Saturday, July 15, 2017

Color Seasons

Color Seasons

Green Season
The trees are various shades
of green. Budding flowers
wear verdant veils before bursting
into their multi color blooms.
Fragrant perfumes of a refreshing
breeze, alluring blossoms and
new growth, all intoxicate.
Sipping icy lemonade
under an emerald canopy
is a pleasure of the season.

Red Season
The greens fade, leaves
of warm hues, reds and yellows
and their variations now clothe
the domain. Dawn and
dusk display ruby brilliance.
Folks wear crimson sweaters.
An aroma of cinnamon wafts
from kitchen windows. The sweet bitter
taste of hot chocolate delights the season.

White Season
Colors fade, flurries start.
A light coating covers the ground.
Gray skies and morning fog
soften the vista. Sweet, thick
eggnog dusted with nutmeg
brings friends together. As days
move on, north winds bring snow.
Pure white is frosting on our narrow world.

Brown Season
Snow melt, mud appears.
Last year's ground plants now
are beige. As the wet ground
dries it's the color of cocoa.
The scent of the south is on the breeze
while I sip jasmine tea.
Branch tips are ready to burst
into life, but not just yet.
Soon we'll be in the green season.

                                                                 green season

                                                                    red season  

white season

                                                                     brown season

Friday, June 30, 2017



Outside the window a hardy yew shrub thrives.
From a branch hangs a “koi no bori,” that is
a carp banner, with its head pointing up.
They are seen in profusion in Japan
during the May Children's Day holiday.
The flag is meant to inspire the young to achieve.

Why a carp, a common food item?
Why not a lion, why not an eagle?
A carp, an animal of courage and tenacity,
with all its strength and resolve swims
up rivers and waterfalls to reach its goal.
The same is hoped for the child.

When I sit composing a poem,
when I am blocked and don't know
what to put on paper,
I glance out the window, I see the carp
and I write.

Monday, May 29, 2017

End of Spring

End of Spring

A week before Memorial Day
Falmouth is a quiet town.
Next week everything will change.

Before Memorial Day
folks gather at Betsy's Diner
or lunch at the Asian Buffet.
The Dollar Store and the Job Lot
supply most needs. Town folks socialize
at charity bazaars on weekends.

After Memorial Day
pricey restaurants on Main Street
with French names need reservations
yet still have waiting lines.
Coffee shops carry strange brews
which need to be explained to townies.
A theater company moves into town
competing with the amateur companies,
and there is enough audiences for all.
The libraries, the Historic Society,
the sea study institutes and
art venues are among those
augmenting their public offerings.
Our guests travel to here and to there
to see and to do.

Visitor from around the country
and around the world are here.
The insular, provincial town
becomes a cosmopolitan place.

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, 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.


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