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Poems and Thoughts by Frank Maurer

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Youth

Key to Success opus 6

An ever unfolding dynamic life
Leads us to ever-new revelations.
How we evaluate and react,
Is the key to the Game of Life--
Whether or not the result leads to success
Is manifested in the application
Of one's foresight, wisdom, and experience.

If only we could somehow learn this in our youth!
Some learn; some do not.

Goli opus 11

How joyous it was watching you photograph
A few of our fellow creatures (dragonflies!).
I identified so much that you were I,
As you patiently crouched and waited
For your subject to present itself
In a perfect manner (with music!).

Please consider using your photos
With your future daycare children.
They would be delighted
To know you took the photos
And to hear your explanations of nature.

(Consult me for any nature questions you seek!)

Your devoted and caring friend,
Frank.

The Connecting Limb opus 20

After many decades I returned to my natal town.
I walked here and there to see what had changed.
My original house was a certain destination.
Two houses to the south on Lake Avenue,
Was a gently lower sloped area behind the old gray Daugherty home,
Where we climbed trees--mostly maples--Acer saccharum
I sought out one tree through which we often climbed,
To see if the arboreal aberration of my youth still existed.
I looked and looked upwards, but did not see the object of my visual seeking.
It was a limb with a comfortable circumference
From which we hung, marveling simultaneously:
This particular limb was connected on two ends,
Bridging itself between two trunks!
What anonymous growth act caused this strange structure?
Two trunks bound by a contiguous limb?

The fascination was more than a passing thought.
All us boys continually enjoyed
Touching that strange limb, just for a moment.

My Wonderful Tree House opus 57

The huge White oak, Quercus alba, stood waiting in our yard.
It was almost begging that a little boy
Would hoist up 'prefabricated' framing
To finally form a well constructed tree house!
It was to be my hideaway after a day at school.
I sometimes even slept there overnight, much to the chagrin of my parents!
To ascend, a pulley and a rope system lifted me
With its board seat through the first stage,
Then, with railroad spikes carefully driven into the trunk, to complete the trek.
These devices ultimately protected the tree inhabitant
From any enemy marauder attempting to invade,
Yielding to the occupant, bliss, thirty feet high up in the air.

Frank the Milkman opus 61

Twice a week, Frank, the milkman, would back his truck into our long driveway.
Bottles would clink and an array of milk would appear.
Used bottles were exchanged and off he would go.

One day, Frank asked my mother if I might ride with him on his route.
I had shown interest as a young boy and was thus rewarded.
What a wonderful trip through my neighborhood in a MILK TRUCK!
I will always remember how Frank, the milkman,
Had fulfilled a little boy's dream--
To ride and deliver things in a milk truck!

A Time to Decide opus 74

I am a sun child; A flower child.
And a child of pacifism and peace.

As a child, when confronted with a fight, I ran.
When my brother, John, would confront me pugnaciously
I would turn and run into the bathroom and lock the door;
I knew I was bigger and would hurt him.

Later, real decisions were to be pondered.
A war, the 'Vietnam War' was raging.
I was in graduate school studying,
But working with the Cornell Young Quakers as well.
In protest, we carried medical supplies
Across the Peace Bridge to Canada
Symbolically stating that the American Red Cross
Should not be restricted to help only US soldiers
And not others in need.

Then the government applications for the status of Pacifist.
My lottery number was 374 and all I could do was wait.
My choices were to serve as a medic in the military;
Or to serve time in prison as a non-cooperator;
Or flee to Canada to live a new and different life.

No choice, in the end, had to be made:
The war, as all wars eventually do, ended.
I had stood up for what I thought was right.
Then, with some mental wounds,
I was obliged to responsibly carry on with the rest of my life.

4 January 1980, Sacramento, California opus 76

My second son, after Pierre, was Basil Gavin.
Unlike his brother born in Africa,
Basil was an urban-birthed baby, born in Sacramento.
To carry on custom and that to which we were used to,
We found a hospital that conducted 'home births' with backup!
The young doctor was bearded and a bit Bohemian.
Thus, I offered to pay part of the expense with a butchered sheep!
He accepted and the moment finally came.
Pierre had been a breech, resulting in a Cesarean;
Basil would be a 'normal' birth--whatever that means.
As with Pierre, things got a little complex.
Forceps were needed to bring him out.
(Otherwise, nothing else unusual was required!)

After a time of recuperation, we all came home--
Once again, on our farm in Davis,
Basil was snuggled by a wood stove in the living room.
That's where life began and went on for many years--
A pastoral life, blended with remembrances of a former African experience.

Basil's Sweet Look opus 79

In order to build a closer relationship with my second son, Basil,
Santa left some money for Basil to take his father, me, out for lunch,
Followed by a shopping time for Basil to choose a special gift.
The trip started with a lunch at an Olive Garden Restaurant.
We consumed wonderful Italian cuisine,
And at the end, Basil pulled out his gift from Santa,
Held the bills and looked sheepishly at me.
Such a sweet look he flashed in my direction--
My heart ached with a joyful feeling;
Just for a moment, but one to remember forever.

Marshfield Woman. One opus 80

My friend, Eddy Fineberg, of high school days, and I,
Decided to take a longish bike trip from Newton, Mass, to the Cape.
Unbeknownst to us, a hurricane was pending,
But into the unknown fray we went.
On a beach near Marshfield on the Cape, the storm met us.
I remember the wind and the waves--
The sand, driving parallel to the ground against our faces.
As young guys, this was just adventure.

On the beach, we met a group who invited us to their beach house.
Once inside, they explained that their father
Had constructed this snug and low structure to withstand any storm;
It was true: low concrete walls wedged into the rock wall.
The interaction amongst us was wondrous for me.
I was invited by one--a woman of about 40--
To visit her and her childrens' Marshfield home someday.
She was lovely, friendly and sympathetic towards a young man.
Eddy and I stayed and slept on the floor during the night's storm.
Next day, we all eventually said goodbye
And I waited in my heart to make that intriguing visit.

Marshfield Woman. Two opus 81

I had met her and her family during the hurricane.
I liked her and, being 17 and could drive,
I was invited to her Marshfied home;
A 200 year old house of durable New England style.
We talked and played with her children
And she and I talked about many things--
Even though she was many years older than I.
I had a feeling of love for her as the moments passed on.
I was a young man with desire--
She was responsive and fulfilled my young needs for female companionship.

There was nothing more.
We lost touch, but I always remember
Her attentiveness and recognition of me as a maturing man.

My Brother John opus 87

My brother John was two years younger than I
And two years older than my sister, Susan.
The two, being part of an odd number of siblings,
Would often form an alliance, leaving me the third one out.
I was often in some brotherly combat where I thought I might harm him.
There were times,when a conflict would become too aggressive,
And therefore I would run and hide in the locked bathroom,
So as not to cause a possible injury.

John was a very good looking boy.
He was very popular and behaved as a cool kid.
I would ride my bike everywhere,
Carrying a briefcase in high school and wearing a trench coat.
John would have none of that by walking and carrying a bookbag.

I listened to and played classical music,
While John was a 'pop guy'--the Top Twenty.
I went to college (Antioch) and he became a walking postman.
John married a young woman--I forget her name.
He 'rescued' her from a family struggling and aspiring to be 'upper class'.
The parents were forcing her to come out as a debutante.
She wanted none of it; John and she married;
I was not there, but my parents were the only guests at the wedding.
If there were other reasons, I do not know of them.

Later I had an Antioch Co-op job in the San Francisco area--Richmond--
Working as a biologist, collecting whale specimens
In the last of whaling in the United States.
John and Ann--her name I now remember--
Came to visit me at my co-op job area, meeting me in Chinatown.
Marriage had matured John and we three had a wonderful time:
I remember taking several photos--
One of John standing up on the base of a lamp post.

Back to work, I was sampling whale vitals as they were brought in for slaughter.
One night about 2 AM, as I remember,
The payphone in the hallway rang--
I thinking it was notice of the boats once again arriving.
It was my father, saying John was hunting and had been killed by a stray bullet.

My knees weakened with confusion, but a determination came over me.
I wandered through the streets of Point Richmond,
Ending up at Gretta Tedrick's house (at 2 AM)-- a family I had befriended.
They let me in and I listened to Bach's B Minor Mass on their record player.
After which, I flew to Pacific Palisades and the funeral.
I talked a lot with Ann's sister and walked with her
Through the chaparral in the neighborhood.

At the chapel, I remember requesting some music by Bach;
I had, thus, prevented some schmaltzy, 'nothing' music to be played.
There was a reception perhaps, or some get together at the house.

Life went on and flowed into all the kaleidoscope of events that have followed.
Do read my several written thoughts and be informed of other remnants of my life.

The Poppies of Elsinore, California opus 92

When I was 10, I had my own paper route.
I folded each paper, stuffed them all in the cloth paperbag,
And rode off on my bicycle.
One afternoon about 1951, I was folding the papers
And reading the headlines that day as I folded,
I saw something I would never forget--
Why, I do not know, but there it was:
"The Earth's Population is now 3 Billion People."

Of course, now within my lifetime of 71 years from that time,
The earth has reached a growing total of over 8 billion persons!
The predictions are that things may level off at 10 or 11 billion.
Goodness-------.
Now on the radio today there was a news item
That in 2019, Elsinore, California, had thousands of visitors
To view the superabundance of Spring poppies.
So many people that it clogged the town to a standstill--
No towns people could follow their normal movements!
The highway blocked, driveways blocked, shopping centers blocked!
Then, Covid for two years and no visitors.
Now 2023 arrives with another poppy bumper crop.
The town was so traumatized in 2019,
That the mayor proclaimed all peripheral roads and parks were closed--
There were so many people who came before,
That now, NO ONE could enjoy the canyon flowers by the town.

Three billion to eight billion population and everyone is penalized--
Just trying to view some flowers!
Will we be able to manage our populations
With ever more growing vital life needs such as
Meds distribution, food availability, fuel consumption?
How might we really manage with such chaos?

Juan the Basque opus 102

I am of the Basque stock--
Sheep and our coexistence therewith.
Our ancestors left the Old Ways and territories--
North of Spain and the wonders of that place,
To the rough wilds of mountainous Nevada.
Sheep were the source of meat and wool:
Work to butcher; work to shear; work to move for ever-new pastures.

I remember as a boy our movements from place to place in Nevada--
From Duck Water (near Ely), north, to Mountain City (north of Elko) in the Spring
And then back south to Duck Water in the Fall.
All the mountains were nicely arranged,
Their spines protruding North to South.
They guided our directional herding very well.

Now on the trail: dogs, horses, with thousands of bearers of wool.
I remember the sounds--bleeting and baahing:
The smell of dust and urine, and faeces and lanolin.
We moved slowly North and South, time after time.
Camped; the dogs managing the animals.
Our fires warmed us and gave us heat for cooking.
Coyotes occasionally crying out mournfully, beautifully in the distance--
Sometimes not so distant.
Vigilance; and human responsibility for those coexisting.

The final times of herding were always
A relief as well as a loss of a magical existence.
Back to 'civilization' and those fellows
Who comprehended nor felt nothing of what we had done.

Each time I touch an article of wool,
Now in my urban life,
I longingly recall those marvellous days
Which, except in far places of the earth,
Will never be repeated in my time nor place.

Some Thoughts opus 106

I am older now--coming on 82 years!
I wonder how, with so many dropping dead around me,
That I have made it so far.
The ones close and still around me--many--ignore me
Or are short, and only text--seeing that they
Have such 'demanding' pressure to exist!

I remember the (Newton, MA) neighbor children
Across the street banging their kitchen pots--
The end of WWII of which I was not really cognisant
Nor of its horrors.
I did learn later how my father designed
The Army Aircorps oxygen masks to fly--freeze free--
Higher above the Axis powers' aircraft.

I timidly was involved in the Civil Rights movement,
But when Vietnam loomed into our lives,
I was strongly involved in protests and countering wherever I could.

The planet is now challenged with our neglect of the air and sea.
The remainder of my life will be towards staving off this disaster.

But as I age, there are those who respect my efforts
And those who do not yet recognize my worth:
Strong statements to put me in my place.
Loving outreach which I wish for;
Lost because of the new communication--
Little talk and only the cold world of texting and emails.

I am not sure of what will become of me or my conservation attempts.
I feel helpless in the looming of inevitable death.
I will be in eternal darkness and powerlessness.
No longer able to care nor help nor act.
Will someone reach out with a soft, warm, loving hand?

Flying I. Dream of Flying opus 110

As a child, I always longed to fly.
I would stand at one end of a field
And, with my wings which were part of my body,
I would start to run, wings outspread and pumping;
Slowly I arose into the air, my legs bending backward.
Straining ever-more, I strove with great effort
To rise higher and higher--the goal was to be able
To clear the hedge of trees which confronted me.
In my mind of imagination, I would always
Be relieved when I would always clear the trees.

Having accomplished my act towards complete freedom,
I winged my way across the world to pure adventure.

Flying II. A Trip to Buzzards Bay opus 111

Being quite young--perhaps 4 in 1945,
I remember one trip with my Dad to Buzzards Bay, MA.
We were in the high altitude equipment production plant,
I, standing next to his right side,
As he expounded some directions to a coworker.
My Dad always had soft, large hands,
With a particular scent.
I will always remember that sweet, masculine scent.
I am not sure what moved me at that moment,
But I recall moving closer to his side
(I was tall enough to reach his hand on his extended arm)
And nuzzled my nose into his palm,
Inhaling his delicious scent; giving me a childlike high
And a basic mammalian feeling of belonging
To another of my species:
To another whom I knew had accomplished important and great feats--
And to whom I belonged as a child of my dear Father.

Flying III. At the Airport opus 112

I dreamed of flying all through my childhood--
First, by having actual wings which were a part of my body musculature,
Followed by a more realistic bonding with actual flying machines.
Growing older--10 or 12--I often asked my father
About the many stories I heard him tell concerning testing, the terrible 'bends',
And the triumphs and manufacture of his war-time inventions.

(My father did a great deal of business flying--
Let alone, having designed the oxygen mask and other related equipment
For higher flights--41,000 feet--by our pilots during WWII,
Who were assaulted from above by--for a while--Axis pilots.)

As a result of hearing all this past history during my youth,
I wanted to see real aircraft and thus one day,
Departed with my father to the Boston Logan International Airport to watch planes!

There was a long viewing ramp along the roof
On which I roamed from area to area--
Following all the arrivals and departures of every airline--a thrill a moment!
I could have wandered back and forth forever,
But there was always that time to go home.

Flying IV. The Interview opus 113

As my interest for flight was increasing ever-more,
And I had reached the Junior High level,
I was assigned, along with all my classmates,
For each of us to interview a person in a desired, future profession.
Of course I chose to speak with a pilot.
Somehow, because of all the 'Million Miles' my father had accrued,
He managed an interview for me with an American Airlines pilot;
With all my written questions ready--
And planned space to pen my expected answers.

I remember the sunny afternoon, driving together with my Dad,
Back to the airport, but now to a large office complex
Below the observation walkway where I had watched planes so often in the past.

The interview went well, yielding in depth information,
And I left feeling a greater longing to somehow fly a plane.

My Lost, Saved Tooth opus 124

I remember it was the day Einstein died--
In the 50's.
My family, including Dad, Mother, John, and Susan,
Was doing the traditional family visit to Washington, D.C.;
Our impressive, but historically troubled capitol.

We children were "horsing around" in the morning hotel room
And my mother was just plain fed up,
Grabbed her hairbrush and attempted to smack me on the rear--
But, I swung around and the blow landed on my mouth!

Well, the tooth eventually died;
The root was refilled and remains now a dead entity.
In later age, as my other teeth are themselves challenged,
One that is standing strong is the old, dead tooth!

Indeed, one may not always be able to extrapolate an unexpected future!

{'The best laid schemes o' Mice and Men gang oft agley (awry),
Robert Burns, November 1785.}

Wasting Food opus 129

We live in a generally wealthy society with, for most, plenty of food.
Indeed, too many choices, flavors, brands. . . . . . .
How many times have you been invited to another's dinner
And, after partaking in a marvellous meal,
The table is cleared and most of the leftovers, slopped down the disposal?
One friend reported she had relatives come to their home to stay awhile,
And they complained (!) about the cooking,
Took over the kitchen, prepared far too much for each meal,
And proceded to attempt to cast the rest down the disposal!
The host at that point, put her foot down--
"We do not throw good food away; we use the leftovers!"
Well, nothing changed and all continued as before,
So, when the guests departed, the friend said to me,
"And now we are eating many leftovers from a very full fridge!"

I also had a similar experience several years ago,
When partaking of dinner with a family of four (with two ten year olds).
I distinctly remember hotdogs, buns and other sundries
Pushed from each 'finished' plate into that gaping hole in the middle of the sink!

200 tons or more per day, much directly off our plates, are discarded
By families, restaurants, and processors in this country.
How can this be occurring so rampantly?
I was made to 'eat three bites' of something not liked at the table;
My children were guided to do the same.
In a school where I taught in Switzerland,
I followed the same practice with great success--
One stubborn eater even declared, after trying his three bites,
 "This was great food", and demonstratively gulped it all down.

Do we just have too much, with too many choices
And also along with that, too little discipline,
Allowing our children and then, later adults,
To be continually spoiled as they proceed through all of life's experiences?

As a farmer, among other things, to make all ends meet,
My mindset had been successfully formed by my parents' approach to food and dining.
Wastefulness in one of life's practices may very well lead
To a myriad of other undesirable approaches to life.

Coming from a farmer, ecologist, teacher, parent, and octogenarian,
This might not be such bad advice for the challenges we face in this new 21st century!

Voice Changes opus 157

The voice depends mostly on the tautness and length of the vocal cords
And how tightly they contract as the air from the lungs hits them.
The voice of a child is high because the larynx is small,
The vocal cords being short, thin, and tight.
At birth the vocal cords (or folds) of both boys and girls measure about 2 millimeters long.
Those of girls grow 0.4 mm per year, while those of boys grow 0.7 mm.
Finally, girls' vocal folds reach 10 mm, while boys' are 16 mm,
Producing the lower or deeper voice of males.
With puberty, the larynx grows, the vocal cords lengthen and thicken,
Thus causing the voice of both males and females to deepen.
The further 'culprit' in boys is the additional flush of testosterone.
The female voice remains relatively higher, as explained, because of shorter cords.

As adults age, vocal cords become thinner,
The cartilage of the larynx becomes harder and less flexible,
Causing the alteration of the voice.
Thus the pitch of the voice changes with age:
Often rendering it to be higher in older men and lower in older women.
Additionally, the musculature of an elder's larynx
May weaken or cause a quavering quality called vocal tremors.
The voice may be further changed with a stooped posture
Or the lessening of lung capacity,
Thus reducing the air flow through the larynx, furthering voice alteration.

This is why older men with a remaining rich, robust voice,
Often cause remarks from others as to how young they sound!
Radio material.

Baby Bones opus 158

Newborn babies reportedly have 300 'bones',
Compared to an adult human, having only 206!
Really? (The secret is the 300 'bones' vs. 206 bones.)
To get through the birth canal,
The baby must be like the satellite in space,
Unfolding piece by piece to manifest the final morphology!
The so-called baby bones are actually pieces of cartilage,
Which, with maturity, will fuse into the final 206.

An example is the bregma, consisting of many soft spots
On the skull called fontanelles,
Most of which fuse by 2 to 3 months,
The last largest one fuses by about 18 months.
Just imagine--the final ossification process
In the human body occurs in the mid-20s!
And just think--a child can vote, learn to kill in the military,
Or drink itself to death before the 'final ossification'!

'Iqra' or 'Read' opus 168

Iqra is the name given to a new girl-child, American citizen.
Her Afghani parents escaped the Taliban, experiencing a perilous flight.
They finally were humanely allowed to enter the US
Because their 3 year old daughter was terribly ill.
The 6-month-old, new sibling sister, was named 'Iqra' or 'Read'.
Iqra's father said he named her in defiance of the Taliban regime,
Which, as we well know, is opposed to educating girls.
Half of that country's population hides in languish,
Because of the misinterpretation of Islam!

The fate of so many human groups throughout history,
Have resulted, for good or for evil,
From the 'well meaning interpretation' of some 'chosen high priest'.

Eco Distress opus 200

What have we done? / What are we doing?
To our young population in the name of energy?
A new malaise has arisen among our human masses--
Eco distress--climate anxiety--is cluttering those innocent heads.
They feel the guilt, while maturing during their youth,
That nothing significant might be accomplished by them.
They also feel anger that their elders
Have done little--only enjoying their comforts.
As with all mammals, a basic sense of habitat decay eventually creates despair.

The energy corporations have continually denied any wrongdoing--
Reminiscent of the decades of denial by the tobacco peddlers.

The gregarious young converge to 'Climate Cafes',
Attempting through eco therapy, to somehow desperately
Allay their anxiety as to just how
They might survive flooding or basic desiccation,
Manifesting a slow choking, slipping away of their very lives.

R3 Food Dye opus 205

Humans create products with good taste and attractive color,
So that the purchase and consumption will be ever-increased.
It is Halloween and one possible danger is the ubiquitous Candy Corn sweet.
It contains the food dye R3 which studies have shown,
Ingestion by, especially children, increases hyperactivity.
Many superfluous items are added to our foods,
Which are mildly or strongly adverse to our health.
As Michael Pollan states in his book,'Omnivore's Dilemma',
'Shop on the outer walls of a grocery store,
To find the purest of healthy, unprocessed foods
For you and your offspring.'
Do not become paranoid, just be ever-vigilant!

Chance, My Grandson opus 207

Chance had tremendous challenges in his early life--
He had terrible digestive pain with much of what he ingested.
Diet, under the guidance of his parents,
Was juggled to make food intake less painful.
Chance had a 'different' sort of face,
With a cute, crooked smile (according to his father),
And strove hard to get over his weaknesses.
This boy, with his striving, did indeed, overcome those problems,
And he continually reminded me with his similarity
To Theodore Roosevelt's health struggles.
Chance worked on building up his body
By bike riding, bodybuilding, and coming to our farm to work.
When I offered to pay him for his labors,
He said, "I want no money from you, you are family!"
Chance increasingly became very popular with both his peers and elders.

One evening he borrowed his grandmother's car
And drove to the beach for recreation in the sand.
Something horrible occurred, where speed and three boys
Resulted in a terrible crash--all beyond recognition.

His absence has been a deafening silence--
We miss his airy countenance, always raising up our spirits.

Music To My Ears, I. The Early Days opus 210

Since I was tiny, I always had music in my life.
My mother played the old upright piano
During the day at times and later, to put us to sleep.
At five, I started piano lessons with a neighbor teacher.
I advanced some, even recording a duet,
"The Happy Farmer" with my mother.
Mrs. Winkler, married to a Swede who sold knicknack stuff,
As near as I remember, from his car, was my teacher.
She was stiff and formal
And I soon decided at six or seven years to stop.
My mother told me, Winkler had said I would never play music again!
In the meantime, I discovered at six
A big, deep cabinet my father had hand constructed for my mother,
In which were classical 78 record albums--
Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Beethoven, and perhaps Wagner;
Large albums of three to five 78 records--six to ten sides with complete works.
I played them all over and over again.
Once, when I was deep in thought, musically,
My mother came by and said, "Why don't you go out and play?"
Another time she came by and asked, "What are you thinking?"
I seriously answered her, "I am contemplating death."
(I had raised and butchered rabbits from the age of six,
So I knew the 'birds and bees' of rabbits (and humans!)
And how to ready a rabbit for the pot in 20 minutes--
I got faster 'as I aged'!)
At ten years old, I attended dance school with Mrs. Cohn.
I always sat near the trio of men who talked with me--piano, sax, and drums.
In sixth grade at Hyde Elementary School,
They needed an upright double bassist.
I had been given a 'Seashore Test' to check musical prowess and ability--
I may remember it was administered to my whole class.
Well, the music teacher approached me to join the orchestra and play bass.
We had an hour and a half lunch hour between sessions.
Instead of going home for lunch, I practiced by myself
And after one half hour, I walked home, two blocks away,
Lunched and walked back to school.
This continued in Junior High School, when I finally got my own instrument.
It was a big, old, very dark heavy bass,
Which had been, not delicately, reconstructed.

In High School, I went to a private music school for lessons--
My mother drove me and the bass, four miles to the school each week.
My teacher was Mr. Spinney, an older, dark haired,
Very soft spoken man, whom I respected very much
And from whom I learned techniques and fingering.
(He helped prepare me for the school's annual concert--Grieg's piano concerto.)
After about three years he told me I was ready for a more advanced teacher.
He suggested a bassist in the Boston Symphony!
I was about to graduate and leave for Antioch College, Yellow Springs, Ohio,
So I did not follow that advice--who knows what that might have led to!
I left Newton, Massachusetts, and my first wonderful girlfriend,
Seta DerHohanessian, an incredible flautist, whom I loved dearly.
I will always remember my first date, when I drove my parents' car to Seta's home.
We, with others, played the Bach Flute Concerto in B flat.
I was in heaven, with her and being allowed to drive alone--
My wilder, younger brother, John, was not allowed to drive until after 16!
(Seta and I lost track until 30 years later, when we met during my 50th HS Reunion.
She was a year older, so I actually attended two Senior Proms!)

One outstanding memory was when Donald March, HS orchestra director,
Allowed me to conduct the orchestra for some piece, which I remember not;
Yet another moment of being in musical heaven.
I was indeed very content with those early musical years
And, indeed, with almost every day of my youthful process, becoming an adult.

White Boards opus 211

What have we come up with now??
Instead of government controlling extravagant killer guns,
Society, in our Republic, must always attempt defensive methods
To protect our children and their teachers in schools!
Entrepreneurs are now trying to gain 'benevolent' profits,
By producing a teaching white board to be used in schools
Which can be transformed into a bullet-proof shield
So that teachers and pupils might hide themselves,
Waiting for (Texas) reluctant 'peace' officers
To decide just when they might invade a 'dying' classroom,
With THEIR protective shields enabling their safety,
Rather than quickly moving in to restore sanity!

The Tusk opus 212

When I was a young boy in Newton, Massachusetts,
My neighbors on one side were an elderly Armenian couple.
Harry Adalian and his wife, Lucy, spent their early lives in Turkiye.
One of his stories, 
Was how a Turkish soldier had swung his sword
Reaching to his left ear,
And sliced off the edge of his ear--
I did not know then, but he had been a part of the Armenian Genocide.

Harry came often to visit, 'consulting' on various family projects,
Like when we dug our little fish/turtle pond--
A summer project for me and my younger brother, John,
Which we dug in two days!
Harry suggested to my father that it should be named "The Little Sip",
Contrasting to an ocean, "The Big Drink".

At any rate, I was later told that Harry was dying,
And I was asked to come visit to say goodbye.
We talked together--I was precocious and had many adult friends.
Harry then pointed to a long, spiralling tusk in the corner.
He said it was a narwhal tusk, brought back by Admiral Byrd
And had been presented to Mayor Curley of Boston,
Who then passed it on to Harry, a prominent local rug dealer.
Harry then said, "I want to give this to you,
Since you are a budding young naturalist,"

The tusk travelled with me as a prize and loved possession
Around the world from MA to OH to NY to Turkiye to Africa to Sweden,
And then returned to California, where it stayed.
One day on my farm in Davis, California,
I walked by my door, where the tusk always stood
And it was gone--my heart literally sank.
I was then much older--80--and this was to be passed on to my two sons.
I had invited only two or so people to come into my house,
As I had been ill for a while,
So its disappearance was mysterious, but suspicious.
I had not realized how much I had cared for that tusk;
Its beauty, its history with dear Harry, and indeed,
Its very own history, coming from so far away.
I wait for its return--perhaps its new owner will grow tired
And realize it truly belongs to its rightful owner.
I have a few years, perhaps, to wait and anticipate its return.

Windchimes by my Window opus 214

I loved sailing as a young man--
The invisible power of the wind, moving a vehicle.
I also flew kites as a child.
One was so large it nearly lifted my brother off the ground!
On our frozen lake in the winter,
I sail skated with a gigantic kite held on my shoulder.
Often as I conducted my field work in Wyoming--
I raised two or three kites simultaneously, tied to my van.

With a quieter life on my farm, but still with wind,
I collected windchimes--always lovely, each very different.
I sit outside under the tree which, now large,
Was one of my mother's living Christmas trees,
Enjoying the chorus of chimes as I read and pen my thoughts.
Also, as I am doing right now, I awake very early to write,
Listening to my family of chimes outside my window--
Remembering all of my life's encounters with the wind.

Reconciliation or (just) Recognition? opus 228

Three generations sat together at Thanksgiving,
Discussing, in part, their problems with communication.
The oldest one, who spoke well,
And did not grow up with electronic communication,
Actually apologized for having been so stubborn
To resist the new electronic mode of talking.
The middle generation liked the apology,
But offered no compromise.
The youngest of the generations,
Admitted he just did not use email and will not talk
With the oldest generation's attempt
Of at least trying to pass on something to him!
From the elder's viewpoint, minimally,
He only made a truce of emotion,
And gained no true compromise from the other two;
Hardly reconciliation and perhaps just recognition.

Humans are the only animal who evolutionarily
Can speak and have a complex, written language.
Will this marvelous genetic ability languish--unused--
And mutate back to vocal grunts and silence,
Augmented by spurts of electricity?

A Vietnam Memory opus 246

The war was waiting for all the young.
I had read the New Republic which questioned our involvement.
I joined the Cornell Quakers Youth Group and was soon elevated to President.
This resulted in a protest march across the Peace Bridge into Canada.
What to do? What to do? What to do?
My choices soon became clear, if my number in the 300's came to the fore--
Become an A1, weaponless medic or ambulance driver--
Become a non-cooperator and go to prison--
Or emigrate to Canada as a persona-non-grata, with a price on my head--
Such decisions for a 19 year old were terrifying.
I could well imagine the reality of each choice:
Horrible death / isolation in a cell / or a stranger in a foreign land.

The draft ended and my number never came up--
Relief, guilt, life continuing, finding work in a strained economy.
I survived, but with mental scars which would last a lifetime.

Orientation to Our World opus 249

Humans always knew that which was around them:
Plants for food and medicines,
Creatures from termites to antelope for nutrition,
Poisonous species from both Kingdoms,
And perfect orientation to travel here and there.

In the Kalahari I saw all of this manifested--
A Bushman (now better called San, Khwe, Basarwa, Khoisan)
Even guided us for many miles,
Through the 'featureless' bush, compass in his head,
To a single cave (Drotsky's) which we wished to study.

Today our youth devour fatty, sugar-laden junk food,
And have no idea of what they have passed,
Using the mindless, electronic GPS which,
If the system were to fail, they would be utterly lost.

A New Perspective on Santa opus 252

This is a saga told to me by my son, Pierre.
Rowan, my grandson, was being initiated
Into the stories of Santa Claus and
From where some presents come.
After a few tales of initiation, Rowan became emotional--
Non-cooperative, crying, and with belligerent behavior.
Both parents were clueless as to why.

After a time, it was slowly revealed
That the concept of Santa coming down the chimney
Created a disturbing thought of a stranger-intruder.
This might be because of all the news
Of violence surrounding us?
This imagined intrusion outscored
The thought of incoming presents!

The Fire Pole opus 257

I grew up in Newton, Massachusetts,
The city, with a good educational system.
As many of you did, third graders toured
Their neighborhoods.
The one trip I remember was to the fire department.
And there was the brass fire pole!
The firemen demonstrated coming down
Through that hole in the ceiling!

Years later, now with two sons, living in their barn room,
And remembering my past, I asked
If they wished to have a pole.
Giving a resounding 'yes',
I simply cut a hole in the floor!
During all their youth,
Descending for school or chores,
They each glided down a pole to meet the day.

'Vertebra' opus 259

(My daughter-in-law rarely communicates in any form, so it was a surprise
that I received a text! 5 January 2024.)

I have had an occasional visit from my 3 year old grandson, Rowan,
Who traversed my farm, talking with me about encountered objects.
He pointed out a whale vertebra, from one of my earlier biology jobs.
I repeated the word, 'vertebra', many times,
Also pointing out his own vertebrae, comprising his backbone.
My grandson had a great time and went back home.

Eight days later, his mother sent this text to me:

    Hi, Frank, sorry (as usual) for the lack of contact.
    I wanted to let you know something you would enjoy.
    Tonight Rowan said, "I hope my vertebrae are doing ok."
    I asked him where he learned such a sophisticated word.

    And he said, "From Papa Frank."

  It was quite impressive and very sweet.
  Thank you for teaching him these important things
  That he will carry forward in his life.
  I appreciate it.

I answered, "Yes, he liked that word. We were looking at
My whale vertebra then to his back."

Such an unpredictable, unforecast pleasure!

The USS Constitution: Recollections of a Boy on One of Our Greatest Ships opus 272

Now sitting in Boston Harbor--Still commissioned!
The USS Constitution was visited by a small school boy.
A very large ship for a little boy,
Who imagined all that might have occurred,
While this ship was a weapon maintaining freedom.

Quick maneuvering, flashing cannons on her decks,
Dexterously guided by her captains.
It is said, cannon balls were deflated by her oaken hull.
That is the origin for the name 'Old Ironsides'.
Very low decks, as remembered by one
Who imagined how much bending would be needed
To be a tall man in amongst such quarters.
Used by Jefferson to quell
The ravaging Tripoli pirates in the Barbary War!
This beautiful wind powered ship
Shall always be a memory of inspiration
To now a grown, experienced cosmopolitan man,
Who continually revered every moment,
While conducting his own sailing.

(Reviewing sections of Kilmeade's and Yeager's
'Thomas Jefferson and the Tripoli Pirates', I was jolted
into what was done with pirates blocking US trade and
today's efforts to break the world blockade of the Red Sea
and Suez by the Yemeni Houthis. History does repeat itself--
the Mediterranean and now the Red Sea. I was truly
overwhelmed reviewing our history.
My breath was taken away, almost to tears.)

Ellie The Governor opus 276

I just heard that the state of New Hampshire
Has an interesting annual event--
Namely, the government invites a fifth grader
To be 'governor for a day'.
This year the young governor was Ellie Lively
Who proclaimed her 'haupt' agenda--
Combating animal cruelty,
Educating Fifth Graders to visit animal shelters,
And follow Ellie's example of regularly
Reading to shelter animals in her local shelter.
If she is successful, other students will do the same,
Wherever they reside in the state.

We need more of this type of thinking,
Also for our 'unsheltered' wild neighbors.

Our Elders. To the Young Ones Around Me opus 289

An aware elder has been around for a long while,
And, being aware, most likely has acquired a good deal of knowledge.
If an elder conveys some observation or thought to one, younger,
A good path for the young one to follow is listen, thank, then contemplate,
And act, if it seems appropriate to heed those words.
Politely, take it or not, after some thought,
But do maintain the elder in your circle of knowledge sources;
Never break the tie nor be angry, annoyed, or abusive in word or thought,
For there just might be the occasion when that elder's words,
Will be invaluable in your successful progress forward--
No cost. No obligation!

Trapped by Age opus 325

When one is young, all things are possible:
To run, to dance, to explore, to attract, to make love.
As time passes, abilities are decreased, but in the mind,
Nothing changes--
The older one, still desires to run, to dance,
To explore, to attract, to make love.
The body's slower abilities, no matter how one tries,
Immures the bodily spirit
Towards that inevitable eternal freedom.

The Wisdom of the Inexperienced opus 358

I was talking with my ophthalmologist about world affairs
In the few extra minutes we are allowed in our pressured medical world.
He said it was, "Too bad that our (USA) students
Should be demonstrating about Gaza."
His thought took me back to my Vietnam-demonstrating days.
The country was then in turmoil, some of my family even disowning me,
But we finally stopped the brutal, horrible, unnecessary war,
And now we are friendly and trading-allies!

Today, the Palestinian situation of injustice has commenced long enough,
And a just Two State Solution is what must obtain.
Religion, guilt and fervor entwined us in this--mess.
For my whole life I have endured and anguished with these conflicting peoples.
Uncomfortable as it may be, are once again our students correct?
Students are lacking in much experience and knowledge,
But there is a childlike, youthful innocence towards what is right.
Thinking human animals often create uncomfortable situations,
But youth, where and when they are allowed to speak,
Often show what is the right and just path.
They are the ones, when contemplating the implications of their future lives,
Who resist their stagnant elders, mired in their indecision,
And cry out, "We do not want to inherit the world you are presenting us!"
Unlike their tired elders, youth are full of energy
And that energy often is directed towards a better life
Which they wish to pursue into their unknown futures.

Mohammed of Gaza opus 363

His name is Mohammed.
He lives in Gaza.
At 14 he was exploring
The ruins of his home
And came across a canister.
Resulting from the powerful explosion,
He has no left arm
Nor any right-hand fingers.
(His brother helps him to urinate.)
Saved by four doctors,
He may still die--
There is no medical backup.

Ten percent of all bombs
Remain dangerously unexploded.
It will take 40 years in the future
To clear all unexploded explosives.
During that period many inquisitive children
Will continue to die.

The Sacred Piano Keyboard opus 369

It is common to purchase a child size violin or cello.
Why is there such resistance to reduce the size of the piano keys?
The piano keys are too wide for the reach of children,
Those with smaller adult hands, and for many women,
Who are naturally, morphologically smaller.
To reach a spread of 10 keys is impossible for many--
Eight and sometimes nine keys are often achievable,
But with the potential that hand injury will result.
Realize that 80 percent of piano competitions are won by men,
While 75 percent of violin competitions are won by women!
Surely, no more evidence, need be presented.
Is there a possibility this is a male dominated 'pianist world'
To reduce the success and recognition of their fellow female musicians?

(On a similar, sexist point, remember, that it has been men fashion designers
Who have continually created high heel shoes, merely to augment
The bulge of the calf, and thus the result being mostly for male visual delight!
This, of course, is at the expense of the podiatry health of women.)

Changes opus 373

As we grow and evolve through life,
The child becomes the young adult,
And this develops into the man or woman.
As this manifests, a previous stage is not erased,
But augmented with experience and wisdom.
If one is fortunate, the wonderful previous
Childlike characters potentially now in adulthood
Still peek through to soften
The harsher challenges and realities of later life.

Might I have been a Coworker with Betsy Ross? opus 376

If I were born in a different era
And perhaps with a different chromosomal arrangement,
I could easily have trained to be a seamstress.
As a child, I participated with my father
To work on the sewing machine (on which he taught my mother!),
Creating a sail for my outrigger Grumman canoe.
I later sewed by myself, a huge 15 foot sail
Which I utilized to hold on my shoulder
And sail on skates across my belov-ed Crystal Lake.
Around that time, I tailored a seven foot kite
Which, when inaugurated,
Almost raised my little brother, John, off the ground!
When first married to Maggi, who tragically died in Africa,
I designed and made with her, while in Turkey,
A completely round black cape with a hood!
At any rate, it is clear I enjoy the art of sewing.

To finish with Betsy Ross, Washington came to her,
Proposing a flag with stars.
Being of English Heraldic stock, he wanted a six pointed starred flag.
So the story goes, Betsy replied that six pointed stars were very laborious,
But with proper folding and one snip, a five pointed star could be
rapidly formed.
Do check out European stars (eg on coins) and see for yourself.
At any rate, in a different time, I might have been mass producing
five pointed stars!

6 June 1944 opus 383

So many gave their lives on that fateful day
In many various ways to stop the Nazi oppression.
I was a young child of three on that day,
My father being in the very midst of it all.
He, because of his educational background--
Physiologist and engineer--
Was absconded to work in secret
On high altitude breathing equipment.
Our planes, limited by freezing O2 masks,
Were pummelled by the high flying Germans.
First, he designed a mask with a double layer over the face
Which, when warmed by the cheeks,
Would allow continued flow of life giving O2.
Then he tested them in chambers and in the B-17s.
This effort was the beginning towards his early death,
For he carried a rheumatic fever, wounded heart from childhood--
He lasted until only 57 years of age, in spite of medical intervention.
Third, the government instructed that he form a production company
To produce for the war, all sizes of needed masks and goggles.
This he did with a 'partner' who was later revealed as dishonest.
So much confusion and turmoil for him at the war's conclusion.
I remember several trips to Cape Cod to visit a French-Canadian attorney,
Hired to protect my father, innocent on all counts.
While they worked on the case,
I met a glorious sand and beach grass habitat!
I never completely understood everything until years later.
I do remember the eight white plaster head models,
Placed under the cellar workbench,
Used to model for the many face variations, sized for a proper mask fit.
One thing I learned was that my father's beautiful coin collection,
Which he often showed us children, needed to be sold.
If he were still alive, what a joy to discuss with him today
All the wonderful coin sagas I now myself have learned.
So many memories like this linger in my 'historical mind'.

My Mount Monadnock Campers' Hike opus 389

When I was about 10 or so, driving somewhere with my father and the family,
I distinctly remember his verbal disapproval of all the trash thrown
out along the highway.
Soon thereafter, Massachusetts signs popped up on the roadways
Declaring a $1000 fine for dispensing trash on the highway's edge.
That lesson stuck with me on a field trip during my wonderful Audubon
camp activities,
Where we learned of the geology as we climbed Mount Monadnock (most
climbed in NH).
In our backpacks we all carried a lunch enclosed in a brown paper bag.
We hiked to the top, the counsellor pointing out geology, flowers, and
tree species.
At the summit, we perused the sights below and ate our lunches.
There were about 20 kids and lots of paper waste accumulated.
The question arose: what to do with the trash--
(This item for discussion would never have occurred today!)
Our counsellor, I distinctly recall, told us to stuff the bags between
a rock crevice.
I was horrified and immediately countered with
'We should not do this--it is wrong!'
I am not really sure why I was so motivated
(Perhaps from my father's outrage with the highway trash),
But I organized all the kids to gather the bags, stuff their backpacks,
And carry the trash down to be disposed of in parking lot receptacles.
There was complete cooperation, overruling the counselor's instructions--
And that was the beginning of my efforts to support nature for the
rest of my life!

Coming to Terms with Hell opus 398

I was six years old and freely moved through my neighborhood.
My basic territory was one block long.
My address was 301 Lake Avenue, Newton Highlands.
Across the street below the opposite houses, ran the old steam engine line--
Later to be converted to cleaner electric MTA street cars!
Out of my house and to the right all the way, almost to Walnut Avenue,
I met one day a playmate named Sparky.
We were on the sidewalk, greeted each other,
When suddenly Sparky came out with, "You are going to Hell!"
I was young, confused, and didn't know what to do.
Well, of course. a six year old goes back to his mother.
What was said to reassure me remains in clouded history,
But I have somehow survived eight decades!

Perhaps Sparky's declaration got me to think--
I heard church bells a year later and asked to attend Sunday School;
Went on through high school and early college days,
Deeply exploring and partaking in religious thought;
But after meeting sophisticated biology and evolutionary theory,
I did and have now evolved in philosophy towards a benevolent Humanist--
And unless there is a great change in mindset,
I shall meet the next stage of life in mental comfort.
Thank you Sparky?

My Only 'Authentic' Sermon! opus 402

My first Antioch College Co-op Job in 1964
Was in Eminence, Missouri, working in the Pioneer Forest,
Established by an Antioch grad many years before,
Where this grad, Leo Drey, wanted to upgrade state forests.
After buying thousands of acres of marginal wooded lands,
(Utilizing his complete inheritance from his parents!)
Which had been virtually raped of White Oak used for whiskey barrels,
(The cells of this wood were such that barrel leakage was blocked),
The management plan was to girdle all old trees,
Releasing space for the pine subclimax to be harvested years later.
My tool was a moderately dangerous double-headed axe!

This was during my religious phase of life,
So I recreated with 12 year old boys (older children were absent),
Searching for arrowheads, exploring the river;
Interacting with my mentally damaged hotel mates from two wars;
As well as involving myself in the local Methodist Church.
One Sunday, the minister called me aside
And invited me to give an evening sermon--
He said, "I think you have something to say,"
I reluctantly agreed and began my preparation.
I had been reading Kalil Gibran's 'The Prophet',
A story about a prophet who announced he was leaving the village,
Creating anxiety, because the citizens had never solicited his advice.
He was then asked many questions about life.
One subject, which I used, was about children--'You are the bow
And they are the arrows, sent out into the world.'

Well, the evening arrived, and I delivered my 'sermon'.
The result was quite overwhelming--
The minister lined up the congregation to walk past me.
They each shook my hand and offered greetings,
Several actually crying as they passed by!
As a 19 year old, I was obviously overwhelmed and moved.
It was an evening I will never forget,
Although, in the end, I finally became an Evolutionary Biologist!

To No One opus 434

In my youth you taught me your strong ways.
I was tolerant and interested and did not repel you.
You made it clear when showing me your dishware--
If I were to come and share repast,
I would be forbidden to use that dishware.
That was my introduction to your eating laws.

Later and older, I was talking with a female teen,
Who was plain to view, but nicely intelligent.
Her mother entered and cleared out all but me
And announced that my ancestors had destroyed Jerusalem
And I was never to become close to her daughter.
I was shocked, but innocently agreed with what, I was not certain.

Attempting dating, I was snubbed once by other parents
When I arrived to pick up their daughter for a dance.
At my fiftieth reunion I heard the same story from a fellow male student.

(I donated my hand carved stone for the new high school building!)

Much later in my seventies I returned from far away
To the general territory and people with whom I grew up.
I was kindly invited to the home of a now fellow elder.
They kept the laws to which I was introduced so long ago.
When we took repast, I found I was eating off a paper plate!
This to me was another blow going way back to that girl's mother.

Now I watch and have watched since 1948,
The constant battles and the taking of territory
With that reinvasion, 2000 years later.
Yes, there have been great injustices,
But is all this worth it to either side and to their innocent children
Who know nothing of this history and are just taught to suffer and hate?
Guilt is very powerful and sometimes can be misled
To an erroneous and painful conclusion.

My Outer Body--A Petri Dish for Cancer opus 465

When I was young, eight decades ago,
Parents simply sent their children out in the sun--
No prep, no concerns, no worries of future consequences.
Most likely today, I suffer from the sun's delayed anger--
Freezing with liquid nitrogen, multiple biopsies,
And surgeries therefrom;
Slow healings being observed to monitor progress,
Combined with concerns of what was next.
Such is much of my last tier of life.

As a result of this torment of lighter skin--
An evolutionary result of necessary vitamin D,
Homo sapiens having migrated, darker skinned, out of Africa--
The trade off was between darker skin and needed vitamin D.

Today, in a park or on the street, meeting blond, hatless children,
I gently remind their parents of the great need for a hat and sunscreen,
So these innocent ones do not go through my plight.
To emphasize the point, I remove my hat, lean over,
And display the bald spot on my crown, formed from serious surgery.
I replace my hat, state I do such because I care for them
And move on under our life-giving sun to my next episode.

Search for Purpose opus 472

'Search for Purpose' is the title of a book by Arthur Morgan,
A self taught engineer and later president of Antioch College in Ohio.
Morgan thus later followed Horace Mann, the enlightened first Antioch president.
Under Morgan a work-study program--the Co-op Program-- was established,
Where students had to combine academics with real-world jobs.

At any rate, the book describes that purpose is discovered and created,
And that one needs to plan, always having several life pathways ready,
In case a first choice is not feasible to accomplish.
My choices were careers in music, religion, or biological sciences.
Religion dropped to a study of interest only,
While music was greatly fulfilled with my orchestral pursuits,
But the study, learning and fascination in biology won out.
Slowly, this evolved into field biology, conservation, and related
small farming.
After much thought and anguish, what I have done is now there and manifested:
An educational, experimental small farm, working with children,
A successful educational land trust,
Protecting open space which harbors native flora and fauna,
And a writing attempt to teach, provoke thought and preserve my
thoughts in life.
I guess my deep and most important activity, including the present,
Is to always stimulate thought in others to question and understand
Why we are here in our condition and to relate ourselves to human and
natural history.
It has been a challenging, but fruitful sojourn during this one-time experience.

A Ceremony Over an Opossum Skull opus 477

Humans have tended their dead over centuries in many ways:
Some burned, some left for the vultures,
Some buried in several configurations.
Are these customs instinctual, or learned through culture?

Well, I was walking around my pond the day after Thanksgiving
With my son, Pierre, and his son, my grandson, Rowan.
We watched wild turkeys in the sun, with their exploding iridescent colors;
We munched on the desert jojoba seeds, from shrubs transplanted to the farm.
Suddenly we came upon an opossum skull buried in the grass.
Rowan was immediately mesmerized, as we pointed out its morphology.
Quickly Rowan commenced pulling out neighboring grass blades
And tenderly laying these herbs over the skull.
He repeated this ritual several times, until we moved on.
As we were observing things farther from the opossum,
Rowan turned and walked all the way back to the burial site.
He then proceeded to pull more grass, further covering the skull,
Then returned to us to continue our observations.
He repeated this maneuver thrice more in the exact same way.
So sweet to see--a tiny four year old boy,
Crouching over an opossum grave, which he was helping to lay to rest.
It was then that the original question (from above) came to me--
Is this an innate behavior or something that just must be done?
I shudder thinking about the profundity of this query.
My mind drifts back to the time when Homo sapiens
Intermingled with Neanderthals, each species interacting differently
As to what is now known from their early cave habits.
It seems the Neanderthals possibly 'taught' Homo sapiens how to bury their dead.

I revel in the new knowledge we are gleaning
From modern technology and methodology.
But it seems my question still remains in the ether around us.

Ants as a Vector opus 482

A Pennsylvania eight-year-old boy thought he saw ants transporting
seeds to their nest.
This phenomenon is called myrmecochory and the seeds are with
Structures called elaiosomes which entice ants with nutrient-rich fats.
In the nest the ants remove the elaiosomes and leave the seed to later
germinate.
This helps seed dispersal as well as feeding the ants!
Instead of seeds, the boy, Hugo, had discovered the ants were
collecting oak galls.
(This basically rewrites 100 years of insect and plant interactive history!)
Galls are abnormal plant growths (often on oaks) induced by some wasp species.
The gall feeds and protects the larva growing from the wasp egg laid inside.
Oak galls have a structure named 'kapello' from the Greek for 'cap'.
These 'kapellos' (actually, 'kapelli') are also rich in fatty acids to
attract ants.
Similarly, the ants eat the 'kapelli', leaving the gall and larva inside intact,
Which once again gives similar shelter for the encapsulated intact larva.
Both phenomena either attract or exploit ant behavior.
The fatty acids in both structures mimic dead insects,
And ants, being scavengers, are attracted to what seems to be usual food.
This mimicry 'makes certain' these evolutionary strategies
Blur the lines between plant and animal adaptations.
Experimentation showed only similar ant behavior with the two structures.
If oak trees are lost, disruption would occur between ants, wasps, and galls.
This is another example of a vital ecological network
And that ecosystems are certainly interconnected.
We must preserve biodiversity, much of it by controlling the climate crisis.

Needless Killing opus 483

My thoughts suddenly flew back to the morning
When I was six--my mother insisted that they care for my rabbits,
On a winter morning when I always took care of my pets.
On coming home from school I witnessed
The scattered white hair over the ground--
My favorites, butchered by two neighbor Boxer dogs.

So, yesterday evening, as I walked out to urge my two hens
Back into their safe shelter for the protected night's sojourn,
There were leaves all over the area near their pen--
No. The leaves were feathers near two dead bodies.
I had raised these two from their tiny beginnings.
They grew and manifested into regularly ovulating adults;
So many eggs consumed each day, with extras offered as gifts.

It was only two hens, but it really put a hole in our lives.
The sack of feed was only half used--
The remainder went to supplement the three emu.
The morning routine to check water and food suddenly ended.
The evening no longer was a time
To guide them into their safe cat carrier shelter--
The dog(?) villain had beaten me by an hour to urge them to safety.

What to do now?
I pondered a bit; then, determined, I dry plucked them,
Carefully gutted each wounded corps, saving the giblets,
And gently placed their remains in the fridge.
At least now those bodies I had so carefully fed,
Will become part of my body as their eggs had for so many months.
To me this is a superior conclusion, rather than, demanded by sentimentality,
To just bury them in the ground or, worse,
To simply heave them into the mindless trash.

Avalie is Coming to Visit opus 490

I have a colleague who announced he has a daughter, named Avalie,
Who had heard stories from him about me as a biologist
And wanted to talk with me
About biology, with which she has become very passionate.
I am very pleased and wait for her visit with anticipation.

I did ask her father what Avalie actually meant
And he replied she was named after a beautiful mare,
When she started her life in Kwazulu, Africa.
(She is as profound an African as her father.)
What a beautiful name--
Of Latin, British, German, Hebrew, and Persian origins.
Avalie is a modern variant of the classic name Ava.
Ava may have originated from the Latin 'Avis',
Meaning 'bird' or 'life' or 'living'.
Ava is often linked to the Hebrew name 'Hava', meaning 'life',
And the Persian Ava, meaning 'voice' and 'sound' or 'strength' and 'desire'.
Also Avalie has Scandinavian origins: 'Ava' for 'ruler' and 'lie' for
protection.
The latter name evokes a sense of power, confidence, and charisma.

Well, this is a result of some of my research,
Concerning this unusual and beautifully meaningful name.
This young woman, backed by such a plethora of nominal meanings,
Can only go upwards in life, with her studies and future profession.

To My Two Sons opus 503

I am trying to be a very good Grandfather
For your sons (or nephews),
To make up for any inadequacies,
While being your parent.
I have a few years to fulfill this pledge.
Bear with me.

Love, Your Dad.

A Child's Mind! 1 opus 513

Rowan, my 4-year-old grandson, visited today.
I had hidden a four inch wide metal 'ladybug' in the grass
For him to have a game to try and find it.
I told him it was his to take back home,
But, for the moment, all he wanted to do
Was to have it hidden once more,
So he might attempt to look for it once again!
He repeated this three more times, without tiring.
I asked him again if he would like to take it home,
Or possibly leave it at the farm
To hunt for it on the next visit.
It had a lovely red carapace with seven big white spots;
I thought for sure he would take it home.
Nope, he asked me to save it here
For his next round of 'seeking'.
I am never sure what his little mind will come up with.
We had such a lovely, meaningful afternoon.

A Child's Mind! 2 opus 514

After our 'ladybug' hunt, we, Rowan and I, looked at our thumbs.
I showed him they rotated around and could oppose all his fingers.
I told him we were the only animal with such a dextrous thumb.
He seriously looked down at his moving thumbs,
Then looked up at me and said,
"This is how I can pick up things so easily!"
We went on to discuss that monkeys cannot do such, as well.
I mentioned that monkeys also have thumbs on their feet,
But they were also not completely opposible.
I added that we had no 'foot-toes', because we are real walkers.
He looked down at his bare feet and said,
"We are really special, Papa Frank!"
I smiled with satisfaction that I got the lesson successfully across--
A new dimension in thought for my growing grandson.

A Child's Mind! 3 opus 515

Once again, my 4-year-old grandson, Rowan,
Asked me, as we were sitting in my cozy bedroom,
To make him his favorite 'cocktail' which only Papa Frank could make!
I am walking much slower now, following health issues and aging.
I got up and slowly walked to the kitchen to prepare his drink--
A mix of part water, part cranberry juice, and part orange drink.
(The only ingredient missing, which I make for his father,
Pierre, and for me is citrus-flavored vodka.)
Rowan followed me to the kitchen,
Where he watched me make his concoction.
Rowan again followed behind me, when he blurted out,
"Papa Frank, you walk as slow as a tortoise!"
I couldn't help but laugh and then turned to him, chuckling, saying,
"I love tortoises; I live with tortoises; and I am happy to walk like one!"

My Dear Childhood Friend, Frances Brown opus 516

Ah, Frances Brown. She was a friend of my parents,
But I was also included by her in our own friendship.
She had a deep chortle for a woman--early smoking?
She always had a nice middle-aged scent.
And she always paid attention to me when we were together.
She was the church secretary and wrote the chosen verse
In my new bible--'The man who builds his house on a rock...'
Her printing was impeccable and solid.

One adventure we had was a snowy trip to the Boston Symphony.
My father was dubious because of the weather,
But she laughed it off and said that her 'Bug' would make it fine.
It did make it fine, having a wonderful concert.
Afterwards I joined Frances and her husband, Morrie,
At their home for an 'overnight' and breakfast.
I remember the guest room and the fresh smelling sheets.

I always enjoyed, as a young one, intelligent adults.
Frances taught me about the 'older generation'
And that they had much to offer in their wisdom.
Frances is long gone, but I will never forget
Our comradely interaction and her kindness,
Helping me to grow into the adult stage of my life.

Overcoming the Impossible opus 528

I had a terrible fish allergy when I was young.
I rolled on the floor, gasping for breath, and no one understood why.
Ahh, finally it was figured out that I had a severe fish allergy.
I went weekly to Dr. Clifford to have weekly injections
And then bits of fish, from those I had caught in our local Crystal Lake.
It didn't work, so months of immunization went down the tubes.
At camp I washed dishes to earn a scholarship;
Fridays were lethal when I wiped the sweat off my head,
And the fish oil in the sink's sudzy water would get into my mouth.
I persevered, hating this allergy, trying tastes of fish defiantly.
Finally at 50 years, my biology changed and I could taste fish carefully.
One day I went into a fish market and asked how this and that tasted.
The fishmonger was perplexed, until I explained about my past allergy.
At last I was free. I had persevered and had beat my biology.
Last night I cooked up a lovely piece of flavored Cod.
In past times, that would have been like Socrates imbibing the hemlock.
My biology did help, but my insistence got me over the goal.
Perhaps that is why the 'impossible' projects I have tackled,
Many times were successful, because I had learned not to give up.

Seta opus 529

A Bach flute concerto plays on the air.
My first love was Seta, a flautist in high school.
Our first date was meeting and playing music at her home.
I knew her parents well; her mother,
An Armenian, soft-spoken woman;
Her father, a very short Armenian artist
At the Rhode Island School of Design.
I remember when he showed me
His plastered juxtaposition of egg cartons;
Beautifully conjoined to create an optical illusion.

Seta and I met at a 50th Reunion for Newton High School.
She had aged, but was soft and conversant.
Dementia hit and her son took her off to California.
I was never able to converse with her again.
The magic of early youth, lost at the end
In silence and an unfulfillment of words.

The Fate of Two Sons opus 530

The recent incident in Venezuelan waters reminded me
Of my Antioch Co-op job (1963) at a whale processing plant in California.
I was hired as a Federal employee to collect samples
From whales taken in that Pacific area, during the closedown
Of the last USA whaling station near Point Richmond.
(During that time, my brother, John, 20 years old,
Had been shot in the back by a hunter, perhaps miles away,
Who fired in the air, with no backing to shield the bullet's trajectory.
There was no sound as he dropped to the ground.)

Filmed by his father, a son with his packraft
Was taken into the mouth of a whale!
"I saw blue and white; I felt slime against my face and smelled the bad breath."
"I was released and I and my rubber boat were again on the surface!"
Father and son had been paddling to a nearby island to explore.
When asked if they would attempt to venture there again,
They both agreed they would definitely try once more.
The Humpback Whale could not have been able to swallow him,
He being spared because of the whale's narrow throat.
If one were swallowed (only possible by a Sperm Whale),
The acids in the four stomachs and lack of air would have been fatal.

My brother was lost and this young man was wonderfully spared.

Three Choices opus 540

Friendly and gentle Canada is now undergoing a tariff blitz
From its huge neighbor to the south.
I do not completely understand all the implications of this,
But I do feel empathy for a country that might have become my home.
It was 1966, during the, now as seen, unjust Vietnam War.
I was studying for my Ph.D. at Cornell University.
Unrest and antipathy against the war prevailed.
I was the leader of the 'Young Friends', a Quaker Students group.
I read and studied profusely everything printed about the war.
I profoundly felt that I was not able to kill another human being.
I applied and succeeded to be classified as a Conscientious Objector.
Oh, what if my draft number, about 370, had been drawn--
What would I have done to maintain my life's dignity?
As I saw it, I had three choices for a major decision in life.
One, I would drive a military ambulance as a non-combatant;
Two, I would go to prison as a non-cooperator;
Three, I would flee to Canada, becoming a refugee.
Time passed by as I attempted to continue my biological studies.
The war ended and my draft number was never drawn.
Fate shifted once again, nullifying my chances of becoming
A citizen of our reasonable, 'sweet', Acer saccharum nation to the north.

PREDATE--a Josh opus 542

A strange thought occurred to me
About predation or to preDATE.
If one looks in a dictionary, predate
Means only to 'come before' (PREdate).
On deeper research one can finally find
'To prey' or 'to hunt for'.
Thinking about both these meanings:
Is a date with a person then meaning
'A time before a date with a person' (PREdate)
Or 'a meeting with a person
Who will be preyed upon' (preDATE))?
Do watch out--all you young dudes!
It all depends upon the accentuation.

Possibly True? opus 545

Is it possibly true
That the richest person
Can wield such power
That by dictating
The cessation of funds,
Thousands of children
Depending on supplemental food
And life-saving medications
Will actually die during his watch?
It is unconscionable that this
Is actually occurring with his cognisance.

The Creation of Dogs--Just Child's Play opus 551

I am a child, sitting near a middens pile, perhaps 30,000 years ago.
This young and seemingly fearless wolf pup comes near, as usual,
To hunt out and sort remaining bits of tasty, discarded morsels.
Such easy scavenging for food--and the ever-present Human youngster
Appears to be sitting quietly, patiently observing--meaning no harm.
The child, daily, sits closer, and at last holds out a tasty bone with some flesh.
Soon, that child is gently stroking the pup as it masticates,
And before one knows, the pup is carefully cuddled in the child's arms.
So might have been the beginning of the profound dog-human co-evolution,
Which today is practiced, but few of us are familiar with its wonderful story.

April; Coping with Less Rain opus 555

I have raised thousands of narcissus and daffodils,
Nurtured only by the rain--the gamble with the elements.
Today the last of the triploids and iris were harvested.
So sad, so sobering, such realization of our changing climate.
In the 'old days' bulbs burst in November
And finalized their blossoming choreography
Sometime in April--now far short of that goal.
The few harvested ones sit in a bucket, no market to receive them;
No lovely person to take and hold them in her hand.
In eight decades, I have seen and witnessed many changes.
Now it is time for the next generation to wake up
And be ready for and realize the coming challenges.
May they use all their wit and knowledge
And common sense to meet this new reality,
Which most, being younger, will only know from historical accounts.

Marrow opus 558

As a child, I often chewed on a chicken bone to remove the marrow.
I was not aware at the time, but I was following
The masticating practices of the Neanderthals
(And those of my own early species).
There is ample evidence that the many smashed bones
Of both animal and, in certain localities, of Neanderthal,
Were a desired part of the consumption of the bodies.
Marrow has a distinct texture and taste
And was, then, specially desired nutritionally
And perhaps sometimes ritualistically.
Learning this now, gives me a closer feeling for and understanding
Of my very unique hominin ancestry
And, unknowingly, as a child I uninstructedly and instinctively,
Mimicked my very ancient forebears in one of their regular practices.

Lexington, Massachusetts opus 566

When studying at Weeks Junior High School (about 1954)
In Newton Center, Massachusetts, I was learning French.
My teacher was Madam Neufeld, a wonderfully vivacious person.
French was my second new language after one year of Latin.
I had changed, after advice that the French would better help in a science career.
Madam Neufeld lived in Lexington, Massachusetts, where she invited me to visit.
I liked her as a sympathetic teacher and accepted her hospitality.
I clearly remember going to Lexington Bridge and the Green,
Where the Revolutionary 'Shot heard 'round the World' had occurred
I also had a very dedicated older, white-haired history teacher,
So my visit to the Bridge was ever more meaningful for my young mind.
Tomorrow, 19 April (1775), will commemorate
The 250th anniversary of the start of the US Revolution.
I am glad I have lived so long to see this day and time
But I am full of worry and anguish for our present and future,
As I am sure they were in those early days of turmoil.

To See or To Hear; And Then There is Walking opus 579

Many millennia ago humans evolved to be upright,
Changing the whole orientation of the body;
Thus creating a new dimension and meaning of the verb 'to walk'.
My whole life has been one of walking--
Moving quickly from room to room, or from farm field to field.
My childhood continually involved exploring places by foot.
All my field work for the doctorate included miles of walking,
Checking and attending trap lines,
While studying Microtus pennsylvanicus (voles!).

As a youngster, I pondered many hypotheticals--
Losing my eyesight vs my hearing often came across my mind.
I even considered at one point, learning Braille and working with the blind.
Now that I am almost 84, something else has come to the fore;
Namely, my ability to walk, as I always have--quickly and efficiently.
After a hip replacement, 'installed' slightly 'inwardly',
And the aging factor of just plain slowly wearing out,
I now walk with some difficulty, always observing for possible obstacles.
Falling is now foremost in my thoughts--
Continually attempting to avoid any cryptic catastrophe;
There is also some minor pain, adding to the mix.
So, so much for pondering on 'whether sight or whether sound'.
Life plays tricks on one and, that which seemed paramount,
Turns onto another unconsidered malady!

The Vicarious Conductor opus 580

Often, when musical sounds come within my ear,
I raise my hands in a conducting mode
And lead that imaginary musical group.
It brings me back to my period in music,
When I conducted an actual and real group of musicians,
Fully revelling in my heart, guiding such musical geniuses.

Puking Carbon opus 585

When I was younger,
I travelled wantonly everywhere--
And at a whim, but with good intentions;
Spreading carbon waste everywhere.

Now that I am (very) older,
I am relieved that I am
More tied to my bed and the toilet,
So that my mostly non-vital travelling
Will not add to the horrible carbon pollution
That may eventually take us all down--
Oh, that is, except for the plant world!
(Or the cockroaches,
Which have survived enumerable changes,
Cohabiting perhaps
With the horseshoe crabs and trilobites!)

Fathers' Day (15 June 2025) opus 588

A book recently released, outlined 'The History of Fatherhood'.
During the author's research,
He asked his adult son what makes a good father.
The son's immediate response astounded his father--
'A good father should be funny and give many hugs.'
The author, amazingly, thought for two weeks,
Before he concluded that this described his wife's behavior and character!
Over the years, since the first Fathers' Day, 110 years ago, indeed,
The role of fathers has slowly evolved from a powerful disciplinarian
To a more participating, gentle role of parent.

Is Selection Our Mindless Life Guide? opus 594

From my boyhood, and I was a very inquisitive child,
I started learning about mammals,
By first studying all aspects of my childhood domestic rabbits,
And along with that, an intense study of our avian neighbors.
Audubon Camps and bird counts kept me up to snuff.
Of course also dinosaurs--but to a lesser extent than others my age,
Although, later in life, teaching in Africa,
I ferreted out the remnant tracks of the former dinosaur inhabitants,
Making many plaster casts of their plodding on earth in good future sandstone.
Now, even later in life, I am fascinated and overwhelmed
With the 25,000 species of trilobite,
Which densely populated the earth-seas for about 270 million years.
Their morphology and progressive evolution towards greater elaboration,
Was perhaps part of their end; Their ever-more elaborate morphology
For sexual competition getting the best of them.
Remember the Irish Elk with their competing secondary-sexual-character antlers,
With which the males could no longer bear in competition.
This might demonstrate that 'mindless' selection to a 'double' end-adaptation,
Can result where one, 'out-evolves' the other's 'benefit' and extinction occurs!
Perhaps this questions the thought of a loving deity,
Guiding 'all its creatures' to a perfect existence.

The Weight of Two X Chromosomes opus 605

Could there truly be a benevolent, all-knowing deity creator?
Just compare the relative ease with which men (X/Y) 'sail' through life,
While women (X/X), the absolute necessity for the continuation of human life,
Must go through such relative torment to be bearers of that life.
Large breasts--unlike any other ape-- are permanently formed--
A possible platform for cancer.
Then menstruation, continually forming 'ripe' eggs
(But inconveniently in between the bleeding periods),
Until one is finally nabbed by a sperm to create an offspring.
Birth, often very difficult or deadly,--
And then several years of producing milk to feed such offspring--
Sometimes too much with accompanying pain and other times, paucity.
Then the female is discarded from reproductive abilities,
Through the process of menopause--far sooner in life than her male counterpart.
What makes this all happen,
Is that women are endowed with a longing for an offspring--a child.
And thus, such longing, masks the clear thinking,
Concerning all the trials she must go through (sometimes alone),
Allowing human kind to reproduce and multiply for the benefit of the species.

Are Audio Books a Form of Reading? opus 608

The ability to read is an important aspect of human life.
The debate has begun as to whether audio books count as reading.
According to an NPR-Ipsos poll,
40% of adults felt such books were not a form of reading:
This poll was comprised of men 65 years old and older,
And those with no four-year college degree.
But what does science say? No significant difference,
Between reading, or listening to, or doing both.
The information retained was basically the same!
HOWEVER, school-aged students did worse when utilizing audio alone.
In other words, they comprehended, understood, and recalled less than readers.
So, when one is learning to read, one needs the actual experience of reading!

Mimicry opus 610

As a child, I was always fascinated with mimicry in nature.
Flies that evolved to depict bees and butterflies to mimic each other.
There are scores of examples--just get a good book!
As a New England boy, I was fixed on the Monarch/Viceroy phenomenon.
The Monarch caterpillar feeds and survives on milkweed with all its toxins.
The adult emerges crystalis-wise as a toxic adult, flashing warnings of red.
Young birds, et al, soon learn of this terrible taste,
And are severely dissuaded from preying on this deceptively delicious morsel.
Somehow, along comes a similarly red tidbit, but delicious--the Viceroy.
Over time the Viceroy butterfly evolved ever-closer to better mimic the Monarch.
The Viceroy is tasty--the Monarch is not.
Selection and adaptation finally favored both these species.
As my thinking progressed, and just for fun, I looked at human 'mimicry'.
This was not genetic, but rather behavioral mimicry.
Consider the Romans invading the Celtic world with a plethora of red-haired women.
The warriors brought the tales of these exotic-looking females
Back to their dark-haired women.
Soon, red hair dyes were concocted to be equal to that of the attractive Celts,
Thus confirming my thoughts concerning the notion of behavioural mimicry.
Who knows, in addition, what genetic mutations might have resulted from such?
Just a Thought!

(Because of increased scientific knowledge a portion
of this poem is incorrect. See 'Mimicry Refined' opus 619).

The Momentum of Speech opus 612

I have been struggling doing business on the phone,
Especially with young women.
Because they talk so fast, it is difficult to follow at times.
The scuttlebutt is that Gen-Zers talk faster than Millenials,
Because of the former being exclusively exposed
To the ever-expanding, all-consuming, social media.
Also, scientists record that greater numbers of women
Are using a growly, creaky, 'annoying' speech pattern now named 'vocal fry'.
But why, in general, are people speaking faster now?
One study implies that listeners find fast-talkers more persuasive.
Slow speakers can be assumed to be less intelligent or competent,
While very fast talkers might be seen as less truthful or less kindhearted.
In a competitive society, people might hurry their words for fear of being interrupted.
A bustling, competitive or clamorous school environment might reinforce rapid speech;
A child or older student learns to speak hastily to be heard.
If we interrupt each other in society, rapid speech becomes a survival skill.

Social dynamics in our high pressured society
May have a great influence on women's speech:
Women are taking a greater role in the workplace,
Competing with men, who some surveys show, talk faster,
So it is natural that young women compete back by also speaking faster.
The other factor, along with this, is that sexes mimic each other
And just like cultural mimicry with an accent,
Speed might also be imitated so that one better fits in with peers.
High pressure workplaces require quick information delivery.
Fear of interruption in that workplace causes a rush to finish thoughts.
And if there is emotional intensity involved,
This might lead to uncontrolled rapid speech.

At any rate in my nearly 84 years listening to others speak,
I definitely notice an increase in speaking velocity,
Especially in young women, who are definitely
Dominating the telephone answering services.
This is not prejudice, but merely an old guy observing his fellows.

Hope is the Enemy of Courage opus 613

At age 19 while attending Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio
A very intellectually stimulating academic institution,
I came across a book, 'Faith of a Heretic',
Written by a Yale Philosophy Professor, Walter Kaufman, in 1959.
The subject included not to hope, but to get in and do it.
My whole life seems to have followed that philosophy.

As a child I wanted to build a treehouse 30 feet high in an oak.
And I did so.
As a 10-year-old, I had a 'nature club' for 'younger' kids!
It went well, considering my tender age.
I wished to continue my father's abandoned large vegetable garden.
And I did so with my little brother.
I wanted to have a large pond for my huge carp and snapping turtles.
And I dug it.
I wanted to earn a PhD at Cornell.
And I earned it!
During my teaching job in Africa, I wanted to learn beekeeping with the aggressive African bee.
And I carefully learned the art.
I wished, back in the US, to start a polyculture educational farm; the Environmental Education Farm Foundation.
And, laboriously, I managed and did so.
I decided I must save California wildlife land and created the Quail Ridge Conservancy (Land Trust).
And it, with lots of effort, manifested itself, eventually becoming part of UC Davis.
I learned of the languishing of the creation of legislation for a California State Grass.
And after four years it was passed.
I worked in Wyoming to protect 7,000 acres of wildlife acreage.
And after 20 years,it was accomplished.
I learned I was a Pict of Scotland and established myself as a stone carver.
Lots of effort and work to do so!
After Nora, my late wife passed, I decided to create and manage a UCD Student Endowment.
And, believe it or not, it is functioning.
I wished then to create a 'Poems and Thoughts' website for my children to remember my life.
And now it consists of 580 plus poems for their, and others' thinking.

What I am saying is that the old philosopher's words were always there for me to manifest;
From childhood to near death, I have attempted to meet the challenge of my passions.
My advice to the next generation is to do such--
Never demur in your true passions and accomplish what you desire and must do. May it be good.

Mimicry Refined opus 620

(See previous thought 'Mimicry' opus 608)

Well, there are advantages and disadvantages to living so long.
For me, the subject of mimicry appears to be one.
A wonderful naturalist friend caught this in my last Mimicry prose-poem,
Namely, that I grew up learning the Monarch butterfly was toxic
And that the Viceroy mimic was 'spared', while still being a tasty morsel.
This type of mimicry is called Batesian mimicry.
In the 1990's, it was discovered that the Viceroy was also toxic.
I had not caught up with this new knowledge,
Thus erroneously so wrote in the previous 'Mimicry'.
This other classification is called Muellerian co-mimicry,
Where, in this case, both species are mimics and both are toxic.
This results in an even stronger defence for the two species.
To make things more complicated,
The Viceroy is mimicked by the Queen and Soldier butterflies,
Both of which are also toxic! In this region, Monarchs are rare.
Will wonders never cease?

'Number Five' opus 623

Rowan, my grandson, is now 'number five'--
His fifth birthday was 6 August.
He called me while driving with Pierre, his father.
His school is out and he was going
To his other grandparents for the day.
He was so excited to now be five.
I wonder if I might talk with him when he is twenty five?
Or I muse if I might last until he is fifteen.
When he comes to visit for my birthday, I have ready
A lovely green malachite piece of copper-based stone,
A shimmering 'artificial' lump of crystals,
A shiny silver Kennedy 50 cent coin, along with a trilobite,
And a miniature of an Emperor Penguin in color.
Plus a lovely children's book for his Dad or Mom to read to him.
Happy Birthday, Rowan.

An Elder's Views on Aging, Learned While Living as a Youth, With Men Mentally Crippled from War opus 633

One of my Antioch Co-op Jobs was in the Ozarks of Missouri,
Girdling old oaks to improve the forest with a subclimax of pine.
Every day I went out and 'doubled-axed' my way down each long ridge.
Winter's snows came and went, then Spring and I saw my first wild lizards!

I lodged in a boarding house which catered to several men,
Mentally crippled from WWII and Korea-- all unable to cope in society.
On weekends, I would spend some time with each,
Conversing and interacting as each was able.
I built up friendships and learned something about war's effects on them.
It made a deep impression on me as a twenty-year-old.
So much so, that in graduate school at Cornell,
While the brutal Vietnam War was raging, (1966),
I declared myself a pacifist, registering with the US government.
I was then voted in as President of the Quaker 'Young Friends' organization
And led a protest walk across the US/Canadian Peace Bridge.

Those men in Missouri, expounding their stories and plights,
Have affected me to this day, in the ways I conduct my life's activities.
I shall never forget them--I can still picture the face of each one.

Libyan Desert Glass opus 634

As a boy, I lived in Newton, Massachusetts, about 10 miles from the Atlantic.
Occasionally my parents would take us children to the beach.
Much less frequently, I would walk the beach and find pieces of worn glass.
Later, living in California, I would travel to towns 
Where waste was formerly and sadly dumped into the sea.
Amongst the old pots and pans, batteries, car parts, and electronics,
One would find pieces of water-worn bits of glass of many colors.

Now, with an added interest in meteorites and tektites,
I have even later learned of Libyan Desert Glass, 29,000,000 years old.
 
These random glass chunks of usually yellow, but sometimes dark or green,
Were discovered in one fall in 1932--the specimens I have were collected in 2008.

So, just how is this glass of the desert actually formed?
Well, we have great heat and sand--a suspicious combination.
And why is this glass found only in this particular desert?
By chance, a meteorite fell in the Libyan Desert;
Hot material; which on contact, melted the sand, forming glass 'blobs'!
A second hypothesis states that glass was formed from an airburst.
It appears this is one of the very few areas on a desert, except the Sahara,
Where this has serendipitously occurred.
What a wonderful find to enchant those outer space lovers.
If this enthralls you, look up how a tektite is formed--
So subtlely different than the formation of this wonderful Libyan Desert Glass!

A Follow-up on 'Number Five' opus 635

I previously wrote a note about Rowan's (grandson's) birthday.
When he arrived to celebrate my birthday,
He immediately pulled out a small lava stone.
He said it was from his bar-b-que and was for me.
The party continued on, until I reminded him of his lava stone gift.
I asked if he would like to see one of my big red lava stones.
He responded affirmatively and I said it was by the porch. 
Astoundingly, he gave a quick nod and ran to that destination,
Knowing exactly where it was.
Barely being able to lift it, he moved it out into the open.
He looked at it, rubbed it, and then sat on it.
I asked him if he would like that stone in exchange for his.
Immediately he responded and posed for photos, sitting on his new gift.
Thus leaving a happy grandpa with a little lava stone
And a five-year-old boy with more than he was able to carry!

Yet Another School Shooting opus 640

School shootings are becoming regular affairs.
For a twisted mind, killing children 
Has a similar lustful draw as to that of pornography.
Those in Congress who refuse to vote against guns of any sort,
Do so, simply, for fear of the gun industry
As well as for losing votes from constituents
Who interpret the Second Amendment 
Far from what the original writers would have allowed,
With a State Armory to hold state (not private) weapons.
We are frozen in a tragic, deadly deadlock.

Another View of Death opus 642

A man was walking in a field with his daughter.
The two came upon the carcass of a mouse.
The father, seeing this as an opportunity to discuss death,
Begins to talk with his daughter.
The young child notices the masses of ants covering the mouse body.
The father realizes that the subject must now include decomposition,
And gently urges the girl to come away.
Walking a 'ways from the body, the girl turns back to the mouse.
She continues to watch the ants moving over and in the corps,
And turns to her father, "Look how these ants love this mouse!"
The yet untutored mind of a child, 
Often yields an unexpected, creative conclusion.

(This account reminds me of the two previous observations I made
about Rowan (g-son) and the opossum body found in our field.)

Benjamin Franklin's Family Bout with Smallpox opus 645

I am relating this from a long-line of memory.
A British wife-nurse of a diplomat in Turkey,
Gained access to a harem and conversed with the women.
She learned how women combated smallpox
By inoculating in a gash in the arm, smallpox pus from a diseased person.
This was a primitive manner of vaccination (variolation).
Eighty percent of those participating survived.
Back in England she introduced this brutal, but effective preventative.
British doctors began to accept this idea--even though she was a woman.
But accepting this idea, initially, resulted in most doctors rejecting the method.

Benjamin Franklin in America was confronted with this 'cure' for his two boys.
He waited to inoculate his four-year-old, Francis Folger, being 'under the weather'.
Francis died on 21 November 1736 and this was greatly lamented by his father.
In Franklin's time 20 percent died--the remaining lived and survived!
The odds today are greatly better (90 percent), yet we have doubters.
How long will it take for us, once again, 
To truly learn the basics of medicine, without politics?

Railroads in My Life opus 661

My father (Frank) was a railroad brat.
His father (Albert) was a B and O conductor on the trains (the one in charge),
And he often pulled up his son into the caboose,
As they slowed for a crossing in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania.
As a child, I lived with American Flyer model trains.
The Boston and Maine railroad with steamers passed my house daily.
While passing through the city of Newton, Massachusetts,
I don't ever remember a whistle blown.
However, at my grandparents' farm it was so different.
The New York Central crossed the farm a few miles to the west.
Each night as I lay in bed, the longing whistle would sound from the distance.
I loved that sound and longed for its repetition.
There were many other influences over my lifetime.
As a child, another thought, concerning my grandfather,
When the old railroader took us to the now demolished roundhouse,
Climbing into the cab of one of the huge Malleys
And watching the turntable redirecting one of these huge work horses.
The last truly dynamic instance of whistles was in New Mexico.
I was in plateau land near Mountainair
And far below the astoundingly long trains,
Would blow long, haunting calls across the valley.
This has all changed now, as I live far from a railroad.
Nonetheless, the incredible mournful whistle-calls are entrenched deeply in my mind.

The Lugging of Coal Clinkers opus 662

I just heard that the world-wide use of renewable energy
Has outstripped by more than half the use of coal.
Coal is a dirty, polluting substance which releases masses of CO2.
The mining of coal also causes Black Lung in the human workers.
Ironically and thoughtlessly, the 'regime' wants the use of coal to increase,
But has cruelly cut all research funds towards this terrible disease.

This announcement has brought forth from my childhood memories,
Our urban household use of coal to winter-warm our New England home.
The delivered coal order (by the ton) was poured down a hatch into a huge bin.
Later, the coal was carried in buckets to the basement furnace,
The shovelled black diamonds were cast through a fire-roaring door;
Just how much each time I used to throw in, I do not remember.
I always remember the iron-clunk sound as I closed the iron door.
But that was not all, in order to stay warm.
As days passed, the furnace had to be periodically cleaned!
Burnt coal leaves a so-called 'clinker' waste. (Possibly a New England term.)
We had huge tongs, used to remove these clinkers to a metal barrel.
These clinker-barrels had to be dragged up, out of the basement
And dragged down the driveway to the curb collection site.
A lot of work all winter, just to keep warm.
Contrast that to today, where an urban home just clicks a switch.
Presently living in the country, our counterpart to my childhood travails,
Is wood burning with all its analogous chores.
Now, no more wood burning, yielding to my solar-produced electricity.
We have come a long way.

One Ear and the Other opus 694

There once was a little boy in Switzerland, near Zurich.
If it had been three generations ago, that could have been me;
But it wasn't.  But it could have been.
Anyway, he was an active child,
With only one major flaw;  he didn't listen;
Didn't listen to parents, for instance,
When instructing this or that-- 
You know, the day's agenda, or duties, like 'clean up your room'.

The boy had minor ear problems;
Like too much earwax, which had little to do with not listening;
Or maybe it did.  No one really made any connection.
At any rate, the problem got acute enough
That he and his mother had an appointment with the ear doctor.
After some looking and probing,
The doctor said, "We will flush the ear for excess wax."
He gave the boy a bowl to hold under his bad ear
To catch the flushing water with the wax.
The boy began holding the bowl just under his ear.
Suddenly, without warning, he switched the bowl from one ear to the other,
As the doctor was mumbling further instructions.
The doctor asked, a little annoyed, "Why did you do that?"
The child answered, a little surprised,
"Well, you were instructing me to do things,
And mother told me to pay attention all the time."
She always says, "With you, 'Everything goes in one ear and out the other,' "
"I was trying to pay attention to you and to catch anything you might say.
I didn't want it to go in one ear and out the other--and be lost!"

(As told to me by Marianne, from Switzerland.)

An Ambivalent Scooter Owner opus 696

My grandson, Rowan, is now an 'older' five.
He has graduated from crawling, to walking, then running,
To his present stage of discovering the wonder of wheels! 
Wheels came into his life vicariously through toy trucks and other play things.
Suddenly, one day, he was presented with a small, three-wheel scooter,
Which he mastered and controlled, especially on his way to school.
Each morning his Dad followed him on his way to the halls of education.
He loved and enjoyed his little scooter, becoming bonded.

Then, I, his grandfather, contemplated something more 'grownup'.
It would have only two wheels, an adjustable handle control and brakes!
Well, it arrived in a big box, left unopened until Rowan's arrival.
While we were munching on burritos, the box, unopened, nearby.
I was explaining a few features about his potential new scooter.
Rowan was hesitant, saying he really liked his little three-wheeler,
And did not really want this upgrade in his life.
One exception became evident when he asked if there were any LED lights.
And no, there are no such upgrades on this model.
Out of the box it came, now being assembled by his Dad.
Gleaming white, large tires, and a fancy brake system.
Rowan viewed it with a little less reluctance,
Not wishing to betray his relationship with his first love.
He stepped onto the platform, handles firmly gripped,
And off he slowly, then more rapidly glided onward,
Left foot powering the sleek vehicle down the drive.
He never looked back, (until he returned),
Beaming with a newly discovered joy.
No ambivalence now, successfully having taken that unknown step,
As we all have done, leaving that familiar past,
Gliding into an exciting new, unthought of, until discovered, new world.

When Do Children Play? opus 700

When I was a child, some 75 plus years ago,
We were sent out to play, with or without lunch,
And were expected to be in before dark (winter)
Or by supper time (summer).
To add to the verbal agreement, my mother rang a large ship's bell, 
To make sure we knew that the hour of return had arrived.
There was no worry nor even a thought
That we children were in any mortal danger.

Today, such unsupervised freedom would never even be contemplated.
Children are walked (driven!) to school each day and then retrieved--
I was perhaps walked to school on my first day of first grade.
With so much concern and fear by today's parents,
Why is it that the same concern does not exist
For their children, when using social media?
It is also a great 'trouble-maker' for children's well being.
Some, even going so far in a troubled way,
To take their own lives because of great distress.
Many of such young ones do not even contemplate going outside
To enjoy and be calmed by the original Nature from which we all evolved!

Seeking One Who Has Gone opus 705

She has been violently taken from us in her school.
So cruel, so uncaring, so unknowing whom it would affect.
Where does one go to find, even a part of her?
Where does one go to witness once again her youthful accomplishments?
Where does one go to partake and inhale her sweet scent?
Of course the room she rested in, and studied in,
And dreamed of what she might eventually become--
Her castle, her music room, her sleeping chamber.
So many youths have been taken from us all,
By mostly young males, restless, confused,
And spiteful of their lack of accomplishment and success.
Are they allowed to slip past, because of a misinterpretation
Of the Second Amendment, originally written 
To no longer be victims of a possible king?
Have we lost the intent after three centuries of ever modified interpretation
Towards the attempt to maintain freedom--whose ever that is.

My First Photo, Featuring a Flicker opus 706

I was 8 and had hung my first bird feeder,
Created from a Christmas tree stump with drilled holes,
Stuffed with a peanut butter-seed mix.
I had become very interested in our (New England) birds.
I also had a feeling I would be good at photography,
Watching my father with his old (then new) Argus camera.
Birds began feeding, especially the Flicker, 
Which greatly attracted me.
One Sunday morning while at breakfast,
As that Flicker was clinging there on the stump,
I shyly asked my father if I might borrow his camera
And somehow attempt a photo--somehow.
I had never ever snuck up on a bird with a camera.
(Remember, telephotos were rare for 'commoners' back then.)
He said yes, reviewed the operating instructions,
And off I went, out the door into the snow,
Being as 'invisible' as I was able.
I crossed the driveway and started up the side bank.
My untrained, young mind said I had gone far enough.
I raised the camera and snapped twice.
The bird miraculously remained undisturbed--
Either because of my 'great approaching skills',
Or that bird was just plain hungry!
The film was developed, and a week(!) later,
Surprised us all, delightfully, with my first bird photos--
In fact, with my first photos of any sort.
I was hooked and many more photos 
Continued on from there throughout my life.

Being Touched by an Elephant's Trunk opus 708

As a child, I adored animals of all kinds.
I studied the behavior, flight and silhouettes of the birds around me.
I had a worm farm in a big jar,
Watching as they created ever-more tunnels next to the glass.
I observed as my rabbits mated, the buck falling over in ecstasy.
(I did not know then, that the act of mating,
Caused the spontaneous ovulation of the female.)
I saw the female pulling her breast hair to line a soft nest.
So many things for a young biologist to observe and take in.

My mother knew of my love for animals
And would take us to the Benson's Animal Farm in NH;
Of course, there were myriads of creatures for a youngster to see--
Reptiles, lions, African antelope, owls and an elephant.
One time, I approached the young tethered Asian pachyderm,
And stood in front of it--only a small chain fence separating us.
I reached out and the youngster extended its trunk.
What occurred then is now a blur in my mind.
But I felt its trunk curling around my hand--
Just the prehensile end it used to grasp food.
It pulled me gently, but firmly towards itself.
I was awakened, but not fearful.
We held that position for a few moments,
And then it let go--the soft wet end falling away.
Was this lonely elephant pulling me in,
Telling me that it desired to be free,
To tear off branches and to shower itself with dust?
I am not sure, but my young self, after that intimate moment,
Always felt an affinity for the last two of the many elephant species
Which roamed our earth in past evolutionary times 
Will these two huge pachyderm species actually survive
The ravages of the ever-expanding Homo sapiens 
Across its diminishing  homeland?

My Timeline opus 710

A wonderful preschool life with loving, caring parents and a little brother, John, and a littler sister, Susan.

Hyde School Elementary, Newton Highlands, MA (1946-1951). (I loved school and started piano and in 6th grade, double bass.)

Weeks Jr HS, Newton Center, MA (1951-1954). (Met students from other religions and began my love of Shakespeare. Orchestra for real.).

Newton (N) HS, Newtonville, MA (1954-1958). (More and better orchestra, personal relationship with a supreme being, love, readying for college.)

Antioch College, BA, Yellow Springs, OH (1959-1964). (New subjects and thoughts, orchestra conducting, Cooperative academic jobs--whales, a museum job, teaching in Switzerland-- end of formal religion.)

Cornell University, Ph,D., Vertebrate Zoology and Ecology, Ithaca, NY (1964-1968). (Dinner with Hans Betha, inventor of the hydrogen bomb; field work on Microtus; learned to fly.)

Robert College, Istanbul,Turkiye, Prof Vertebrate Zoology (1968-1972). (Became department chair, field work in Israel and Libya, learned cello, composed music, travelled around Turkiye.)

U. of Botswana, Lesotho and Swaziland, Lesotho, Africa, Prof Vertebrate Zoology (1972-1975). (Bred Basotho Ponies, rescued a baboon, learned bee keeping with this vicious species.)

U, of Uppsala, Sweden, Researcher (1975-1977). (Did research on the gentler European Honey bee as well as animal ag food processing, learned Swedish, ice skating, drank from royal horns.)

Created the Environmental Education Farm Foundation, Davis, CA (1977-2024). (Learned farming, farmers markets, raised ground-raised turkeys, chickens, and ducks, and aquaculture.)

Created the Quail Ridge Wilderness Conservancy, (Napa, CA), Davis, CA (1989-present). (Learned about Conservation Easements, fundraising, passed the legislation for the State Grass.)

Pictish Stone Art hand carved petroglyphs (1995-present). (Learned a completely new art form. did custom orders, learned even more Scottish and world history, gave lessons, exhibits.)

Conducted several outreach voyages to Scotland, one of my natal ancestral nations, to be with the people, and carve in situ and present stone petroglyphs to Parliament and to other organizations.

'Poems and Thoughts' poetry (2020-present) (Through new writing, I reviewed my history and world thinking; became more philosophical, viewing my past life; leaving a record for my children.)

Author's Page opus 713

After ten years abroad, he started the Environmental Education Farm Foundation, Davis, California, and ten years later, founded the Quail Ridge Wilderness Conservancy, a land trust, saving 2000 acres in Napa, California, and joined it to the University of California Natural Reserve System. He also spearheaded the preservation of two, 3000 acre parcels in Wyoming, giving shelter to wildlife and specifically the Greater Sage-Grouse. Frank wrote the legislation for the Official State California Native Grass. He went on to also pass the State Grass for Wyoming.

Maurer became a stone carver, because of his Pictish ancestry, using only a hand-held chisel, and donated stones to several countries, including Ireland and Scotland, as well as Cornwall and Wales, districts. His stones are in 37 state archives throughout the US, named the State Tartan Stone.

Frank created his 'Poems and Thoughts' in 2000 and to date has written over 700 prose-poem works, reflecting his varied life experiences. Maurer is now 84-years-old and has a sharp mind and uncanny memory. He is listed in Who's Who in America and in Who's Who in the World.

Frank lost his brilliant wife, Prof. Lenora A. Timm, in November 2016, after 31 years of a symbiotic, productive marriage, and has two surviving sons, (Christine's and his offspring), Pierre (52) (his wife, Julia) and Basil (46) and grandchildren, Jayden and Rowan. (Also in memory of Jayden's brother, Chance.)

Christmas, 2025 opus 716

The Eve gently shifts to that Day.
I am awake changing my pads.
My body diurnally leaks--
It shall continue until I die.

My mind floats to the events and thoughts
Of just today--now yesterday:

A photo of us three children,
So long ago, tucked by the tree.

Elaine's text of her partner's cancer.

Waiting for even a quick call from grandson, Jayden.

Pleased to have conversed today with son, Pierre;
Pondering the section of my living room ceiling,
Which tumbled down during the last rain.

Wondering how my calf is doing in this storm.

Observing my Bettas, gulping air each three minutes.

Enjoying the Mozart Piano Concerto, K 502, now on.

Wondering when I will be tired, so to sleep.

So tormented about politics these days.

So sad about some relationships, not gone well.
Joyful in those that have, indeed, succeeded.

Listening to my furnace monitoring its temperature level.
I try to use as little propane as possible.

Sipping my water drink, touched with Anise.

Thinking of this 'Thought' I am composing.

Viewing the Libyan Desert Glass on my table,
Alongside the jar of New England Sea Glass.

Still wondering when I will be tired enough to sleep.

Oh, perhaps now--My thoughts transformed to Dreams.

The Christmas Bird Count (A Christmas Remembrance) opus 717

The US Audubon Society, this year, 126 years ago, 
Began the Christmas Bird Count.
The winter season was chosen to count bird populations,
Which are settled in for the winter, and more accurately counted.
These 'amateur' data gathering efforts aid scientific understanding 
Of bird population dynamics.  
As a child, birds were a major group on which I focussed.
Starting with many avian observations in my home yard,
I grew restless to explore beyond my half acre homestead.
I learned about the Audubon Christmas Bird Count 
And gained permission from my parents to join a count,
Which unfolded for me on the Massachusetts coast.
Sea birds were all unfamiliar to me and I drank in all the new species.
Many years later, I began the count on the Quail Ridge Reserve,
Which Nora and I labored so diligently to create and see flourish.
On pondering this wonderful past, I began to calculate
That, now being 84, and having joined my first Count at about 12,
(Before the halfway mark of its existence!)--
A bit of a shock, and then pride welled within me
To realize I had been participating in such an historical flow of events.

The Frightening New Adolescent Brain opus 721

The human brain silently rewires itself 
At ages 9, 32, 66, and 83, as seen from MRI data.
The first stage of early brain development
Is as one would think, the childhood stage, coming first,
And which transitions to the adolescent phase,
Lasting until the age of about 32 (not 20!).
This age shows neural efficiency rising and peaking at 32.
This age also marks the strongest rewiring shift of a lifespan.
The brain, then, does not change steadily over time,
But shifts through distinct eras, 
Which influence learning, vulnerability and resilience.
It is adulthood from 32, (becoming a 'true adult'),
To 66 that is the long period of structural stability.
At 66, early aging starts, with the weakening of white matter.
The changes in 'white matter' (nerve fiber bundles),
Are the communication network.
Late aging occurs at 83, 
When long-distance neural connections weaken.
The startling point here, at least for me is, are we marrying,
Starting our professions, making career decisions and so on,
While we are still in the newly defined adolescent stage?
Does this imply that criminal prosecutions, for instance, must be modified,
To consider the still-maturing brain, later than we suspected at 20?
As this knowledge becomes more commonly understood,
Our society might view criminal punishment in a whole new light--
As well, perhaps, of other implications for our maturing and aging brain.

The Rearranged Tearoom opus 724

As a child, my father frustratingly delayed buying a TV.
I had to go to Woody Kaplin's house to watch Howdy Doody!
It didn't occur to me at such a young age,
How 'organizing' TV was, once in one's life.
This became absolutely clear when I started working in Turkiye.
I often, after teaching, would frequent a tearoom to socialize.
There was no TV in Turkiye when I taught there in 1969.
All the tables and chairs were arranged randomly, as one would expect.
Actually, I never really even contemplated such arrangements.
I completed my teaching job there and moved on.
Many years later, about 2000, my old boss and his wife
Invited me and Nora, my wife, for a Turkish reunion.
We arrived and thoroughly enjoyed visiting old friends and haunts.
One mid-day we went to see a then quiet, old, familiar tearoom.
When I entered, I felt immediately something was strange--even wrong.
All the chairs around the tables were facing one way!
My gaze went in the direction of the chairs and one wall.
What was there, but a television set, sitting quietly on a shelf.
This was new for me in this country and a bit of a shock.
I could feel the loss of visitation, conversation, and gaming,
Feeling the starkness and dominance of this machine.
Coming from 'another world', I could understand,
But was saddened by what I knew was a loss of innocence.
All these devices are taking over the time and minds 
Of both our children and adults.

Do Not Forget Rosenlaui opus 728

In my second year at Antioch College,
I decided to partake in their 'Antioch Abroad' program.
All this entailed an indepth German course in Radolfzell,
Pushing my bike and pack up the Alp to the village of Reuti,
And, there, declaring myself ready to teach math!
But on the way along the high, level road to Reuti,
I continually gazed at the Rosenlaui Glacier to the south.
At the young age of 19, I had enough sense 
To stop and comprehend the beauty I was beholding.
I vowed at that moment, pausing along the road,
To never forget what I was now first experiencing.
And thereafter, each day while teaching at that school,
I took a few moments to deeply absorb
That which I feared I might forget to take in,
Out of the passage of time, 
Which often brings complacency and grantedness. 

Rationalizations opus 737

I was to have seen my grandson, Rowan, today,
But, his father, having a cold, thought it best to delay.
Disappointed, I began a series of rationalizations:
I was really too tired to cope with a five-year-old;
The predicted sunny day became cloudy and cold;
I needed to have time now to finish my writing;
I had no adequate snacks for the sharing;
He really wasn't ready for that scooter I had ready for him;
The house was disorganized and not ready for his explorations;
I was relieved not to catch his father's cold;
So many thoughts to make me feel better.
It was all for naught.  
I just plain missed him this planned-for day.

The Depression of an Elder opus 744

After a longer interval than usual, as we spoke together,
Marianne, my Swiss German speaker somehow came up with 'Trost'.
Her children were off to ski in Switzerland
And she was depressed not to be there with them.
At 83, she was basically unable to travel so far.
I attempted to comfort her as best I might.
"Your children--you have raised and nurtured them,
And now they are on their own, for better or worse."
"You were the bow and they, the arrows, 
And they are discovering their new goals and targets."
"The bow, by definition, remains at the starting place,"
So the word 'Trost' came up to her, 
But she could not remember its definition.
Together, we derived the meaning and found it most appropriate,
In that she longed for solace, comfort, or 'Trost'.
As we age, we are not able to follow so well.
We are slow and delay things.
Our limbs are weaker and less steady for holding upright.
We do not ask, but wish for 'Trost' from somewhere.
The young are full of themselves and do not understand.
The baby cries and wordlessly attempts to reach out.
The elder cries out, but the young ones continue,
Not hearing nor understanding the human directly beside them.

Rowan Amongst Our Flowers opus 747

My grandson, Rowan, is growing calmer
And for a five-year-old, focus is developing.
From the time he was two, he always brought me a flower,
When he came to our multifaceted farm.
He had a cow, tortoises, and emu to visit with,
But flowers and leaves seemed to take 
A large part of his focus and thought.
We have had early rain for a change this December,
Thus coaxing narcissus bulbs to burst forth.
After visiting me with his father over burritos,
He roamed into a mass of narcissus blooms.
These were planted over the years to 
Supply product for my farmers markets.
Now, they 'lie fallow', blooming outrageously,
But with no harvest.
They are there for the taking 
And Rowan revels in their scented glory.
Such pleasure he has in viewing and smelling,
And picking for me and his mother and Dad.
For me, it is sad I can no longer attend markets,
But it is so worth it, that Rowan thoroughly enjoys wandering
Through this plethora of blossoms, overwhelming his spirit.
Such joy to see and be a part of this with him.

Five-Year-Old MN Child Used to Lure Parent opus 757

So the story goes and reports expound,
Federal immigration agents used a five-year-old boy 
Liam Conejo Ramos, as 'bait', to lure a family member
Out of their home during an arrest in Columbia Heights, Minnesota.
The ICE agents approached Liam and his father
In their driveway, upon returning from preschool.
By one account, the child was used to lure out his mother.
The father told the mother not to open the door.
The scared mother thus did not take custody and is blamed.
Both the child and the father were transported for detention in Texas.
This sad story contains several conflicting claims.

However, as a biologist, I am reminded of other such historical incidents.
During the whaling period of our country and the world,
Whalers would use a similar tactic on another mammal.
They would harpoon the calf and wait for the mother
To get within range to easily kill her as well.
Female and often male mammals defend their young,
And predators in the know will use this behavior,
Starting with a tidbit and ending up with a complete meal.
It appears that both humans and cetaceans react similarly,
Much to the potential detriment of both generations.
Such, as judged by humans, is one of the cruelties
In the struggle for survival and political advantage.