Sunday, May 14, 2017

A Myth of my Life

A Myth of my Life

The chickadees and finches
and cardinals visit
the feeder hanging from
the bare branch.

They come to
sing to me
show me their colors
and do their air dances.
Beauty disguises the
blue jay's villainous intents.
Satanic squirrels try to raid
the plastic store.

I see valiant creatures
I see devious creatures,
And fit them all
into my storyline.



Monday, May 1, 2017

Boston

Boston

Boston, small Boston,
confined by rivers and the sea,
peopled with a mix,
Brahmans, who lived on the Hill,
Blacks, who lived on the back of the Hill,
Irish, who live in the south of the City,
Italians, who lived in the North End,
a myriad of others throughout,
Boston, peopled by a medley of peoples.

Boston united with its peculiar vocabulary
and curious accent, with its strange
diet of Saturday supper of beans
and brown bread, of Sunday with
a corn beef dinner, of Durgin Park's
Indian pudding. A city united by its history,
a city of pride, of accomplishments,
a city of strife. A city of
classes and of overcoming class.
A city of Boston Strong.

Boston, with its tradition of healing,
of schooling, of the arts,
of books, with its museums
and sports, with its financiers and
teamsters, sees itself as one.

Old Dame Boston plugs on.
Sometimes, a fine Lady,
other time tarted up,
trying to endure. Boston has seen
bad, has seen good and plods on.




Saturday, April 15, 2017

I See Clearly

I See Clearly

An overcast fall Saturday
on the train, I ride to Tokyo,
and alight at Ochanomisu station. This
area, famed for its book shops, is a heart
of old Edo. Students, scholars and casual
readers crowd the streets, stores and stalls.
Shops of glass and chrome sit beside those
of traditional wood with open fronts.
Coffee shops and noodle stands,
with enticing aromas, offer
respite for the fatigued.
I see it as if yesterday.

A dusty spring evening in the mountain
city of Sanaa, I walk from my flat in the
Old Town to the street of shops.
Eateries with foul, a cheap, nourishing bean stew,
others with pricey chicken and other delicacies
and street stalls with murtabak, a savory omelet,
line the streets.
I stop for a cup of bitter coffee Yemeni
at the plain open-air tea garden that
sits across from the plush European hotel
with its first class restaurant and café.
I see it as if yesterday.

A mild summer morning on my bike,
I pedal to the Sound. The raging surf
crashes on the rocks near Menauhant Road.
The placid Bourne Pond, ten meters away,
counterpoints the loud, wild, white waves
coming in from a storm out to sea.
Along the wayside grows luscious wild fruit.
I covertly munch the sweet blackberries.
I see it as if yesterday.



Foul




murtabak - with street vendor



Saturday, April 1, 2017

Commune with Nature

A fantasy poem-

Commune with Nature

Walking in the woods near Green Pond,
I trip on a gnarly pine limb and skin my knee.
Blood drips down my leg, I bandage it
with my dirty handkerchief. With a painful
gait I limp on. I step and slip on the droppings
of a raccoon or other such vermin.
Quickly thinking I grab a close by sapling,
skinning my palm, but I'm saved from another fall.
An unseen skunk with its repugnant warning,
sends me down a different path.

There stands a turkey hen with her brood,
all pecking at the littered ground.
She looks up at me and then at her fledglings.
Suddenly she spreads her wings, points her head
at me, gives a wild, curdling call and charges me.
I limp backward in pain then fall and hit
my head of a oak branch. Picking up a stick,
I shout swinging my weapon. She retreat
with her progeny.

With knee aching, blood trickling down
my leg, body fluids oozing from my
hand and throbbing head, I limp to the car.

Ah, to commune with nature and her wonders,
on a fine spring day.
I'll come again next weekend.

picture from web

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Time Change

Time Change

“The times they are achangin' ” as the song goes,
but not the way the folk singers meant, I suppose.
Near the equinox it happens every spring and fall,
there's a ritual in the nation followed by almost all.
Clocks and devices are adjusted to suit the sun,
from kitchen to attic we go, until every one done.
We find user guides, each changes in a different way,
from clock to phone to CD player, we spend the day.
Now we'll change when we wake up and go to sleep,
morning sun's place will differ when the alarms beep.
By dusk all clock work's done, now we can have some fun.




Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Memories of Childhood

Memories of Childhood

From a haze I remember
mom with her clutch of ration books,
at the butcher pondering price
and ration coupons needed.
Was forty-nine cents a pound and
one coupon a better deal for this, than
that at thirty-nine cents and two coupons.

From the haze I remember
on the front porch, mom
with neighbors Lily and Gert.
Sometimes with a cheese graters and bars
of lye soap they made washing flakes.
Sometimes they knitted scarves and caps
to go into care packages to be sent somewhere.
A truck or two of singing teens would drive by
going to help local farmer tend the crops.
Mom and her friends talked about the recent
news – usually the war and uttered their
hopes and fears for the boys overseas.

From the haze I remember asking
if after the war would there be no
more news and only music on the radio.
There were radio programs
like “Fibber McGee and Molly”
Fibber usually tried to bend or break
some war effort rule or other, and
he always got into trouble.

From the haze I remember
when just half a decade old,
bits and pieces of those times.





Tuesday, February 14, 2017

After the Blizzard

After the Blizzard

The blowing snow is done,
today the sun has won.
Our vista, white and blue,
all of the world seems new.
At yesterday, now we sneer,
but cold winds we did fear.
That, with its worries, is gone,
today we welcomed the dawn.
Blustery weather, have we,
splendid times too, you see.




during the blizzard




after the blizzard


Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Haiku

Haiku

the silent fresh snow
icicles glisten from eaves
cold does have beauty


Sunday, January 15, 2017

Month of Janus

Month of Janus

In my mind, I'm sitting in a pub
with beer bubbles tickling my nostrils
while listening to Japanese songs of
fellow patrons. These days I look
up from my book to sip
my luscious cocoa.

In my mind, I'm pedaling
on an unpaved path
to Coonamessett Pond. I smell
the mixed bouquet of
woodland blooms, pine and
humus. Now with my cane I totter
at the parking lot to go into
Shaw's supermarket.

In my mind, I'm at the tepid
water of a tropical sea,
the rhythm of the water
lapping on the beige sand.
Today on the dense plastic
bathing stool, soothing water cascades
from the flexible shower.

Janus, of ancient Rome, the god
of beginnings and of change,
to whom the first month is dedicated,
reminds us to hold the past
and to cherish the now.



"unpaved path to Coonamessett Pond"

Wednesday, December 14, 2016

Ashore and Off Shore

Ashore and Off Shore

Half awake, not yet dawn, I hear
the low moan of the mournful
groan of the fog horn. Seven seconds on,
seven seconds off, the horn warns
sailors and lets us ashore know of
sea mist.

The pleasing scent of the fog permeates,
the dawn light exposes
a world without shadows,
a landscape of soft color outlines.
Deadened sounds of nature and
of human actions add to the fog's
mystique creating a rare, strange stillness.

Slowly the fog breaks up, the bright colors,
the clear sounds and far vistas return.
For a while a curious domain showed itself,
now the other reality is back.