POETRY NOW AND THEN

Through the sense of sight, wonderful paintings can greatly touch and affect our hearts, minds, and spirits. The harmony and rhythm of words and phrases, through poetry, often enlightens our souls in a similar manner.

Poetry I have composed over the years and found to be especially appealing to me for various reasons is included in this section. Perhaps you too will be positively affected and benefited by some of this compilation. “Poetry Now and Then” is occasionally expanded with additional newly created verse. The current listed poetry features 30 separate compositions.

A Chronological Index of Poetry is found below as an aid to help locate any listed poetry selections you may desire to return to and read again later on.

NOTICE: Michael Malan's poetry selections printed here are protected by copyright with all rights reserved, so be careful how you use them. Penalties for infringement can be costly and embarrassing. You may make a few copies of Michael's poetry for personal use or handouts as long as the copy shows him as the author and your source origin is shown on the copy as:

"From: Fuzzytravel.wixsite.com ; Poetry Now and Then"

and you do not modify or distribute his work or resell it for any monetary gain.

For me, poetry is best enjoyed when reading it slowly and thoughtfully, often pausing between verses or stanzas. Poetry is often better loved, and appreciated more, after being re-read at least a few times. Some poetry is composed purposely to be read at a somewhat faster rhythmic pace.

I believe that poetry is akin to heartfelt prayer, and is most intensely felt when reading in peaceful remote solitary surroundings, especially outdoors in beautiful settings such as at a solitary seashore, in a remote desert, or out in the mountains. Although, you will probably agree that reading verse during a cold winter in the firelight of a crackling fireplace -- whether wrapped in a rocking chair, propped into a comfy sofa, or sprawled out with soft pillows on a thick fluffy rug, must rank quite high as well.

If such beautiful, remote, and cozy locations are not convenient to access during your reading, try curling up and relaxing in a comfortable chair or reclining in a quiet grassy back yard spot and visualizing yourself as actually being in such a wonderful place. This meditation-like mind game can be a welcome secondary substitute. To help add this important element of visualization, some poetry is accompanied by a related picture. In any case, wherever you are reading, here’s wishing you a very pleasant and possibly even a life changing poetical experience as you visit here. So, now.... relax .... and read.

CHRONOLOGICAL INDEX OF POETRY

Lullaby by Alfred Lord Tennyson (famous poetry writer)

Adlestrop by Edward Thomas (famous poetry writer)

POETRY SELECTIONS BEGIN IN INDEX ORDER BELOW

A Black Poppy?

Poppies sway on a breezy day.

In misty rain they shiver slightly.

And every time I visit them,

They bow their heads politely.

Red poppies dance in rolling meadows.

Lovely poppies short and tall.

I’ll pick a perfect bunch for mother.

Oh! How she will love them all!

I'm only 8, but I’ll pluck more — a basket full!

Alluring pretty poppies, fun to find.

If I gathered a ton or more,

I’m sure they wouldn’t mind!

Poppies crimson, painted with lipstick,

like mother’s kisses on my face.

Poppies that love our dining room table,

reflecting on water in a glassy vase.

Poppies fill the meadows near, almost everyplace.

Endearing and enchanting poppies I embrace.

I’m a bon vivant. (vih-von) No wonder I can hardly wait

to take my wicker basket on another poppy picking date!

One day I made a friend — a human poppy flower!

She’s lots of fun! Charming, and with super thinking power.

When gone, she's always missed; she’s top poppy on my list!

“Poppy” is her name, and by all her friends is dearly loved and kissed.

(NOTE: "Poppy" is the name of the author's young granddaughter.)

I like red, but poppies grow in lots of velvet colors:

Orange, yellow, turquoise ... purple, blue, and pink.

Even white and black — yes, like jet black ink!

Makes us love them even more, don’t you think?

Tension Headache

Ouch! Oh! Ouch, ouch, ouch! I need my pillow and the couch.

I’m sorry, yes, I know, for quite a while I'll be a grouch.

Please shut off the light or pull the curtains tight.

I need pain killers now, tonight!

My head is simply killing me, so turn the volume down on the T.V.

Everything looks blurred, it hurts to even see.

I hate to say it, but I really need some sympathy!

These doggone nasty tension headaches suck the life right out of me!

Don’t worry dear, I’ll pull the curtains tight.

Close your eyes and you won’t notice any bright light.

Here’s your favorite pillow and your favorite blanket too.

Any noise at all will strictly be taboo.

The barking dog is muzzled out, and I’ll clean up his poo.

Baby Lucy is a mess, and she’ll get her bath too.

After I empty all the trash and clean out the smoking flue,

I’ll fix your favorite Teriyaki stew.

Now it's morning, you're awake,

without that horrid sick headache!

You say that in your pain you don’t remember much again?

Not the pull of curtains tight, the silent room without the light?

Or that the trash was taken out, and Lucy cried most all the night?

Although your favorite stew cooked right, you declined to eat a bite!

You didn’t know when I cleaned the flue.

Or muzzled the dog and cleaned up poo.

Even when the drain clogged up, you had no clue.

Or when Tommy painted his hands, and face,

and clothes and bike in Captain America Blue.

Oh! Whatever would we do, if I got such a headache too?

Main Street Nostalgia

I love to walk on Main Street,

where the clickity-clop of horses go.

And in winter hear the tinkling sound

of their sleigh bells in the snow.

On Main Street stands The Paris -- a classic movie house.

Its colorful posters forever touch my heart.

And next to it, Jed's Carriage Repair.

Just in case that special buggy falls apart.

Of course there's Harry's Barbershop.

The perfect name for such a place.

Often by the window sits the mayor full reclined.

Looks like a puff of white whipped cream upon his face!

The Bigalow Hotel -- once rich and grand.

Still bravely stands with peeling paint.

Its once bright signage with pride remains -- and rooms are booked --

although those golden letters now are rather faint.

The "five and dime" called Chatworth's

is a favorite icon for the town.

Its registers still ringing for more than fifty years

while leaner years made some great shops shut down.

It seems that Dot's Cafe has been around forever and a day

with tasty homemade food and lattice pies to go.

It's real luck at lunchtime if you find an empty table.

Generous servings mean "You better walk away while you are able."

The unchanged classic Hilton Bank was founded in1891.

But one day at noon a robbery -- three outlaws with guns.

The robbers vanished quickly to mountain “badlands” on the run.

The town was in an uproar — incensed at what the thieves had done.

But campfire smoke from fry'in fish

led hunting lawmen to their lurch.

Some folks said that holdup never could have happened

if the fools just had sense enough to spend some time at church.

Open only when the need arises, up the street

and ‘round the corner is Casper’s Mortuary.

Offering kind comfort to every broken-hearted mourner;

very nicely it displays top notch monument statuary.

A mile further up on Rolling Meadow’s edge is Sweet Dreams Cemetery

containing patches of bright wild flowers and lovely shading trees.

Town folk quietly relax there on comfy slatted benches

to enjoy scenic views .. oft times with a pleasant breeze.

Across the street I notice old Billiards and Booze — a bar place

where things get loud and rowdy at times .. I walk on by.

But if you don’t mind cigar smoke in your face, you can play pool

for twenty-five cents a game at a long lazy pace.

My walk continues to where another sign hangs out —

a wooden sign on chains, sometimes swinging in a gust of wind.

Doctor Willabee Hart — a man beloved by everyone in town.

The perfect place to visit if any sickness comes about.

Flowers by Flo is another lovely shop that I adore.

The fragrance drifting out the open door always slows one’s pace.

Flo’s bright bouquets and smartly done arrays assure

that passers-by will soon be back to ask for one or more.

My next steps led to Perkin’s Bakery where a new aroma greets my nose.

Today, I can’t resist, I walk right in — with calories high, it seems like sin.

“I’ll have a Danish Marzipan,” I say, “Just one,” but sometimes

I quickly change my mind and ask for two .. wouldn’t you?

Next door is the Dairy Dell. I drop in to say hello to my friend Brice.

I’m still munching on my Danish, and Brice — so nice,

hands me a small glass of creamy milk — ice cold — and says,

“Try that with your Danish." Now, I’m really in paradise!

We chat a little, and when a customer comes in

I finally leave, but not before buying butter and cream.

He places them inside one of his thick brown bags —

those with rattan rope handles sewn in the seam.

Yes, I love to walk on Main Street to pass by so many shops.

Sometimes my walk is like a dream sublime.

But even if I never spend a dime,

I hope the lingering nostalgia never stops.

The 1937 Packard Limousine

(A poetic true history of the author's childhood family car - a 1937 Packard Limousine.)

Oh, how my dad loved that Packard car!

It was always my very favorite too — by far!

It had a huge twelve cylinder engine that sucked gas

even smoother than a yellow band Cuban cigar!

I remember the round white arrow speedometer

displaying its astonishing top speed number of one-twenty!

Surely this had to be with gas petal pushed to the floor!

Dangerouser than smoking 50 Havanas or more!

I loved the unique short thick yellow wooden spokes

on each huge wheel. An eye stopper with top appeal!

Two more yellow-spoke spare wheel “tenders”

fit half-way into the two long front fenders.

Most cars in that day had only one measly spare tire.

But a Packard Limousine? There had to be two all complete

magnificent wheels ready and waiting — showcased to greet!

And for safety sake, in that rare case that two blew.

In 1937, most all motor cars were painted black,

but not this limousine. It was dark deep sheen forest green!

And at the end in back was a matching green luggage rack

with special chromed locking arms that tightened up the slack.

Generous inside space was prime in this Packard Limousine.

Soft black leather front seats and cabin beckoning wool seats,

also dark green! Polished burled wood fared everywhere.

From ceiling to floor, luxury oozed from this elite ‘37 Packard’s every pore.

A roll-up glass privacy window divided the cab from the rear cabin.

Below the window roll-up knob, chromed pull handles made extra seats

bob right out! These green wool covered “Jump Seats” had their place,

just in case more friends needed comfy sitting space.

No limousine can be complete without a cabin phone.

It connects a pampered passenger to driver. Like the privacy of home,

it’s always needed when the glass is closed. A hired driver sometimes needs

to follow changing orders from the passenger elite who comes and goes.

With window blinds that pulled down, and flashy pinstriped gold,

It truly would amaze me if the 1937 Packard Limousine ever should get sold!

To be sure, I think it was the reddish ethyl gasoline that made it purr.

No, nothing was ever “regular” about this beloved monsieur!

The stunning Packard Limousine had run many miles near and far. I hate to say,

but maintaining it was costly, and how does one replace a favorite movie star?

One day in ‘51, my dad called the family to our driveway to view a “nice”

replacement car. What vehicle would be our fate?

Remarkably, another Packard debuted to our delight. The 1949 Packard

“Straight Eight”! Sporting Packard’s classic chromed-up flying swan hood ornament, it was a striking sight to be seen! And this shiny Packard’s paint color? I could hardly believe my eyes — it was dark metallic forest green!

THE BIG BLACK TRAIN

Clippity click, clippity clack

The train speeds with hast on a gleaming track.

Chugging black smoke, will it ever come back?

Clippity click, clippity clack

Flashes of freight cars — ruddy red, green, and blue.

A few have graffiti — most are old, some are new.

The conductor waves a hand at me — I used to wave back too.

But I despise big billowing trains — so now I never do.

Clippity click, clippity clack

The engineer’s cap is striped — it’s like a prisoner’s shirt.

Some don’t know the warning — “Best be on alert!”

A small flock of sparrows got frightened and flew

as the train whistle blasted and shot out of view.

Clippity click, clippity clack

When I was nine, I stood on the Rail Bridge Overpass.

Taking time to view so many different trains below.

When suddenly a train rushed out underneath me

causing a tremendous awful sucking wind flow.

It shook the entire bridge with a terrifying thunder.

I feared the black monster might suck me right under.

I was blinded and choked by swirling black smoke,

and my ears couldn’t hear the ringing invoke, sounding

Clippity click, clippity clack;

Clippity click, clippity clack.

Through smokey black holes I glimpsed that scary black train.

Its boiler was raging — it was horribly fast, and wildly insane.

So I ran like a deer! I was under attack by a big locomotive,

an engine coal black — a soot spewing cur with a dirty smokestack.

On and on, choking, I ran. Twice I would stumble and fall.

I must escape that smoke filled bridge! I’m putting out my all!

Clippity click, clippity clack;

Clippity click, clippity clack.

I ran with scuffed up bloody hands, and also bloody knees

which scraped themselves most painfully, through newly torn jeans.

I ran until I reached a tree at Rail Bridge’s end.

At last fresh air inhaled, in thankful godsend.

Still shaken, quite breathless, I wiped my blackened eyes.

Little good a sooty shirt sleeve did, with no first aid supplies.

Then in the momentary silence, sounding faintly,

within a smoky fog, a haunting dialog.

Clippity click, clippity clack;

Clippity click, clippity clack.

Such irony! I had always loved trains and waving my hand

until that horrid calamitous day.

When a train almost strangled and choked me dead.

I was so lucky I could run away.

Clippity click, clippity clack

Do you know that trains can flatten

any penny ‘til it’s paper thin?!

And without a trace of mercy, YOU!

and any vehicle you’re in?!!

As for loving shining rails, billowing smoke,

And any glory-bound train,

Let those folks have their “Loco-Motives.”

I’ve long concluded such folks are insane!

Clippity click, clippity clack

Surely it will always be that some have love

for special trains that they’re akin to.

More especially when a “train buff” hobby is

the kind of special love they’ve fallen into.

Yet, upon my utmost serious reflection,

It seems to me, it’s pretty much almost a sin to.

Clippity click, clippity clack

Clippity click, clippity clack.

Hey, pull that cord!

Stop that train!

Countryside Lake

It would be such fun to escape,

To a remote countryside lake.

To a cabin small and tight,

With lots of window light.

In a peaceful state to contemplate.

An alluring oil-lamped estate.

For me alone to fish — to paint — to write.

No neighbors, phones, or mailbox.

Not even Instagram.

A perfect place.

Where only I know where I am.

New York

Builder of cloud shoving skyscrapers — all wedged in tight.
Stacked up by grown up kids.

No outsiders pronounce “New York” like “Yawkaz” do.
They’re proud of their city, but some can't say why.

The Empire State — with its forlorn tower of requited love,
and enduring Torch of Light for regiments of refugees.

The People

Visitors say that New Yorkers don’t care about anyone else.
But residents say they are just minding their own business to keep out of trouble.

They say it’s a way of survival.
Yet, hidden under that label are some good hearts that always rally.

Occasionally, they prove it.

The City

Circled iron vents gasp out steam of London-like fog.
Light shafts chase alley cats through it — in and out of focus.

Taxi cabs hit every green light with charmed precision.
Occasionally, colorful umbrellas pop up and sidewalk elevator doors slam down.

Flower girls and paper boys suddenly appear out of nowhere. Anything from “four bits,” to a “fiver,” becomes their treasured hope.

Some city working New Yorkers walk a few blocks home.
Where, big steps lead to little flats.

Parked cars on narrow streets mysteriously change sides
To avoid ticket papered wipers.

Fifth Avenue

Avenue of the filthy rich.
In duds spark’lin clean.

Home of the silk top hat.
And patent leather shoe.

Of hot fashion dresses and old fashioned stoles.
Of cold Tiffany rocks, and pristine chauffeured Rolls.

Broadway

Where broad women walk the narrow street.
Where feet get kissed for promised bliss.

Where starters hope, and failures mope.
Where reviews get mean, and contracts lean.

Where the famous flock, and groupies gawk.
And the premier show will come and go.

The End of the World In
a Brooklyn High-rise

“What’s .. that .. loud siren?”

Wake up dear, it’s just a siren.

“Those new white curtains ..

They’ve turned bright red!”

It’s only your bloodshot eyes ..

And the early sunrise, dear.

“Ooh! That flashing bright light ..

So intense .. it’s splitting my head!”

Just open your eyes, dear

And get out of bed.

You drank way .. way ..

Too much last night.

“This is very seer .. serious, dear wife.

Can’t you plainly see?

It’s the end of the world!

It really is! .. It’s the end for you and me!”

Yes, dear, I know.

So ..

Let us toast “To the end of the world!”

With a cup of coffee.

Only A Note

“Dearest friend,“ I wrote
as the scratching of the slotted metal pen-tip sped across vanilla vellum,
word by word was ciphered carefully
and thoughtfully
with sentences that gathered up and spelled them.
And while the lacquered wooden pen squeezed out its shiny words
in ink of midnight blue,
from its vault my mind sent out essayed selections, essential,
charming, trite, and true.
Although intended only for a note.

Forming curves and lines like tiny ribbons, some thick and others thin as thread.

Regulated by the varied pressure of my hand,

one by one, each syllable was briskly fed.

Although, sometimes ending words or starting ones

got unintended blobs of ink instead.

My pen was dipped, again and again,

jabbing inside a checkered cut glass inkpot,

sucking from a pool of liquid words — adding, stretching, extending, and blotting a lot, keeping every precious word afloat.

Why all this for only a note?

Scratch, scratch, dip, dip, scratch, scratch, and blot.

Mental flashes slowly crawling. Such a busy lot of scrawling.

Onward with anticipation.

Reaching into sublimation.

Delight in a paper fight that seemed so right,

but onward penning letters short and tall

leaving one to think the writ is not improving,

but a fight not right, at best not fought at all.

Especially for a single note.

The script became more like a letter than a note.

Yet, without the pen, the ink, the vellum, and the writer,

there would be no lengthy note or paper fighter.

Then, all those words

set forth with much sincere intention,

would vanish into space,

and surely, at their best, be merely lost invention.

Yes, even shrink into a fallible pretension —

an empty page containing

not even a note!

Written keepsakes might get archived

when one is writing to a special friend.

It’s true that most friends more than welcome any sort of letter

that a writer much endeared does care enough to send.

Even when treasured, in the end we may suppose it was the writer’s plight

to try to spend the time to link words up — some loose, some tight —

all well composed — so, like a golden key, they turn together skillfully,

and also mostly right grammatically.

Even when that very special friend gets

just a note.

Some words bring tears.

Some pluck our heart strings too.

Passion overcomes us, why?

Less important words just skip along politely--

soon to flatten, fade, and die.

Then there are those so fancy free;

they leap straight out and hit one in the face!

Why can that be? Such words fly up like rockets,

most emphatically! Those notes!

They are my cup of tea!

Oh! What a racy challenge or a sweet adventure letter writing is ...

or should not be!

But please, my friend, don’t stress too much.

Don’t worry over what your plain vanilla fantasy of writ has wrought,

or altogether give up hope to send that dreamy passion that your vision caught.

Especially if your caring writ creation

was sent — alas! — without a hint of invitation!

And is the only kind of writ expected from a special friend.

Yes, even if

it’s only a note.

Musical Ambush

On rare occasions, unexpected, but so pleasingly,

I’ve been ambushed by an angelic rhapsody.

It’s charming notes completely capture me.

While mystified, both time and space suspend,

And I, entranced in awe and wonder,

Hope that this intruding salient music has no end.

The magic rhythm ever penetrates and deepens,

It’s blackened notes soon melting into golden sequins.

Will its transcendent beauty ever fade?

No, not ever! Not for this spine tingling parade!

Let the enchanting rhapsody sublime be silent never.

Instead, please, I implore, let it go on and on, sweetly forever!

If only every music sheet of golden art,

Which captures the burning passion of my heart,

Would play in timeless gay esprit, (es-pre’)

For me . . . endlessly!

Lullaby

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,

Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Lullaby Part Two

Sweet and low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea.

This morning I watch from the window,
As seagulls flock into the docks.
Snatching fish, sailing, and calling,
With wings upward and downward and cocked.

Blood red hangs the sun in a misty pink fog,
It’s beams turn to orange on an old yellow dog.
Fishing boats creak as they tug at their ropes,
The horizon is frequently searched with bright hopes.

Oh, how I miss him! I yearn for his kiss!
Oh, how I love him! My life’s truest bliss!
The whistling teapot sings to us now,
Is your daddy sipping his tea on ship’s brow?

Oh, how I long to see him again,
The sleek silver sails on horizon’s bright rim!
Blow him again to me, dear wind of the western sea!
While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.

Adlestrop

by Edward Thomas

Yes. I remember Adlestrop—
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop—only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

Adlestrop Part Two

The express train moved on—

Sunlight skipped and flashed through the metal rimmed

Train windows, splashing on brown seats and people’s clothes.

A ripped corner atop a worn seatback in front of me shows

Yellow sisal slightly torn.

Outside the train, more blackbirds on swaying cornstalks

Passed by. Although to me not much mattering,

Through half open windows came their momentary

Rustling and chattering.

Chattering .. and then nothing .. except cornstalks

Shortly sized in rows and rows .. and long watering ditches

And barbed wire fences pushing weathered gray wood

Into my eyes.

Then surprising colorful squares of acreage slowly passed by ..

Patterning .. patterning .. like huge quilt blocks. A scene in

Living squares of modern art with textures of yellow, brown, and

Verdant green.

Coming and going as the steaming train sliced them apart

With slashing iron wheels and with the mechanical accuracy

Of a well oiled tower clock .. ticking out the crackle of a

Gleaming track.

Ripping and scissoring .. pushing them forward and back

With relentless precision .. scissoring .. scissoring ..

As lonely cloudlets waited and watched from above this

Flashing cinematic vision.

Then the train, without its usual resting break, in frustration

Got a stomach ache. Twice it howled as it raised black dusting

And zoomed right past the ancient rusting isolated

Thistlebury Station.

No refreshing rest-stop for this forgotten town,

Nor was there any sign of this hot engine even slowing down.

It seemed to be this train-express decidedly was on a pleasant

June vacation!

And as we railroaded by, bells rang with volume turned

Up high, reminding us that many ancient isolated towns

Have long endured a tattered image filled with ravished

Ups and downs.

Such hamlets lost their pleasantry .. youthful days left far behind,

Prosperous times forgotten, new horizons out-of-mind. True, a tighter

Schedule keeps every train on time, but lost nostalgia also leaves

Too many rail-riders blind.

Present reality knocked anew. A lady passenger was knitting something Blue .. and kept on knitting. The cowboy across the aisle who sat .. Sleeping with his head half-buried in a wide-brimmed hat ..

Kept on sleeping.

A man with a handlebar mustache and gold spectacles, slouched in a

Pinstripe business suit with his face in a big city newspaper, took a white Handkerchief from an old leather briefcase, carefully cleaned his spectacles, And kept on reading.

The few other passengers in the coach were silently sitting and kept on Silently sitting, except a small boy who was playing with a toy airplane.

And I .. I also was silently sitting .. reflecting upon all of this sitting, and

Continued to remain .. silently sitting.

Then again I heard a countryside blackbird sing his clarion song.

And ticking .. the ticking along the tracks .. that ticking like a well oiled

Tower clock with huge hands that move slowly, but keep time precisely

In line.

Presently, my destination loomed ahead. The train slowed down and Steamed on in, creeping by high gable roof boards of sooty dark lime Green, and rippling corrugated sheets of tin .. ending just in time at

Oxford Station.

I called for a taxi. The railway sights, the sounds, the scenery, the waxy Brown seats .. now gone; and I, walking on, feel strangely forlorn.

And I suppose I may continue to feel forlorn until again .. on another day .. On another sunny morn much like this ..

The express train moves on.

Adlestrop [Pronounced Add' ul strop] (ul as in gull)

by Edward Thomas

Amber Is Two

Note: My sweet daughter, Amber, is now all grown up caring for her own happy family. Yet it doesn't seem that long ago when I composed this, and cute little Amber was only age two!]

Undistracted by broken cookie or soiled dress,
Little Amber, Where is your doll and blanket?
Without words your hidden language vast expresses,
Many things my years of knowledge misses.

Ever have I passed nearby without your happy touch?
Or ever you passed me without at least that much?
Strong are your tiny arms that hug my leg ever so tight,
Whenever the rest of me is far above your reaching height.

A friendly kitten or dog bark,
A Bluebird, Chickadee, or Lark,
Call me quickly to your side,
To share your wondrous world alive!

Naughty Amber! Don’t you know by now,
It’s crayoned walls that Daddy hates?
Oh Amber! Can’t I recognize,
Those priceless portraits?

At breakfast you easily persuade me,
To share my eggs and toast and milk with you.
You climb up beside me when I read or write,
Hoping you might cheer me just a mite.

Can I forget?
You taught me snow is fun to eat!
That lipstick leaves trails,
And that tiny “spi'-dees” are fun to meet!

Surely you’re a daughter of immense ambition,
Your endless energy a battleship of ammunition,
Yet, as the day begins to lengthen into night,
You fight—off falling asleep—with all your might!

Finally, thick locks and lashes,
Hide your bright blue eyes,
And petal pink lips rest,
Silent in sleep’s surprise.

All who know her can’t forget the loving arms,
The happy voice,
The angel charms,
Of little Amber.

Note: "spi'-dees" is Amber's reference to spiders.

Heavenly Snow

A playful breeze tumbled
silvery soft snowflakes
gently in a sphere of deep blue.
Shaping with golden moonbeams
a city of white crystal.

Soft white sculptures --
heaven hid dwelling places.
Shattering the freezing air,
the bursting laughter of children
pushing sleds over white velvet slopes.

Yet later,
The still night left icy pools of reflection.
And this time tranquil peace so rare,
a single star dipped in fiery silver spoke to me.
“Peace, for all that heaven gives is yours tonight.”

Santa Mouse and the Night Before Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when up in the attic
Dust clouds arose — Christmas party mice were ecstatic.
Tiny stockings were hung on the chimney wall,
In the hope Santa Mouse would that night fill them all.

Cheesecake and cheese crackers were chomped by mouse snackers.
Figgie pudding was washed down with peppermint tea.
Some mice played Parcheesi, while others were dancing,
Played hopscotch, or nibbled bob apples with glee.

Soon all the dust settled, the mouse party was over,
Downstairs, Fluffy the cat fell asleep with old Rover.
The house was then quiet and still as a mouse —
That is, as quiet as a quiet mouse in a house.

Human children had flashlights under covers in bed,
Whispering so parents couldn’t hear what they said.
“If we stay awake long enough,” they conspired,
"We’ll sneak down and see Santa — if we don't get too tired."

Just then on the roof was a crash and a thump.
The arrival was more than a gentle sleigh bump.
Then it sounded like yell'in! Did something get bent?
Had Santa tripped? Did his sleigh get a dent?

The kids doused their flashlights, and stayed under cover,
They hoped to avoid a stern scolding from mother.
Their plan to spot Santa now seemed less than pleasant.
If they sneaked out of bed, they might not get a present!

The mice were alarmed by this clamorous ruckus,
So they hid under beddings of straw.
They hoped that it wasn’t the end of the world,
They were frightened, yet mostly in awe.

When what to their wondering beady eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny mousedeer!
Santa Mouse called to the mousedeer “Let’s land,
Right there by that chimney,” he signaled by hand.

The mice then noticed the roof line — a twilight square of sky blue —
A single big shingle had flipped itself up, letting the Santa Mouse through!
“Amazing,” the mice thought, as sleigh landed on rafter,
“Who would believe this, now or hereafter!”

Santa’s dress was red coat, and white fur head to feet,
With a bag filled with toys and fine cheeses — how sweet!
His eyes how they twinkled, his dimples were hairy.
With his tail swung up, he looked like a mouse fairy.

He spoke not a squeak, but went straight to his work,
He filled all the stockings, then turned for a perk,
And placed tiny toys by a tinseled up twig.
With pine branches of green, it was not very big.

And laying his little white paw by his nose,
He nodded to Roodolf, the deer whose nose glows.
Magic jet engines were whirring soon after,
And the rising sleigh hovered an inch above rafter.

In the meantime…

The Saint Nicholas Santa (the one for all human kids),
Had indeed crash landed, and the problem was sleigh skids!
'Twasn’t for Christmas magic, the presents would be depleted!
But replacing lost sleigh bolts was really all that was needed.

Few people know why this most famous story,
Of Christmas eve night should include its full glory.
In the first story version was the mention of mice.
'Cause leaving them out, was simply not nice. (But a true story teller,

forever can’t hide, the full Santa Mouse version by setting it aside!)

So back to our story conclusion...

Now, after their gift giving visits were done,
The Santas “ho hoed” a few times, just for fun.
Then they sprang to their sleighs, to their teams gave a shout,

(Yes, that’s always the way Christmas magic turns out)

And away both teams flew like the thrust of a missile.
(Which is considerably faster than “the down of a thistle.”)

Few people believe in the miniature sleigh, of mice playing hopscotch,

or eight tiny mousedeer.
Yet, when Christmas night's magic all comes again,
Listen for the Santas of both mice and men.
Two Santas will shout as they drive out of sight,
”Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

Santa

Celebrates Christmas

T’was the night before Christmas,

I was folding socks.

And trying in vain,

To match polka dots.

When out on the lawn,

I heard such a clatter.

A thump and a yell,

And the crash of a ladder.

To the window I flew,

Like an eagle in flight.

Lifted the blind,

And turned on the porch light.

There to my wondering eyes

Did appear,

A jolly old soul,

Somewhat tipsy, I fear.

He was dressed all in fur,

Well, you know the suit.

It’s red and it’s round,

With a white beard to boot.

Now this is the first year,

My eyes got a peek,

‘Cause my hubby and I,

Would both be asleep.

With a hiccup he turned,

As he opened the door.

Then he spun like a top,

And fell flat on the floor!

Oh! His eyes how they twinkled,

His dimples how merry.

His cheeks were like roses,

His breath smelt of Sherry!

A bundle of toys

He had flung at my feet,

Dear ‘ol Saint Nicholas

Really was beat.

He spoke not a word,

But started to pout,

With such grand incoherence,

His false teeth fell out!

Now I’m not a bragger,

Nor am I a sneak.

But Santa was grounded,

And Christmas looked bleak.

So I grabbed up his bag,

The ladder I ascended.

And jumped into the magical sleigh,

Reindeer tended.

Did he hear my loud shout,

As I drove out of sight?

“Merry Christmas, dear Santa,

And sweet dreams tonight!”

That Perfect Pink Rose

I admit that I’m addicted to some special perfumed scents from heaven
where vast fields of fragrant flowers grow
perhaps in clusters, or radiating out in rows of seven
to spread their charms throughout that perfect kingdom as leaven.

Addicted, I cannot help myself when I’m confronted by a rose.

Especially those of perfect pink I willingly inhale again and again and again

until I swoon lightheaded in a strange angelic spell.
I guess its much like drinking too much gin!

How can rose petals — sometimes of perfect pink, but always plain—
hold hands to closely ring themselves in such a fine array?
Kaleidoscopic like and velvet soft

they quickly hypnotize my heart with their display!

Who says this world is filled with flaws?
That sunshine burns and hoarfrost blasts?
That nothing really is as good as gold
‘cause nothing really ever lasts?

In powdered pink with drops of dew, a perfect rose is just the thing
for me and you to prove naysayers wrong!
So shout this out and spread the news.
Ring loud the church bell’s gathering gong!

Today I chose pink rose, although

the grand gardenia for me does equally beguile.
While sweet plumeria arrayed in lei
can also elbow in to vie in golden style.

‘Tis true these dew touched blossoms freshly picked and perfume packed,

so very delicate by every measure
only hold their loveliness for relatively few
short hours or days of perfect pleasure.

Yet, who can say in true conviction (without the help of any alcoholic drink’s

asphyxiation)
that a single hour basking in such fragrant beauty power
is not worth at least a hundred thousand pleasant years
of holding any earthly treasure other than this flower?

White sand beach colorful cloudy weather

Silk Ribbon (Tropical Beach)

Alone, I rest upon my lover’s arm—that stretched out curve

slowing my place in time

to baby me in its sifted dune cradle.

Shell scented—flesh of fiery warmth—tender protector.

Delirious of your kiss, you hold my heart attune

as all my senses bask in your raw nakedness.

My hand gently caresses your lovely face of powdered gold

and you—ever true—never resist our close embrace.

You mark my every move indelibly. Then, somehow allow that splash

of earthen sky—the sea—to drink my etched art

deep within—where held you keep the secret whisperings of my soul.

Where reverently my sinking walk-prints also go.

Oh generous particles of time, my sweetheart true,

you find such pleasure in stealing away my heart!

Your ocean washes bright my fondest memories, and then

carefully mixing in my tears, pours out ancient wine sunsets.

Yes, you always serve too much, sousing me drunk in ecstasy!

So when, reluctantly, my love, from you—the golden grains—I part,

your timeless heat of passion holds me still—your glistening

silken ribbon wrapped around my heart.

Island Beach Bus

It’s banana yellow with two wide blue stripes around it

Half the time it arrives late at Kapa Village Bus Stop

There’s always sand on the floor. Why not sweep it out?

Sand is easy to slip on — especially with old worn flip-flops

But for me, the Beach Bus sure beats four miles of walking

Especially if I’m caught in a sudden drenching rain

For fifty cents each way, and half price for kids under twelve

Why would anyone with even half-a-brain complain?

Plus, the air is always fresh with lots of windows open

And sitting in the left side seats avoids a palm branch poking

On the first long rising road, you’ll smell a whining motor-burn

Some kids shout “whee!” during the bus’s only hair-pin turn

Then elevation slowly drops; now it’s nearly all down hill

The tourists love the scenery complete with cheery bird calls,

lacy waterfalls, tropic flowers, and misty ocean views

Yes, it is magnificent, but for me just old news

One day I brought along a little can of lubricating oil

It would fix the squeak in the bus’s manual flap-door closing coil

Driver Toby smiled at my thoughtful contribution

“Sorry,” he replied, “salt air corrosion .. and oil’s no solution.”

If I was a millionaire, I’d replace that worn-out bus without

a single island minute’s hesitation. But wait .. upon reflection ..

I’m not sure those shiny new and fully air conditioned busses

with no sand on their floors could offer me a single bit more satisfaction!

That final squeaking stop today is welcome still, and what a thrill!

Now a lovely golden powdered beach is only fifty steps away!

That’s why I ride the Island Beach Bus almost every day — I’m addicted

I love that smoking squeaking beach bus, come what may!

Ode To The Flag of America

Dear flag, waving proudly and so brightly in the sun,

What an everlasting legacy you've won!

The crimson blood of countless soldiers cries out in echoing voice,

"We are the dye of your red striped courage!"

"We are the scarlet ribbons held in rank by the white ribbons of your pure honor!"

Gently does the breeze flap thy silken cloth of rippling folds,

Urging your starry heaven to blink, and blink, and blink.

Times eternally untold!

Whether newly raised aloft, or battle stained and tattered flown,

Our dear emblematic cloth of freedom, oft kept in flight by God alone, remains!

Noble souls saluting you .. cannot hold back a tear or two.. or more.

Dropping like glistening dew upon this spinning orb called earth,

Upon whatever land where such soldiers stand. Aware that much precious blood

Flowed too oft from those with undaunted courage and trembling hands.

Staining indelibly that freedom fought spot of turf.

At the end of wars, invincible are the honorable always! What means it all?

This God blessed land of America! All this? Just for you, my friend?

What memories will your enduring passion hold 'til your final journey's end?

May yours most closely held include at least this honored banner!

Truly called "Old Glory" for good reason, not for vain pretense that really doesn't matter.

Whether newly raised aloft, or battle stained and tattered flown,

This silken cloth is God preserved .. and ever cherished by patriots!

Perhaps, remarkably enough, it will endure a little beyond eternal!

Ever waving proudly and so brightly in the sun .. dear silken cloth!

What a majestic and everlasting legacy you've won!

That Cute Girl

Whoops! There I go again! Slipping and tripping headlong into a mud puddle!
Not any ordinary brown umber colored mixed mud muddle kind of puddle,
but the kind found in the blood red grainy ground of Indian reservation lands
and red rocked cliffy park reserves of shifting red-orange desert sands.

Why did I not fall into a bigger, redder, thicker, and much more muddy puddle?
A single reddish tone smoothed out on me would look much better!
My skin would then appear a whole lot lovelier, much like an Indian maiden
sitting pretty by a tepee, or dancing at a Hogan picnic get-together.

It’s really awful! My entire face and neck and arms all speckle spotted everywhere!
I look like .. like a dusty haggard cheetah .. kicked out of its lair!
Shockingly, I must appear as if hundreds of tiny red ants are crawling all over me,
even in my hair! Ooogh! It’s just not fair!

It's freckle phobia I have, at least some doctors say.

I don't believe them yet,

but if it's true, I'm sure I'll soon get over it,

and never ever fall in reddish muddy puddles anymore .. at least not anymore some day.

For now, I know already what everybody will soon say about me
when they look upon me despairingly, and with pity from afar.
“That girl sure needs a bath!” they’ll say. Or “There’s a really poor old lady tramp!”
Or “Was that girl run over by a car?!”

If only I could wash it off, my face and neck and arms at least,
before I meet somebody on the street or just around the bend,
but now the ugly speckled crud has dried and soaked right in.
It’s just my luck to bump into a favorite teacher, relative, or special friend.

Or heaven forbid, that cute boy on my block I’ve so long hoped to date!
By all means I must escape THAT fate!
Oh, I can hardly wait
to get back home!

I’ll take a nice hot bath. I’ll wash up nice.
I’ll add some pretty lipstick too.
I’ll fix my hair up neatly tucked,
and last of all, so carefully, I’ll style in my favorite pearly comb.

Then with a book I’ll curl up with lots of pillows on my bed,
or watch a favorite movie show with lots of popcorn buttered up instead.
Yes, and for now I will forget about that awful reddish muddy puddle.
That unexpected puddle that I’m so scared of falling in again.

Yes, I’ll forget tonight that complementary thing
that Mom and all my favorite aunts so often say about me, time and time again.
“The thing about that girl that’s so unusual and beautiful,” they say
with such a pleasing grin, “is that she is so cute with all her pretty freckled skin.”

Yellow and Black Caterpillar

People say yellow, but depending upon the weather and whether
it’s in the sun or in the glade,
it can take on a kind of light reflecting gold or cantaloupe shade.
And around it’s steel-like muscular brim, has jet black trim.

It seems a Caterpillar can almost level an entire forest of plantings in one day!
It easily chomps through all the greenery in its way.
Who engineered it with such relentless appetite?
It’s churning treaded feet ripple back and forth with almost every bite.

Need a trail or a road made through some rolling meadow grasses tall?
Caterpillars mowing through it quickly do it all!
They can eat more than a hundred times their weight in just a single day!
So to get a big job finished fast, simply adding more will be O.K.

A Caterpillar preps the soil too, by chewing lots of stubborn grasses down.
Some advocate that other types of landscape farming are not near as alarming.
They say if not for careful handling, this kind of soil prep risks loss of all control.
Yet, all things in our modern world have just desserts of no reward or lofty goal.

I’ve seen entire meadows change from weedy green to earthy brown.
Besides, it’s fun to watch the Caterpillar go. First down then up. It’s mouth is almost like a cup.
Then side to side, it swings its forward parts in rhythmic gliding motion.
Sometimes it stretches right up tall — like a rising tidal wave on sun beamed ocean!

But every entertaining story, whether lullaby or thriller —
whether of princesses, or kittens, or aero-planes, or even Caterpillar —
has a conclusion of sad fate or happy glory.
So now, without exclusion, the ending's on the brink for this poetic story.

Finally, a cold steel lever compels the heavy gulping bucket to suddenly descend and drop,
and the hiss of air compression slowly dies as humming engine sputters to a stop.
Through dusty glass is seen a manly silhouette — a hand picks up an empty drinking cup.
Then with a little hop, the ringing sound of heavy shoe on top of perforated steel step.

Yep, for Fred, the Caterpillar driver, the work he’s done today with energizing pep now ends.
Emerging from the yellow cab with leather jacket swinging over shoulder,

he wipes a brow that’s wet from plowing tons of foliage, dirt, and boulder.
His cramped up body stretches out and bends.

Fred starts his beat-up pickup truck, and shoves the gear in “drive.”
A billowing dust cloud rises up and chases him, as if it was alive!
The road of graded dirt then gradually descends. Soon our story’s Caterpillar driver hero, homeward bound, will spend his last remaining daily time with family and friends.

Celestial Tower

The Holy Spirit whispers God’s truth unto my soul.
In such heaven blessing moments my life is in control.
Such promptings often come to those whose deeds are wrought with love,
With hearts not stayed on worldliness, but trust in things above.

When reason cannot conquer, and hope seems far away,

prayer often brings a healing warmth that brightens up the day.
Its promptings can’t be reasoned, they often don’t make sense,
when grief and sorrow visit, and life’s problems are intense.

Yet, truth and light bring virtue through inspiration’s power,

that gives to us the kind of love God grants the lily flower.
All those things we thought we lost because of Satan’s power,
will be returned a hundred fold in God’s celestial tower.

The Ticket Master's Holiday

The Ecstasy of Shooting Around

I’m in love with a shiny nickel plated fast shooting revolver.

It’s so much fun to shoot an extra round or two while gripping its polished chrome handle.

Completely obsessed, I have even shot through a few rounds

while talking on my cell phone!

To me there’s something extremely fascinating about the way

that loaded chamber jumps and spins around

with its purring ticking clicking sound.

Then suddenly a hypnotizing ring of light — much like a rocket — flashes out!

I emerge from light into semi-darkness, then back again into light,

or from fluorescent light into momentarily blinding dark street shadows of night.

At least it seems that way, each day, after shooting a lot and I finally re-materialize

half dizzy at times; I head home, yet often remain anxious to return and take another shot.

Sometimes I get the urge to go back again to ride that wild white stallion —

the one that in my youthful carnival days I finally found

was without question the best horse on the merry-go-round!

The steed with reins of golden leather affixed in a silver medallion! Yes, my white stallion!

I’m told by friends that I need help — that I am close to going crazy —

that daily I am in an uncontrolled and toxic phobic situation.

But as long as only closest friends are those who know about it,

why not enjoy the powerful elation of this merry-go-round shot-in-the-dark infatuation?

Friends say the time is now that my wild rides should reach their end.

Obeying safety laws by stopping such impromptu shootings are their druthers.

Why is my unconventional behavior being sabotaged by all my friends?

They seem more concerned about the happy lives of others, and me embarrassing my mother.

Is it time to quit? Perhaps this fun shenanigan could really get me into trouble.

It seems so harmless, simply squeezing on a chromed up lever, and then wildly running.

I know some people look at me in wonderment when I’m swirling past them gleefully.

Yet, it’s my few seconds of pure ecstasy! Shall I stop and pop this crazy fantasy bubble?

I’ll miss my daily rides and glides, shooting around on that lovely chromed revolving door.

But wisdom tells me now that I should use the entrance elevator “For Employee’s Only.”

Such advice is good; friends want to save me from the possibility of sudden pink-slip horror

initiated by my boss at my junior accountant cubicle ... on the seventeenth floor.

“Pack your suitcase — on your way!
You deserve this two week holiday,” said my boss.
“Keep in mind that this is time to get away and play.
And don’t worry. While you’re away there’ll be no great loss.”

I’d been on the job for more than twenty years,
checking tickets, solving problems, quenching fears.
Ticket Master riding on a worldwide fleet of costly luxury trains;
the past month sailing rails on the British Pullman Mains.

I’ve rail ridden mountains, deserts, valleys, hills, and plains.
Inspected first class tickets on two hundred different trains.
Rode the rails night and day from coast to coast.
So much to tell. It’s hard to keep it in and not to boast.

The Ghan Australia ever beckons; Thalys covers Europe with delight.
From Cape Town to Johannesburg, the Blue Train rumbles day and night.
The black tie Royal Scotsman glides along with showcased elegance no less.
And meals are delicious in the rose and golden cars of Spain’s Al Andalus Express.

Connecting two great oceans, the Indian-Pacific shoots from Sidney’s coast to Perth!
This three day three night journey boasts the longest straight-line track of rail on earth!
In luxury you’ll hold your breath at silver lakes and rocky tunneled mountains.
Royal Canadian’s all first class serves endless drinks that flow like Florence fountains!

No U.S. state remains where I have not, at least one time, set my shoe.
I’ve ticket checked from London through the list of Orient’s Express,
From Argentina’s forests down to Auckland’s great electrics in the west.
The world of rails is endless! I’m amazed and very privileged to have ridden on the best.

To where shall we embark to spend this two week holiday?
The options are unending, but I don’t know where to stay.
Morocco markets — they’re enchanting, Paris filled with utter bliss.
Swiss alps boast lightning skiing, tropic leis come with a kiss.

No matter what I choose, I wonder what we might regret or miss.
My wife’s so nice, the kids are too. And they insist I choose, regardless of whatever

thing we do.
Should I pick a hot fudge Sunday or a German chocolate cake?
I’ve heard the best vacations are only as good as plans we make.

It’s a difficult decision, but all we need is one endearing place.
“All resorts are much alike.” This concept hit me squarely in the face!
I’m daily on the rails. I often eat in restaurant Pullmans, sleep in first class sleeper cars.
Why not pitch our two-room backyard tent, and just enjoy the special place already ours?

Two weeks of classic outdoor big screen movies, favorite games, plus tasty barbecue!
Our huge reflector telescope would search night skies and find celestial objects, not a few.
Close friends could visit us by special invitation. They could use our heated pool too.
Surely they would also find enchantment in every nighttime telescopic view.

We’ll cancel the paper, shut off the phone, lock our front door, and hanger the drone.
Yes, we will soon start this year's wonderful vacation … without boarding passes.

Meaning no doubt ... that we are in the back yard lounging about,

and sporting new designer sunglasses!

And should any friends ring and there's no answer at our door,

They might remember we're on holiday. "Was it two weeks or for four?"

"Is it Paris, Prague, or Rome this year?" they'll guess.

"Yes, surely they're on holiday, 'cause there's nobody home."

The Bluebottle Fly

One day in June a pesky fly stopped by.
It buzzed right in as I opened my door.
It didn’t knock. So impolite. It wasn’t right.
Such arrogant irritation! This meant war!

“Why not a butterfly instead?” I thought.

They seem so beautiful and clean.

I wouldn’t mind if it didn’t knock.

I wouldn’t be so riled and get so mean!

Houseflies are nasty, and really germy too.

Who knows where any fly has been?

On cow or doggy doo-doo? In a pig pen?

Or on a rotting carcass in a rat’s den?

After zooming around, the critter landed

on the doorframe in the hall.

Stealthily I crept and grabbed the fly swatter

hanging from a nail on the wall.

The fly again took to the air.

The mantle clock was now his landing place.

But mashing him there would be so very messy,

and I might break an heirloom clock case.

So patiently I stood and watched the fly.

Then heard I a voice — almost like a tiny ringing.

“We flies are not much understood,” he said.

“You think we’re bad, and never good for anything.”

“Of course I would not knock for you to let me in,

My loudest knock you’d never hear.

It’s my buzzing that attracts attention.

No doubt you hate me due to germ-a-phobic fear.”

“I flew in only to explore your home,

by mostly zooming here and there.
Flies only live about three weeks you know.
So to have a little fun, we roam the air.”

I was speechless as he talked. “It’s impossible,” I thought,

“I’m hearing crazy explanations from a fly!”
“By the way, my name is Herman,” he continued,
“I’m glad you’re calm and now just standing by.”

“Flyswatters make us vary wary of possible attacks.

Although when swung we usually fly faster

to often quickly dodge those scary whacks.

Our lives are so short anyway, it’s just a shame to end them even

sooner in such a violent game.”

“Flies squeeze a lot into life’s precious time.

We hunt food daily in most every clime.

It seems unfair to us, but really it’s our fate.

And some flies need the time to find a mate.”

“My choice of dish would be fresh fish or mince meat pie.

But instead, for hours we must hunt — yes, we ever fly

and jump through many hoops.

Do you ever wonder why sometimes all we find to eat

is garbage, wormy rotting food, or stinky poops?”

“At least at night we get some peace in sleep’s delight.
We often dream of finding yummy food, if even just a bite.
Yet, sometimes our short lives can seem forever
when flying in those chilly days of wind or rainy weather.”

“Though humans swat and hunt us down,
we do at least have others for a friend.
We often fly around near horses, cows, and pigs,
although their tolerance for us DOES quickly end.”

“We’re friends of lizards, spiders, and the noble frog.
They always welcome us with open mouth.
They pray for us, they prey ON us, and love us to the end.
So, since we have to die quite soon, why not be the meal for a friend?”

Dazed and only half recovered from surprise,
I realized that this unusual fly was quite a guy.
He even seemed altogether somewhat wise.
One I could no longer much despise, thus my reply,

“Herman, I notice that your body is a rich metallic blue.”
And he explained, “That’s nothing new. I’m what humans call

a bluebottle fly,
but many of us are thin gray striped, some brownish-yellow too.
Yet, a fly is a fly to you humans, no matter what the hue.”

“For three weeks .. well, probably two remain for me .. I’ll abide alive.
Unless it is that you decide .. that NOW I die.”
I retorted with a sigh, “But your feet are covered with nasty yuck,

disease that makes us humans sick .. upset stomachs! .. fevers high!”

“And every place you land and walk you’re leaving harmful germs —

even on this clock.
A fly can make men die! That’s very bad for my well being.
So, Herman, if you’ll live for two more weeks,

now’s the time you should consider fleeing!”

Then the bluebottle fly brushed some yuck from his feet,
I guess so I’d know that the floor down below would stay free of bad

germs, and remain clean and neat.
Then he sprang off from the clock (which I later disinfected),
and flew straight to the door, which was what I expected.

I opened the door. He buzzed out past my head.
But I’ll always remember the parting words that he said,
“Thanks for my freedom! No swatter to dread!
Two weeks I may live before I am dead!”

One thing is certain, to me it’s a sin when a fly buzzes in.
I’ll allow him to fly all around once or twice,
but right after that, I’ll be through being nice.
I’ll open the door; we won’t chew the fat.

I’ll just say “Good-by.” And that will be that.
Lest my temperature rises, hotter and hotter.
And I stealthily creep and grab the fly swatter.
And splat.

The Husband Who Slightly Snored

-A Long Limerick-

There once was a husband from Northern Colet
whose snoring was as mild as snoring can get.
But strange as it was, after snore twenty-four
he would snork with a terribly awful loud roar,
which so frightened his wife, and Fido, their pet,
that they’d spring from the bed and crash on the floor!

In a week the sad wife was a pitiful sight,
black and blue bruises from such crashing fright.
Poor Fido was stressed and ate hardly a bite,
and he cowered and whimpered at bedtime each night.
It seemed such a shame, all in such disarray.
Happy lives now upset that were one time O.K.

At wits end, in despair, his wife sorely needed
the most expert doctor advice to be heeded.
So she quickly leashed up, cute Fido, their pet,
and paid a quick visit to her trustworthy vet.
He said, “Go pick petals of sweet violet.
This problem I’m sure I can solve for you yet.”

That night when her husband first slept,
she stuffed many sweet petals of those
in the ends of her dear hubby’s nose.
After crossing her fingers, without further lingering
she quietly closed bedroom window, the sash, and the door.
She hoped never again to spring up, and then crash on the floor!

After snore twenty-four, instead of snork noise,
sweet violet odors then quickly arose.
This tip from the vet, let the wife and their pet
sleep softly and soundly with no more regret.
And a thick extra mattress, not needed, was moved from the floor,
‘cause the husband from Northern Colet never snorked anymore.

How To Buy Art

Paint gets mixed and brushed and knifed and splashed
On canvasses and boards and artist’s smocks.
People ponder paint and talk about that stuff that’s brushed and splashed
On canvasses and boards and artist’s smocks.

People say it’s wonderful, it’s awful; it’s great, it’s sinful, or it’s bad.
They say it makes them feel happy, peaceful, scared, or sad ... or it’s terribly awry.
“What’s that,” one suddenly will shout, “a person, house, or ship?”
“Is that,” another voice will add, “land, water, or sky?”

There are lots of names for art today, and preferences are much like those for food.
There are modern, classic, abstract, photo realistic. There's even just plain nude.
There are impressionism, expressionism, and comic pop art too.
Lovely images stick in the mind like glue; others are ghastly and even bad for you.

Some paintings never need a frame, can you imagine that?
If framed there’s sometimes glass protection, or a wide bordered matt.
There are artsy categories—landscape, floral, seascape, portrait.
We find paintings that we love, and sometimes those we hate.

Many painting categories compete to win your heart.
There are cars and trucks, and cows and ducks, and dogs, and cats.
There are lots of rainy umbrella works; and paintings of people wearing hats.
There’s famous people art, historic art, baby art, and even sweetheart art.

Buying art can be confusing both to experts and the layman.
Why are paintings priced from several dollars into millions!
Aren’t some of the most expensive paintings the result
of random brush strokes .. or paint dribbles by the zillions?

People who buy art should be much bolder.
They should always pay a price for art that doesn’t raise their hair!
If art on paper costs a lot, with descent care it should not tear.
And art that costs an awful lot should be extremely rare.

"Art is in the eye of the beholder,” so simply choose your art with care.
Then take this statement as a guide .. "Stay calm, no need for much hot air!"

In the end, don’t throw the dice. Just pay the seller’s asking price.
Yes, pay it willingly .. but only if you think it’s fair!

Gabriel, The Thanksgiving Turkey

Gabriel sat by a post, in a small wire pen,

grieved by the awful situation he was in.
Unable to hunt and forage again,

he’d been trapped in the woods by two strange men.

“There’s a nice fat one,” one man had said.

“What an insult,” thought Gabriel who had suddenly fled.
“He’s too fat to run fast. We’ll catch him no doubt.”

“Not me for dinner!” Gabriel gobbled out.

But it was too late; a large net had caught him.

“If only I were slimmer, and had worked out in a gym.
I might have escaped this dilemma I’m in.” Gabriel was placed

in a small wire cage; the men then left with a grin.

“A true saying it is,“ thought poor Gabriel,
"that 'Thanksgiving is just for the birds.'
It’s not really a holiday for humans;
it’s a holiday for NERDS!”

"They kill thousands of us turkeys
just for their special one day feasts.
They care nothing about our feelings.
They’re just mean and savage beasts.”

Now certain that he has this adage right,
that Thanksgiving is really for the birds,
Gabriel, hot with anger, kicked that wooden pen post
with his horn-like leg spurs.

He kicked and bit and loosened it
until the pen fell in.
Then, he wigged out from under it.
This dinner game these men would never win!

The men returned, and in the hand of one
an ax with gleaming sharpness flashed in proud display.
But then, alas! Their once so happy smiles
were overclouded with surprise that turned to bleak dismay.

Their huge prize turkey had absconded,
to where they could not say.
And tracking him all day through nearby woods
was much too high a price for them to pay!

Now Gabriel long gone was overjoyed,

and glad to spend the day
foraging and gathering fine foods

he found in wide array.

He gleaned the old farm garden.

He found lots of tasty foods at bay.
Now he’d prepare a feast — one fit for kings

to welcome in the holiday.

There’d be squash and sweet potatoes,

there’d be wrinkled grapes still on the vine.
There’d be fresh husked corn and carrots served,

sweet pea pods in the line.

He’d unbury leaf kept apples

and baby onions too.
The rhubarb, cukes, and pumpkin

would taste better than hot stew!

Then Gabriel called out loudly

to all his feathered friends.
To turkeys, ducks, and birds, and geese,

his voice was carried on the winds!

“Come, join me in a super feast,

a great Thanksgiving meal!”
Scores of feathered friends showed up.

Such tasty food for them had much appeal.

So is Thanksgiving really for the birds?

Is it a human holiday for them to steal?
Ask among the feathered friends of Sleepy Hollow Forest

how they feel.

“If not for Gabriel, our friend,” they’ll say,
“for us it could, it should,

it would, of course be

just like any other ordinary day."

"But this Thanksgiving took place

so pleasingly
in an old fall garden by Sleepy Hollow Forest

near a great oak tree!"

"Gabriel the turkey was the one

who made it happen.

and he did it all himself with heartfelt love,

most miraculously!"

This Thanksgiving was the first for feathered friends.

And this first one seemed to overwhelm the rest.
‘Twas a super great Thanksgiving -- very festive

when all fall leaves in color looked their very best.

All the forest feathered friends now look to heaven,

giving heartfelt thanks on each Thanksgiving year.
Even tiny blessings are remembered,
and the best are still remembered with a tear.

It is true for all the Sleepy Hollow feathered creatures,
whether cuddled in their nests or outside on the range,
that the Thanksgiving tradition set by Gabriel
should never ever ever have to change.

For feathered friends, the best

Thanksgiving feasts cannot be lonely,

Of course, no dinners may be served

by human beasts in hungry herds.

Yes, this holiday for feathered friends

is just by special invitation only.

And it seems it's mostly cherished

by the feathered turkey birds.

The Lovely Hand

Last night I held a lovely hand.

Framed in lacy red and pink,

the touch was perfect and complete.

I thought my heart with joy might burst,

so thundering was its beat!

No other hand so touched my heart.

No greater pleasure could it bring,

than this dear hand,

A Royal Flush!

Four aces and a king!

E N D

POETRY NOW AND THEN

A Black Poppy?

Tension Headache

Main Street Nostalgia

The 1937 Packard Limousine

(A poetic true history of the author's childhood family car - a 1937 Packard Limousine.)

THE BIG BLACK TRAIN

Countryside Lake

New York

The End of the World In a Brooklyn High-rise

Only A Note

Musical Ambush

Lullaby

Lullaby Part Two

Adlestrop

Adlestrop [Pronounced Add' ul strop] (ul as in gull)

Amber Is Two

Heavenly Snow

Santa Mouse and the Night Before Christmas

Santa

Celebrates Christmas

That Perfect Pink Rose

Silk Ribbon (Tropical Beach)

Ode To The Flag of America

That Cute Girl

Yellow and Black Caterpillar

Celestial Tower

The Ticket Master's Holiday

The Ecstasy of Shooting Around

The Bluebottle Fly

The Husband Who Slightly Snored

-A Long Limerick-

How To Buy Art

Gabriel, The Thanksgiving Turkey

The Lovely Hand

The End of the World In
a Brooklyn High-rise