POEMS

FUNGUS OF THE MONTH

The fungus of the month
for May of 1999, was
the cedar-apple rust,
the GymnosporANgium 
juniPERi-virginiANae
or naked spore-bearer
of the Eastern Juniper,
pictured above if your
filter software can display
a page containing naked. 
You often see it on the
cedar trees in May when it
resembles a cross between a
Christmas decoration and 
a clutch of orange gummiworms.
Each gelatinous spore horn is 
composed of countless 
two-celled telIOspores, 
and that's only the beginning
of the four-stage process
by which two haploid nuclei
fuse to form a transient
diploid nucleus
that immediately undergoes
meiosis to form 
basidiospores that then
soar into the air, and...  
well, you can see where
this is going.

COYOTES

From the dune 
we glimpsed a pair 
of coyotes 
in shaggy coats  
before they slipped 
into the trees
with one quick
backward glance.
Later, on the marsh,
we saw them watching
from a distance
as we walked by.
Another day, they 
trotted up our driveway
to the road, 
and I ran out
without a coat.
They stopped, half turned, 
and stared, a challenge 
eye to eye until 
stiff with cold 
I shivered 
and went back inside.


IDENTITY

Steal my face,
my name, my number,
access to my secret room,
but my identity slips 
through your hands, 
like light not quite 
a particle nor yet a wave, 
a sound not voiced,
slight melody that links
my random thoughts 
until with resolution
and diminuendo,
fade to black, 
and all I will have been 
is safe from theft 
of every kind.

IDENTITY

Steal my face,
my name, my number,
access to my secret room,
but my identity slips 
through your hands, 
like light not quite 
a particle nor yet a wave, 
a sound not voiced,
the resolution,
fade to black, 
and I am safe from theft 
of every kind.

THE HAWK

The hawk circles
rocking in the wind, 
sweeps low across 
the stubbly field
its tail stripe 
marking it a Harrier,
and rises high again, 
the moving center
in the bowl of blue. 
There's beauty everywhere, 
the sea, the hills, 
the cloud-streaked sky, 
but birds of prey 
are filled with grace,
like sharks and tigers, 
the athlete, the financier, 
the matador, and  
although we may cherish 
creatures small and neat, 
the pretty and the pure, 
we can't escape 
our fascination
with the predator. 

THE HAWK

The hawk circles
rocking in the wind, 
sweeps low across 
the stubbly field
its tail stripe 
marking it a Harrier.
There's beauty everywhere, 
the sea, the hills, 
the cloud-streaked sky, 
but birds of prey 
are filled with grace,
like sharks and tigers, 
the athlete, the financier, 
the matador. 


EARLY SUNDAY MORNING

Auschwitz,
the Gate of Death, 
where railroad tracks
converge and penetrate
a low brick building 
roofed in faded tiles,
with openings
that could be doors
and windows 
if the trees
beyond the gate
weren't mere suggestion,
the whole affair
no more than a
millimeter thick,
the inhabitants 
no longer even names.


THE HUNTER

I held the flashlight
against the barrel
of the twenty-two
and sighted on the
patch of dark
with startled eyes. 
I pulled the trigger
and she twitched
as if I'd touched
her side and made 
a little sound like 'oh'.
I still hear that cry. 
Oh, what about my life?
Ooh, can't I say goodbye?
Oooh, I am innocence,
remember me.

THE HUNTER

I held the flashlight
against the barrel
of the twenty-two
and sighted on the
patch of dark
with startled eyes. 
I pulled the trigger
and she twitched
as if I'd touched
her side and made 
a little sound like 'oh'.
I still hear that cry. 
Oh, what about my life?
Ooh, can't I say goodbye?


THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO

Mystery stories are
our refuge and delight.  
The oddly mutilated body, 
with just enough 
macabre detail,
the smart detective 
and his sexy friend,
the puzzle, 
and the chase.
It's not a perfect genre:
expensively delicious dinners 
are left half-eaten 
in distress,
overconfident female PI's 
barge unarmed
into the druglord’s
warehouse lair, too much
wearisome stage business,
self-indulgent arty musings, 
excessive domesticity, 
and kids!
Real detectives 
don't have children,
except maybe grown-up daughters
somewhat estranged 
but coming round.
But the worst...
oh hell, the other day 
I finished this great book, 
with everything wrapped up
in crime scene tape, 
except... 
what in God's name happened 
to bizarre and brilliant 
somewhat androgynous
semi-deranged and 
highly dangerous 
but fatally attractive
girl with the dragon tattoo? 


THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO

Mystery stories are
our refuge and delight.  
The oddly mutilated body, 
with just enough 
macabre detail,
the smart detective 
and his sexy friend,
the puzzle, 
and the chase.
It's not a perfect genre:
expensive dinners 
are left half-eaten 
in distress,
self-indulgent arty musings, 
excessive domesticity, 
and kids!
But the worst...
Oh hell, the other day 
I finished this great book, 
with everything wrapped up
in crime scene tape, 
except... 
what in God's name happened 
to bizarre and brilliant 
somewhat androgynous
semi-deranged and 
highly dangerous 
but fatally attractive
title character, the
girl with the dragon tattoo? 


THE SHOPKEEPER

"Hey, don't get me wrong,"
he tells my back.
"I'm an optimist.  
I think there's good 
in everyone."
"We try," I say. 
He's a libertarian,
a patriot, an ex-marine.
I don't know his name, 
we just do business 
now and then. 
We talk about our kids, 
about honor and respect
and what to do
in Afghanistan.
He make more sense 
than any talking head
I've ever heard.
He thinks I'm some kind 
of fuzzy liberal, 
but we're okay.
"Have a good day," he says.
"You too, my friend."
In the wind 
a few brave words,
in the dark
a wink of light.


DELMARVA MYSTERY RIDE

Who are they for, the hams and
bacons, peanuts, fireworks,
guns they sell at maroon 
and yellow sheds unchanged through 
decades of tumble down and patch?
The folks who live in sagging
wooden houses, mobile homes,
three-bedroom ranches bare
of shrubbery, the pillored 
plantations set back a 
football field of glossy lawn?
Who buys the baskets, 
pots, sweet tea, and barbeque?
The congregants of the Gospel
Tabernacle, the Jesus Center, 
the New Birth Covenant?
Who wants hooked rugs and
Amish furniture on U.S. 13?
The men who tend the cotton fields
and soybeans and offer mulch in bulk?
Or is it, in a crazy dream of 
commerce, meant for us, 
the drive-buy aging preps who never
under any circumstances stop 
until we've crossed 
the creepy bridge and tunnel to 
the safety of Virginia Beach?


THE OLDEN DAYS

"Dad, you lived in the olden days."
"Um hmm," I said. 
"Well, I just wondered how it was."
"Oh, a lot like now,
except that there were fewer 
of us then and the buildings 
weren't as tall."  
Still, I wished I could go back,
and do the things I hadn't done, 
like hang with Kerouac 
in Greenwich Village, 
drink white wine with Camus 
at the Cafe Flore.
Play the piano and the violin,
read Kant in German and fly a jet.
Maybe find the golden Ark, hidden
in a cave on Ararat. 
"The olden days," I said,
"were filled with all the things 
you're going to do."

THE OLDEN DAYS

"Dad, you lived in the olden days."
"Um hmm," I said. 
"Well, I just wondered how it was."
"Oh, a lot like now,
except that there were fewer 
of us then and the buildings 
weren't as tall."  
Still, I wished I could go back,
and do the things I hadn't done, 
like hang with Kerouac 
in Greenwich Village, 
drink white wine with Camus 
at the Cafe Flore.
Play the piano and the violin,
read Kant in German and fly a jet.
Maybe find the golden Ark, hidden
in a cave on Ararat. 


CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME

My mom and dad stuffed envelopes 
for Norman Thomas
the summer after they eloped
in nineteen thirty-two.
Sis and I were taught to care 
for others, share our toys,
and put our trust in humankind.  
I took this in as well 
as any child with a 
functional self-image can,
and I've kept a certain 
optimism all my life, 
without, I must admit, 
excessive sacrifice. 
Mom and dad lost theirs
in later years, 
and who can blame them, 
when their fellow citizens 
consigned to Hell all gays 
and lesbians, Arabs, Frenchmen, 
graduates of eastern universities, 
humanists and vegetarians,
the good guys and their friends,
because my parents thought 
they had a faithful ally 
in the universe.
But if, instead, 
the making of all value, 
meaning, beauty, truth, 
and joy is left to each of us, 
why then that's both the
problem and the hope.

CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME

My mom and dad spread
campaign literature 
for Norman Thomas
the summer after they eloped
in nineteen thirty-two.
Sis and I were taught to care 
for others, share our toys,
and put our trust in humankind.  
I've kept a certain 
optimism all my life,
without excessive sacrifice, 
but mom and dad lost theirs
in later years, 
when fellow citizens 
consigned to Hell all gays 
and lesbians, Arabs, Frenchmen, 
graduates of eastern universities, 
humanists and vegetarians,
because my parents thought 
they had an ally 
in the universe.

    
HARRY IN THE WAITING ROOM

Six pills for breakfast,
two at lunch, three before
I go to bed, and that's just 
to hold my own.
I spend my life in waiting rooms
and some days it seems not 
worth the wait. 
Then at the lab last week 
I met this guy 
who was in the war like me.  
Five pacific islands 
and he never got a scratch.
I spent four years in England
and met my wife. 
After he got out he went to MIT.
I ran a mink ranch upstate.
When his twenty-eight foot cruiser 
burned in the Bronx Marina blaze, 
I was the fire lieutenant
who didn't put it out.
Between us we've got 
a hundred sixty years,
I guess we'll try to keep
the conversation going
for a while.
  
JOURNEY

Our lives drive off in all directions,
our engines run on fumes.
We rarely stick to our itinerary
and Mapquest always steers us wrong.
So, share the road with bicycles 
and brake for quail and mice.
Smile at barking dogs and wave
cheerfully to disdainful cats.
Thank the beasts who feed on carrion.
Fill your tank with fantasy,
and it never will run dry.
Laugh at every missed connection,
and you'll get there in the end.


THIS TIME NEXT YEAR

We stir-fried
the last of the
summer harvest
of zucchini
and bush beans
and served the
big tomato 
sliced with
oil and vinegar.
The plants went
on the compost
heap, along with
clippings, leaves,
and apple cores.
For when you reach
our age, you're ready
to recycle
everything.


FUNNY ABOUT THAT

I saw a license 
plate the other day
that said D U K H A,
a transliteration
of the Sanskrit word
for SUFFERING.
I'm sure the driver knew it,
he was in a Cadillac
from New York.
All religions
feed on pain, 
peddling detachment
and atonement,
compensation 
in a promised land. 
It's what they do.
But always theirs,
their suffering,
while unbelievers 
share the mystery 
of DUKHA's other 
Buddhist Sanskrit 
meaning, LIFE.


TEARS

When you see the tears on faces in a joyful crowd
in a great American city and those of girls at a black
college in Atlanta and shed by a laughing woman 
in a small village in Kenya and by cheering 
customers at a bar in Oakland, California, 
and at the corner of the eyes of every nation, 
and even seeping from your own,
you have to know that something big and fine
has happened and the world can risk
a smile before it gulps and takes a breath
and shakes its head and muddles on.

TEARS

When you see tears on the faces in a joyful crowd
in a great American city and of a laughing woman 
in a small village in Kenya, and shed by cheering 
customers at a bar in Berkeley, California, 
and shared among the citizens of France and Germany, 
Thailand, China, and Lebanon and all the countries
of the world, and rolling down your own,
you have to know that something big and fine
has happened somewhere, if the world can risk
a smile before it gulps and takes a breath
and shakes its head and muddles on.


ISAIAH ADVISES

When the lion lies
down with the 
witless fatling 
suspect abuse 
that calls for 
counseling 
and intervention
unless the covenant
permits the lamb
to carry mace. 


DON'T DO ANYTHING
I WOULDN'T DO

When the Pope 
denounces moral 
relativism
as the greatest evil
in the world  
it's personal with me. 
I have my own ideas
of right and wrong.
I'd never say
the execution 
can proceed
despite the innocence
of the accused so long
as the trial is fair,
or wealthy thieves
may winkle free while 
three-time losers
are locked up for life.
Nor would I move 
the pedophiles 
from place to place
to hand out 
God's grace
regardless of
the price,
or save the Church
by sacrificing  
Polish Jews.
There's no excuse,
for less than truth,
nowhere kindness
should not rule,
no property worth
human lives, and
no child undeserving 
of all the world.
Not so, Joe 
Ratzinger?


ARBORETUM

We dig a hole that's 
twice the size 
of the root ball 
and plant a sapling
and fill the cavity 
with mulch and loam.
We carry water 
from the pond 
and trim away
the brush each spring
until the tree
has taken hold.
Years pass, 
and we who 
plant the trees 
grow old 
and leave to others
the majesty 
of full grown elms, 
red maples, 
white pines,
and tupelos. 


SABBATH AT THE CHAPEL

A scattering 
of yarmulkes
knit shirts 
slacks and skirts,
chairs drawn into 
a ragged circle 
around a tall slim
man so easily 
in polite command 
who leads the
Hebrew prayers 
and songs
the drum and dance
of thanks and praise
repeating word and
phrase down 
thirty centuries
in Israel and Judah
Babylon and Rome
in Minsk and Krakow 
and Berlin
in fear and joy
and wondering.


THE WINDOW

Birds peck at
our window
eager for
new territory
mirroring 
their own,
unless it's ours
they want
the couch and
big screen TV,
or do they 
simply thrill 
in horror
as we coil and 
strike the glass?


DREAM ON

Do you dream
of tedious things,
of being lost and 
unprepared for life,
of running late
for matters
of significance
you can't
recall?
In my own 
I'm wandering 
strange streets
and riding trains
that never stop
and tasting  
desperation.
It's wearying, 
but so far
I've always 
waked up
breathing hard,
a little sweaty, 
and still here.


HOME ECONOMICS

The melting pot
and salad bowl
are savory 
metaphors
of civic grace,
while other
neighborhoods
resemble more
a bounteous
smorgasbord,
but so far there 
seem to be no
tasty way
to serve 
the apples 
and oranges 
of discord.


FATHERHOOD

He worked out 
the details
a child at a time,
doing the best
that he could.
He filled them
with goodness,
but not overfull,
and centered 
his life
on each one.
He told them 
strange stories,
played rummy
and catch,
fixed picnics
in parks 
where they 
climbed on
tall rocks.
He shared 
with them
every odd  
thing that
he knew,
and when 
they had gone
let them go.


MY FATHER

All but forgotten
now twenty years gone, 
within me my father
and mentor lives on 
as comic and hermit,
proficient with glues,
believing all gods
though worshipping none,
jack of all trades
and master of one.


THE FOSSIL

In the nineteen 
forties, 
a slower time,
our paper ran 
a weekly column 
telling us where 
the fossils 
could be found.
My father packed 
ham sandwiches
for him and me
and drove ten miles 
to a long abandoned
railroad track 
that curved 
enticingly
into the hills.
We found seashells
lying there
a thousand miles
from any sea,
and after lunch 
a strange 
one inch long
ridged cylinder 
my father said
was just a piece 
of hardened
rubber hose.
I hold it
in my palm today, 
and here on Google  
is its twin,
a club moss stem 
three hundred
million years 
turned stone.


MOTHER AND FATHER NATURE

They hustle you off
with a clap 
on the back
and no obligation
to keep up
the good work.
They retire 
to Port Richie,
sent a check 
on your birthday,
and not for 
a moment
do you question
their love.


A FATHER CONVERSES
WITH HIS SMALL
DAUGHTER'S FOOT

Tell me, small Foot,
how was your day?
Now that I'm home
what shall we play?
Foot wiggles her toes  
and a short pause ensues 
as she considers 
the things we could do.
Light dawns at last,
all five toes smile.
Foot giggles with glee.
Let's play football!


THEY

They ask 
for many things,
but all they
truly want
is that 
our love
for them
stays warm 
and firm.


A LONG STORY

I read a mystery
the other day
and found I'd known 
the author
as a pretty girl, 
whip smart
and full of 
deviltry.

Now she's in 
her seventies,
a novelist
and president
emeritus
of several
major universities. 

It's just as well
we didn't
hit it off
as I'd have only 
held her back.
Or could she
have taught me 
how to fly? 

When I was ten 
I had to 
read a story
about a kid
who did 
great things
one step at
a time.

The idea I guess
was to get me
off my ass,
but I could see 
that all he
really had to do
was wait until
some fool 
turned the page.


GALAXIES ACT UP

Galaxies go nova 
in far corners 
of the universe,
while we tell 
each other
over coffee
what it means.

SLUGS

I pick them off
the riddled leaves, 
slick shelless 
gastropods whose
sexual proclivities
belie the notion 
that small 
and simple is
always nice --
don't ask.


THE SEEKER SOUGHT

No church
enfolds me, 
no scroll
charts my way
or guru 
guides me
through the 
gathering gray.
I am a Seeker,
one of the few 
who follow alone
the mystic 
winding trail
of Cheerios.


THE CRAFTSMAN

He wore a
white linen robe 
and sleek 
leather sandals
and he walked to
the market
and stood 
near the gate. 
There he played 
a fine tune 
on his new 
wooden flute. 
When a small group
had gathered
he sat on a stone
in the manner
of rabbis, 
and said to them,
friends,
you're the salt
of the earth,
a bright light 
from above.
Your sins are
forgiven,
so go now 
in peace,
only love 
more than others
just those 
you despise.
Shaking their heads
they left 
to buy bread. 
The craftsman
went home
and put on 
old clothes.


SOME WORDS

Some words heal, 
while others 
can't be said.
I can write 
about my father, 
a kind and
clever man a  
generation gone,
but my mother
said herself 
she'd live
too long.
I can celebrate
dead friends
safe from 
all concerns,
but I cannot 
even name 
the shining young
who pin us briefly
to the surface
of this 
skirling world.


PASSING STRANGE

My father was 
in no position 
to explain 
the markings
on his perfect feet.
Nor did the letter
left unfinished 
in his Smith Corona
hold the key.
Death is a friend,
he wrote.
What did he mean?
The blue sky 
thinly overlay 
the night,
on the morning 
that he left us
so mysteriously.

IT'S WHAT WE DO

Forty bags 
of mulch,
too much!
But your garden 
is so beautiful.
Her native shrubs
and grasses
graced the corner lot
we pass 
most days.
She smiled, 
and with a gesture,
brushed off the 
compliment.
It's what we do.
As we continue 
on our walk,
a mile down Cape
a Frenchman 
will begin to row 
across the sea.


YOSEMITE

The cliffs were
twice as high
when I was ten,
and I could smell
the pines.
The trees were 
big as houses, 
you'd be killed 
just falling 
off a log.
If my father'd
let me,
I'd have climbed 
the waterfalls
and shinnied down 
Half Dome.
Now seventy,
I stand where Muir
and Roosevelt
approved 
God's work, 
while at my feet
each blade of grass
sends down 
ten million roots.


AT SEA

We walk the beach
and leave the ocean
to the young.
Sink or swim
is sound advice
for lives spent 
treading water
in a sea
of fear.


STIR FRY OF THE MIND

With culinary 
pinch and sniff,
I compose a 
succulent stir-fry  
all crunchy 
saucy spicy 
over sticky rice
not quite 
the sensuous 
hot mystery box
from Lee Ahn's 
truck whose 
rich aroma
trails me like
a hungry fox
and satisfies 
the tongue 
like sex.


THE GESTURE

At five foot six
my father played
right end on
his high school
football team.
He left college
in his senior year 
but won the pretty
red-haired girl
and taught himself 
the mastery of men.
He survived a 
a nearly fatal
heart attack
at fifty eight,
retired to 
Punta Gorda and
walked the beach
for twenty years
beneath a fringed 
straw hat. 
He left his family
loving memories
and in the secret 
safe deposit box
supplied to every
top executive  
a king-sized 
rubber turd. 


THE CASHIER

The cashier was
in her eighties,
sharp and quick.
Bless her heart, 
she needs the work.
Why in this fine land
must grannies
make the change
until it's time  
to cash it in?


LIGHT

Ambrose Light
jumped off a ship
one starry night.
Money troubles
said his note,
but who could know 
what darkness filled 
Light's mind.
The fortunes we’re
all hostage to 
aren't cash 
but kind.
There's no escaping,
our connections
wrote William James,
who broke his heart
while climbing in the
Adirondacks 
with a bit of skirt.


TIKKUN OLAM

Al spoke eight 
languages,
wrote fifteen books,
had been an expert 
on the Soviets,
but when the walls 
came down in '89
he and Frankie moved
to Palestine where
Al was working on 
book-length study 
of the Middle East. 
He was a little down 
that last time 
we got together
on their porch 
to eat smoked 
bluefish paté 
and drink beer.
No peace in sight, 
Al feared.
We'd hoped 
to see them 
in the spring, 
but...sad news, 
Frankie's email said. 
Al's dead,
a massive stroke,
and with him took 
his languages 
and books.

MY UNIVERSE

Dawn, a few days 
before my
twelfth birthday,
at a cheap
hotel near 
Yellowstone,  
a sweet stream 
glinted
through the pines
and snow capped
peaks tracked 
the climbing sun.
I knew right then 
the universe and I 
would get along
just fine.

COLD WAR WARRIOR

When I was drafted 
in '58 my mother cried.
My father, grim faced, 
drove me to the bus.  
I remember now 
the smell of canvas
and gun oil,
the din
of metal trays in
the warm mess hall, 
and laughter, 
freedom from
responsibility,
a year in Germany.

AWAY

In January of '59
we flew from Jersey 
to Fort Sill, 
the Guided 
Missile Training School.
After chow
we fell in our bunks  
too keyed to sleep,
and in the dark
we listened to a
kid from Oregon
trade one-liners with
a wise-assed guy 
from New York City,
and we all laughed
so hard that I forgot 
I was two thousand
miles from home. 

POETRY OPEN MIC

The poets spoke 
of love and death 
and of living 
day to day.
It knocks 
me out how some 
of them could weave 
a skein of words 
the way Picasso 
used his brush.
So many minds
turned inside out. 


PINUS RIGIDUS

The pitch pine 
and the crows
were what summer is
when I was young,
the smell of pines
warmed by the sun, 
big black birds cawing  
from gnarled branches.
The trees are dying now,
tops broken in the wind,
saplings overshadowed
by supple oaks, 
another generation
grabbing at the sky. 


THE SURPRISE ARTIST

A schoolgirl's 
stringy hair, 
an old gray dress,
she rarely spoke those
first few days. 
Years later she became
the Director of 
the University library,
owned an apartment 
on the Avenue 
of the Arts, 
a house in France.
It was something rare
that killed her
the doctors said,
when she was only
sixty four,
and I’m still waiting
for her explanation.

LIFE OF THE PARTY

Soft as doves 
the Holy One
was with us during 
Sabbath service
at an upscale synagogue
where stained glass 
windows told the 
sacred history 
of the universe.
He mingled with
the tallited and 
kippahed worshippers
who hugged and kissed
and floated up 
into the sanctuary
like elderly 
decorous Hasidim. 
He joined us for 
the lush kiddush
of bagels, mirth, 
and shmooze,
and I was sorry when
we had to go. 
God knows 
we have our fine 
humanity,
but without His 
distant laughter
it would be 
another story.

YOU MAY LAUGH

You may laugh, my friends,
but honestly the G-d who 
seems so sorely missing
through extended massacres
and centuries of persecution
surfaced briefly the other day
at Shabbat service
in an upscale synagogue
whose sea of  lustrous 
stained-glass windows
spanned the history of the universe
and buoyed the morning sky. 
He mingled warmly with the
the well-dressed worshippers
who hugged and kissed and
wandered here and there
like elderly decorous charismatics 
through several restful hours of
pray and Torah readings
topped off by a scrumptious nosh
of bagels with creamed cheese 
and whitefish salad,
and I, for one, was truly sorry 
when He had to leave.

MISALIGNMENT

Born in St. Louis in '35, 
too young to visit 
Gertrude Stein,
I xxx the war 
with gray crayons.
Transferred in '47 
to New York City,
we went to see 
the Arthur Godfrey Show.
Later with my friends, 
at fifteen spent a day in Greenwich
Village in the snow.
Military service, fit
between Korea and Vietnam, 
to Paris on a ten day pass, 
but never thought to chat with 
Sartre and Beauvoir, 
at the Cafe Flore.
In '61 heard MLK 
speak wisdom at a parking lot,
weathered student riots in '68, 
joined in the computer revolution.
Retired to Eastham by 2003, 
we witnessed 9/11, shock and awe on live TV. 
We resolved 
to travel more eat less red meat,
and grill a lot of bluefish 
in the spring.


PRAYER TO GRASS

Grass, the hand
that turns the seasons,
combs the tides,
re-seeds the earth, 
and spreads a canvas
to the wind, 
be with us always.

SAND IS THE ENEMY

Sand is the enemy, 
our friend 
the floor refinisher 
adroitly quotes 
Thoreau’s account 
of dune-drowned
Provincetown.

Sand is no small thing,
but man’s its measure.
We dredge it up
to build a beach,
smooth rough timbers,
time our eggs,
or make a mandala.

We, who calculate 
the weight of suns,
will finely scan 
the set of all 
sand grains,
assign an ordinal,
and etch on each
its personal barcode.
Sand, we’ve got your number.
                               
BIODIVERSITY 

Alice on her deathbed
felt that life
had let her down.
'Is this all there is?'
she sighed,
for, sadly, 
she was not 
among the few
who knew
it was enough.

A YEAR OF LIVING 

We moved to Queens
when I was twelve,
in seventh grade,
and I attended
PS 69, where
Vinny DiLorenzo 
kept a set of knuckles
in his pocket 
and stuck his
hand down 
Bessy’s dress.
I was drafted for
Hall Monitor by 
Principal Malone,
and after school
discovered 
pick-up baseball,
and hide and seek
among the alleyways,
threw snowballs from 
the forth floor roof,
and went out walking 
with the janitor's 
enchanting daughter,
and fell in love 
with Jackson Heights,
its sights and smells, 
its leafy streets,
my Paris of the 
17th Arrondissement.
Until alarmed
by such intensity,
our parents relocated 
to the safety 
of the Jersey suburbs,
where, once again,
I had to learn to live.

HOLY COW

Holy cow!   
The clouds at dawn
are like the 
Sistine ceiling 
lightly coated with swept snow, 
and when the sunlight on the trees
sets off an 
ornamental cardinal 
right on top....
Oh no,  
it's only light reflected off the bay.

MORNING WALK

My morning walk 
is not an old man’s bid 
for immortality 
or penance for a life 
too lightly lived.
It’s simple pleasure 
in the smoke struck clouds, 
the branches black 
against the sky,
a cheerful greeting
from a passerby my age 
in hat and coat 
that could be mine, 
a palm raised to
a battered truck, 
its driver late 
for honest work.

WHEN EMILY DICKINSON 
JOINED THE CORPS

When Emily Dickinson 
joined the Corps
she was posted to 
Afghanistan,
and there among 
the barren hills
she applied her instinct
for the lay of land.
Delicately cloaked 
and veiled,
she punned in Pashtu 
with Pashtuns
and with her weapon
close at hand
she dallied with 
the Taliban. 
She was rather good, 
she found,
at games involving 
headless goats, and
she used her frequent 
coffee breaks
to compose some 
very fine quatrains.
It seems the imagery 
of roadside bombs,
of dust and heat 
and caravans, 
well suited her 
poetic style,
and she was masterful, 
of course, 
with death.

AFTER A LONG ILLNESS

One feeding kills;
the mice will die 
in four to five 
distressing days.
We sweep their
desiccated bodies
from the cellar floor,
their mousy faces pouting
in extreme distaste,
and fling them out 
among the fallen leaves. 

GARDEN STATE IN WINTER

North through Jersey 
on a cold clear day,
thin sunshine
lies on sallow fields, 
a blur of suburbs
behind a screen 
of leafless trees, 
abandoned factories 
dumb tumuli of 
tumbled brick. 
A scroll of squat 
apartment blocks and 
tattered billboards, 
steeples, 
ash gray enclaves, 
seed and fortunes 
scattered like 
blown leaves, 
a vast necropolis 
of names 
on endless rows 
of weathered stone.
And then, 
suburbia again,
the backyard decks 
and barbeques,
the grass and trees,
slick high-tech industries, 
the templed 
dome of Audi 
and the megalith of Mercedes,
the last rest stop 
before the 
New York line,
and I, each time,
suffused with longing 
for these lives not mine.

TEXT MESSAGE

Yo, Bill n Sally,
how’s it goin; 
innit 2 bad 
bout d wrld?
Tak care.

Ey, Bill did tak care 
bt died lst yr.
C U n d sumr,
Sal.

WITH CAWS

Surely crows can't be 
as angry
as they sound.  
Like schoolgirls 
shouting in the subway
they're just trying to be 
heard above the crowd.
We know nothing of their 
sweet nest talk with wives 
and fledglings 
or out on shaky limbs with 
dusky slim inamoratas.  
Unless they are of course,
all mad as hell, at us, 
because we've spurned 
the common paradise 
for gated Edens 
of our own.

THE BEAST

Dinohyus was a 
a prehistoric warthog 
whose bones turned up 
in South Dakota. 
Twenty million years ago 
the three ton tusked pig
would burst its burrow
like a jumping mine 
and shoot off like a bullet.
His kind is gone, 
as will be mine, but
at the end of time
we will have been,
a pair of ugly, 
lovely, angry
ancient beasts.

SOMETHING

Though Darwin 
demonstrates
in steady prose
that complex molecules
can replicate 
from cell to ape
with godlike ease,
it comes down still
to why there troubles 
to be anything at all.

LEVITY

I’ve been accused 
of levity,
of making light, and worse.
I’d do a mea culpa 
if I could,
but that would be 
no end of odd
as I remain eternally
quite unrepentant,
so, help me God.

SEASONAL COMPLAINT

Anger glows 
like alder berries 
fiery eyes, 
lies under ice
through winter,
rises fierce
as spears of reed
and soldier shapes
of garlic mustard 
pierce
the forest floor 
in Spring, 
and Mother West Wind 
rides again.

HARRY

Harry was a busy man,
a World War veteran
and prison guard, 
part owner of a mink ranch   
in upstate New York,
food store manager,
Lieutenant in the 
New York City 
Fire Department,
then, his twenty in, 
a trusted social worker 
in the Bronx.  
Retired at last, 
he brought his passions 
to Cape Cod
where he
wrote then into poetry,
grew pale and thin 
and found his own 
enlightenment
without the help 
of any god.


THE BIRDSEED WARS

We fooled the squirrels 
with tin coolie hats 
and slick stove pipes,
a war so entertaining
we were sorry 
when we'd won.
Then came the voles,
furred boluses 
with token tails  
who’d lift the bricks
of our front walk, 
with tiny cries of
“One, two, three, 
my hearties, heave!'
We'll tromp their tunnels, 
drown their dens,
fight a dirty war 
and win a victory 
over bestial greed,
unless of course...we lose.

DIRT FARM

Dr. Bob grew 
magic beans for ADM,
but Dirt Farm
was his own.
Here I'd watch Old Goodin 
slop the mud bedizened hogs 
and milk the Guernseys 
in a metal pail. 

With a stick
I traced the border
of scum flecked ponds 
where bullfrog Buddhas 
sat like stone
and tracked the neatly 
harrowed rows 
to acre's end
until the farm bell
rang at noon.
 
I'd take my book,
my thick ham sandwich 
and lemonade, 
to the canvas hammock 
slung among 
old apple trees,
where by the fence
the cows would congregate
to taste the shade
and keep me company.


GRASS

Grass the hand
that turns the seasons,
combs the tides,
re-seeds the earth, 
and spreads a canvas
to the wind, stay with us.


GARLIC MUSTARD

We have a nihilistic love of garlic mustard,
a tidy plant that winters small and green,
unseen along the National Seashore nature trails,
except by those who know
that some spring day it grows an inch
and within a week a foot, until the
swaggering ranks of these invaders
occupy another stretch of forest floor.
All efforts by well-armed nativists 
to beat it back
have failed to stem its fanatical advance.  
We wink in passing, hide our smiles, 
and wish it well.


TINY SWINE AVAILABLE FOR
LABORATORY RESEARCH  

The noblest of fates you face,
improvement of the master race,
as highest honor, in their place,
first miniature pig in space.

QUICK QUIZ

Why’s the sunrise
like a pretty girl,
and what’s the scoop 
on poppies 
and the Pope?
You have until 
the end of time.


SAMPLER

My poem
threads its way 
through needle’s eye.


DAY BREAK

The clouds 
at dawn 
present
the Sistine ceiling
streaked in snow
until the sun 
sweeps clean 
the sky
with light.


CLAM 

cool cool cool
dark dark dark
RAKE! RAKE! RAKE!


THE 17 YEAR LOCUST EMERGES

The periodical cicada
cools it underground,
while marriages
mature in light.


NATURE TRAIL

We walked  
until the hawks had flown 
and branches traced 
the shape of trees 
against the sky 
in strokes of bone
and grasses ran to seed 
their green gone brown,
and snow fell on
the frozen ground.


CATHEDRAL

dusty thoughts
composed in 
stone
tall and taller
oh my gosh
what a pile
of splintered light
and leaded glass
oh start the music
have a blast


SHOOTING STAR

who you are 
and what you do,
a shooting star 
dividing night,
a light 
that’s stitched
across the sky


POISON IVY

racing green and china red
splashy touches of the brush
saffron ocher copper gold 
Tuscan riches artists itch


GULLS

ghost glider belly dreams
waffles offal chips and fries
oysters on the half shell
dead men's eyes


HORSESHOE CRABS

crumpled panzers
toppled tanks
guns askew 
dumb luck run out


SALT MARSH

Spartina my lovely
the southerly zephyr
caresses your tresses
and ratchets my passion 
for grass.


MINNOWS

at the edge of the water
the pond is a flutter
there's safety in numbers
until it's your tern


SURFING

When winterberries
silvered reeds
and mustard greens
adorn the marsh
and early sunset
dusts the fields
and weaves wide 
peaceful skies,
then glide, glide,
glide on life’s high tide


LIGHTS OUT FOR HOLMES AND WATSON 03

Foul night what, Holmes?
The moors may see some mischief ere the dawn.
All Hallows’ Eve,
when ghosts and ghouls and goblins roam.

   Quite so, dear friend,
   but let’s not dawdle in the foggy dark.
   ‘s no night for thieves, 
   but, Watson, murderers may be about.

And wick things, Holmes,
zombies, bogies, all that wretched crew.
Fiends and imps,
dybbuks, duppies, howling loup-garous.

   Oh Watson mine,
   what kind of pukka polymath are you?
   Such frights are but
   a jolly Nutcrack Night’s tame witch’s brew.

But surely Holmes, 
we’ve spied these specters with our very eyes,
wraiths that out 
of open graves along the Ganges rise.   

   Mere chemistry 
   dear chap, dim stimuli that fret the nerves
   and twit the brain, 
   as Helmholtz, Wundt, and Gustav Fechner claim.

I tell you Holmes,
these drooling bugaboos have dogged my dreams.
You say that djinns
and gyres and incubi aren’t what they seem? 

   Oh, not at all,
   dear friend.  You’ve never had a passing whim
   that wasn’t sound,
   but thoughts are simply ripples in the mind.

Then Holmes, since spooks
are noumena, and mental states are naught
save neural tics,
we need but whistle bravely in the dark.

   Quite right, dear chap.
   Fell basilisks with lethal breath and death 
   conveying eye,
   are but a touch of physiology.

A basilisk!
Oh surely, Holmes, you cannot mean that you…
but ooooh, you do.  
It comes, and holds us in its gaze.  Adieu.


THE NAUSET FELLOWSHIP 
EASTHAM, MA

This isn't a commercial, 
quite- 
but our church,
which respectfully 
takes note of God 
only in the details,
could use a few more members 
because our average age 
is getting up there-
although everyone is 
funnier and more caring 
than ever in their lives 
and has a lot to offer 
young folks under seventy. 
We're interested in everything 
from septic tanks to religion, 
which isn't such a stretch, 
and all we do is talk 
and eat 
and cheer on 
the world 
and prop each other up. 


NAUSET FELLOWSHIP

This isn't a commercial,
quite,
but our church,
which respectfully
takes note of god
only in detail,
could use a few more members,
because our average age
is getting up there,
although everyone is
funnier and more caring than
ever in their lives and has
a lot to offer young folks
under seventy
and is interested in
everything,
from septic tanks to religion,
which isn't such a stretch,
and all we do is talk,
and eat,
and cheer on
the world,
and prop each other up.
		

EASTHAM HARVEST

Eastham can be seen from space,
Its foursquare outline neatly traced
From Cape Cod Bay to Coast Guard Beach, 
Rock Harbor north to Hatch's Creek, 
A green and pleasant stretch of pine
And  kettle ponds, salt marsh and sand,
On which the Cape's last glacier's dropped
Deacon Doane's imposing  rock.

Objects in the glass of time
Are often nearer than they seem.
Historic houses, pilgrim  names,
A wandering windmill on the green,
A pretty witch, a pirate ship,
A golf course, airport, railroad track,
A sesqui-tri-centennary
Of  handy Yankee bric-a-brac.

The Nausets grew their flinty corn
With silver herring in each hill.
We plowed the land and planted wheat,
Raised bounteous cows and shaggy sheep,
Did good business in sea salt,
And finally, with berry bogs, 
Asparagus, and turnips, farmed 
The sand until the tourists came.

So, what comes next, a six mile strip?
A summer suburb, a ride and park,
A  paradise of  pensioners,
The idle castles of the rich?
Or can our yeoman heritage
Sow sense, and help us cultivate
On fair and fertile common ground, 
A true town meeting of the minds?

Eastham is people.  Washed ashore
In sixteen hundred forty four
Or on today's wind-driven tide,
We came because the land was good,
The air was pure, the quality
Of light reflected from the sea,
The song of birds, the crump of surf,
Could set our shuttered spirits free.

It's all still  here, and so are they,
In breezy Eastham on the bay,
The company of those who care
For Eastham's rural character,
For woods and beaches,  ponds and trees,
For beauty and serenity. 
For there's no other place to be
That's quite like Eastham by the sea.
			

EASTHAM SNOW
 
When the uncommon silence in our house,
Is broken by the rumble of a plow,
We know the snow is piling up and hope
That everyone will smile the way we do.                  
For even when we had to go to work
And send the kids to school, we loved the snow.   
It dulled the sound of  traffic on the roads,
Lit up the day, concealed the dirt, and filled  
The little hollows of our lives.

Last winter when we got a foot or more
Of snow with deeper drifts, we double dared
Each other to take our daily nature walk.   
We broke the trail that time along the track 
From Coast Guard Beach to Doane Rock parking lot.
Whoa, this is nuts! we yelled into the wind,  
And then, Hey, this is why we came!
 
Wonderful Things, as Howard Carter said 
On opening the door to King Tut's tomb.  
Colors of sky and water we'd never seen, 
Snow on the beach, and waves with crests blown back 
In plumes ascending smoke-like very high,  
And playful oddities, like pine cones set
On pedestals erected by the wind, 
And cryptic sheets of storm-drawn contour lines 
That mimed a topographic map.  

More snows fell after that.  None was as deep, 
But each one had some special quality,
As when the storm drove sleet against the side 
Of every building, tree trunk, post and pole, 
And froze it prettily place for days.
Then later in the Spring, snow fell in clumps 
That hung along the boughs like biscuit dough,  
Until it melted on our heads.

And then one day we found the sky 
Completely clear but every branch and twig 
Light coated with new snow, the stubborn red 
And brown oak leaves all iced in sparkling white, 
Each fine-drawn pitch pine needle glinting like
A silver pin, and as we grandly drove 
Along Route 6, accompanied by Bach, 
The car just floated off the road


LOCAL HISTORY

The storyteller gilds his art.
The books are fine but few.
The records all went up in smoke.
The Nausets caught our flu.

The artifacts are keeping mum.
The turnips never know.
The tides are ever on the run.
The glaciers come and go.

Still in search of ages gone,
I asked The Manitou.
“My son,” she said, “just give it time. 
The past will come to you.”
                         

EASTHAM ANNIVERSARY

Coming here for fifty years
To sandy summer cottages,
Boats and baseball on the bay,
Clams and lobster, Half Shell,
Howard Johnsons, Snows and Watsons,
Army Navy, Cole Road Beach.
Your learning on the narrow roads
To drive the hulking family car,
Then with your sister on your own.
September nineteen sixty four,
Extended honeymoon, unheated
Room with cows beyond.
Then Eastham cottages and kids,
Sand and Swiss cheese sandwiches,
Cold beer and books, stir fries,
And marinated swordfish steak.
The easy trails with three, and then
The autumn weeks, we two alone,
And finally uprooting and escape,
Bright Fall and Winter Peace,
Spring Green, full Flowering June,
Home at last, on Runway Lane.
                                         

BIRTHDAY

You got your wish.
Your dream came true,
of inner peace,
bright sun, clam sea,
brisk revelry
of chickadees.
I got mine too.
My dream was you.
                            

MVP

Fifty baseball seasons span a lot 
Of history, wars good, and cold, and not
Declared, a peace that pays no dividends,
A nuclear age at its Chernobyl end.
Our nation, roused to meet a Triple Threat.
Becomes the Champion of the World, and yet,
No better than a Bush League player in
An extra-inning game the bucks can't win.
Rosa Parks leads off, and King's hit clears the wall,
But Clarence Thomas reaches base on balls.
Though science yearly signs a new bull pen,
Still guns and famine, crack and AIDS get on.
We've batted round the forests, fouled the coasts,
Invented smart machines to score the loss,
And brought about McLuhan's global town
In time to televise the out at home.
So how in Cooperstown does my friend earn
Induction to the Brawl of Fame so soon? --
She gamely helps the little children learn
To put one foot before another and play on
As if there's truth and meaning, joy and love,
Hopes to have, and winning lives to live.
                                                   

SHIPMATES

Children are as anchors
said the Greeks,
who everywhere worth going
went in ships,
and thought
in nautic metaphor.
Kids make rotten
moorings though,
all harboring fresh breezes 
and threat of squalls 
to set good wives
adrift in curious currents,
buffeted by storms,
but you, for me,
are wind and sail,
co-captain, crew, and
clipper ship,
the voyage, and the sea.
                

TO KITZINGEN

Along the road 
to Kitzingen,
lulled by
fallow fields
and sunlight smelling out 
cut hay,
a sudden experience 
of sheep in surfeit
prompts evaluation
of the task
of shepherding.
                    


GAME SHOW

Sixty five thousand 
expendable men
keep the inside in 
our expandable van
while the colonels 
swap pieces
and diddle the game
with droll ammunition
on comedic terrain.
and the sergeants 
drink coffee
that’s been hot too long
and savor the playlet
they’re all acting in.
                   

SQUAD ROOM

At twenty two ten 
hours Cookie
trails his rubber
shower slippers
to the switch
from which 
night springs,
and twice across 
tall wooden bins 
all black against 
pale walls 
a searchlight swings.
		

BAMBERGERS

Vinyl fruit
is not returnable
for credit or exchange,
and its juices
are as useful
as the bubbles 
in your brain.
		

ASSAY

I broke apart 
a riddled rock
where water 
cut an aimless 
channel in
the pebble bed
and found instead
of explanation,
lead.

A DAY

Each day finds its own delight.
snows and rains, wind rippling 
salt meadow grass.
Frogs sit Buddha truth 
on sun-warmed mud.
A laugh, a touch, a haughty fox, 
a pinch of ginger in the sauce,
a sentence spears us like a fish.
Days like pearls 
strung one to one,
lives entwined 
that flow like glass.


ANOTHER DAY

A cup of coffee
with the news,
a pleasant hour 
crafting prose,
the foray for 
the daily mail,
a bowl of soup,
a woodland trail,
some mindless 
occupation 
for my hands,
wine with supper, 
books and Brahms,  
the hours crack
the minutes run,
the day is gone.


WARNING

So, father,
you were right
and things got worse. 
I don’t know where 
it’s going now,
because I don’t know 
where there’s left to go.


VACATION

The limo stops at
Safety Harbor for 
a week of golf and sun.
Something in us craves
safe havens,
but we’re not safe 
until we’re home.


MINIATURE SWINE
  [For use in Biomedical Research
  Vita Vim Laboratories
  Merton, Indiana
  Telephone: (123) 456-7890]

Oh tiny swine, what kindly Fern
Or swift and crafty Templeton
Will save your little bacon from
The curiosity of men?

What Charlotte's Web your Radiance,
As Some Terrific Pig, announce,
So, safe behind the barnyard fence
You end your days with loving friends?

The humblest of fates you face,
Improvement of the Master Race,
Or, highest honor, in their place,
First miniature pig in space.
			

THE SEVENTEEN-YEAR LOCUST EMERGES

The periodical cicada
cools it underground,
while marriages
mature in light,
and love is new each day.

QUERY 

The time is now
the Watchman cries,
but now is then, 
and when is yet to be.
So tell us, Watchman,
if you will, just where 
in hell are we?


THE SKY'S THE LIMIT, IDER

I just love ivory, it's so green, 
and see the way it hugs the wall, 
the way that fellow Crisco 
wrapped up all Niagara Falls.
I saw a headline at the grocery store,
he wants to coat the moon
with sprinkles and set it in a giant
cone.  You think he can?
I read that someone rented out
his nose to advertise sun screen.
We could do this stuff, my dear. 
Gild your Billy's prize zucchini
and call it an Andy Goldenburg.
I'll sell my novel, Country Luv, 
the Ardent Amours of Aunt Bessie Bean.
We'll bake a two ton pee-can pie
that makes the Guinea's record book.
All it takes is balls, my love,
and we ladies have the biggest ones in town.

TACHE DE DEUX

Dig up old dirt,
for tenuous truths.
Plumb meaning to its
ancient roots.

With laser scanner, 
spice, and zest,
prepare the future
from the past.

Travel, learn, 
delight in arts.
Carry one another’s books.

Dine on life in
day-sized bites,
with sunshine, 
coffee, love, and cats.


WHY WORRY?

If we had no children of our own,
would we still care?  
We’ve had our ride, and it was fine.
Our fellow men, six billion strong,
can manage nicely on your own.

WORRY

Does worry ever bottom out?
If we had no children would we
care about the world?  
We've had our ride, and it was fine.
We did the best we could,
you and I, and Mother Teresa of
Calcutta, Schweitzer and his zinc piano.
Our land, the world, six billion souls,
the knobby web of dust and stars
all manage on their own.
So why do we feel the need to help? 


CHRISTMAS PAGEANT

We skipped church one Sunday, 
left the kids in front of the TV,
and went to buy our groceries.
We swore off religion after that
except for walking in the woods
and the annual Mystery Play
  
The church fills early Christmas Eve
with moms in mink, tall dads of industry, 
and lanky children home from Yale.
Amid the reek of lilies, the embrace of Bach, 
a swirl of  nubile shepherdesses, and 
the well-fed tread of Magian kings,
a child is born, our candles lit.
  
With organ blasts we take our 
wonderment into the night,
where it quickly thins and dims 
and mingles with 
the background radiation
of the universe.

QUERY

Now, and now, and now,
the village tocsin tolls,
but when that's done 
it’s long since then. 
So tell us, bellman,
if you can, 
just when in Hell 
are we?