Turtle sleeps beneath 

the crystal ice, Tommy walks

     precariously

     I set out 

to touch the moon—

     it looks so near

      Poetry nearly is not— 

separated from nothing 

      by a thought

     Breezy afternoon 

sitting in the lacy shade 

     of a leafing tree—

     warm when the sunlight breaks through

cool behind the tender leaves

     Soon I will follow

walking the endless meadow

     across the river

     Me, 

me, me, me

     me

     Hours of cutting

days of warmth—

     wood for the stove

     Sound of mowing

calls the swallows

     I have become

the cow, the calf, the bull

     my goal

is to rid my life of blackjack

     and such 

(blackjack is species of oak)

     High on my poem

I haven’t found the flaw—

     yet

     Whip-poor-will’s

insane—

     put a sock in it!

     Frog’s gotta run,

here it comes—

     WEED WACKER!

     Spring leaves

dot the lawn—

     after the hail

     Gamboling calves 

& gambling bucks—

     cattle ranching

     Plumbing repair 

on Friday is dumb

     Then it hits me—

they’re gone

     There is much

not to say

     The rain passed

us by—

     fickle twit

     With good intentions

we hang the hummingbird’s feeder

     from a redbud branch—

     kitties watch from below

but the hummers don’t care

     In the bright sunlight

my new sneakers look too white

     The cold front

is welcome—

     but I’m cold!

     What’s that flash

of blue and yellow in the tree?

     Tommy!

     Another weekend gone!

     Afternoon 

brings a lull

     a stolen moment

     Lush is the sound

of grass this spring—

SIR EDMUND

     Thin of face  

noble of demeanor 

     Look at the trees

they’re doing a magic dance!

Instructions for an Artist

     Build 

from a collection of hues

     a fabrication—

     a myth

which looks like the truth

     quaking aspen beats anything—

shim shim shimmy leaves

     all it wants is mariachi

     Green fly drinks a bead 

of water upon my arm

     then bites me! Ingrate!

     The reality of country life

is a wild swing between

     god-awful and nearly perfect

Pavement

     This

is a glide—

     smooth on soles

     A jumble of legs entwined

we are starfish—

     Day ends

reading light off

     head on pillow—

     silence roars

Chipmunk

     Very dead

gripped in the maw 

     of my mewing cat

     La, it rained 

la, it rained

     la la la it rained

Point of View

The soldier says, “I have cold feet.”

The captain says, “Son, we’re all scared.”

The chaplin says, “God be with you.”

The sergeant says, “Get some dry socks.”

First Blush

     As she bathes away her ache

a plume wafts gently—

     from the warmth, into the warmth

     Life’s little pleasures

ease the pain

On black cats with yellow-green eyes

     Sometimes that is all you see—

On Losing

     It hurts

(Chicago Cubs, October, 2003)

     An armada of white pelicans 

rests

     on their way south

     Out of tune

my three violins

     sing the comic harmonic

(tinnitus)

     Bach’s cantatas prove

humans can be humane

     Every tick of the clock

brings us closer 

     to immortality

     Felipe Alou

Felipe Alou

     Felipe Alou

     We set our clocks back today

returning

     what we borrowed

     A rock is always handy

     God bless 

the librarian 

     who says hush!

     Watching you dance

puts a smile on my face

     (Tommy, dancing to Vince Guaraldi)

     I like boots that tie

belts that cinch

     and poems with and without form