I Can Hear Clearly Now

Fresh from a fitting
of expensive ear plugs,
a trainee of twenty
put a pause to my huh?’s,
My wonderful wife
beamed broadly to see
the microphoned mini's
of total technology.
The nice news is every
wise word I now hear,
the lousy luck is it includes
trite talk, oh dear.

Something Stupid

I love it
when we kiss
and
our noses bump,
and
we laugh.

:>)

There is something about a smile
that is truly hard to resist,
have a little, it seems to say,
or a lot, really, I insist.

There is something about a smile,
that demands of you a reply,
spontaneous, unplanned, your own
bright grin for every passerby.

There is something about a smile,
truly infectious, so it seems,
a gift of joy and happiness,
unselfish sharing of your dreams.

There is something about a smile,
as though it’s always meant to be,
it costs you nothing, means so much,
give one to everyone, you’ll see

Back-n-Forth Rag

Just one hundred miles between our two homes,
yet a change of the seasons readily comes,
two hours after the dry desert air
savoring moisture, our Bernardo lair.
We love our two homes, both seasoned with love,
Spirit surrounds us, within us, above.
The cats like it too, their joy adds a spice,
three parts of playful, one jigger of vice.
Our lives are perfect as any fine thing,
no matter the season, always our spring.

A Sappy Tale

Elm Avenue, Okauchee, WI
has no elm trees,
only the brittle twigs of our memories,
much like, I suppose,
Orange Tree Estates, Orange County, CA
has no orange trees,
only the faintly remembered aromas from youth,
the sweet citrus dreams of SoCal hipsters.
Many pines remain in Pine Top, AZ,
and you can still find birches in Birch Tree, AR,
but, for most of us,
it’s scrapbooks and photo albums,
taking us back to our roots.

The elms might be gone,
but those firs we planted are thriving,
the ones my drunken Swedish carpenter
of a grandfather helped me plant.
The one that was struck by lightning
on its very first day,
bam, like a spank on a newborn’s bottom,
that one is the tallest, no sign of early scars.
There’s a lesson there, I’m sure,
and maybe I’ll get it one day.

The elms might be gone,
but there’s still a plank swing,
dangling from a rope,
tied way up high,
around a thick oak branch,
down by the lake.
It’s been 50 years since I last saw it,
so surely it’s been changed a few times.
I wonder who does that,
and I wonder how they get up there,
and I wonder if their mom knows about it.

The elms might be gone,
but the lilac bushes remain hearty.
Thank goodness there was no
Dutch Lilac malady,
although I’m pretty sure that
it wasn’t Dutch Orange Tree disease
that caused all those uprootings in SoCal.
If this global warming thing,
or some other planetary sickness
gets to the palm trees,
we’re in real trouble.
but that will be for
a different poet’s despair.

Resistance

There is this book which has been
following me around for weeks now.
Actually, not following so much as
accompanying, fitting nicely in
my hand, or atop my journal
in my man purse.
The book is important.
That’s why I bought it.
It is about hope, and also about
the mind, about laughing at, but
not making an enemy of
the latter.
I say that’s what it is about,
but I don’t know for sure,
only what the dust jacket blurb says.
I can’t seem to get by the introduction,
not in the den, nor poolside,
heck, not even at he library.
My core seems obdurate in
its resistance to change, or growth.
I will say that, pages unread,
that book seems still to be
having an impact.
I think about hope all the time.
A good thing, too, since
I have friends who will not see year’s end,
and a 50-year reunion requiring
a 50-pound weight loss,
and a home for sale.
Small things, really,
except for that part about my friends,
but in the greater scheme of things,
I’m a pretty small fish in
a very big pond, or, at most,
like one of those salmon,
returning to their place of creation,
encountering resistance at every turn.
I hope this hope thing is
not overrated. The book is heavy,
the thoughts too, sometimes.

Lifelines

The man isn’t old by some measures,
quite ancient by others.
Mostly, it depends upon where he is,
who’s nearby.
Sometimes, it’s the weather, the rain,
His 68-year old body made 86,
war-torn nerve endings enflamed
by moist air.
Today it was the boy, Elijah,
grandson of a neighbor,
looking out her window.

The boy is young by some measures.
wiser and older by others.
Mostly it depends upon the day,
how he slept,
if grandma’s nearby,
if he got a role in that new commercial,
if the pool is empty of adults.
Sometimes it’s his need for speed,
his 10-year old mind wishing for 18,
so he can drive something more than a dream.

They are long-distance buds,
the man and the boy,
the type of friends who most often
communicate by written word,
e-mails the penpalship of the day
Together, they are writing an epic poem,
starring, of course, Elijah,
his family and friends in supporting roles.
They seldom speak in person,
the man writing a page of Seussian rhyme,
the boy reading the electronic copy,
never editing, directing the next page.
.
Today is one of the rare days,
the boy visiting for Easter,
the man reading poolside.
There are other vacation kids around, so
the pool will soon be loaded, joy filled.
It is tempting to call on grandma,
“accidentally” bump into Elijah,