Ladybug

Funny beetle,
Please tell me why
You have those wings
But will not fly.

You keep them hidden,
Neatly curled
Until you climb
To top of world!

The Rivalry

The Crimson Ruby from the North
Refuses to forget!
The midnight sapphire of the South
Still rues the day they met!

A fever wrought of by-gone days
Of insults, blood and shame
Once more the fates’ their pathways cross
Both gladly join the game!

“I hate your face” – “You’ll pump my gas!”
And on and on it goes
But who will wear the victor’s crown?
The fates and time but know

‘Til close of day September nine
When all’s left on the field.
Only one can leave triumphant,
Disgraced, the other yields!

The trail to the peak was a long and arduous climb

Which skirted a pristine glacial lake about midway.

Shimmering below, it offered a cooling balm for the heat

And a picturesque spot to rest and refuel for a while.

A short down-climb led to a high cliff that overhung the depths

Of aquamarine waters; crystal clear, revealing a rocky bottom.

Chartreuse lichen grew from the wetted rock face

While damsel flies of cerulean hue darted to and fro.

In the shade of a small oak we were content to eat our lunch.

From our vantage we watched the cutthroat trout feed;

Rising to a caddis hatch. Splashes of watermelon, coral and saffron

Under their jawlines divulged the source of their strange name. 

Fronting the shore, a spacious open meadow served as a refuge.

A doe and twin fawns lay surrounded by tall grass and wild flowers.

Tangerine bells, snow-white lupine, 
And purple daisies with lemon eyes

In hues of lavender and lilac covered the park in waves.

After a short dip in the icy waters, 
We took a few moments to gather our things

And reflect on the beauty and grandeur of this unknown retreat.

Truly we were blessed, our bodies, minds and souls rejuvenated

As we climbed the slope to continue our trek to the snow-capped peak.

What Will Tomorrow Bring?

His hands are folded softly in his lap
To better handle troubles bearing down.
Fortuna comes, but will she pause to rap,
To offer balm or ease a troubled frown? 

To better handle troubles bearing down,
He rises up and makes a solemn pledge
To offer balm or ease a troubled frown 
For those, like him, just sitting on the edge.

He rises up, and makes a solemn pledge.
Still wondering, what will tomorrow bring
For those like him, just sitting on the edge?
A peace will come with fear in shackled rings.

Still wondering. What will tomorrow bring?
Fortuna comes but will she pause to rap?
A peace will come! With fear in shackled rings
His hands are folded softly, in his lap.

Empty Nest

The old bird sits
Surveying nest and tree,
Mama flits and flies about
An hundred errands left.

His memories are a thousand scenes,
Bereft of ordered source.
Not random, but in retrograde
Recap a season’s end

     Materials gathered 
     Woven tight 
     Feathered, warm with down

     Hatchlings screaming
     Growth and learning
     Fledglings flap and gone

The old bird sees an empty nest
While mama flits and flies
A season closed, a longing pride
Begins to fill his breast.

Covered Bridge

Damn you, cursed covered bridge, 
Damn your easy way,
Damn your timbers strong and high 
That let her slip away!

Opposed by torrent moat she was 
Compelled to wait and try.
But no!  You let her ride across 
And keep her corset dry!

Within her surrey black and sleek,
By dappled stallion drawn,
You let her pass without dispute; 
Satanic stilted spawn! 

We quarreled once or twice ‘tis true
But now she’s gone for good.
I’ve half a mind to strike a fire
And torch your rotting wood!

I Was Rattled

I was minding my business, taking my time,

Ridin’ Ol’ Bess from the West Miller Mine

When all of a sudden, (weren’t nothing’ I did)

Bess started buckin’ and she hit the skids!

I was pitched off her back like a sack of no worth

To land near the meanest dang rattler on earth!

His tounge was a-flickin’, tasting the air,

His eyes clouded over, like a blind man’s that pair.

He was longer than Bess with a full twelve-inch girth,

My mettle dissolved to a pitiful dearth.

His head raised up proud, his tail even prouder

And that buzz, just kept getting louder and louder!

His mien was aggressive and I was a wreck

So I pulled out my shooter and aimed for the neck!

Now I hate killing creatures; God’s watchin’ and all,

But he had my number and was dialin’ the call.

His head is still there, by the side of the trail

But I took the rest home, even that tail!

His meat fed me supper, yep, top o’ the line.

His hide and those rattles?  A hat-band so fine!

Out of the Mouth of Babes

Nobody’s made me out a fool

Like three year olds in Sunday School.

One day I thought I’d sound real wise

And asked, “Who here likes butterflies?”

All hands shot quickly to the sky,

“I saw a yellow butterfly!”

“They eat the nectar from the flowers.”

These kids, I swear, had super powers!

“Bees turn nectar into honey,

The bee guy sells it for his money!”

“My cousin’s mom got stung last week!”

“But honey’s good, its really sweet!”

“Chocolate’s sweet, it causes wrecks!”

“Mom says it is better than sex!”

“Six is my favorite number today!

Today’s my cousin’s sixth birthday!”

Like butterflies from flower to flower

Their comments wandered for an hour

From butterflies and honey bees

To birds and squirrels in the trees.

Then Airplanes, clouds and astronauts.

“And ants live in the parking lot!”

I’ve been to college; three degrees!

Sometimes I wish that I were three.

How black the seas in a pounding storm!

The lanterns were all blown out.

Only the lights within still burned

For crewmen strong and stout.   

The flash from the clouds would scarce reveal

The main and the mizzen bare.

Only a jib on the foremast flew

To point her homeward fair.

The captain on the helm withstood

The gale and pelting spray.

“Only an act of God”, he thought

“Could spare us all today!”

His ship was a fine one, swift and sound,

But was failing against the waves.

Only the quarter of a harbor near

Would save this crew so brave.

The squall raised up a fearsome wave

To send them down to hell.

Only to give the captain view

Of a lighthouse o’er the rail

That pulsing sentinel guided him

Through rocks and shallow shoal.

Only to bring them safely home,

A haggard twenty souls.

The Huntsman's Plight

In darkened wood he takes a knee and weeps

The blood trail’s gone, and with it all that’s good

He knows not where the stag has gone to sleep

His children’s aching bellies want for food

The blood trail’s gone, and with it all that’s good

Dappled shadows hide the trail he seeks

His children’s aching bellies want for food

A stoic face belied by tear-washed streaks

Dappled shadows hide the trail he seeks

Until the sun reveals it at his feet

A stoic face belied by tear-washed streaks

With hope restored that soon his brood will eat

Until the sun reveals it at his feet,

He knows not where the stag has gone to sleep.

With hope restored that soon his brood will eat,

In darkened wood, he takes a knee and weeps.

Winding Our Way Through Time

The rising sun marks break of day

Its zenith, we call noon.

Its setting brings the evening chill

And ushers in the moon.

The sundial charts its burning rays

Its pathway plotted out

Predicts the hour of every day

Beyond a shadow of a doubt!

Precious time, there’s none to waste

And so we set the staff

Inventing ways to track its passage

Clocks and chronograph 

The mainspring and the pendulum,

The tall Grandfather clock

Becomes the heartbeat of the home

Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock

The pocket watch with silver chain

Umbilical, life line

We spend our days; entire lives,

Winding our way through time

Time is time, it’s so precise

Ethereal and pure,

With a watch we always know the time

But when we’ve two, unsure!

Segal's law is an adage that states: 

"A man with a watch knows what time it is. A man with two watches is never sure."

Narwhals

Nomads of the Arctic,
Never traveling south,
Noble Unicorns live
Now in the sea, under
Northern Lights and ice flows.
Near Threatened, will they die?
New hope in vigilance! 

Big John

Let me tell you a story from the old wild-west;

Of a terrible lawman with a star on his vest.

His title was “Ranger”; not bound to a town

He studied the outlaws then hunted them down.

One long hot summer; played like a pawn

He’d failed to take down the man called “Big John”.

He was tired and thirsty, his mood like black jet

As he rode into Dodge his sights were still set

On Big John!

He stabled his horse, and checked out the saloon

‘cause he’d heard the big man liked to drink there at noon.

Through the wide swinging doors, he strolled to the back

With a face as long as a wagon-wheel track.

The scowl on his face told me this man was risky,

But I was the bar keep, and he needed whiskey.

So I poured him a double in a clean mason jar

And slid it down deftly to the end of the bar.

He quaffed it and gave me a tip of his hat.

I thought it was over, except for the fact

That his mood was still dark, like rain in a flood,

I knew in my gut there was bound to be blood.

There in the corner; his back to the wall,

He waited with patience; said nothing at all.

Just stared at the space ‘bove the wide swingin’ doors,

His hands at his sides, drooping down toward the floor.

It was quarter past noon when the room darkened some

Big John in the doorway; blocking the sun.

Two shots rang out from the man in the vest.

Two blood stains emerged on the big fella’s chest.

Big John just stood there; there in the door,

Then the glasses all rattled as John hit the floor.

Dry-gultched, like a fox at a watering hole

Big John was finished; so, likely his soul!

The old wanted poster said “Dead or Alive”.

They just didn’t care how Big John arrived!

The Ranger just smiled and sighed, “One more round!”

Then he gathered his pony and rode out of town.

I Love to Hear the Bacon Sing!

I love to hear the bacon sing,

Its wafting essence meant to bring

The slumbered family from their lairs

With hopes of sampling morning fare.

Like Siren’s song or Venus’ face

They’re drawn to bacon’s fond embrace.

Now add the scent of waffles warm,

The maple syrup brings the swarm!

Eggs to order, short stacks brown

Biscuits, OJ, rolls renowned,

It never fails a smile to bring,

I love to hear the bacon sing!

Sharing the Load

Some till the soil,
Some plant the seed,
Each with his toil
Fulfilling a need.

Some nurture seedlings,
As summer grows hotter,
I’ll pull the weedlings,
You tend the water.

Each has a role.
All do their best
To harvest the goal.
Then we can rest!

Why Do I Write?

I write and I smile, I write and they nod,

And yet, you still ask me why.

I write to tell stories, I write to have fun,

Must I tender a thoughtful reply?

I’ve been in the grip of the darkness,

Where courage is squeezed from your heart.

Like a python constricting a rodent

It seldom releases its mark!

For now, I am free of this monster

But I feel it, just outside my senses

So I’ve chosen the vantage of poets

No hypocrisy, no guile, no pretenses!

For a poet sees rainbows on a dark rainy day,

The raw truth is all that’s exacted.

A poet sees life through the eyes of his God;

White light through a prism refracted!

I write, because out here the sun shines;

Possibilities spread far and wide.

Please, let me bask in the sunshine

Lest I am dragged back inside!

Two-year Campout

Nineteen years young,
My songs yet unsung,
And Wahoo! I’m off to Japan!
With nothing to speak of
But the gospel I love
And a dog-eared old lesson plan.

I wasn’t too holy,
The language came slowly;
Like sap oozing out of a tree.
But line upon line,
The verbs came in time
As those tough conjugations prized free.

Though its hard, some would say,
Day after day,
Training the tongue and the ear
Worse yet; the conditions
(Oh, how I petitioned!)
We’d endure for the space of two years!

I wonder no more
Why a decade before
They started us all out in scouting.
They knew in advance,
It was our only chance
To survive this quaint mission outing!

Those times in the woods,
When I pulled up my hood
And slept on the ground, nothing more.
How could I know then,
There would be a time when
I would just sleep on the floor?

A scout’s keen desire
To cook on a fire
Prepared us for those times to come
When we’d turn on the gas
To make French Toast (How crass!)
To feed our companions and then some.

Battling bugs
That hide in the rugs,
And always we toiled two-by-two.
We were always taught
When out tying knots
To stay with our buddy! It’s true!

We did chores from a roster,
And no one can foster
A more equitable system than that!
We ate bad cuisine
Without making a scene,
And we bathed from a gas-heated vat!

The toilets; no plumbing!
The rains kept on coming!
I wanted to throw in the towel!
But we all made it through,
Thanks to, you all know who;
The Savior, and Lord Baden-Powell!

A Ten-dollar Tree in a Hundred-dollar Hole

Parched and dry is this high western desert,

As far as the eye can see.
And ignorant I was, when I first arrived,

Of the worth of a simple tree.

A little too proud of my knowledge of trees,

(although not so much those of this realm),
I maligned as "trashy", with no basis in fact,

The ubiquitous Siberian Elm.

My driver that day shot me one nasty look;

As a native I guess he would know.
Rather than scold me, as I’m sure I deserved,

He simply professed, "Hey! It grows!"

As I tend to be proud and quick to debate,

I had trouble discerning my error,
"What is it", I wondered, "about growing a tree

That evokes such anxiety and terror? "

My first clue came from my good neighbor Clyde,

With his singular hay-farming ways.
Seeking five crops where others got three,

I could see being different pays.

Clyde loved his trees, he tried every kind,

He planted and I’d watch them die!
Until he replaced them with Siberian Elms,

They always brought tears to his eyes.

This good-hearted man can spin quite a yarn,

But one gem you can never impugn:
"If you cut down a tree it had better be hot

Or the tree is best left un-hewn!"

There aren’t many trees that will grow in this place;

Out here where they "tested the bomb".
You won’t see a Live Oak, and Poplars die young,

And it freezes too hard for a palm!

"That’s just how it is!", or so I believed,

‘Til I ventured for one more good look.
There are some folks, it seems, whose yards and trees

Could have come from a gardening book!

"How?", I wondered, and queried a friend.

He promised I’d soon reach my goal.
"The secret lies in the planting!", he said,

"Put a ten-dollar tree in hundred-dollar hole!"

Just what this meant, I wasn’t quite sure,

But the saying of it had a nice ring,
So I set it aside and watched my trees die;

Kept doing the same old thing!

That slap in the face with an arboreal glove,

This challenge has become quite a pain.
Each year; early May, I pick up that gauntlet

And try planting trees again.

Learning comes slow to a head thick as mine

But I think I might now understand:
You've got to out-fox the way of the wild
To make anything grow in this land!

First dig a big hole, (you best wet it down),

And throw away all of that sand,
Make it as wide as your shovel is tall
And as deep as a tall man will stand.

Then fill it back up with composted manure,

Mixed with a big bag of nitrate.
Fill it in lifts of about half a foot

And soak it all good; IRRIGATE!

Let this all settle for a good day or two,

Then pull all the weeds you can see.
Once you’ve recovered from the digging and filling;

Then you can go buy the tree!

Don’t forget, to stake it up well!

The wind in this vale really blows!
Unless you’re after that "leaning tree" look,

(provided, of course, that it grows)!

This story ends with the words of a sage,

A Greek proverb for thick and for thin:
"Society grows great when old men plant trees

Whose shade they’ll never sit in."

August 2009