What remedy is known to man
when season’s change so unexpectedly?
What balm has been invented to heal
such woes?

I only know it’s so
that winter follows fall, and when the cold
seems just too much to bear, fair April
smiles upon us.

We soak up rays of August  sun as if
summer were the only season
with an expertise for healing
time’s onslaught.

Ah, but September is waiting in the wings,
a bit more mature but young enough
to celebrate with bonfires
and guitars.

The air’s acrackle with sparks
of falling leaves and fireflies. Apples
turn their taste to cider. The harvest in, we bask
in the realization

of the bounty of our blessings.
Contentment claims the senses. What is summer
without the knowledge of winter,
and the hope of Spring?

Therein is the truest anodyne. Time is bound
to do its thing.  Our role in this great quest
for wings is to jump right in and join
the celebration.

More than Rabbit in the Hat

August is serenely sunny,
It’s more than illusion,
Everything is blooming,
The light
fills all my empty spaces.

I didn’t know it was possible
to soar with feet on the ground.
Eye to eye with the tops of pines,
there is so much to tell you
about what it is like up here.

Everything exists on the edge of
a breath.  Both delicate and durable,
our time is a tapestry
and this
is a beautiful scene.

That’s My Story…

and I’m sticking to it.

Slacking again, I guess?
Five days away and not a word,
flaky bird to take flight
into the vast unknown.

I own it, mea culpa
all the way. But I can explain.
Truth is stranger than fiction
and I can prove it.

Let’s see…who takes a job
at seventy-three? Woe is me.
What car with forty thousand miles
turns from friend to foe?

I didn’t need that “I” light,
bright as it was and such a lovely shade,
to know there was a plight developing.
I felt the power steering

fade into oblivion. If the wheels
were moving, I could guide it
using both arms and a grunt, but
don’t stop.

I did.  Don’t back up. I tried.
No go. I snuffled a bit and then
remembered I’m never alone.
I drove

that dang thing home. almost
a hundred miles. I ached but
did not brake but for necessity,
and that most carefully.

I made it home without a hitch.
One thought in my head,  I’m trading it.
I did. Told them what I wanted,
so have it ready please.

Everything arranged before I got there.
Trouble is,  en route to new car heaven,
I had to tell my baby I was trading her.
She balked. I backed up

into a stump with a sign on it*…couldn’t help it,
couldn’t steer. Damage?  Oh yeah, the metal sign post
pierced her precious hip. The stump attempted
to decapitate her bumper.

A hand was on my shoulder. I got my new Verona**.
It steers with just a touch.  Such luxury is almost
too good to be true.  Sorry for the slacking.  Tomorrow
I’ll catch up with all of you.


*btw, the sign said:  Please Drive Carefully,
True story start to finish.

**Name changed to protect the innocent
(plus I’m holding out for ad fees)

And just to add an extra twist…Here
is the URL to this post:


The Whistling Buoy

“The whistling buoy is a signal to approach boldly; informing the mariner that he is in a position of safety,”  from The Whistling Buoy [Volume 22, Issue 132, Dec 1893

Having finally realized I am unsure
about a lot of things, like
Who is a god, the river
or the builder of bridges?
These questions
that straight jacket my mind,
will have their time and then
fade into the realization
that one’s truth might be a matter
of perspective

and perspective no more
than a slave to experience.
Imagine the water unbridged
by foot or flight. To be confined
to no farther than we could swim
would surely proclaim as god whatever
bridged the river. Come a flood
that ripped the pilings all asunder,
demolishing the arching splendor,
I wonder if

we might decide it is the river
that is a god, an angry one.
By then, long in the tooth
and denying tunnel vision,
we proclaim no doubt
that what we think is right.
But that is not the end.  Just when
we think we have it figured out,
along comes another generation
with a better bridge

or an innocence of tsunami.
We assign the problem to robots.
They have no preconceptions, only
those programmed in and discarded
by gigo logic. How much will our history
matter then? Will the robots build a better bot?
Who will calm the storm and quench
the flame? It is then we ascertain,
neither the river nor the bridge is a god. That
is reason enough to capitalize His name.



Count them One by One

Having vowed not to complain
about summer’s rising temperatures
nor its squalling storms,
I lounge inside decrying the persistent hum
of the a.c.  —  Woe is me.

Apparently born to discontent,
I remember winter, vividly.
‘Twas then, when walking through drifts
knee deep and rising higher
I made that foolish vow.

And now, in leisure to repent,
the only entertainment affordable
to see is watching the electric meter
spinning wildly like a wheel of fortune
that will not stop for me.

Never satisfied, it seems, I sit,
mere sum of the self, wishing
for sun when it rains, for cool
in the heat, and suddenly I think,
July is just fine.

Thus in the throes of déjà vu,
I wonder if you, too, are sitting
in the comfort of your feathered nest
sipping from a beaded glass of tea
and wisely counting your blessings.