Sunrise, Sunset

There are no more dragons,

so they say,

and we are all the poorer for it,

come what may.

What wondrous flight

they might have taken,

by day or night,

on some far isle alight,

to lay down eggs, begetting

life of power and might,

with fiery roar

upon that distant shore.

The ancients toiled

in fear and strife,

eyeing magic in the sky,

a daily challenge to their life,

with majesty at wing,

lustrous green and gold,

but not for you and I, they sing,

there are no more dragons,

we are told.

How sad for modern man,

facing the sunset of an

evolutionary scheme,

or perhaps, it is

simply in God’s plan,

that we don’t grandly dream.

Summer of '67

How long does it take,
I wonder,
for a war to become
a tourist attraction?
What’s the rotation time,
I ponder,
for foxholes to fill in,

The only war that matters
is the one you fought in.
All warriors know this.
So many wars,
yet only one was the worst.
It’s the one you fought in.
Because it happened to you.

That year I went to war,
all thrumming energy,
rising above the cacophony,
struggling beneath the fear,
wishing mightily to be invisible,
knowing I had put myself there,
the trace elements of ego
so visible in God’s microscope.

For a little while,
I died that day long ago,
thought I was going home,
no sadness, no fear,
no swell of clinging to what’s here.
Day and night,
the bombs cast their light,
yet from tunnel bright
a chiming bell,
calling my return to
the work undone.

Time enough remained
for service and, more,
for pain, guilt, lessons
still to master, before
this life’s final peace
brings an end to war.

Tuneville

Lullabies, Classical, Blues and Scat,

Be-bop, Jazz, Funk like that.

Country. Bluegrass, Rock and Roll,

Opera, Calypso, Rap for the soul.

Afro Cuban, Orchestral, New Wave,

Honky Tonk, Broadway, Ska for the brave.

It don’t matter what form it might take

Life without music would be a mistake

Artville

Da Vinci declared
that within the we
are included
those who see,
also those who
see when shown,
living among
their very own.
Unfortunately,
it is also true
that, in addition
to these two,
there are those
who can not see.
Keep the first and second.
Lose number three.

Village of Okauchee

They still do fish fry

in every corner tap

on Friday nights,

and all the restaurants

dim the lights,

have an overpriced

family style, la-di-dah flap.

It’s not all fried, but it’s

mostly frozen cod,

and there’s too many potato choices

and, yes, my god,

they even serve salads

instead of creamy cole slaw,

if you ask,

which, honestly, should be

against the law. Really.

Growing up in a country village,

there were only a few choices,

Magowan’s and Roundy’s

and my family’s favorite,

by a chorus of voices,

Stitch & Mary’s on the lake,

with all the joy

anyone could take.

Friday was fish,

always perch, always fried,

and fries and cole slaw and little rye rounds.

Saturday was chicken,

always fried, to put on the pounds,

and mashed potatoes and overcooked squash.

The men all smoked, the woman danced,

we kids played pinball, easily entranced,

and drank some deliciously sweet lemon drink

that led to type two diabetes, I think.

No wine that I remember,

but lots of beer for the older ones,

and usually an Old Fashioned,

just to top off the fun.

Sunday was church and a picnic,

But not in the winter,

and sometimes not the church part either.

I’m pretty sure

none of this was healthy,

but living where

we do now,

with lots of specialties

but no traditions, no wow,

the memories are savory,

the recollections sweet,

and somehow we’re still standing

on dream-filled feet.

Hues

Brown season is here

There’s smoke on the horizon

We must mend the roof

White snow still on peaks

Summer thirsts for its melting

Let’s clean the windows

Orange Navels are eaten

Valencia’s unfavored

What of the apples?

Red flowers open

Pomegranates in waiting

We must make sun tea

Pink roses whisper

Bougainvilleas scream color

Pastels still enchant

Spring’s colors faded

Summer blooms now in season

Seedlings need water

Epi’s bloom briefly

Cactus flowers much the same

I must call my Friends

Sitting

When one can not

find an exit in the fog,

one might stop,

sit in meditation,

in quiet contemplation.

In doing so, one can

discover unexpected moments

with a beauty all their own.

To survive the fog,

one must be willing

to become oneself,

to trust.

Like a blind dog, running

headlong into the dark,

one must accept whatever comes,

including the brilliant phosphorescence

of a new way of seeing the world.

To escape the pea soup

of not knowing,

simply make room for everything,

joy, grief, misery, relief.

As a spider weaving a web,

starting from nothing,

first grasp the difference

between silence

and simply being quiet.