Slipping Away

It slips through your fingers

Like sand on the shore,

Laughing at you when

You grasp for more.

If you look away 

Even briefly it is gone.

Leaving you bereft of your own

Senses. This time it’s a friend

Maybe even a lover

But have no fear, brother,

For soon it will be you

No matter what you do.

Remember that soap opera,

Like Sands Through the Hourglass,

So are the Days of Our Lives?

No matter all the fantasy

This part was true,

And taunting of you

As you let the sand trickle

Watching rubbish

Steal the very sands of time

From you, while you sat

Enthralled, not even feeling

It slip away

Stealing all that you had come

To love, not even knowing.

But sand and time,

So plentiful may seem,

Yet only a little of either

Can you briefly hold.

July 2023

About This Poem

I don't know what inspired this poem, but I know that many of the tombstones in the older cemeteries like this one in Boston have epitaphs and grim reapers and hourglasses to remind you that your time is limited. In the cemetery it can seem grim, but it really is something good to remember. I think I could probably improve upon this poem a bit, but for now I'll share this version.

248. Grateful for US Regionalism

I don’t know if I have written this before in my American gratitude list, but as it is the season of gratitude, I’m going to write about the distinct regionalism in our great country. There are a zillion examples in topography, speech, climate zones, etc. The American West, where I’m from, is a great landscape of wonders formed by the Rockies and the other mountain ranges. The Southwest is warmer and dry from the variety of deserts and because of the weathering patterns it has amazing rock formations from the Rio Grande to the Colorado. The Northwest has its own desert effects on the Columbia Plateau and the Snake River Plain and the mountains here are heavily forested, often temperate rain forests. And then there are the plains states between the Rockies and Appalachia—beautiful windswept grasslands and farmlands. The eastern seaboard has the gentle Appalachian Mountains and Gulf states are sub-tropical with warm waters and a variety of plant life not to be found anywhere else.

Then there are the quirks brought by the varieties of peoples who settled there. Here in the Northwest we have creeks, like much of the country, but New England has brooks and the Dutch settled Hudson Valley and parts of Pennsylvania have kills. We all have our regional names inspired or given by the indigenous people of where we live from Washington’s Yakima Valley to the southern Chattahoochee River. The blending of languages all brought together into the ever-evolving English that we speak throughout the nation bring us a gorge in the east to a Grand Canyon in the west. In parts of Pennsylvania people call others youse guys, while in the south it becomes you all, or y’all. Our accents and landscapes give way to foods that also were inspired by not only the natives of the land, but the people who invaded so that maple syrup of New England has become generally American just as the squash and pumpkins of the south and corn of who-knows-where have become part of our unique national heritage. This heritage we sing of and riff throughout our Jazz and Blues, our Country Western, our Rap and our collective being from Florida to Alaska and Hawaii to Maine, logging, fishing, mining, farming, manufacturing, and weaving into this amazing quilt of 50+ pieces that make us both Idahoan, Floridian, Hawaiian, New Yorkers, Virginian—Americans. This is one of those e pluribus unum things that makes me so thankful for my country and so proud to be an American.

 

Poem: If Life Be Love

If Life Be Love

To wake myself, wondering why 

I am so much less than I ought to be.

I wish to escape myself, my self-deceit,

My corporeal existence, aging, wrinkling.

Aching existence. Yet what is escape?

The mountains shadow me with all

My imperfections. I climb their heights

To see who I really am, exposed

To myself, to the world. Am I alone

In what I see, frail and broken?

Exposed on the lofty peaks I feel

The lightening rage as it strikes

My body, toppling me to the ground

As my hair stands on end, throwing me

Off the cliff only to have my heart

Restart again. Perhaps I think I’m ugly,

Worthless of all this pain.

Perhaps I have fallen from heights

Only to be born again,

Shocked into a new man.

In this forested grove below the summit

I see what I am and from

Where I did plummet.

I am alive in all this pain and joy

And I cannot die if life be love.

August 2023

About This Poem

I wrote this as a response to Coleridge's "On Revisiting the Seashore," and thinking about Moses self-doubt when called by God. It might sound like I was terribly depressed, but that's not actually the case. Of course, there are things that any of us can dwell on and become depressed, but that's not my wheelhouse. I try to stay positive. But I did hit on those things in this poem that do bring me self-doubt. I chose to be struck by lightning on a mountain top because that's my experience more so than a seashore like Coleridge. The photo is from a climb this past summer on Grandmother Mountain in Benewah County, Idaho.

 

Poem: Homesickness

Homesickness

That hashtag on social media,

#rosewednesday, on a post I see

Here, far away as I roam these foreign

Hillsides gives me a deep longing 

to be back home where people know me,

My family, my friends. I thought

Climbing a hill here would make it

Less apparent how homesick I am,

But it intensifies with each heartbeat

As my blood conspires against me,

Letting simple tasks I love like hiking,

Wear me out; making a contagion a severe

Enemy as my very blood gives up the fight,

Bursting vessels in my eye making me blind,

Clogging the arteries of my heart, 

That heart that so longs for home 

Instead of these distant bilberried hills.

Where are the evergreen forests

Covered in the undergrowth of huckleberries?

Now it’s a well labored picking of bilberries

With the ocean in the distance

Reminding me just how far away I am.

No matter how similar the hills, berries,

Trees, may be, my blood lets me

Grow sick and tired and the salty distant

Waves might as well be my tears

For it is likely here that I will find

My final rest—distant moors

Of my ancestors, also distant,

Too distant to even remember.

So here I am alone, resting in my tears

Longing for the evergreen forests of home.

July 2023

About This Poem:

This is a poem about being homesick. I wrote it from home, so it was somewhat fictionalized, but based in the realities of being homesick when I was abroad in England. I haven't been to England for 17 years and sometimes I get homesick for it as my second home. Medical history and events mentioned in the poem are real, but recent, so they didn't comprise any of my homesickness when I lived in England. I just put things together because, in the end, homesickness is just about missing something. All these things, poor health, wonderful similarities, or lack of similarities contribute to homesickness. Even a hospital stay where you live can create homesickness. The things in this poem are what have caused homesickness for me. The photo is at the ancient stone circle in Avebury, England. I have been there as a tourist and loved it, but another time I just felt alone there, even with my family. So it seems to illustrate homesickness well for me.
 

Poem: Pens

Pens

I use these ball point pens

Writing poems and letters

And stories and the ink

Dribbles out on the page

In thoughts and longings of

My own as pens are drained.

Here we call them Bics after their

Brand and in England they call them

Biro’s after their brand but

They are the same, little tools

Used to form scratches bleeding from

The heart in black, blue or red—no

Matter the color they leave your

Mind right there on that blank white page.

October 2022

About This Poem:

It's just a simple little poem about writing and the importance of the writing utensil. Not my best poem, but still has some thoughts were sharing about what writing does for me and how I do it. I seldom compose anything without first writing it by hand, typically in ink but sometimes in pencil. 

Poem: Recognize the Blessings

Recognize the Blessings

The flowers continue to bloom

Even when they’ve been left alone.

Cool weather and rain have left things

To themselves, grow as they may

Needing no artificial rain

But growing naturally just 

The same as if we were back east.

Blessings fall from heaven sometimes

But here, out west, they can be far

Between leaving earth parched and brown.

I often wonder if that makes 

Us more appreciative of green

When it comes of its own or if

We just grow too weary in our

Search for water that we hardly

Notice the green at all, the green

Muted by our excessive thirst,

Our faces gaunt with such effort, 

Fingers blistered and dirt caked

As we constantly hoard water

That the very air steals from us.

June 2023

About This Poem

I still have a sour taste in my mouth after the elections, but this poem reminded me that long dry spells are not uncommon where I live. The same goes for all of us. Maybe we're in a dry spell, but there are still blessings and we need to look for those. Parched mouths, or not, there is still green to be found.
 

Poem: I-90 Crash East Bound

 

I-90 Crash East Bound

Heading east to the land of ancestors

Is nothing new for me,

But age and knowledge of my

Wont to sleep in afternoon

While driving across the country

Has given me dreams—

Nightmares, really—

Of falling asleep at the wheel

At high speeds on interstate

Crashing violently.

Of course, I never die,

Nor do any of those

Who are with me.

We are left to clean up

The mess and pick up 

The pieces to carry on.

Maybe I shouldn’t view

This as a nightmare—

The ability to carry on

While being fallibly human?

Is that a vision—

Auto accident or not—

Or just a reality?

Either way

The cold night sweat 

Keeps me from sleeping

Soundly in the night.

June 2023

About This Poem:

I just saw this yesterday and typed it up today. It seems to capture my feelings about the election results, especially the last stanza. I have not felt good about our politics in America for awhile and I just want to forget about it, but...

Sermon: What is Stewardship, October 6, 2024, Grace Community Church, Potlatch, Idaho

 

I like to use the lectionary to prepare a sermon, mostly because it is there and usually easy for me to connect themes between the scriptures. Today’s were not so obvious to me, so I just did some brainstorming going so far as to use AI in Instagram to give me ideas. That is really weird, let me tell you. Try texting computer AI to see what you get. I said I was seeing connections between God’s care for us, our need to forgive and accept and it laid out an entire outline for me based on these four scriptures! Who needs a concordance if you have Facebook or Instagram? Needless to say, I didn’t look any further into that outline because key in AI is the artificial part, and that became overly obvious. I would rather give you some things from my thinking and experiences than some ethereally disconnected, emotionless computer server that’s quite likely situated in Prineville, Oregon, or the Silicon Valley of California. In the end, the theme of this sermon is Stewardship. I really have not had good experience with that word because I tend to think of it as giving beyond my mental capacity, always giving more than I feel I have. Maybe even shaken to the point that my wallet and coins fall out of my pocket. But I don’t think that’s what stewardship means at all. In fact, sometimes it’s just doing what you love to do, even if that does mean doing it when you don’t necessarily feel like it.

So let me start with my favorite of today’s scriptures: the Psalm 8: 3 When I consider your heavens,

    the work of your fingers,

the moon and the stars,

    which you have set in place,

4 what is mankind that you are mindful of them,

    human beings that you care for them?[c]

5 You have made them[d] a little lower than the angels[e]

    and crowned them[f] with glory and honor.

6 You made them rulers over the works of your hands;

    you put everything under their[g] feet:

7 all flocks and herds,

    and the animals of the wild,

8 the birds in the sky,

    and the fish in the sea,

    all that swim the paths of the seas.

How is it that we, as a creation, are so exalted above other things? Why is it that our God cares so much about us knowing full well our flaws that He makes us rulers over His creation? I think the answer of why is less important than the fact that He does. We know that we have dominion over the earth and that we aren’t very good with it, but he loves us enough to let us be in charge. And, of course, we all think we have the answers about how to fix the problems we’ve created and therefore we need not listen to anyone who would object to us. But we, as Christians, know that the truth is in listening to one another and being compassionate to understand why each of us comes from such differing perspectives. This is where our ability to accept differing opinions and forgiving others and ourselves for our mistakes and sins is so vital to our relationship to God. He wants us to love each other, to get along, and to take care of each other and our environment. There is no separation between our personal health and our spiritual health, so being good stewards of what we have been given is vital.

Look at today’s reading from Genesis 2:20b: “But for Adam[a] no suitable helper was found. 21 So the Lord God caused the man to fall into a deep sleep; and while he was sleeping, he took one of the man’s ribs[b] and then closed up the place with flesh. 22 Then the Lord God made a woman from the rib[c] he had taken out of the man, and he brought her to the man.” Right from the beginning God has been looking out for us, keeping us from loneliness. We were put here to take care of not only God’s creation, but each other. That can obviously come through marriage, but we know that it also comes from our fellowship right here. This is the scripture that describes the creation of Eve from Adam’s rib. But not everyone is married, still, we don’t have to be lonely because God gave us each other. That also requires responsibility in accepting others, no matter how different or grating we may be to each other. We still have a responsibility to take care of one another as God’s creation and his stewards. That involves being kind.

And that means doing what we can for each other. We don’t need to beat ourselves up for not being able to do everything. I know that I am severely challenged with DIY projects around the house, some of that by the fact that I like to stay married and my wife is not easily satisfied with even slightly shoddy work, so I let her hire it out. That’s fine by me. I used to feel guilty that I wasn’t doing some things for myself, especially the things I knew I could do like painting but I don’t really like painting, so why bother if someone else is more capable? We have to accept our shortcomings and forgive ourselves for having them so that we can move on. I’ve lived here and taught some people who are much better painters than I am, so why not let them do it? We all have those areas in our life that we feel partially out of our element or completely out of our element. It may take over sixty years to fully accept that, but just do it.

The same thing goes for our abilities. I know my strengths in reading, writing, some cooking and baking, gardening, and running. Those are things that I can share easily and even do for other people. I don’t know how great I am at public speaking, but I can do that also. We all have those things that we can do, and we should try to do them freely for others when they need a hand. That’s what stewardship means. It’s not something that needs to be overly complicated. In fact, it’s often what you enjoy doing. And, I think, as Christians, we are not only called to share our talents, we probably enjoy it when we do it. So again, just do it.

Hebrews makes it explicit what God has done for us in chapter 2:8, “In putting everything under them,[d] God left nothing that is not subject to them.[e] Yet at present we do not see everything subject to them.[f] 9 But we do see Jesus, who was made lower than the angels for a little while, now crowned with glory and honor because he suffered death, so that by the grace of God he might taste death for everyone.

10 In bringing many sons and daughters to glory, it was fitting that God, for whom and through whom everything exists, should make the pioneer of their salvation perfect through what he suffered. 11 Both the one who makes people holy and those who are made holy are of the same family. So Jesus is not ashamed to call them brothers and sisters.[g] 12 He says,

‘I will declare your name to my brothers and sisters;

    in the assembly I will sing your praises.’”

We are part of Jesus family. He made himself more perfect (a term that usually seems impossible for an English teacher) by taking on death and dying for us—God dying for us!—his brothers and sisters. That’s real love that cares for us. That’s exactly what stewardship is. Love for God’s family and His creation, not considering station in life, but considering that everything is God’s so we need to do as we are called and take care of it and one another. Of course, we fall short of that. (For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. Romans 3:23) We are terrible stewards. Yet he still loves us because he made us. We have to remember that in those dark hours. We are his and he loves us beyond belief. So we need to share that love with everyone and do our best to understand it. That might mean Keeping It Simple, Stupid (KISS) by remembering that nothing and no one is here without God so we owe them respect and kindness and love.

Today’s gospel seems like two different stories, one about marriage and divorce and one about children. But really it’s just an example of God’s expectations and his love. Mark 10: 2 Some Pharisees came and tested him by asking, “Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife?”

3 “What did Moses command you?” he replied.

4 They said, “Moses permitted a man to write a certificate of divorce and send her away.”

5 “It was because your hearts were hard that Moses wrote you this law,” Jesus replied. 6 “But at the beginning of creation God ‘made them male and female.’[a] 7 ‘For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife,[b] 8 and the two will become one flesh.’[c] So they are no longer two, but one flesh. 9 Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.”

10 When they were in the house again, the disciples asked Jesus about this. 11 He answered, “Anyone who divorces his wife and marries another woman commits adultery against her. 12 And if she divorces her husband and marries another man, she commits adultery.” He makes it very clear that we should not divorce if we are married, but he also explained why it was allowed in the law: forgiveness. Plain and simple forgiveness for our human shortcomings. Even the law recognizes how flawed we are, but it allows for forgiveness. Then the second part of the gospel lesson about the children comes fully to my point of Stewardship and what it is: Mark 10:

The Little Children and Jesus

13 People were bringing little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them, but the disciples rebuked them. 14 When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. 15 Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” 16 And he took the children in his arms, placed his hands on them and blessed them.

Those little children are us. The forgiven children of God. The children that he made stewards of his creation, this blue marble floating in outer space, the third rock from the sun, the only place that we know there is life (in spite of our constant seeking) in the universe. What is mankind that he is mindful of them? We are the ones who bicker with one another, get married and divorce, treat others with disdain. We are also the forgiven ones who are called to forgive others, no matter their sin. The only way to truly pass peace on is to forgive and to love, in spite of our flaws just like God does for each of us. This is what real stewardship is. 

I know I have made it out to be something easy, but sometimes good stewardship is really really hard. Let’s face it. We don’t really like everyone that we are called to love, so sometimes even talking to them can be difficult. I think the first step in getting over that is getting over yourself and reminding yourself that any station you have in life is because of God’s grace. So give that grace to others, no matter what. And I know that is not easy. It’s much easier to just come to church, hear the word, go out and do it when it’s convenient and then brush off your hands after a quick stretch to pat yourself on the back for doing it. We aren’t writing resumes for the other saints to read so that we can get into the pearly gates. If we believe our lives are eternal our acts don’t need to be recorded, they need to make this world a better place. Eternity is now. Stewardship is work. And the biggest work is getting over ourselves. I’m reminded of that song “Love is something if you give it away. It’s just like a magic penny, lend it, spend it, you’ll have so many they’ll roll all over the floor.” We have been given a magic penny, so let’s go out and spend it and lend it. Here we are on this big blue marble in the middle of the universe backed by the creator of everything, not some AI Bot. This is real. Being good stewards of what we have been given is so important. Stewardship is compassion, forgiveness, kindness, and doing all of that while we share our own gifts and talents. Phillipians 4:4 Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice. 5 Let your reasonableness[d] be known to everyone. The Lord is at hand; 6 do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. 7 And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

8 Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. 

If we do that, there is no worry about tomorrow. This stewardship is our faith, the peace that passes all understanding. Amen.

Poem: Poetry in Darkness

Poetry in Darkness

You wouldn’t think there would be 

Any poetry in darkness.

It has an isolating affect,

Yet loneliness can be shared 

In the darkness.

Perhaps you light a fire

And still see no flame

But the intensity of burning

Sears deep, so deep

The pain makes you writhe

And cry out soundlessly

To that other one

With whom your misery 

Might penetrate

With just a silent scream

That no one hears

Yet somehow they feel.

Sensations like that

Glide seamlessly into our being

With the rhythm of poetry.

Lonely, dissatisfying, painful

Poetry.

October 2016

About This Poem

I cannot honestly speak to what prompted me to write this poem. I'm not typically depressed in any way during October, but perhaps something inspired me with the demonic things that sometimes surround Halloween and Day of the Dead. At any rate, I've always been fascinated by our sensations and the possibility of having them in the absence of any real thing to cause them, such as burning without heat. My only note to this poem is that I thought this was a descriptor of hell. The photo is taken during a show of the northern lights, but this one had little to show beyond a slight glow. Seemed to fit the poem.

Poem: I Saw Your Photograph Today

I Saw Your Photograph Today

Villanelle

I saw your photograph today

And looked longingly at you there.

It was lovely, what can I say?

I know upon me you would prey

But the image was, oh, so fair.

I saw your photograph today.

I was glad you were far away; 

I had control when you were there.

It was lovely, what can I say?

To be with you I wish this day,

To feel your touch and smell your hair.

I saw you photograph today.

I hope it’s not too much to say

I’d lose control if I were there.

It was lovely, what can I say?

So I will be here every way

Desiring you as you are fair

For I saw you photo today.

It was lovely. What can I say?

February 2023

About This Poem

This poem is a Villanelle that I wrote about the webs we weave in toxic relationships. It's mostly fictional because I haven't really had any prolonged toxic relationships, but there have been some where there is some attraction, yet I can't help but know it is not healthy. This poem is about that.

 

Poem: Kuai'an Lay

Kaui’an Lay

Hibiscus flowers around their necks

Fill the air with scents of vanilla 

And orange. Chocolate grows on the backs

Of little trees a bit larger than me.

More rain than anywhere else on this deck

Yet I come away with burns on my feet.

Too warm for frost but they make ice to shuck

And shave with coconut, coffee, pineapple…

So I eat it while I watch Nene ducks

Or pesky parakeets in the sunset

Of Poipu. This is where I will muck

About with a snorkel and watch turtles

Of the sea—swim with one—see exotic

Fish that I’ve only seen at the pet store

Then sit out and burn my feet and my neck

Because sunscreen was missed by my own hand—

Still, burns turn to tans, and rum is schucks

For an evening dinner on the beach

With a fruity drink I drink to my luck

That I’m here where it will never freeze

Instead of home where it seems to stick

To frozen most of the year. No passion 

Fruit, Longon, oranges, coffees an—heck

Paradise doesn’t barter in degrees 

But in February when it’s all muck

I don’t mind a little warm red and red

Dirt, feeling some warm flowers round my neck.

Mahala, Kaua’I, land of chocolate,

Coffee, pineapple, honey, mountain treks

To passionfruit waterfalls and hula

Luau’s in a land where chicken necks

Are regularly risked in crossing roads

And wild boars roam making golf course wrecks.

Perfection isn’t made in tropical breezes

Or arctic freezes but combined in smacks

Of shaved ice flavored however you want.

So we bring home macadamia snacks,

Coffee, chocolate, and rum to recall

Barking Sand beaches, Na Pali trail treks, 

Waterfalls, rainbows, dragons on the bay 

Of Hana lei, and the Lihue back

Puffing the magic of a dragon on

A no-smoking bench, because what the heck?

Everyone needs a getaway to 

Come home and know there is a world to trek,

Beaches and seas to snorkel or just see

While wearing scented flowers ‘round the neck.

February 2023

About This Poem

A Lay is an old French love poem and this is my love poem for Kauai, Hawaii. I play with the idea of a lay, using rhyme like the old French poems did. I also include events and places from Kauai, including Puff the Magic Dragon.

 

Poem: Real or Fake?

 

Real or Fake?

These days you well may wonder what you see,

What you hear, if any of it is real.

Did a student write that paper for me?

Perhaps it was artificial for free.

Or that art hanging up there on the wall,

Was it a person who painted to see?

Have a conversation while in the hall

And who it is you talked to may not be

A person but a computer and all.

We’ve done such a great job of it, you see

That much of what is is artificial

And perhaps there’s no need for you and me

Now that business can be done for free

And no one knows the difference, do you see?

Terza Rima Sonnet

February 2023

About This Poem

The advent of AI (artificial intelligence) is upon us and this is a traditional poem about something that is fairly new in our world. It adds to all the post modern sort of feeling of "What is Truth?" and I wrote a poem about that.

Poem: Kitty Reigns in Full

Kitty Reigns in Full

Napping of an afternoon on the couch

Recovering from a night of mousing

A yawn emitted from that haughty mouth

Breath of rodent, content from carousing

Through the night enjoying sun from the south—

Just a stretch, a movement now returning

To the daytime snooze of full contentment

Of mice populations having made a dent.

Sure, she sharpens claws on the armchair there

And makes it look a sight not fit for house

But we never worry about chewed holes

In the flour sacks or mice droppings where

We don’t want them, because there is no mouse

Anywhere here where kitty reigns in full.

January 2023

About This Poem

I was inspired to write this sonnet because I had read another sonnet about a cat. I don't have a cat anymore, but I have had mice in the house. This poem is just an homage to cats and the relationships people have with their cats. I am definitely a cat person.

 

Poem: Shadow Box with Emily Dickinson's "Banish Air from Air"

Shadow Box with Emily Dickinson’s “Banish Air from Air”

I was just sitting at the counter there

When—Banish Air from Air—he came upon

Me—Divide Light if you dare—But I saw

Fate, oh yes—They’ll meet—it said there to me.

And I knew—While Cubes in a Drop—like sparks

Glinting—Or pellets of Shape—Stop floating

And just then they—Fit—like in a movie

Yet—Films cannot annul—reality

Entire—Odors return whole—when He

I smelled—Force Flame—into my ignition

So felt—And with a Blonde push—felt his voice.

It rushed—Over your impotence—and mine

So that head—Flits steam.—In a rush of strength

I took Him, for that moment, He was mine.

January 2020

About This Poem

This is a shadow box poem using Emily Dickinson’s “Banish Air from Air.” I think it’s both an example of how a poet can influence you and how you can absorb that poem. Of course, this one may be a bit forced, but it seems a little more organic to do that with one of her poems that escapes my full understanding. I was able to force a meaning onto it in almost an act of violence. That certainly is not my style at all, but with this it seemed to work. The pronouns can be switched into an even more forceful meaning that would seem to consume the poem—almost desecrating it, even as it stays completely in tact within my exoskeleton of my own doing. So in the end it maintains, even gains strength for me.

 

Poem: and then what happened

and then what happened

was-

and then 

what happened-

an' then I 

was thinkin' 

that it was

feelin' better.

I was 

feelin' better.

I was just

let alone.

So my mother 

bought me an ice cream

an' I bought myself

an ice cream

and I ate that.

I thought that

would make me

feel better.

I was all

shuup, shuup, shuup, 

you know,

and then,

you know,

just all of a sudden-

an' then

I started feelin'

real

sick.

I just got

this 

terrible feelin'

after I stopped 

eatin'

ice cream,

and what not,

like

Oh shoot!

Oh God!

About This Poem

I wrote this poem in the mid 80s, so it's old. I was given a story to read and I took some of the dialogue and reworked it into this poem. I guess what I'm saying is that ice cream doesn't always make you feel better...  The picture is from Faneuil Hall in Boston (one of the oldest markets in the country) in November of 23.

 

Poem: American Riddle

American Riddle

Flying ferociously, unfurled like feathers

Of a big bird brilliantly braving

The wild winds, wonderful weather

For patriotic peals, princely in a priceless

Land where mad monarchs are marvelously marooned

To islands of an archipelago’s la la land.

I’m colored in crimson, crowned crisply 

With wonderful white stars waving

Brightly in a big beautiful blue.

I represent torn lives, towering strength

Arising from rubble to reign unconquerable.

I flutter on wings, tethered to a task 

Never ending.  What am I?

About This Poem

I wrote this poem with my students a few years ago when we were studying Anglo-Saxon poetry. The Anglo-Saxons were fond of riddles and alliteration, but not rhyme. This is that style. It also seems that the American flag is a bit of a riddle in itself. What does it mean to be American? Do people in one party suddenly become less than American when they disagree with the other, or are they more American? (I don't believe either are possible, but it does seem some people think that.) We Americans have a way of turning the flag into as much of a riddle as it is a symbol, but then, that's who we are. That it is written in the Anglo-Saxon style was just because of my lesson in poetry writing, not a promotion of any sort of identity or any taking away from an identity--not woke or anti-woke, just a style of poem. 😀

 

Poem: Before the students

Before the students

I demonstrate the twist

After reading an Eady poem

about the twist

about his neighborhood

about Rochester, New York

about Cornelius Eady

and it’s turned into

another poem

about me doing the twist

about us

about Potlatch, Idaho

And I nearly crashed into the filing cabinet

When one of the girls wanted to put me

On YouTube doing the twist

And I said, “No way.”

And I stopped doing the twist

because I didn’t want it to be

about anybody else

except us

but it keeps moving

twisting

from Rochester, New York

to Potlatch, Idaho

Whether I’m on YouTube

Or Cornelius Eady is on the page

“Shake it up, Baby!

Twist and Shout!”

2017

About this Poem:

    I wrote this poem during a poetry writing assignment with my students after reading some Cornelius Eady poems and then put it in the archives, making no real connections with myself and Rochester, New York (having never been there) or Cornelius Eady (in spite of what the poem alleges). Now my oldest son lives in Rochester in his second year of his medical residency. So this poem is still twisting between Rochester, New York and Potlatch, Idaho and I'm still shaking it up. 

    And, in case you were wondering about the Twist, well it was the first dance that the couple didn't hold or even touch each other and it happened about the time my parents were teens and I was born. Little tidbits of information keep popping up with this poem! The photo is a street in Rochester. 

 

Poem: August Prayer

August Prayer

Thank you, Lord, for this day,

A day in which I’ll have lots to say.

What, in your plan, needs to make it so hot?

Not gonna lie, I think it’s a lot of rot.

I know it’s not really my place

To complain of the heat in your grace,

But you even named Jacob

“Wrestles with God,” and hot it is, God.

But maybe that is part of your plan

Because in this heat I do sweat, man.

Not likely to get me wrestling well

When I’m slick as grease. Oh hell,

You make it just as hot as you please

And I’ll figure a way to cool a spot. Geeze.

I know you care for the sparrow that falls

And in this heat, you got a lot of gall

To make so many of those little ones fall

And my morning whining is just my call.

Thank you for September when it cools

And you don’t have to hear this whining fool.

August 2022

About this Poem:

I think some people think God doesn't have a sense of humor, so we have to be completely reverential and serious in our prayer. I, obviously, don't think that at all. This is a lament with a humorous bent. And I thought it appropriate for this year. The photo is the sun in its smoky splendor a few years back.

 

Poem: Rimas Disolutas

Rimas Disolutas

At the table we sit

Every morning to eat

Some breakfast or

Drink our coffee.

Our daily routine.

Before thoughts start to flit

Or musing begin to beat

Guilt into us for 

Transgressions that we

Have made, we make pristine

The new day in its way

That will be different—

Different from the previous

So that we can forgive

Ourselves of previous sins.

But sometime that day 

Comes when we rent

From ourselves devious

Ways to guiltily live

Without forgiving within.

December 2022

About This Poem

While I love winter, I do get the typical doldrums and dark thoughts when it's dark. This is a poem that indicates that. I titled the poem after the form. It has rhyme from line to line, but not end rhyme. To me the type of poem looks like a poem, but reads like prose. I think the photo is in San Diego in a restaurant. It might look like morning, but not on the west coast... Still, I found it fitting for the poem.

Poem: Garden Jealousies

Garden Jealousies

I sometimes wonder

If the grass in the yard grows jealous

Of little alyssum in all its blooming glory?

Or if alyssum thinks how grand

It would be to live ceramically

In a pot, or if it would somehow be

Better to be a rose, coming back 

Every year without even worrying

How much he’d bloomed?

Maybe the rose just wished

To be that pumpkin sat

On the porch all jack-o-lanterned out

‘Neath all the falling leaves,

Or little green bean

Picked faithfully and cooked

For a family of four

Or maybe more.

Maybe they all envy

Sunflower, shining in the sun

Beckoning the bees

Hanging on until the freeze.

Clematis clings jealously

To the Trellis—

Or is it just me that is jealous?

October 2022

About This Poem:

Sometimes you just wonder and I like to garden, so I impose human thinking onto plants in this one.

 

Poem: (autumn) (spring) (winter) (summer)

(autumn) (spring) (winter) (summer)

Leaves fall (autumn) and I rake them up,

Placing them on the garden (spring) where

Still standing dead (winter) sunflowers feed birds.

To think just a few weeks ago they were (summer) 

(Green, not) yellow or red (or) falling from the trees 

Sometimes knocked off by pesky squirrels (red)

And picked up by me (green) thinking of all

The work I have to do and (yellow) don’t want to.

But here I am anyway, now white headed (winter)

Raking up all these beautiful leaves (autumn)

And wondering why I ever thought (summer) I 

Had much time to spend (spring) with kids

Who are gone with the leaves (autumn) soon

To be buried beneath the snows (winter)

Like me or some buried ancestor (red)

Taking pride in me out here raking (green) leaves.

I guess that’s what living is all about (yellow)

Never taking time to notice (yellow) things

When you should (green) and getting angry

When you should(n’t) (red).

November 2022

About This Poem

I spend an inordinate amount of time raking leaves in the fall and it never ceases to impress upon me aspects of living, or, in this case, life itself. I titled it after all of the seasons because they are all there in the act of raking and living. The seasons are parenthetical to the act itself, because it's obviously autumn. They are also not in any logical order because life tends to jumble its seasons, at least in our minds. Right now it's in the 90s but I'm recalling autumn winds and raking leaves as if it were happening right now because, in a sense, it is.

 

Poem: Adrift Upon the Lake

Adrift Upon the Lake

Adrift upon the lake in my

canoe, I see cloudbreak make sigh

as glass turns to rings

crashing into things 

as heart sings

here to cry

of isolated beauty here

where I float longing to be near

engulfed in your pools 

of ringlets. Oh fool,

here I cool

as you hear

my aching moan to be right here

swirling into this perfect mere

where you wrap your arms 

about me in charms

where none harms

drowning here.

Adrift upon the lake in my

embrace, clouds of your love are nigh

as glass turns to rings

crashing into things.

My heart sings 

to your sigh.

About This Poem

I love to just drift on a lake in a boat every once in awhile. In rereading this poem it seems dark. Sometimes, I suppose, my thoughts are dark, but generally, near water, I am buoyed up and feel great. There's a little of that here also. I don't actually know when I wrote it. I typed it up in June a couple of years ago. It seems appropriate for summer. I think it could use a little more editing, but here's the draft.
 

Avocados

Groggily leering at a bowl of avocados

each labeled individually

of their own accord—

speaking through 

my morning haze, 

“Why do they label each fruit

individually? What are you

supposed to do with the stickers?”

I think drearily

of apple stickers 

stuck upon counters,

walls, wherever,

and how my wife 

thought it stupid

that they would let 

their children defile

the habitation that now

temporarily became ours.

“How do you know it was

the kids?” I asked,

thinking of how I’d never

seen our children eat apples without first 

being sliced individually.

And Ron has never even 

taken time to remove the sticker,

just biting into the apple

devouring peel, paper and all.

But that’s apples 

and these are avocados

and you never eat the peel 

of an avocado

so it can just compost itself 

away as if being swallowed

whole by a man

who is indifferent to stickers

of red delicious gala

golden delicious cosmic crisp

jonathan counter top

chair floor avocado

worms grass beetles…

And my morning thoughts 

slip drearily into breakfast

and apple slices and

avocado toast and compost

and men and women and children

and furniture and

aren’t those avocados arranged beautifully?

March 2021

About This Poem

This is a poem that roams into the world of stream of consciousness based upon a bowl of avocados and what they made me think of. Life can seem so random and things from nowhere can make you think of the strangest memories or projections. This poem is an example of that. I'm sorry I had to use a fruit stand shot, but apparently I don't take photos of avocados, in spite of the thoughts they inspire in me.  

 

Poem: Garden Jealousies

Garden Jealousies

I sometimes wonder

If the grass in the yard grows jealous

Of little alyssum in all its blooming glory?

Or if alyssum thinks how grand

It would be to live ceramically

In a pot, or if it would somehow be

Better to be a rose, coming back 

Every year without even worrying

How much he’d bloomed?

Maybe the rose just wished

To be that pumpkin sat

On the porch all jack-o-lanterned out

‘Neath all the falling leaves,

Or little green bean

Picked faithfully and cooked

For a family of four

Or maybe more.

Maybe they all envy

Sunflower, shining in the sun

Beckoning the bees

Hanging on until the freeze.

Clematis clings jealously

To the Trellis—

Or is it just me that is jealous?

October 2022

About This Poem

It's gardening season, so this poem struck me when I was rereading some of the many poems I have written. Certainly one can be envious of the vegetable when stressed by things human? This poem is about that.