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Poems and Thoughts by Frank Maurer

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Poetry

Flowing Thoughts by the Flowing River opus 4

There she was, seated facing the river!
I knew it was she, because of her white car.
I turned in to park and she turned towards me
I was glad to have found her.

She welcomed me with food and tea;
I threw in my hummus and Brie.
She is always perfect in her hostessing.
Then we started to talk for real, for the first time.

When it was time to depart
And I was driving home,
I felt cleansed and satisfied and washed clean.
She has such a wonderful effect upon me.
Contentment has invaded my being
From this magical river time.

What all Life could be opus 8

Finely chopped parsley
Sprinkled over the face
Of pudding-like rice soup.
How soft and smooth is its texture,
Slipping over the tongue,
Hot,
And taken down with a gentle swallow.

Laughing here and there,
Chatting now and then,
Longing up and down.

If life could be
So soft and gentle soup.

Goli, The Warrior opus 9

She is our idol.
She is fiercely timid and gently fierce.
She constantly works towards an end:
A new language,
A new environment,
A new country.
She serves food as an artist.
She loves her children almost to desperation.

And we, all in her aura,
Love her without exception!

Environmental Trilogy Plus One opus 14

California is Burning; A Trilogy Plus One. Number One.

Smoke pervades the air, irritating the eye.
       California is burning.
Fire consumes the forest and the grassland.
       California is burning.
Hundreds of homes are engulfed and rendered to nothing.
       California is burning.

Cattle, sheep, horses, and chickens are homeless or dead.
But what of all the unmentioned, nor thought of wildlife,
which has obtained the same sad plight?
       California is burning.

What of all our driving, heating, and air conditioning
which augment greater temperatures,
which elevate the CO2 level,
which desiccate everything,
which leaves us an ever greater tinderbox?
       California is burning.

This burning is the manifestation of the neglect and mismanagement
of our very world--our only home.

Florida is Flooding; A Trilogy Plus One. Number Two.

Water is pervading the sewers, backwashing the pavement.
       Florida is flooding.
Beaches are slowly eroding from a rising sea.
       Florida is flooding.
Homes are quietly rendered useless from soggy ground.
       Florida is flooding.

Pastures are continually wet, causing fungus to excel on hooves.
Puddles and standing water--a paradise for mosquito larvae!
       Florida is flooding.

What of all our driving, heating and air conditioning
which augment greater temperatures,
which elevate the CO2 level,
which allow for ever larger storms,
which yield evermore destruction?
       Florida is flooding.

These rising seas and greater storms are the manifestation
of the neglect and mismanagement
of our very world--our only home.

The Tundra is Melting; A Trilogy Plus One.    Number Three.

Higher temperature pervades the north of our planet.
       The Tundra is melting.
Once frozen roads are now rendered useless from the melt.
       The Tundra is melting.
Homes and whole villages must be evacuated or physically moved.
       The Tundra is melting.

Icebergs are melting early to nothing,
Causing the hunting polar bear to invade the land.
       The Tundra is melting.

What of all our driving, heating, and air conditioning
which augment greater temperatures,
which elevate the CO2 and methane levels,
which are the source of warmer seas and atmosphere,
which affect the shoreline of the entire world?
       The Tundra is melting.

These melting icebergs and sinking Tundra lands are the manifestation
of the neglect and mismanagement
of our very world--our only home.

The Rainforest is disappearing; A Trilogy Plus One.    Number Four.

The lungs of our planet are disappearing before the saw.
       The Rainforest is disappearing.
Humans, their hunger for converting the forest to pasture.
       The Rainforest is disappearing.
Rather than foraging the fruits of the forest; steaks are desired.
       The Rainforest is disappearing.

Gold discovery now escalates everything to an ever-greater fevered pace.
Clearing the land for grazing presses the collapse ever sooner.
       The Rainforest is disappearing.

What of our driving, heating, and air conditioning
which augment greater temperatures,
which elevate the CO2 level,
which lower the oxygen production of the forest,
which increase the relative CO2 level over all the world?
       The Rainforest is disappearing.

The reduction of the forest mass on the belt of our planet is the manifestation
of the neglect and mismanagement
of our very world--our only home.

Thoughts of you opus 16

Thoughts of you slip softly through my mind each day.

Autumnal Black Walnut opus 27

Scimitar red leaves--
Sharp and piercing!
Dripping red with the end imminent:
Soon to fall and no longer
To breathe and be creative.

Lauretta, PA (A Physician Assistant) opus 175

I am a biologist (joying in observing various morphologies),
Also a stone carver, slowly creating petroglyphs with a mallet and chisel,
As well as a poet of sorts, constantly attempting to verbalize that which I perceive.

When I had my appointment with you to discuss my hip implant,
I could not help but admire the perfection of your ear,
The marvellous expression of your eyes, flashing emotion,
Both, cornered with sun-like rays of tiny lines,
And the expression and caring and sympathy in your voice,
As you expounded to me of possible outcomes to my condition.
Also, never to be forgotten is your black hair,
Very gently fringed with wisps of tiny white,
Manifesting your growing wisdom as you flow towards your zenith of life.

Thank you for such memories of which will linger always in my mind.

Alive! opus 197

Have you ever just stopped, looked around, took a breath,
And felt a rush of joy to know you are indeed alive?
As humans, we are seemingly the only animal
Which can contemplate our own death;
We are able to remember the past and ponder the future.

Further, we are able to joy from the scent in the air,
Which emits a sweet earth-smell, drawn into our nostrils;
We have a rush, while viewing a field of golden poppies;
Our heart pounds, when viewing a herd of stampeding bison.
Recall such experiences and realize how very special it is to be alive!

My Poems and Thoughts opus 213

Why all these poems and thoughts?
When I was recovering in the hospital with a new hip,
My son, Pierre, and others tidied up my house,
So I could move through with my walker.
I learned that he found my early poems,
Written on the backs of scrap paper,
And that when work was done they all read them aloud!
Being encouraged with such interest,
I began writing from masses of thoughts,
Resulting from my very rich life--
They just keep coming and coming.
Now they have a home on my Quail Ridge Land Trust website,
And have even 'graduated' to a website of their own:
(Poems by Frank Maurer).
As one wades through the random subjects,
One might see how my mind, observations, joys, and cares in life
Developed as I travelled in this 'mortal coil'.

Text Exchanges--A Place to Stay in Dublin opus 218

Text Exchanges--A Place to Stay in Dublin.

She asked:
Where should I stay in Dublin?
Do you know a place to recommend?
Looking for pub with grub and a bed.

I responded:
I stayed in a rundown back room,
Before I left for the north.  F.

She retorted:
That'll do. That's a Poem.

I again:
Good. W an intro, that will be in print!
Thanks.  F.

She concluded:
Small poems came my way like acorns fall
When the time is right.

Gaza opus 219

At present 12,000 taken / gone.
Many, now unknown.
Taken by whom?
So many--
Does it really matter?
How many innocents must be sacrificed
From any side
To justify the end?

In a Poet's Mind opus 220

'From Wok to Chopsticks'
I saw written on the paper sleeve;
Kindly delivered to me,
Packaged with food from a friend.
My mind transformed this logo
Into a musical variation:

From the shell-shaped utensil--
Heated by open fire--
It creates food for sustenance
Which is lifted to the mouth
With two delicate sticks
Dexterously manipulated by agile fingers!

My Text Encouragement to One, Fearful of Caves opus 221

Hello. No need to enter the cave:
Sit, contemplate, and revel
In the beauty of its entrance--
Then learn of its geologic formation,
For an intro-spection!  F.

To Don, My Brother-in-Law opus 263

(A silly little verse to amuse him in his confinement.)

So you request sipping some vodka with tea,
Which you say must be imbibed together with me.
We have a long history of ups and downs together,
So we have much to chew on--and not just the weather.
It is nice to have revived our former involvement
And thus allow us ensemble, to fade into the firmament.

Variation on a Theme opus 264

Limits
    Even on a calm day
    if you remain quiet
    and hold your breath

    you still will not
    be able to hear
    the singing of the clouds.

So wrote Billy Collins
And I added:

Yes, even the cumulonimbus is silent--
It is the accompanying thunder,
Caused by the piercing lightening
That cries out with the opening theme
Of the Fifth Symphony.

(Billy Collins, Musical Tables, 2022.)

Two Possibilities opus 265

Headstones

    If the dates show
    the husband died
    shortly after the wife--

    first Gladys then Harry,
    Betty followed by Tim--

    the cause is often
    gradual starvation
    and not a broken heart.

So wrote Billy Collins
And I added:

And if the sequence occurs opposite--
Harry then Gladys,
Tim followed by Betty--

The cause is often sadness,
With no one to feed,
Or relief that the meat and
Potatoes man is gone
And she can now delve
Into more interesting recipes.

(Billy Collins, Musical Tables, 2022.)

Cold Drizzle opus 269

A cloud ceiling dominated the sky,
Spewing a light, cold drizzle over the earth:
(At least cold for a California morning).

A 'V' of Canada Geese pumped the air overhead,
Crying out, perhaps with joy, to be able
To levitate through the misty ether.

Flowers on an Unused Stove opus 270

A bouquet, watered in a drinking glass,
Rests on an unused stove--
Unused, because the cooking in this household
Utilizes a solar box--
Sometimes 'touched up' with the microwave.

A Payback for being Abused? opus 304

The greater and the lesser of us
Are positioned ever-more the same,
By that Great Equalizer--
The increasingly disciplinary weather.

Aging in the Darkness of Night opus 317

I awake in the center of the darkness of night--
Pondering on the tragedy of growing old and separate, juxtaposed
With my continual joy to be able to contemplate new accomplishments.
As I die and be no more, which will be in the majority of my thought?
Does it actually really matter in any way?
A living being has only one 'advantage',
And that is the ability to contemplate the past, the present, and the future,
So, it comes down to the illusions in that aging and slowly dying mind.

The Deafening Silence of Quiet Snowfall opus 329

My son just sent me a few-second video from the mountains,
Where he is introducing my grandson to the snow!
The video was dark, but depicted the soft-falling flakes in the limited light.
I suddenly remembered my first skiing attempts
On our neighbor's Massachusetts backyard slopes.
I then remembered my trips with my two boys--separately--
Because of their different ages,
To the ski slopes of our neighboring Rockies in eastern California.
Thereafter, my thoughts went further back to my student days,
Where I taught as a teaching job in the Alps of Switzerland.
The school, The Ecole D'Humanite, was in Goldern, above Meiringen,
Above which was the Rosenlaui Gletcher (Glacier),
Where Sherlock Holmes was 'first murdered'.
One day it was announced the school would all use the Gondalbahn,
To be transported to the actual 'Alp', the highest elevation of the mountain.
From there, we would ski down, ending up in the school yard!
I remember it was overcast and gently snowing.
The powder was so very soft and glass-like.
Descending on the slope was effortless--almost as if one were levitating!
Stopping now and then--there was no speed competition--
I listened to the absolute silence of the falling flakes,
As they gently accumulated around me, muffled in their fall.
It was a chilling experience of so much surrounding activity,
Accompanied with absolutely no sound.
My Heart shudders at 82, 60 years later,
From having had the privilege of partaking
In such an incredible human experience with our beautiful Nature.

(Sadly, with the Climate Crisis, many areas of our planet
Will no longer have skiing, let alone even snow!)

To a Celtic-Cuban opus 339

Oh, you dear woman who struck me at my first moment's sight,
Merely perused on a Christmas card.
Fire emanating from you, with hot coals flowing down your shoulders.
You are what would be in a long time past--
A leader, on a gallant horse, leading troops of truth,
As did the mounted Boudicca, fighting for the celtic cause
Against the invading Romans.
I know little of your total accomplishments,
But you demonstrate the art of your place
And interpret for us the wonders of your environment.
Your Man, your wee one, and your physique
Tell me as a stranger, you are to be gently reckoned with.
I shall enter your place and environs with
Respectful trepidation and total honor for your traditions.
My horse and I kneel as we enter before you.
May we have mutual and continual understanding
For our earthly accomplishments,
To allow a beneficial environment for our offspring.
Bless you dear lady and I remain in perpetuity
Your servant in kind.

Awareness opus 340

Two youthful fish were swimming together,
Deep into their normal fish-clicking language,
When an older, wiser, member of their type
Passed them by, nodding in the customary manner
And clicking out the greeting, "How is the water?"
The two nodded with respect and swam on.
Suddenly, the one stopped the other and clicked out the query--
"What the hell is water?"

When I lived for several years in Turkiye,
I learned that one of the first greetings upon meeting
Was "Su nasil?" (How is the water? -- meaning in your village.)
The basic point which I am sadly and nervously learning,
Is that our population is consumed with their own immediate needs,
With no idea how important
The surrounding world is for their very existence!
People now-a-days have no thought, for instance,
Of their companion plants--
These include grasses, flowers, shrubs and trees--
All, once vital to the indigenous people of the past.
But little do the Moderns realize of their importance to them.

Farmers and gardeners well know
How the changing rainfall and heat affect their livelihoods.
(Even planting temperature zones have been recently modified.)
Ornithologists well know of the disrupted avian food supplies world wide.
Ictheologists well know of decreasing fish populations,
Affecting both 'man and beast'.
Climatologists, like Yoda, see the changing overall picture.
To top all this, especially according to geophysicists,
Our planet may soon be subtracting a nanosecond from a future year
Because of the slower rotation of the earth,
Due to the melting north and south, and causing shifting
General equatorial planetary mass distribution.

Are we aware or even care about the fish' 'water around us'?
Or do we just continually bicker amongst ourselves
About what may turn out to be exceeding bits of trivia?

In Anticipation of a Partial Solar Eclipse opus 341

The early morning sunlight gently flooded my savannah-surrounded pond.
Many native shrubs, planted three decades ago,
Flaunt their ornamental red clusters of mature berries.
Suddenly a rapidly flying cloud crosses the area, then back again--
Rapid movement of a hundred wings,
Completely coordinating the mass of airborne bodies;
Flashes of light-toned feathers, juxtaposed with soft tan;
The flock reels and twists in difficult gyrations.
Suddenly a meeting of two California natives--bird and plant.
The swarm quickly lands, covering the ornamented shrub,
Quickly devouring the coveted energy-filled fruits.
Then just as quickly, the mass of fluttering wings
Rises up as an elevating cloud and flashes onward.

There will be in an hour or so a much anticipated solar eclipse,
But what just occurred outside my window
Is just as wondrous, manifesting yet another natural phenomenon.
May we all remember that minor 'miracles' appear often right beside us,
And that we must learn to marvel at the huge as well as the miniscule.
In my case here, it was the blending of two native beings--
One, the plant, the Toyon ornamented with nutritious fruits,
And the other, our wonderful, attractive and vivacious, Cedar Waxwing.

Our Sun opus 343

Suns (stars) are formed in clusters.
They are identified by similar 'DNA'--
Their similar chemical makeup.
Why is our sun, then, so alone?
Suns shun each other
And gravitationally spread out.
As time passes, suns' DNA then mutate,
Making the ID of our sun's sibs difficult.
Why continue to look?
Because if our sun nurtures our living earth,
Perhaps a sister sun
May also protect a sister living earth!

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.

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.

Ukraine opus 379

There once was an ancient nation
Which slowly claimed an empire.
Too big, too unwieldy, too costly;
Then later giving the various parts their freedom.

A leader reemerges from the past, with eyes on the past.
Claiming historical 'right'; a brutal invasion occurs--
Basic murder and attrition.
At this time of writing the outcome is unknown.
Shall right prevail for the small nation,
Or shall false claims prevail,
Wrongly reciting 'history' on the other side?

Wouldn't it be Wonderful opus 380

Might you be able to contemplate
If all the resources which humans utilize
To kill, maim and wound others,
In order to prove some stupid point,
Might be mustered to aid each other
To solve or ameliorate the pending Climate Crisis
Which, in the end, will tragically challenge us all?
We need a Great Climate Crisis Truce
To stop senseless wars and focus on the nitty gritty
Of real-life actual survival of Humanity.

A Greeting for my Eye Doctor opus 391

Ah, I have crawled over the ridge,
Seeking a life-giving watery oasis,
Ending my pain of thirst--

Now you enter into my presence
To relieve the pain of rogue lashes
Agonizingly plaguing the globe of my eye,
Lying beneath my bony supraorbital ridge.

When All Have Departed opus 424

All have departed from my 83rd party.
It is gently and deadly quiet--
So much so that my tinnitus
Is suddenly dominating my auditory spectrum.

Kris Kristofferson -- A Look-A-Like? opus 437

People I met in the 80's and 90's would often say,
'You look like Kris Kristofferson!'
I even had an encounter with a gentleman
Who traversed a large parking lot to verify
Whether or not I was indeed the great star!
All this amused me, but I was never sure just why.
Kris has just died at the good age of 88.
Upon checking on who he really was,
Impressed me beyond belief.
I had thought he was just a film star, but no:
Football player, paratrooper, helicopter pilot, boxer;
A Rhodes scholar, studying Shakespeare and William Blake!
He was disowned by his military parents,
For leaving that institution to write songs.
'His songs were like short stories.'
One of his quotes made me feel great kinship:
"I am a songwriter, but I'm also concerned with my fellow human beings.
And I'm real concerned with the soul of my country."
In the end, he had profound short term memory loss,
Something which for me, would be devastating,
But he persevered and was productive to the end.

I may have looked like Kris Kristofferson, but in my now older age,
I deeply understand that looks alone are meaningless.
He and I have some similarities in our accomplishments,
But in spite of his great fame, I would have still felt comfortable
To sit with him and juxtapose our philosophies together.
Kris, you are a great example of a human using your full potential, honorably.

A Marine Fantasy opus 449

In a dream of my long past, I built ships.
We sailed (and rowed!) from one island to another,
Each hidden from view by the curvature of the Earth.
If we were careful in our construction we arrived safely--
Of course storms were often a deciding factor.

To construct such a vehicle there were no nails--
Each plank was cut and fitted to the next.
We made small holes along the planks
And literally tied the future boat together.
(We thus simply sinued tight the planks.)
Along the joining margins of these planks of wood,
We sealed each line of joint with pine pitch,
Ensuring, as best we could,
The future seaworthiness of our vessel.
Our floating creation led us into our unknown future,
Much as all decisions made by each of us,
Lead us into the unknown of life,
Ready to meet the ultimate unknown of eternal darkness.

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.

A Prayer for All Tyrants opus 467

Will an angel of mercy come down
And numb them into immobility?

My Ode to the Haggis opus 471

For many, 25 January is an important and meaningful date,
As it is the birthday of the great Scottish poet and lyricist,
Robert Burns (1759-1796).
He wrote Jeanie With the Light brown Hair, Auld Lang Syne,
An Ode to Washington, while his own country
Was fighting the new rebellious America,
As well as later, an Ode to the Freedom Tree
During the French Revolution--
This, while his country was opposing France!
A daring and romantic poet, taking many risks.
But on the lighter side, he playfully wrote the Ode to the Haggis.
Just what is Haggis, the 'national dish' of Scotland?
All cultures, being unwasteful of needed food,
Combined those animal parts, for us, sort of on the margin.
Wurst of the Germanics, Wieners (hot dogs) of North America,
And, of course, Mexican Menudo and Buche, both with small intestine,
And Haggis of Scotland--lungs, heart, kidneys, pancreas and so forth;
These traditional items combined are called the offal,
Collected by mainly amputating the esophagus
And pulling out all the attached organs thereto,
Then adding in those other goodies, such as kidneys and liver.
This mixture is diced, adding rolled oats, stuffed into a sheep's stomach,
(Remember, weiner material was stuffed into small intestines)
And baked to perfection--only combined taters and nips and Scotch are needed
To finalize the tasty combination--
So unwasteful and delicious, mated with the alcohol.

Just for fun, since I will be alone for Thanksgiving,
I have ordered canned Haggis to arrive soon,
Which I will combine with my purchased turnips and potatoes.
A half bottle of real Scotch awaits, sent to me last year by an old friend.
Quietly, alone, but not, I shall commune with Rabbie anticipating his birthday.

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.

Story Telling opus 478

Story telling is a very human trait.
How a story is told, molds the strength or weakness
Of a person or group.
Families who know and understand their stories,
Produce stronger and better adapted individuals
Facing life's challenges.
So, talk with one another and be stronger (in life)
During your passage through time.

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.

One More New Year's Eve, Following Thousands opus 494

It is New Year's Eve and I am with the stone tools--
The stone tools I have been collecting--
Those of the ancient Neanderthal.
As I open each wrap, sent from France!,
I look at the stone, ponder its use, and then hold it,
As I visualize the Neanderthal, themselves,
Holding and working with each stone.
Is there any way that one might
Really fantasize a million years ago?
I feel so close to these people through their utensils,
Manifested in a scraper, a blade, a drill,
A cleaver, a handaxe, or a point.
The only thing missing is the cave fire pit
With many of us seated around.

Prayer of a Viking opus 498

Oh, dear Odin, if it is the moment to be passed to you,
Please take me only with my weapon in hand,
And that it shall be swift, with little lingering.
The pain bothers me not, it is only
The wasted time, before I am able to face you
And melt into your compassion
And justice over your jurisdiction.

(Written by a modern, fantasizing Viking.)

The Racing Fillies. The Passing By of the Daughters opus 501

The two young mares race south,
Past the one old stallion having their scent,
Remembering them as young fillies;
Strong in their father's eye.

Now they graze and race as they wish,
Across the prairies of the world,
Learning, but not yet in their youth,
Knowing exactly where they may stable.
The stallion has whifted them on their pass,
And has missed their presence, but
Knows they will produce well for themselves
And the world.

Paper Whites Responding to the Rain opus 506

The rain used to come in November,
Bringing up the Narcissus Paper Whites,
But now with a shifting climate
Manifesting a new weather,
Our blooming season commences much later.
So, now January, and the real start of the beautiful,
Fragrant blooms
Around pond 12, where they have always come first,
Reminds me of Nora, who started off
Our flower project these forty years ago.
So long, dividing bulbs, continually burst open.
And such a scent, perfuming the kitchen
And reaching out as far as able.
Sweet scent; sweet memories.

A Love Dream opus 509

I woke from a soft dream.
I was with a soft one.
The best I had ever experienced.
I was satisfied that, with our blending,
I had given her the best she had ever felt.
All couples should have such mutuality!

A Quick Thought to a Swiss Friend Late at Night opus 518

An active, restless, so far, night time
With many thoughts of my days in der Schweiz.
May I burst from my aging cocoon
To return once again?
I am but bound to my life here--
Not so bad on the whole;
And more or less at peace.
So it is, wisely, at the end.

The Buffleheads' Return opus 522

Such a simple source of joy--
After six years--a return to my pond
Of the elegant but small black and white
Diving duck, arriving momentarily on its
Southward migration from the Arctic north.
This perky, white-crowned creature of flight
Of course, could do nothing else
But create joy in the eye of the beholder.

Our Fellow Bird Vocalizations opus 524

How loud is the peacock's cry breaking the dawn.
The lark follows with melodious vocalizations.
The robin on the lawn, hunting for worms,
Flies to a tree and puffs out its flute-like territorial melody.
A background chiming is uttered by the Song Sparrow,
Followed by the mellow but penetrating
Organ pipes of the Wood Thrush;
As night falls, the longing cry of the Loon.
And in the moonlight, the Pygmy Owl lets out
Its soft, decreasing series of hoots.
A symphony for those who know,
And would appreciate, throughout the daily cycle.

It is Saturday opus 531

Hey! It is Saturday!
Which is just like Wednesday.
Which is just like Friday.
Which is just like Monday.
Which is just like Thursday.
Which is just like Tuesday
Which is just like Sunday.

There comes a time in life,
When an imaginary day of 'freedom'
Is no better than any of the rest.
Are you at that time in your life?
You will know when it arrives.

Creativity opus 537

Just what causes one to record a Thought or a Poem?
For me, there are several different stimuli that lead to a written page:
If I hear someone speaking about a certain subject
And wish to embellish it in a particular manner;
Or if a memory of a past experience pops into my head;
Possibly it might be stimulated by a foreboding of the future;
A particular sound or shape or color might lead to a written image;
Comparison of the present with the past, or a future event which might unfold;
Or possibly I wish to write something sad or joyful,
Manifesting reality or imagination;
Protest or anger about a situation may spark a creative impulse;
Of course it is always fun to write a short image about a person
And slip it to herm physically or auditorily to fulfill another's
passion or portrait.
The ultimate question remains--will anyone actually read it!

A Fortunate Old Man opus 546

I have many memories of 'good' and 'bad':
It is all relative.
I have reasonable health.
I have warm or cool shelter--
Depends on the season.
I have nourishment--
Recycled, roadkill, entomophagous, or deluxe.
I have activities to keep my mind astute--
Conservation efforts, writing, fundraising,
Discourse with those who wish to engage;
Tending and feeding my animals--
From fish (Bettas), to bird (emu),
To reptile (Bearded Lizards), to mammal (Angus calf):
I have them all--my constant companions.
I have occasional friendly visitors
Who gift me bits of wonderful food
And to some, in return, I donate some remuneration
For various student and conservation causes;
But, most profoundly, my two boys (men),
Who check in on me, converse with me, help me,
And keep my faculties honed to sharpness.
It could be far worse.

A Moment in an Elevator on the Second Floor opus 582

I was exiting from my Ophthalmologist exam;
Entered the nearby elevator and pressed the button.
Nothing. No up nor down. My mind started to calculate:
Would I be abandoned here for hours?
I had heard of such--those marooned in these up and down devices.
My mind calmly covered the possibilities.
Checking, I then looked up at the elevator indicator--
A red number '2'.
What had I done to cause such?
I am on '2', wishing to descend to '1'.
But the indicator says '2'.
OMG--'The wrong button was pressed?'
Humbly, I pressed '1' and low and behold, I descended!
Amused and relieved, I exited onto '1' with additional relief
And a joyous feeling, walking out into the afternoon sun!

A Note to Harriet opus 603

From our core values, we create our purpose.
Has one's life been sometimes a empty hole of basic meaninglessness?
Are you concerned about things around you which may cause spiritual unease?
With a drive of life, difficult tasks become fearless and almost effortless.
Be with fellow humans who know more than you,
And always know, when things are too much to realistically bear,
Modify the effort, but do not necessarily give up.
Activity, no matter how small, maintains our will to live
And basically keeps us alive, so that our purpose remains alive.

Another Dream Remembered opus 604

Once again, I came out of a vivid dream, most of which I recounted:
I was in a grassy suburb with nearby buildings.
She--an Indian Asian looking lovely woman--just appeared.
We walked closely and talked together. I felt wanted and at ease.
Until then, I explained, why I had not held her hand--
I wanted to be sure, before exhibiting such in public.
I gently kissed her neck and felt her soft arm.
Then, she left to do something--I know not what.
I walked up and down over grassy hills nearby.
She did not return.

As I woke, I realized the 'She' was Seta, my first high school love.
Upon further thought,
Because of the smaller nose than that of Seta's (she was Armenian),
This must have also been Nora, my late wife.
Both of these women have been indelible,
But have, indeed, forever left my life.

To Andrew: The Dual Existence of our Saturdays' Time Spans opus 628

Most noble Andrew; It is such as you who nurtures
The human world by caring for another Homo sapiens' offspring,
Plus further caring for that creature which co-evolved with us--
The dog, having evolved by way of human attention from the noble wolf.

While I, in a completely different vein, have spent the day
Toiling to save for conservation, a mere 2660 acres
Of our planet for use by other creatures than just us alone.
Which is more noble, that of the care of a child and dog
Or preserving a mere 2660 acres of the planet's large surface?
Time might tell--a result which neither of us may ever know.
We live with the anticipation that, that for which we exert our energies,
May be manifested to the delight of those angels
Which are only in our mythical heads.

May time Sunday be spared from your Mother's needs,
For us to have a moment of communication under the pine,
 
Juxtaposed by our tiny pond.

On the Wall opus 646

Young, early sun rays on the wall.
Sleepy eyes first opening to the day.
All is still, anticipating unfolding time.
Quick shadow flashes on the wall;
Just for a paused second--
Hummingbird hovering by the window.

The Revolutionary of the Pen opus 685

No guns for me to convince others--
I simply have my pen,
Always tucked within my shirt collar;
It remains there, ready, day and night.

True Death or Nature's 'Coverup'? opus 695

'The death of summer's life is manifested
In autumn's final magnificence.'

What I recently composed, poetically,
Sounds nice and superficially accurate,
But those trees with all their autumnal colors
Have not died--just the leaves--
The trees are resting for another season.
Perennial grasses still live beneath the soil's surface.
Although the Annuals' form which dies from crown to root--
Their broods of summer-seed offspring lie tucked in the duff,
Waiting for the catalyst of the Spring-sun's rays of warmth.  
The Conifer remains green, but with reduced life-activity,
Thus, deceptively alive, but resting, 
As its deciduous cousins openly exhibit.
So, as so explained, to the novice and uninformed,
What appears dead is just survival during an adverse time period,
As we also must rest to compose ourselves during a time of stress.

The Pictish Rebel opus 697

It was 16 November (2025).
Not even 25 January,
(The traditional birthday party for Burns),
When the Ode to the Haggis is recited,
And that wondrous concoction 
Is 'captured' and consumed.

But this November day, I had a longing
And a rapacious appetite for that offal stuff;
Opening the stored can nearby,
I spooned out half, gently drowning it with Scotch,
Heated it carefully to be a bubbly warm
And imbibed it with its memorable taste,
Accompanied with sweet, but untraditional cranberry sauce.
Then, once again at dusk,
I repeated that wonderful, naughty orgy.
My Pictish carving days flowed through my mind.
Bannockburn, with the wallowing 
Mud-drenched oppressors on the bridge, 
Along with the several Burns Nights I have attended,
Celebrating that great poet and daring rebel,
Robert Burns.

To Hold on for Nine Years opus 714

Every holiday she strung lights throughout a room of our home.
Her last season for lights was November 2016.
She died soon thereafter--I left the lights on all that year.
Each year thereafter, the lights remained on in remembrance.
One November, almost to the day, nine years later, 
The lights dimmed to darkness.
The nights now are as deceased as the decorator herself. 

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 Good Book--Genesis opus 723

Most of us know the Biblical Genesis story.
Of course, there is a supernatural creator involved,
As would be expected in any religious writing.
I have been studying the Humanist approach to the 'creation'.
A volume was laboriously written with this approach in mind.
It is compiled by A.C. Grayling, a British scholar,
Called simply, The Good Book.
It follows the Biblical format, but from a Humanist point of view.


The 'Books' include:  Genesis, Wisdom, Parables, Concord,
Lamentations, Consolations, Sages, Songs, Histories,
Proverbs, The Lawgiver, Acts, Epistles, and The Good.

Genesis.           Chapter I.

1.  In the garden stands a tree,  In springtime
     it bears flowers; in the autumn, fruit.
2.  In fruit is knowledge, teaching the good gardner
     how to understand the world.
3.  From it he learns how the tree grows
     from seed to sapling, from sapling to maturity
     at last ready to offer more life.
4.  And from maturity to age and sleep,
     whence it returns to the elements of things.
5.  The elements in turn feed new births;
     such is nature's method, and its parallel
     with the course of humankind..

Such is the Humanist approach to life and the world.
Do explore.  You shall be rewarded to a new dimension.
I shall be exploring more from this book occasionally.

We the Nation opus 727

How is it that We the Nation
Can allow one man to compulsively and illegally,
Slowly but steadily, dismantle our democracy,
Even yet on her 250th anniversary?

The Good Book--Book of Wisdom opus 734

This is my second try at the Good Book,
The modern secular bible with a Humanistic approach.
I have had this book sitting near me for several years.
I liked the title, but it took forever to open it.
Now that I have, I am quietly overjoyed.
Speaking of wisdom, as a boy and now as a man,
I was always disturbed by, especially young men,
Who declared that they 'hated school'.
I occasionally, even now, meet grown men saying the same.
School for me was the place 'to find out'.
I have often said to my students, that especially in higher education,
We here, accrue and organize facts and knowledge
In order to add to possible human wisdom.
Rejecting school to me was rejecting exercise for the mind,
As rejecting 'phys ed', as many also did,
Was rejecting the vital need for exercise for the body.
Without these things, we can experience obesity and blank minds.
This book has much to say and I give you a touch now
With Chapter I, accompanied by a few verses,
Simple in the beginning, and waxing with more complexity: 
(Each Chapter of Wisdom is echoingly finalized with this verse 21.)

1.   Give your ears to hear what is said
      and your heart to know what is meant.
2.   Let what is wise rest in the casket of
      your mind, to be the key to your heart.
3.   He whose works exceed his wisdom,
      his wisdom will endure.
4.   But he whose wisdom exceeds his works,
      his wisdom will not endure.
5.   The mighty man is he who
      conquers himself.
6.   The rich man is he who is satisfied
      with what he has.
7.   The honorable man is he who honors others.
8.   But the wise man is he who learns 
      from all men.

21. The question to be asked at the end
      of each day is, 'How long will you
      delay to be wise?'

At the conclusion of perusing (here meaning 
'To read over attentively') the Book of Wisdom,
I understand more in depth the difference
Between knowledge and wisdom.
So now in these trying and difficult times--
'It is time for all of us to do the good that is needed.'  

Demise of a Mother-Poet. opus 739

Do we assassinate our poets, so unthinkingly?
And, even more sinisterly, 
Do we eliminate in a second, a mother of three?
If ONE knew the status of ONE'S potential victim,
Would that ONE go through with such a final act?
As a native once said, "Walk in their moccasins."
(Also, must ONE really now deflect investigation to her widow?)
Such a needless loss of a fellow citizen.
We shall remember you, Renee Nicole Good.

The Airborne Turkeys opus 740

Wing beats, displacing the air.
My cohabiting wild turkeys
Are dispersing one by one
To their high roosting tree branches.
As they raise themselves into the air,
Powerful wing beats pull their bodies upward.
They rise over my narcissus flower beds
And, as they do so, displace air downward,
Inviting the white blossoms below
To momentarily dance in unison,
Delighting my eyes and my living core.

Valentine's Day, 2026 opus 760

Is Valentine's Day about a box of chocolates or a bouquet of flowers?
Do we really know the horror behind this 'holiday', 
As we send adoration to our loved ones?
This day is a mix of Roman rituals,
Christian martyrdom, and medieval poetry.
The roots of this holiday trace back to Lupercalia,
A pagan fertility festival held in February in ancient Rome.
Roman priests would sacrifice a goat and a dog for purification.
The goat hide was stripped into thongs, then dipped in blood,
And women would be slapped with them, making them 'more fertile'.
Young women would also place their names in an urn,
Pairing them with bachelors during the festival, perhaps leading to marriage.

As the Romans often did, Pope Gelasius 
Replaced Lupercalia with St. Valentine's Day.
One of the first stories recounts a 3rd-century Roman priest,
Who secretly performed marriages for celibate soldiers, until his execution.
Another claims Valentine fell in love with his jailer's daughter,
And allegedly wrote her a letter signed, "From your Valentine."
Chaucer romantically wrote in 1382 about birds choosing mates on that day.
In 1415 Charles, Duke of Orleans, imprisoned in the Tower of London,
Wrote his wife the earliest known valentine poem on that day.

Now, thanks to Esther A. Howland in the 1840s in America,
Mass-produced cards, adorned with lace and ribbons, were for sale.
In 1913 Hallmark Cards began mass-producing cards,
Declaring a 'Hallmark holiday'.
Followed only by the number of shared Christmas cards,
Billions of cards, chocolates and flowers are sent out
To our history-ignorant lovers on this misunderstood 'holiday'.

Viva Flamenco! opus 761

Wonderful sounds of Flamenco fire my ears.
I sit, writing on this Valentine's Day,
Dancing in the memory of being accompanied
By a Swedish-Latvian friend to Spain.
We heard music all around us
And danced in the street, humming those rhythms.
Oh, if this ever-slowing body could move so, once again;
Yet, I am still able to dance and reminisce, thankfully,
In my tranquil, but ceaselessly-cogitating mind.