May 13, 2021 · 10:01 pm

Writing A Poem

Writing a poem is like pumping air
into a bicycle tire.

Sometimes it is difficult to begin
because the pump is on a shelf somewhere.

At first it is a breeze,
the pump handle moves easily
up and down, up and down.

I am happy.

This is easy (I am thinking),
I could do this every day.

Soon I notice my temples becoming damp.
A bead of moisture tickles
down my cheek.

How many pounds of pressure does this take? That can’t be right. Won’t it explode?

Now I am puffing and straining.
These last few pounds of air are really hard.

I wish I were finished but I can’t quite seem to get that last little bit.
I don’t think it will fit.
I hope it doesn’t explode.

Writing a poem is like pumping air
into a bicycle tire.

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

April 21, 2021 · 9:48 pm

A Galaxy Of Stars

After the storm, by the side of the road
where I walk, a pile of rubble appeared
from a tree-damaged house near
a roof-flattened car.

Sparkling square glass in light blue
sprinkled the rain-soaked debris.
I picked them out and put them into a box,
hundreds of small, sparkling bits.

I will place them in the neighborhood firmament,
a galaxy of stars.

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

October 19, 2020 · 2:56 pm

The Short Circuit At Solares Hill

The Short Circuit At Solares Hill

A couple of boys were proofing the captions back in the composing room
While the gal out front who handled the phones was humming a Buffett tune.
Back in his cave, eyes locked on his screen, sat Marvelous Mark McCann.
And at his side sat his partner in crime, the lady that’s known as Nan.

Their office was cramped, and lit by the glare of a bulb all lonely and spare.
It hung from a thread so tattered and red that to touch it was taking a dare.
It was the kind of a room you expect to have when you work on a small town rag,
A light and a desk and a creaky old chair with a seat that’s beginning to sag.
Solares Hill was quirky and good, the voice of our island town
But the pencil-pushers were sending a suit to shut the paper down.

Out from the sun the suit stepped in, his clothes all shiny and wet.
You wouldn’t have thought he could sweat so much between here and his corporate jet.
His hair was slick with some slippery stuff that smelled like Gatorade.
He said, “My God, it’s hot out there, it must be ninety-two in the shade.”
Nan whispered to Mark from out of the dark, “Do you think he’s read some McGuane?”
“Unlikely”, said Mark, “From the looks of this shark, he’s got Ayn Rand on the brain.”

Now there’s some men who’ll smile and who’ll charm you, and soon you will offer a chair.
Then there’s others whose face will alarm you like the Werewolf from down in Mayfair.
This guy was one of the latter and Mark had a solid gold hunch,
The suit wasn’t there to sweet talk him, or to offer him a drink and some lunch.
You could see he was there on a mission, and now it would come to a head.
They both knew that one way or another one of them soon would be dead.

You could see that the suit was determined but he wanted to work in the dark.
He made his move and reached for the light and got there one step before Mark.
He grabbed for the wire and sparks lightninged out. In a second the suit was quite dead.
“Potentiate syzygy”, Nan blurted out. At least I think that’s what she said.
“I asked them to fix that light”, said Mark, “I left a note for the boss.”
“Oh well, too bad, so sad” said Nan, “It don’t seem like such a great loss.”

The boys from the back came rushing in and spotted the suit on the floor.
“Round up the usual suspects”, said Mark, as he headed toward the door.
“This could be the start of a beautiful friendship”, said Marvelous Mark McCann.
“Look, I grabbed his wallet”, said the lady that’s known as Nan.

I’m sure that many are wondering about what’s true and about what ain’t.
They can call the Citizen’s Voice and whine, if they want to make a complaint.
But that’s all I know and that’s all I’ll tell, my sources I’m protecting still,
‘Cause there’s never been quite such a mystery as the short circuit on Solares Hill.

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Tagged as ,

August 24, 2017 · 9:45 am

Wake

I turn to look behind as I sail. I see the white foam and wavelets, The bits of floating seaweed. I imagine the fleeing creatures Momentarily pushed aside Then forgetting the moment.

This is my life. Along my path I can easily see the recent past And I try to imagine its effect. Further back it fades, Too far to see Too much to remember. Ahead, the sky and sea meet. There is foam on the water. Whose life was that?

Leave a comment

Filed under Poems

September 13, 2016 · 7:33 pm

Octopuses

When octopuses wish to play
They seek out others such as they

And wave their multifarious arms
To advertise their octy charms.

Their camouflage they do disdain
And change to colors bright as flame.

They thus assure potential mates
Of flashy, fancy mutual dates.

With eight-fold limbs that sway and prance
They weave their octopussy dance.

If you should see them thus arrayed
Pray, do not be too much dismayed.

They’ll soon abandon such pretense
And revert to their shy, drab defense.

Leave a comment

Filed under Humor, Poems

November 23, 2015 · 5:41 pm

Breakfast With e e cummings

Morning is like an uncertain bird
(which lands lightly on your head)
from the sky perhaps reminding
you just a tiny bit (now that you are up)
.
of Big and Small breakfasts that suddenly appeared
 .
That people may not have even noticed
(as they often don’t)
Then (back to the sky) the bird flew
Off to important arrangements
.
Somehow without disturbing your hair
.

Leave a comment

Filed under Breakfast with Authors series

November 21, 2015 · 12:04 am

Breakfast With Robert Burns

Breakfast With Robert Burns

 

All ye doltin’ draggin’ drekkies

Braggin’ boot yer fancy brekkies

Makin’ pictures o’ yer food so fine

And posting them on instagram and vine

Paired up wuth yer spucial wine.

 

Get off yer high horse ye drooly gints

An’ forget about yer chocolate mints

For in all ye’re pewling ignorance

Ye’ve missed the chieftan o’ the race

The glorious reekin’ Haggis.

Leave a comment

Filed under Breakfast with Authors series, Humor

June 17, 2015 · 4:37 pm

Breakfast With Edgar Allan Poe

Don’t Slam The Door, Nevermore

On a Sunday, dark and early, I was feeling kind of squirrely,
The reason being, I had set my clock ahead the night before.
I searched about me, tummy grumbling, hungry, thirsty, nearly stumbling,
When I heard a stranger softly mumbling, mumbling softly, nothing more.
Then suddenly I saw before me, a scribbled sign upon a diner door.
I wondered what the sign was for.

Into the darkness I stood squinting, hoping that the sign was hinting,
Hinting of such lovely dreams, dreams of breakfast meals of long-forgotten yore.
As I stared, the darkness lightened, and with my vision newly heightened
I could read the words quite clearly, the words written upon the diner door.
They said, “Come in”, that’s right, “Come In. Come in but please don’t slam the door.”
Only this, and nothing more.

Eagerly I climbed the stairway, up the steps right to the doorway,
I looked inside, and saw the people eating, eating breakfast as I reached the door.
All of them were happy munching, I could hear them gayly crunching,
Breakfasting, as yet not lunching, as I lunged right through the diner door.
“I must have breakfast,” was my only thought as I slammed the diner door.
I heard behind me, the slamming of the diner door.

Suddenly all eyes were on me, I could feel their gaze upon me,
Wondering who came so roughly slamming through the diner door.
“Hey there” yelled a voice so gruffly, “Whatcha mean coming in so roughly?
Didn’t ya read the sign wrote up so clearly, clearly on the diner door?”
Realization came upon me, I begged forgiveness, forgiveness for slamming the diner door.
And I promised I would slam it nevermore.

“Nevermore?”, the boss demanded. I felt sorely reprimanded
For having roughly come in slamming, cruelly slamming the diner door.
Suddenly, the silence broken, he forgave with words unspoken
And offered me a breafast stately, thus relieveing greatly my dread from just before.
So I humbly, penitently swore off slamming of the owner’s diner door forever more
I promised I would slam it nevermore.

Leave a comment

Filed under Breakfast with Authors series, Humor

March 7, 2015 · 8:40 pm

Breakfast With Ogden Nash

Breakfast With Ogden Nash

Rashers of bacon all crisp and greasy.
Eggs poached and scrambled or fried over easy.

Flip the pancake and iron the waffle.
Toast without butter is utterly awful.

Pour out the coffee all steamy and hot
And scrape the porridge from out of the pot.

Potatoes home fried and hashed and browned
French toast with syrup all smothered and drowned

The stations are closed and the airports are fogged in.
How will I get to my breakfast with Ogden?

Leave a comment

Filed under Breakfast with Authors series, Humor

March 7, 2015 · 8:35 pm

Breakfast With Hemingway

Breakfast at Hemingway’s

You know how it is Sunday morning when everyone else is asleep until the newspaper slams against the front door sounding like the crack of a rifle? I put the Thompson sub-machine gun back into its well-oiled case, lined with the fleece of a Basque sheep. “Those eggs are well and truly scrambled now”, I thought. As I ate them, the earth moved. Yes, the eggs are well and truly scrambled; they are the eggs of a man. Here, have some.

Leave a comment

Filed under Breakfast with Authors series, Humor