Education

“I feel thoroughly cold,” said the old guy through chattering teeth.

“A mere sweater won’t do it for you. What’s that bulging beneath?”

“Oh, that’s yesterday’s paper. The Sentinel helps--and one comic
strip guy I especially like makes it plain how ironic
these crazy times are when we layer ourselves in the news,
good or bad, and then sit on the best editorial views.”

“Say, just where do you live?” I inquired. “Is it quite far from here?”

“Down the street, on the right,” he replied. “It’s not warm though, I fear.
Two or three of us huddle together outside and swap stories
of times when we ate pretty well and our young families
had nice holiday gifts, get-togethers--and even a tree.”

“Things have taken a turn for the worse, I can easily see,”
I told him. “Take my coat, if it fits you, and then in return
you can give me those funnies. There’s always some new thing to learn.”

Psych Students: This is #1; read & scroll to #2

One young student said, “I shun review;
with old chapters I thought we were through.
I just hate going back
to pick up needless slack,
so go slowly with anything new.”

At Thanksgiving I have a dark mood
and then so too do all of my brood.
Though I know it won't last,
I'm so glad when it's past
'cause we gobblers won't wind up as food.

Prayer

I put my hands together and enjoy the way it feels.
I sense His presence strongly then, and know
that I'm connecting with a power that heals.
My fingers are antennas, clasped just so
or palm to palm, and bathing in his love
my faith is stronger--as it should be when
I open up my heart and thereby shove
all doubts away. I'm much more peaceful then.

As simple as it sounds I still desire
to learn the complicated physics there.
His laws of universal truth inspire
my curiosity. I'm quite aware
I ask a lot. Perhaps too much...but see?
To search is how he fashioned me to be.

The Last Rose of Summer

I watch the shadows lengthen every day
and wonder if the crispness of the morn
will make it hard to straighten up the way
I did when every eager bud was born.
The warmth and cheer of summer green and bright
emboldened me to do my best to share
my modest gifts with anyone who might
come by to stare and gulp the evening air.

But as the days grow short and leaves turn brown
I find it tougher to stand tall and proud--
and harder to gaze up than down.
Of course, surrendering is not allowed.
Besides, I’d like to linger just a while
and make another careworn person smile.

Ben's and Piroshka's Visit

A big smile lingers still on my face
since Piroshka and Ben hit my place.
Though the time went too fast,
the warm fuzzies will last.
Wow! P. carves at a furious pace.

Little Ben's Hobby Horse

Labor Day Verse

The Miner’s Daughter

Her daddy’s old black lunch box is the same
almost as when he first began to dig
for coal. He stood quite tall and wasn’t lame
at first, and never coughed till she got big—
well, ten is old enough to read his eyes—
but when he tucks his lunch beneath his arm
and gently kisses her goodbye, she cries
inside and tries to smother her alarm.

She watches at the window every day,
her kitty by her side, and hopes to see
him come back home less tired than before.
Or just return. The newsmen have a way
of scaring girls. As hard as it can be
to wait, she wears a smile at the front door.

Emily

Do you sometimes wonder what mysterious cosmic synchronicity places you in exactly the right position to record indelibly those delicious 3-D images which put your life in I-Max?

I happened to be in Emily’s front yard one day when she vaulted over the railing with unabashed grace. She landed running, some four feet below, and then bounded away like a gazelle to find her friends.

I caught her at the stove early one morning, where she was stirring me up a skillet of surprise scrambled eggs. Sometimes we emerged from our rooms in the morning at the same dark hour, still half asleep and far from presentable. We hopped in the car anyway, a quick trip to the Donut Palace for fried cakes and milk.

Emily likes the kitchen and is totally at home there. I watched her sure hands mix up a lemon-poppy seed cake that she said was mostly for me. It was so good she made another one for her mother.

Her eyes lit up when I gave her a 99-cent can of tiny shrimp from the Family Dollar. Hot dogs and marshmallows over a backyard fire produced the same result and her animated shadows on the house siding created a late night show.

Emily dances as if she were born to it, making up new moves or splicing familiar ones together like a magician. One evening she recruited another playful sprite to help entertain, her portable tape player on the dining room table for accompaniment. Start. Stop. Do over. Revise. Go back. Start again. That’s it.

She asked me to take a neighborhood walk with her and then we sat down together with a crossword puzzle. She was my eyes when the print was too small, and we were both so psyched after finishing a hard one that we graduated to cryptograms.

She still fits in my lap.

A Warrior King

I

A warrior king stands on the parapet,
surveying his domain with utmost care
while weighing war and peace as each prospect
presents its costs, quite painfully aware
how heavy rests the crown of leadership
and royal rule. His loyal subjects trust
him. Overhead the moon is just a slip
of silver on a quiet night in August.

Outside the stony walls, not far away,
the enemy builds fires, prepares and waits,
and dares the king to venture out to pay
a ransom at the city’s massive gates.
Thus he alone, without the solemn aid
of friends, must have by dawn his choices made.

II

His thoughts drift back to decades in the past,
when he himself was young and full of zeal,
and predatory tastes which could not last
eroded as he aged. His one appeal
now to the gods is that the bastion walls
might keep invaders out. His troubled face
betrays his deep concern as he recalls
the means by which he’d won this cherished place.

The turning of the glass, its trickling sands
unmoved, relentless in its mindless flow,
uncaringly points out like unseen hands
how even kings eventually forego
sometimes their loosened grip on what they’ve got—
and must think further, of their subjects’ lot.

III

Night vigils are the province of the old,
and though they tire and long for sweet release
old men are mindful of their work (I’m told)
and know to stay awake to guard the peace
and sleeping babes. The enemy can rest
in their tent camp, with naught to lose
or think about except the coming test
and chance of spoils to please their warring muse.

Within the walls, all sleep except the king,
who now with some resolve descends the stair
and contemplates the hardest kingly thing
to do, and gulps the early morning air.
Then, finally, at the castle’s wooden portal,
he draws the bar and exits, a mere mortal.

Global Warming

My pet frog Fred inquired of me today
if we could host just one last lawn event
and ask his wrinkled friends to come and play
croquet before the grass turns brown. He meant,
I think, that green is scarcer every week
and soon the sauna we call home will fry
our favorite haunts. A tear fell on his cheek,
the first such time I’d ever seen him cry.

I watched Fred’s family shrink and gulp bad air
as cousins, aunts and uncles made their way
to water, dragging turkish towels. I dare
to claim they looked like tourists just a day
from death. Their creek had shriveled from the heat,
an ugly muddy mire to cool their feet.

Don't Send Me Roses

This is a chapbook of romantic poetry, not too long and unusually frank.

Michael's Treasure

A young boy's vivid imagination and intense wish to help his family draw him into an unexpected adventure.

Image courtesy of HowStuffWorks.com
www.amazon.com

Jinker Taking a Bow

This guy is from my little paperback Sally's Puppets go to the Hospital (only 106 pages). Is he the thief his puppet neighbors think he is?