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Poems and Thoughts by Frank Maurer

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Memories

Email to Bill opus 7

My late wife (Nora) rescued and neutered a few stray cats, left on our highway. There are now a few remaining after her death in November 2016. One was a favorite; small, gray female, often with a "squeaky" meow, when in human contact.

Lately she comes only off and on to our morning feedings. At first I was worried she had been hit by a car. Now I wonder if she is being fed elsewhere. If you do not have other cats you are feeding and are feeding only this cat (if you are), please stop feeding her so she will stay with me. She is part of the memory of my late wife.

Thank you,
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.

Hidden Libraries opus 50

Each of us holds volumes of memories
Which are either lost in death
Or, perhaps, could be preserved through various recording methods
So that an enhanced life is held for others.

Likewise, there exists another library held immobile in each of our cells,
Revealing a deeper and faraway past
Which expounds itself through our DNA,
Manifesting our juxtaposition with perhaps great historical events!

Foiled opus 59

The unopened roll of aluminum foil lies on the floor--
Was a reminder to have festively wrapped the frozen blocks of meat--
Butchered from a favorite, but old, Swiss Highland steer--
The packages--freezer preserved--in cold stillness in the barn.

Unopened foil, because, out of sadness,
I could not muster the fortitude to rouse myself
And travel to the San Francisco Christmas get-together.

Too many memories.
Too many disappointments.
Too much pain.

The noise of the revelry would have devastated me.

Fire on the Christmas Tree opus 60

Switzerland in an old wooden alpine building. Christmas time (1964).
(Almost one hundred years after the US Civil War--
Irrelevant here, but important to remember.)
The whole school had to wait outside--
Preparation was festering behind the doors.

Then the word came that we may enter.
No lights, except for the fiery glow
Of a Swiss Christmas tree with hundreds of small, white candles.
What a striking, glorious sight--
It set one's heart on fire.
Then singing in the glow, adding to the mystery.
("Innsbruck ich muss dich lassen--")
It was a Christmas always to be remembered.

Nora. Memories opus 65

She died in November, 2016.
It is now January, 2023.
The Christmas lights she plugged in, in the living room,
Are still on--never touched.
So long a lifespan (for such lights)
Which she had decorated throughout the house.
The calendars she maintained, still hanging on November, 2016.
Some of her old meds still sit on the bedroom ironing board.
Her pendant collection, still on the wall hooks--some I made for her.
And, of course, many, many books amassed over her research years,
Mingled with my large collection--now all juxtaposed throughout the shelves.

My life has changed in the progress of aging and time passing,
But these all will remain for a time more,
Along with many other remnants of our past productive lives together.

The Elephant and the Tree (1977) opus 67

I was leaving my belov-ed Africa completing five years of teaching.
From Lesotho (Le su tu) I flew for a last stop in Malawi.
I had the choice of a hotel and walking the town,
Or rent a car in which I would sleep and see some sights!
Hard to guess which I chose--------.

With the car, I needed food for my travels.
Coming upon an outdoor market, I purchased a huge hand of plantains
With several bags of tangerines--both easy to peel.
Then I was off down the dusty road to where?
Gave someone a lift for a while and chatted country politics.
(Banda had killed perhaps one person in every Milawan family!--so he said.)
Then went on and found a national game park.
Signed in and settled into my cabin.

Explored out in the bush for a time, with wondrous fascination.
(I kept my white flannel shirt on, covered in red African dust.)
Ate a bite from my stash of plantains and tangerines,
Then wandered out again near dusk for good wildlife viewing.
Walked along a lake's shore to my right, probably full of crocs and hippos.
Passed further on to discover a huge bull elephant now in sight.
I watched him feeding on branches for several minutes.
It was becoming darker.
Suddenly I heard a trumpet and saw the ears out and the trunk up!
Wind shifted. I knew I needed to leave--fast.
Crocs now to the left and a long open slope to the right.
One lone tree far ahead--my only hope.

I ran as I had never run before--my high school records were all shattered.
MADE IT, with a huge pachyderm just behind.
The tree's root mass, from past flooding, was wide, like a giant bonsai.
The elephant rounded to the right,
I rounded back to the left.
Then the other way for both of us in our opposed motions.
Two or more semi rotations and then a pause.
I had my foot uplifted on the tree root
And it trembled beneath my body in exhaustion and exhilarated fear.

Suddenly nothing--no sound--and I wondered where we were.
Slowly creeping around to see if the huge animal was there.
Not a thing------.
Then the sudden crack of a branch and I realized it had silently left to feed.
I slowly and carefully slunk out and back to my cabin,
Still so full of adrenalin, but quieter,
I lay down on my cot and left the world in excited slumber.

At Dusk by my Table opus 78

Sitting at dusk by my table,
Watching White-crowned Sparrows on the outside feeder.
Bundles of narcissus--all colors clumped together.
A carving of an abstract eagle,
Carved in Norway with my travelling two year old son.
A CD sent from Sweden--one of Ingegerd's daughter's singing.
An Asian Elephant statue in gold--at least the color--
Acquired at a flea market, accompanied by my lovely dog, Sophia.
A hand carved stone petroglyph of Kokopelli,
Created in Colorado, in October 1999,
While attending a Land Trust Alliance Rally
With snow flurries surrounding us all.

I have been to so many places and seen so much.
Comforting thoughts of my past, just sitting next to me.

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.

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.

Swimming the Bosphorus opus 89

She was vivacious and full of adventure:
This was Betsy Harrell, the wife of Bryant, my new boss in Turkey,
(Now to be called Türkiye, as an act of Turkish Parliament).
He was Dean of the School of Science, at Robert College, now Bogazici Universitesi.
I met them in Nantucket, while carrying out my Cornell field work.
I graduated from grad school and was seeking a job--
Times were tough finding work at that time,
I was hired and off to Istanbul, Turkey, for a life's adventure!

At once, Betsy challenged me to a swim across the Bosphorus!
In Turkish it is named the Bogazici (Bo az e chi) 'The Neck',
Connecting the Black Sea with the Marmara, having swift currents between.
Of course I said yes and arrangements were made.
Bedros, the vibrant Armenian University carpenter from Bebek,
Manned the rowboat to accompany us.
We pushed off in Bebek and managed the currents as we were swept south.
As we crossed, a Russian ship loomed to the north above us.
Our efforts increased as we swam eastward towards Anatolia.
It loomed past us to the west and we made strokes onward.
Soon the traditional wooden houses came into focus shoreward.
And then our destination, now far to the south, the historic palace
Where Florence Nightingale had managed a Crimean War hospital
And then our hauling out in good health on the rocky shore.
Tired, but in good spirits, we rowed back with Bedros
And on to many Turkish adventures thereafter.

Telah, the Basotho Pony opus 104

One afternoon in the hills above the University (Roma, Lesotho),
I was driving along the smooth rock-based road,
Looking for a horse to buy to fulfill my equestrian desires.

Lesotho (Lesootoo) is renowned for its Basotho (Basootoo) Pony,
A horse which could be taught to triple--
A combination of an 'urged trot' and a 'restrained cantor'.
This 'pony' is one of the few breeds in the world,
Which is able to manage such a gait--
A gait which, when controlled well, is as smooth as glass!

So, that was my goal: scouting for an animal,
Which would also fulfill my aesthetic desires.
I had seen and checked out several that day,
But nothing had struck my fancy that was available.
Time was passing on towards mid afternoon,
When suddenly a rider approached on the road,
Mounted on a brilliant, muscular, red pony.
I stopped the old VW van and quickly descended to the dirt road.
The Mosotho rider stopped, dismounted and we shook hands.
He was wearing his conical, woven Basotho hat
And wrapped around his shoulders was the so-called Basotho blanket.
I explained that I was looking for a horse
And this one certainly struck my fancy.
He explained where he lived and asked that I return tomorrow.
I agreed, we shook hands once again
And I drove off with a pounding heart--
A beautiful pony indeed!

The next afternoon, having taught my biology lessons for the day,
I drove back up the smooth rock face above the school
And headed on towards the appointed group of rondavels--
The circular houses in which most Basotho dwell.
There was the red pony, as gorgeous as I had remembered.
We conversed for an hour, back and forth,
And finally decided on a price, agreeable to us both.

In anticipation of a possible fulfilled agreement,
I had a backup driver to return with the van
And I, with not only the horse, but also a fitted saddle,
Rode back down to the University horse barns.
The trip took two hours and the ride was magnificent.
Telah (Taylah) was strong with a determined will.
(That will, would, sadly, be his later undoing!)
Back then, home, I was at last the proud owner of a Basotho Pony.

Telah and I would have many happy rides together,
Through the open Lesotho valleys and mountains.
However, the next episode will divulge the sad departing
Of my beautiful Telah from me forever.

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.

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.

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.

Music To My Ears, II. Middle Years; Antioch College opus 223

Adding a bit more from High School, I was serendipitously introduced to jazz.
(1956).
The Newton High School was performing the 'Connecticut Yankee' musical.
After the final successful performance on that Saturday evening,
I was encouraged and invited to go to someone's home,
Taking my upright double bass with me and jamming!
I had never done such a thing--just extemporaneously playing by ear.
I knew all my musical keys, so knowing such with each tune,
I thought I might be able to 'fake it' somehow.
In fact, it really worked and that was the beginning--
I performed jazz, along with the classical through Grad School!

Well, I arrived (1959) at Antioch College, Yellow Springs, Ohio.
I jumped right into classes--music, science, literature, religion.
Of course, I joined the orchestra, led by David Epstein,
A good, clear conductor and later, I would learn, was a violinist.
We had many hours (and years!) of playing together.

One quarter, it was announced that David would temporarily have leave
And Donald Keetes, music history professor, would take his place.
Keetes was a light, indecisive conductor,
So I almost immediately switched to choir!
It was for only the quarter, and I missed my bass,
But I learned much about using my vocal cords,
Rather than fingering on large gut and steel strings.
The following quarter, I met Keetes again as professor
In a music history class--no singing notes, just notes.
He was a student of Hindemith and very knowledgeable.
My term paper, being deeply into religion and seeking a personal god,
Was a comparative study of the Masses of Mozart, Beethoven, and Stravinsky.
I remember hiding away to write at Lady Alice Bingle's apartment downtown.
She had nursed my father during his illness while he was
A student at Antioch, years previously.
I trepidatiously handed in my paper to Keetes,
Who surprised me with a big, fat A!

During my fifth and final year (I had taught in Switzerland for a year abroad),
David Epstein came to me after one of our rehearsals,
Asking if I would conduct a movement of Bach's Brandenburg Concerto #3,
While he performed the solo violin part in its designated musical movement.
Remembering my one opportunity in High School
And how wonderful the experience turned out to be,
I immediately said 'yes' and got to work, studying the score.
A real score, so complete, with one page containing the entire ensemble.
So you can imagine, the pages were turned quickly!
The graduation concert, including my conducting debut, went very well.
At this point in my life, I was struggling with career choices
Between religion, music, and biology to earn my future keep in the world.
After much thought, I chose biology, which, as it turned out, was a wise decision.
Music, however, continued to be a large part of my life.

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?

Music To My Ears, IV. Further Later Years; Turkey (now Turkiye) opus 234

Because of the economy and available academic jobs available,
I looked abroad and, since I had met Bryant and Betsy Harrell
On Nantucket Island, while I was trapping voles, researching for my Ph.D.,
And he had taken on a new deanship job at Robert College in Istanbul, Turkiye,
(Later to become Bogazici Universitesi),
He offered me a position in the biology department.
I accepted and moved to Turkiye and a new life.
As I and Maggi, my first late wife (killed in an auto accident later in Africa),
Drove through Germany, then Greece, and entered Turkiye,
I tuned the radio to a local station--it was like going to Mars.
I knew several languages, but I recognized not a word being broadcast.
As I said later, it was as though my tongue were removed from my mouth!
We settled into an apartment in Cucuk Bebek, an Istanbul suburb on the Bosphorus.
(See my 'Poems and Thoughts' on swimming the Bosphorus.)

After getting acquainted with my Constantinople Greek department head,
An elderly woman who soon died of cancer--
And I, having an appendicitis and a hospital stay,
I commenced through all that to learn much of my beginning Turkish.
(I actually learned from my Turkish ambulance driver how to count, 1 to 10.)
I discovered some fellow musicians and we befriended each other.
I soon had a leave for visa work and was in Saltzburg, Austria.
We went to an instrument maker and purchased an old 18th century 'cello.
Of course I had to learn the new instrument and its fingering.
Returning 'home' and with much practising, I approached Tom, a violinist,
His wife, Laura, violist, David, a pianist, and a flautist.
We started practising at an apartment in the shadows of the Rumeli Hisar,
A fortress constructed by Ahmet the Conqueror,
Who eventually conquered Constantinople and then all of Turkiye.
We practised every Friday evening from 5 to 11 with a 'gifted' dinner, lasting an hour.
We got quite good together and experienced marvelous evenings.
 I later came down with TB and was confined for many weeks in basic apartment isolation.
During that time I learned Esperanto, wrote, read, and learned the 12 tone system of music
Created by Schönberg, who migrated from Russia to Los Angeles, USA!
(When moving to California, I visited his 'reconstructed' studio at UCLA..)

I composed, in my isolation, two pieces for flute and cello, the scores of which
I later discussed with Karel Husa at Cornell on one of my home leaves.
These two works I performed in the Harrell's
Huge living room overlooking the Bosphorus,with many local colleagues in the audience.
It was a step forward in yet another musical dimension.
The Harrell's were gracious hosts and all went perfectly.
I finally returned to California for yet another life,
My music basically hibernating from thereon,
With so many new agricultural changes pending,
Also, creating the Environmental Education Farm Foundation, a non profit,
As well as the Quail Ridge Wilderness Conservancy land trust,
Music was still all around me, but now played by others.
Each piece they play still yields some memory from my past life.

Grief Unveiled opus 242

I have experienced grief several times during my 82 years--
A brother John, was only 20, a victim of a hunting shooting,
Where the unknown shooter shot in the air with no backing;
A father, his age at only 57, worn out from childhood rheumatic fever,
Which manifested its final blow from a weakened heart,
After testing high altitude breathing equipment during WW II;
A wife, Maggi, driving exam results from the University
To me in the field for proofreading and correction,
When her topheavy Land Rover overturned on a washboard dirt road--
The collision gently broke her neck, leaving no bodily mark;
A dearly beloved grandson, died in a terribly horrible car crash,
The horror shared with two companion boy friends, also dead;
A wife of 31 years, who died with a body riddled with cancer--
A great loss for me and her surrounding world.

I have never cried or became angry,
But rather have created a hand created marker,
Or created an endowment for students in our names together,
Or written narratives extolling their contributions to us all.
This type of grief behavior has been labelled as instrumental grief.
Intuitive grief is shown through emotion,
Such as crying, anger or outright emotional behavior.
I have, until I learned about these differences,
Thought I had not properly grieved.
It is a relief to now understand that I am not 'cold hearted',
And that many other fellow Homo sapiens, similarly grieve.

Christmas Owls, Nuptially Vocalizing opus 244

I woke early on the Friday before Christmas Monday.
My first Great Horned Owls' nuptial calls of the winter.
How wonderful that they once again have returned to me,
As they have for the almost half century I have lived here.
I had been dreaming of squash and mashed potatoes,
With a parcel of turkey in some unknown kitchen--
All warm with smells of deliciousness.
It is Christmas and my owls are unknowingly
Welcoming this time to be warm of heart and to remember
All the varied past times that we humans
Have created to make a short winter day,
Special for our complex human spirits.

A Christmas greeting from a Humanist.

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.

Christmas Alone opus 251

I have always been sheltered by family to have companionship.
Now I am old and the youth are off on their own.
They do not realize how much they are now needed.
I wait for a moment to interact,
But in the meantime I have many wonderful memories
Which sustain me in thought to have continuous life.
So many memories of candlelight and the scent of an evergreen.
The future will eventually continue without me,
Although with a choice, I would love to see what might yet unfold!

The Olfactory Mammal opus 256

Crickets to purchase in the pet store.
Wandered by the fish--and then the Betta display.
She had her back to me--she was tall.
I said, "You can train those, you know."
She turned; morphologically lovely.
We chatted about her school, her past,
Her time in our town; I added just a bit.

Not sure if I said something or she,
But there was a blush to her face.
Her prominent nose reminding me
Of my first Armenian High School love.
Then my nostrils were filled with her
Sweet female scent.
A shot went through me and I, the biologist,
Knew I was truly an olfactory mammal;
As she walked away,
Leaving her lingering pheromone.
Indeed, my whole phylogeny
Raced throughout my ontogeny.

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.

An Upper Trophic Level opus 281

I was comfortable with catfish as a product, raised in a hot summer environment. (Now after 40 years, summers are ever hotter--I remember at least three winters when all ponds would freeze over and the kids even skated -- not any longer.). While selling fish, customers had many questions, as is the wont in a direct Farmers Market. One, of course, was, 'Don't these fish feed on the bottom?' I quickly solved that one for a good reply, as well as for a better product: I used floating fish food, which created a wonderful feeding frenzy as well, which the many visiting school children immensely enjoyed! The nutrition of catfish flesh is quite complete and very healthy. But the 'haupt' subject which greatly worries me is the fact that we are fishing out our wild stocks, and, of course, most people wish to consume salmon and tuna and trout, all of which are on the top of the food chain--the highest trophic (feeding) level.

It worries me to see customers in a grocery store, ogling over salmon, when there are so many other, environmentally better fish species to be consumed. Captive salmon create their own problems such as antibiotics loose in the ocean near the floating pens, let alone the dissolving artificial food and fish waste. But most, the escape of domesticated varieties of salmon into the wild populations. Pond raised fish are isolated and do not create such problems. In general then, we must all be aware of the trophic levels from which WE feed as well!

Flying XI The Snowstorm opus 320

{It has been quite a while since I wrote my last 'Flying X'.
There have been many distracting world events to deter me!
These Poems and Thoughts were initiated to pass on some personal histories
For my two boys and any other family members who may be interested.
It has thus evolved, as well, to include commentary of all sorts,
But still remaining within the realm of my thoughts and concerns.}

While at Cornell as a graduate student, I flew small planes,
Having joined a University flying club.
To maintain some sanity during all the serious PhD studies,
Music in the Cornell orchestra and occasional flying here and there
Were the antidotes to clear my head from the challenging academic thinking.

After a few years of flying, I became quite proficient,
So I met more and more challenging weather situations.
In the winter of 1967(?) I was flying back to the Ithaca airport
When, suddenly the weather changed as it did often in northern New York.
Snow flurries from the Great Lakes spread across the area.
I had landed at an airport about half an hour flying time from Ithaca.
I called the control center and explained I needed to return to my home base.
(Probably the need was the result of a pending oral exam!)
After some discussion I convinced them I could fly on.
I had told them I knew all the highways leading to Ithaca
And that I would fly above the roads, following them to the airport.
Ok. I took off, flying at about 1000 feet, still maintaining a visual of the ground.
The snow was light, but thick around me.
I remember seeing the vehicles passing below me.
It was a sight I would never dismiss from my mind.
I did wonder, while above them, just what they thought of all this!
I followed the main highway west, turning left or south,
Then on to the anticipated runway ahead.
I believe I came down on runway 31 where I had learned to fly!
As I touched down and the wheels squealed in joy with the earth,
My heart was relieved, but in harmony with the joyful rubber below me.

Flying XII. Night Flying opus 321

During my flight training, I went through rigorous exercises
Teaching me the various emergencies while flying at night.
Considering all emergencies which might occur on the dark of night,
I was confronted with the possibility of the lighting system failing.
With no control panel lights, one cannot see the crucial landing speed.
As we landed, the side window was opened to hear the wind speed.
With that aid, coupled with the passing of the runway lights,
One gets pretty accurate judgement of speed so as not to stall.
The next test entails no landing lights, making the runway just black.
By judging the altitude using the runway lighting,
One simply inches down, losing altitude,
Until the wheels--if all goes well--ease softly onto the tarmac.

The next challenge was to land with neither one--no panel nor landing lights!
The pilot needs then to use runway lights, along with
Listening to the passing wind through the open window,
Continually creeping down to finally touching rubber to tarmac.
After some practice, this seemingly impossible task
Actually results in yet one more successful manoeuver
Which ultimately ticks off another skill towards a possible emergency survival.

Performing these exercises, one is truly living in a three-dimensional world!

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!)

Memories Elicited from a Folded Sarong opus 332

Looking at a pile of folded cloth items,
I spied a sarong, purchased 45 years ago on my travels through Bali.
A batiked cotton, formed in the shape of a huge tube.
One slipped into this giant tube and with proper folding,
Reduced it down to a tight and snuggly fit around the waist.
Cool, comfortable, stylish men's apparel,
Sort of reminding me of the much shortened
Roman military toga worn by the soldiers of Caesar's time,
Or the Scottish Great Kilt, pleated while lying on the ground,
And, then by lying atop, the potential wearer folded it over the body,
Tied it with a line at the waist,
And stood to brush off the adhering bits of vegetation.

My modern kilts continually await my swinging them on to delight the onlookers!

The Scottish Bank opus 349

Every time I go into a bank, I remember an experience in Scotland.
When Scotland was forced (1770) to join England--the new 'Britain'--
They were allowed to maintain their healthcare,
Educational system, and print their own currency.
The English were always very 'particular' about receiving Scottish notes
And often shamed people who used them in England.
A father, sending his child off to school in England
Was meticulous to make sure all the accompanying notes
Were English to avoid embarrassment and delays.

On that 'note', I shall continue to relate my tale.
In a small town in Scotland,
I needed to exchange my Traveler's Checks for notes.
Britain uses both notes, theoretically, as completely equivalent.
As the teller was counting out my 'pound-refund',
I watched carefully if she would mix the notes--English and Scottish.
Sure enough, the mixed pile built up and at that point,
I called out loudly, "No, please, I want only Scottish notes!"
Banking progress ceased for a moment and my surrounding patrons
Immediately understood that this 'foreigner'
Understood their historic humiliation.
There were smiles and nods in my direction, conveying their gratitude!
I left the bank, fulfilled that I had made
A small positive mark on an oppressed people.

Two Very Sexy Geese opus 351

I have viewed this afternoon on my little farm pond,
A pair of Canada Geese swimming quietly together.
As I watched (1500 Hours), the two began
Dipping heads and imbibing in unison.
The mirrored movements became ever more rapid,
When suddenly the male gently slid over the back of the female,
Holding her head under water as he mated.
Just as quickly, he slid off but was still hooked
With his intromittent organ.
They swam awkwardly in parallel until he became unattached.
Then as if they were two human lovers, lighting up,
They, in unison, began (1515 Hours) fierce self preening manipulations.
Bills dug into plumage, over and over again,
Followed together by more head dipping,
Wing flapping, and bathing--full body.
At this moment (1525 Hours) a lone male Mallard swam from shore
Then suddenly plunged under water, surfacing twenty feet out,
Next to the pair
(Mallards are dabblers, not usually divers--most interesting behaviour.)
It started to preen and dip, mimicking the 'dance' nearby.
Astoundingly this went on for several minutes,
Then just as rapidly, the duck turned and swam to shore,
Continuing, in its seeming frenzy, to preen on ground.
The goose pair continued to mimic each other with diminishing movements.
The Mallard swam back out to mingle with the two,
Seeming to empathetically be 'joyful' in what had just occurred.
As things calmed down, I was again overwhelmed
That I had witnessed another creature, so very accurately,
Going through the same passions and behaviour
As if I had just viewed a sex film or had remembered
My own sexual behaviour with a mate of my own species!
Then, as if the phone had rung, drawing us back into the 'real' world,
The female goose began to softly cackle several times
Announcing that it was over and business awaits.
The two arose, splashingly, off the water, rose up and headed west
To the field next door, cackling exuberantly as they landed in the 'green graze',
Now ready, with contrasting behaviour, to pluck many blades of grass!

(It is noteworthy that the male Mallard through this whole episode
was totally alone--no female in sight.
An hour later his female returned--from foraging?--
and immediately the male became active around her--
swimming, preening and devoting attention to her!)

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.

Contentment After Eight Decades opus 374

My world has been filled with a good childhood,
With the nurturing of two loving and attentive parents,
Exciting education, three major wars,
Civil Rights struggles, acting upon pacifism,
Exciting biological work and discovery,
Learning to fly and to organically farm, and fundraising for the planet,
And lastly, from my Pictish ancestry, hand carving of petroglyphs,
Now distributed throughout the world.
Of course so much of this was shared and aided with my incredible wife, Nora.
So much in one human life--Enriching.
Now, my body has slowed down,
To pursue less physically strenuous endeavors.
My thoughts and mind must continuously constrain
My former natural instincts to be able to accomplish 'everything'.

I wake in the morning to view from bed and opening eyes,
My Betta fish swimming up and down in their large vase aquaria,
To gulp air, they being obligate, labyrinth breathers.
I have studied their biology and joy in their every gulping breath.

Recalling the past,
During feeding, my gentle Scottish Highland Steer ate from my hand.
I have had many flocks of sheep, grazing down the pastures, preventing
fire risk.
After constructing acres of ponds,
Casting feed out to waiting, excited catfish swirling the water.
Planting thousands of bulbs which colored my fields every spring,
Ready to harvest for waiting Farmers Markets.
(I also led a CalTrans Highway flower project on I 80 and 113, lasting 3 years.)
Upon learning California flora, I have seeded many species of native grass,
One of which I got designated as the official State Grass,
Along with planting many types of trees and shrubs.
I had one set of two grandsons who shared these joys
(Plus two sons who grew up amongst all this)
And now a three year old grandson
Who is just beginning to learn and enjoy it all.

I continue to use my creation here to edify visitors about their
native environment.
Learning, creating and teaching to increase awareness
Has given me my now final contentment, following my eight decades on this earth.

On This Day Three Decades Ago--Our 4 July opus 382

On our 37 acre farm, we had 14 fish ponds.
Every week I harvested Channel Catfish for local farmers markets.
On this day three decades ago, I first, then later my two boys,
Paddled out to the center of our largest pond bearing legal fireworks.
As dusk arrived, the fireworks, from the middle of the pond,
Would be released to the delight of all onlookers.
My mother, Elizabeth, was still alive and especially enjoyed them.
In those days it was quite safe, being in the mid-pond,
But with today's temperatures of 110 degrees F and such surrounding dryness,
To do such would be an act of folly and probably would be called in!

Flying XIV. A Spray Application Demo opus 388

This is probably my last thought on my flying career.
I remember these demonstrations because of their forcefulness.
And also that spray planes are used to fertilize fields all around me.

Out of the blue one day with my instructor, he remarked on his 'spray' days'.
He asked if I would like to see (and feel!) just how applications were done.
Of course I answered affirmatively, so off we went.
He chose a field with telegraph lines on one edge
And an array of rather high trees on the further side.
We lined up--north to south-- barely clearing the lines,
Then abruptly dropped down to a 20 foot altitude,
Swept across the field, trees loomed ahead,
And shot straight up over the tree line.
With no flaggers to indicate our next pass to the north,
We made a broad circle to get us in line for the next pass,
Dropped abruptly again over the trees,
Swept once again across the field, aiming for the telegraph lines ahead
And miraculously shot upwards--just missing the lines!
It was a wonderful demonstration of how many pilots
Earn their daily bread and survive such a lifetime of risk,
Fertilizing our crops quickly and efficiently to feed a hungry world.

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!

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!

A Shot and Then a Fire! opus 415

Home from a wonderful session
At Surgery with Dr. Alali, my oncologist.
(13 August 2024, 1630 Hours.)
He is from Iran and is writing a book
About Darwin's relationship with that country.
My CLL, blood cancer, seems to have just disappeared!
Home and parked in my drive and checking the mail along the road.
A very loud shot blasted my ears from the south
And a second later my nearby waste bin and I were peppered with shot!
I called out several times, "Do not shoot. I am here!" No one there.
Deciding to move out of the line of fire,
I drove to the house, when I heard a crackling of fire--
My northeast berm in the line of fire--was leaping with flame.
The slight wind was from the south--away from the house.
I rushed into the house, retrieving, computer, meds and keys.
Someone had called the closeby fire department,
So I lingered and watched, ever cognizant of the wind direction.
We had mowed some of the berm, so flames at first moved slowly,
Then raged forward along the northern border; when, finally out.

Relieved, damping up occurred, and then talks with fire- and sheriffs.
I was strangely calm and 'took it as it came'.

Called later to see that they would check for embers after dark.
Communicated to a few others about the challenging happenings,
Then rested and did just what I did after my African elephant attack years ago--
I relaxed and went into a much needed sleep.

A California Saga--Freezing! opus 419

I have lived and farmed here in Davis for decades.
In the 80's the winter task was to wrap pipes,
And cover plants, preventing freezing.
On the plus side, I skated with my two boys on one of our fishponds!
Never, would we have envisioned a warming, changing so much.
Now it is drought, fire, and water challenges--
Wells, once dug to a depth of thirty feet,
Are now obligated to excavate to hundreds (200 then 400)!
I am near the end of my time on this earth--
How, in 'god's name', will my offspring
Cope with these huge, rapid, human-induced changes,
Manifesting, on the once climatic 'golden age' of our planet we so loved?

Afternoon of my 83rd Birthday (Train of Thoughts) opus 423

Guests at 1700 Hours have departed and I sit alone
By my small pond in a gentle breeze.
Quiet, with a bucolic sense all around.
A Great Egret patiently fishes, then slowly rises up and disappears.
Recounting my birth certificate, recording the time I emerged into the world--
0115 EDT--if daylight time had been created then (it had--March 1918).
That would mean the exact time of 83 years,
Would have been 2215 Hours PDT on 24 August 2024.
Funny how things shift around our planet.

So, at 1100 Hours, Pierre's and Basil's mother, Christine, came to celebrate!
When your ex-wife comes to truly visit, you have done something right!
(I think she might be a little bored, lacking a challenging
conversation now and then.)

Then Pierre (son) and Julia (his wife) and belatedly Rebecca (a friend)
Tumbled in for a moment of greetings and tumbled out, just as fast, to
Burning Man.
Christine and I were left with cake and South African Gem squash and figs
To discuss for a full four hours--she was to stay only for one or two.
Reluctantly on both our parts--so different in life's orientation,
I had to send Christine on her way into the five-o'clock Sunday traffic.
A very nice interaction of two, who seldom interact.
How wonderful if Kamala and Trump and their followers
Could interact in such a peaceful and sane manner.
This was, indeed, a thoughtful and meaningful meeting of two differing minds.
Thank you, Christine, to take the time and be tolerant enough
To propose, to expound, to contemplate and allow the possibilities of compromise,
Which could exist in a world of needless, non-empirical debate.

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.

Norumbega ('Belonging to Norway') -- The Site of Vinland? opus 426

My father (and mother) loved to go fishing,
So he took us all (mother, John, Susan, and me),
To the Charles River (named after Charles I in 1614--
Charles was only a prince then, but explorer, John Smith
Had expectations for the lad--who later lost his head--
And then came the wicked Cromwell and thereafter,
The exiled , enlightened son, Charles II.)
(This is why the new British king is Charles III!)
Lots of history where I grew up--
I shall attempt to control my being an historiaphile!

At any rate, we often fished near a 40 foot fieldstone tower,
Built (1889) to pay homage to the supposed Vinland--
A Viking fort and settlement (1000 AD) started by Leif Erikson.
As children (and once as a returning adult) we, now I,
Often climbed the spiral staircase.
The Tower still quietly stands surrounded by comforting trees.
The fishing usually produced a sunfish or bluegill--occasionally a catfish.
Our family also enjoyed, at other times,
Norumbega Park's amusements across the river.

Later, in High School (Newtonville), I took classical double bass lessons
At the Newton Music School in one of the eleven 'Newtons'.
Our 'final exam' was the School's public outreach,
Performing Edvard Grieg's Piano Concerto in A minor, op. 16.
This was my first public performance with a large audience
And it was played in the very famous Totem Pole Ballroom at the Park.
(The Park itself survived from 1897 to 1963--the Ballroom, from 1930 to 1963.)

This Ballroom was to come twice again in my life,
When my first love Seta Derhohannesian, a senior,
Invited me to the Newton High prom,
Followed by Susan White, who accompanied me for my second senior prom.

Years later, for my 50th High School reunion, I returned to the Park,
But now (2008), I stayed in the Radisson Hotel now on the beloved Park's site.
The hotel's position was near the two bear cages I remember from childhood.
That year, while there, I looked up Seta and spent some lovely
innocent time with her.
We talked birds, as she was just starting some serious birdwatching--
I remember, hearing for the first time, in my hometown, Newton,
A Cardinal's vocalization--they have shifted north resulting from the
Climate Crisis!

The Park was a focal point--not planned-- throughout my life.
It was called one of the many 'trolley parks' from the 1890's,
Where many parks were created for business at the end of a trolley line.
This park at that time, and little known to me, had been declared
New England's finest amusement park--including the Totem Pole Ballroom
Which heard the music of Miller and Dorsey echoing through its walls.
I truly have lived a life surrounded by wonderful history,
Which has obviously nurtured my mental ontogeny!

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.

An Unexpected Roll! opus 439

A few days ago I had just rolled in; back to the farm
With a new implement tucked in the back of my old Honda.
Stepped out for a second to make a check--motor still running.
I turned, realizing that somehow the vehicle was slowly rolling forward!
Attempted at 83 years to jump back into the front seat to hit the brake.
Too old, too slow; holding on, attempting to reach the brake;
Partly dragged; stretching my arm towards the brake!
It just isn't going to work--I must let go, still being dragged.
Some pain and weight on my right calf.
Lying on the gravelled drive, I see my leg--
Almost a foot split open, parallel to the bone--
Nothing broken, just butchered!
Assessing--not much pain (shock?) and little blood.
Organized things for my departure to drive to Emergency.
Now, ready to go with a towel-wrapped leg.

Wheeled into the ER, greeted and ready to be sewn up!
Considering the circumstances, it was a pleasant time--
The worse, being the many numbing jabs in preparation.
All turned out well and I was able to return home
At 10 PM on my own steam.

The one outstanding question I do remember from the many--
"How did you get here?"  "I drove myself."
"YOU DID WHAT?"

Attempted Robbery opus 463

We all have seen reenactments of various robberies--
Banks, stagecoaches, in an alley, during war.
But have you actually been a part of and felt what it was like?
Around August 1973, I was on home leave from my African teaching job.
I was half way home in Rio de Janeiro for a stop over,
Spending an evening at the theatre, then walking back to the hotel,
where Pierre, my first born, (three months) and his mother were waiting.
I decided to take a short cut behind the main thoroughfare.
Walking in a lighted, but narrower area between buildings and the river,
I was commencing to pass by two 'guys' leaning against the railing.
As I passed, they suddenly confronted me with a small, silver pistol.
We spoke different languages, but I knew what they were demanding.
I was larger than they, so I talked, holding out my arms to appear large--
Just like Konrad Lorenze (an ethologist) had done, confronting a barracuda,
To ward off the giant fish while scuba diving--
And it seemed to work as they impatiently waved me on.
After saying 'Obrigado' I moved away, but decided on a strategy;
In case they tried to shoot me in the back,
I ran with a premeditated zigzag to avoid a clear shot.
No shot occurred and I was most relieved as I rounded a right corner.

Was I afraid? As I remember 50 years later,
I was seized with adrenalin and tenseness, but not with fear.
It passed through me as an extreme event in life
And not a pending tragedy with possible wounding or death.
No matter what, it still remains vividly in my memory.

My Verbal Rambles with Regan of Texas opus 466

Hello, Regan, It is the middle of the night and my mind still races.
For the stores, prohibiting those distinguished guests with bare feet,
Just sew some of your own moccasins for your shopping experience.
COMPROMISE WITH TRIVIAL MATTERS, BUT STILL WIN.
Glad Ms. Caroll is mending.
Just had part of my head amputated for cancer.
Had a jovial time with the surgeon. We know each other well.
I have used guns on the farm now and then--rats!
(I hunted one deer with a bow for three years and succeeded--THAT is sport.)
My brother, 20 years old, was shot in the back from a long distance,
So no sound was heard--he just dropped next to his hunting partner.
I opposed the Vietnam war and was vindicated
When MacNamara stated before he died that it was a 'wrongful' war.
I have historical schizophrenia with guns and war.
What fun we could have discussing over a good ale!
I would even go barefoot to be accepted in your presence in that bar,
If you so insisted, and of course if they even let us in.

I am alone for Thanksgiving, so I am planning a simple repast
Of Taters, Nips, some good Scotch, and of course Haggis.
Are you familiar with such?--with the ignorant, a bad reputation,
But so delicious--no different than a wurst or a humble 'hotdog'.
All include, historically, everything left on the floor and walls. . . .
And we eat that stuff at our national pastime. . . .
So why does everyone dump on Haggis???
Damn, it would be nice to have a good face to face with you.
And in between chats, I would help you wrangle up some Fallows
For shipment to some rich Texan rancher with 12 oil wells!
(We need those rich extravagant ones to keep us peasants in business.)

Be so well!!  Frank.

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.

Pyramid Meditation opus 475

Two followers of the Maharishi of India and 'creator' of
Transcendental Meditation,
Stopped for a day in Istanbul, Turkiye, and shared their craft with us.
I was given a 'mantra' which began my voyage into alpha wave 'production'.
Even hospitalized in Turkiye, I meditated to the point
I 'experienced' levitation from my bed.

Later, on my African home leave, once again, in 1975, I stopped in Guatemala,
Wishing to seek out the ancient Mayan pyramids of the area.
Walking on the trail to the great structures at Tikal,
I noticed large holes in the barrier fences along the trail.
After visiting and experiencing the pyramids in daylight,
I fantasized a night visit to experience a moonlight pyramid meditation.
As planned, I returned after dark, utilized the holes along the way
And quietly climbed the long train of narrow steps to one of the stone
structure's apex.
The steps were formed narrowly, to obligate a climber to remain sideways,
Preventing one from facing straight towards the gods.
Alpha waves flowed freely and plentifully during that brainwave experience!
My memory of that view, flooded with moonlight,
Lives vibrantly in my old, but very crisp past images.

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.

How to be Bailed Out with Half a Turkey opus 489

As I have said before, I raised ground-raised turkeys for three decades.
I always ordered my day-old poults through the mail.
(I believe Benjamin Franklin started this system to aid beginning farmers.)
One year I received my batch of 600 poults and started yet another year.
Part way through the season, the young birds seemed unusually large,
And indeed, by autumn, they were double the normal size.
I had inadvertently received some sort of super breed!
What on earth to do--much too large for most of my customers.
So, as usual, I fresh froze them but cut and wrapped
The exceptionally large ones in half!
Then I explained to each customer what had occurred
And 'sold them' on how unique a half turkey would appear,
Lying on a silver platter at the Thanksgiving repast!
It worked and I sold every one--and I was VERY thankful
There were no complaints, but I made certain with the breeder,
That would never happen again!

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 Haggis Repast opus 507

I dozed off to the pending news of our redundant politicians;
Such continual anger against almost everything.

I longed for a change-- something to put in my mouth.
Oh, the last portion of my can of Scottish Haggis.
Chopped into smaller portions, special oil poured thereupon.
Heated to soften the Haggis and yield a bubbling oil.
One of my last four eggs, held for a special occasion--
Eggs--the last--from my young hens--
Dog-murdered beside my house.
Now almost imbibing the heated oil-soaked meat,
I left it on my tongue to taste my Scottish heritage--
Washed down gently with not Scotch, but Sake--
A cosmopolitan repast at midnight.

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!

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.

A Last Stage opus 517

Two days into a five-day rain spree.
No rain for all of January--a dry time.
But now all has suddenly changed--
Dark skies, cold wind, and a leaky ceiling to boot!
My days now--especially these presently are so different
From my past, busy and very productive life.
Sometimes it is hard to fill my hours,
But of course that is not really true;
I tend to my Betta fish, and feed lizards,
Check email, finish the mail returns, and have a bite;
Organize farm duties with Jessie, my 'man',
Then write what is in my head--
Juxtaposed with needed calls to help save my planet.
Evening comes and I can't bother anyone--too late for a call.
Such a different life from what I formerly had--
Farming, markets, fishing (with seines), flower harvest,
Educational boat cruises, and walks at Quail Ridge,
Constant fundraising, and creating an ever-new brochure.
How many more things, I might be able to recount.
My mind spins as I were at 40, but my body slows.
It is a dilemma I must absolutely get through,
But it is uncomfortable to be at all impaired.
I must make the best of things and do the best
That my weakening body allows.
I must stay in good spirits, not to turn off
My younger interactees.
I am full of life, but know that the end is slowly pending.

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.

Why Do We Talk to Ourselves? opus 521

How many times have you caught yourself talking to 'no one'!
Why do we humans continue such one-sided conversations?
Do children better learn their language and thus it is adaptively ingrown?
Do we repeat something out loud so that we might not forget?
Do we, in a critical and stressful moment, talk aloud to release tension?
Do we, anticipating a date or interview, give ourselves an audible pep talk?
Do we repeat out loud, so this 'self-talk' reinforces our memories?
Do we repeat incessantly to ready for a rebutting response or argument?
Do we chat aloud to just plain calm ourselves down?
Are we scripting to assure ourselves of a necessary procedure?
Are we just having a conversation with a companion animal?
Are we a puppeteer voicing a thought
Through our normally inanimate dummies?
Are we alone and talking to a recently deceased loved one?
Or are we just plain journaling, or externally thinking,
Or simply compensating memory?

The Dog That Went Too Far--An Allegory opus 527

Our farm needed a replacement watchdog.
We viewed a homeless, nice looking German Shepherd cross.
We all knew German Shepherds had their reputations,
But we voted and made the choice to give him a chance.
We needed a guard dog, the position high in our farm bureaucracy.
All seemed to go well, but there were glimpses
Of the possible predatory instincts of our nominee.
True enough, one night we returned to find a large open pen
Of communal rabbits had all been thoughtlessly slaughtered.
With discussion, some said to shoot the dog on the spot,
While others said that it should be banished or removed from the farm.
Our rules and governance of the once stable farm
Had been completely crippled and almost destroyed,
Because so many innocent rabbits had been needlessly slaughtered.
We needed to decide quickly so that no more such acts would occur.
Being a humaine group, a nice isolated home was negotiated and found,
And our farm managed to recoup and continue thriving.
Even by running our farm in a procedural way,
We were misled by the initial behavior of this dog.
Our lesson learned was to be more prudent and careful
In making decisions, concerning such an important station,
Supporting the hierarchy of our democratically run farm society.

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.

Flowers for Marty opus 538

My friend of many years, Marty, was chatting with a participant about me
At a Quail Ridge Reserve ceremony honoring my work in conservation.
Along the way, Marty was asked how he had originally met me,
Marty outlined a few interesting characteristics,
Explained where he had met me with one outstanding point--
I was the only male who, during all his life,
Had actually presented to him a large bundle of flowers!
(He didn't mention that I raised thousands of narcissus and daffodils
Which I sold in several Farmers Markets,
And also spontaneously handed them out to all sexes, as I chose!)
Now the secret is out.

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.

Bundles of Flowers opus 543

An afternoon at the dentist's office.
Had promised four bundles of my narcissus or daffodils
To the lovely ladies at reception and at the 'chair'--
Liz, Chantobel, Olivia, and the top dog, Dr Dominessey.
But what now? A Monica had slipped in, so now five.
Led into the 'chair', tooth drilled, interesting chat.
Had no time to bundle from my bucket,
Until in the aftermath and the bill paid.
In the lobby, I commenced bundling--not four, now five.
Then a patient came by--a sweet older eastern Indian.
She admired the flowers--
Probably originally came from her part of the world.
So now it was six--I had just enough.
Usha--meaning 'sunset' received a spontaneous bundle--
So, still, I had enough for five more (like the loaves and fishes).
I walked out six bundles fewer, but a heart full of multiple bundles!

A Dream to Freedom! opus 571

I am an aging man of nearly 84 now and for the last two years,
With a right hip replacement which was 'mis-mounted'--turned a few degrees inward--
As well as slowly wearing out from labor and fatigue,
I walk now slowly and carefully so as not to fall.
Last night I had an interesting dream, which I demanded my mind to remember.
I met a couple of 'guys' with whom I began running.
I remember being very swift and mostly in the lead,
As I had been most of the time before 80.
The soil was reddish. There were many pines. We followed old trails,
But often we had to maneuver alongside bulldozer paths.
It was back and forth between the two pathway types.
At one point, the trail led us under a highway overpass--
I remember the several round cement posts supporting the roadway.
As I woke up, images began to become jumbled.
I believe, in the dream, it was getting dark, and I personally wondered
How we would find our way 'back' in the dark night.
At that point, I fully woke and, being so intrigued with the dream,
I made myself be able to recall, even in the new wakeful state.
I have often managed to recollect many details in my dreams,
By training my mind to repeat details in sequential depth.
Of course, my mind was rebelling, using my swift dream-race,
To contrast with my now slow plodding which I must endure--
Merely moving from one spot to another.
Even though it was a dream, I woke, feeling refreshed and fully mobile!

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.

Adumbrations of Death opus 593

At the age of nearly 84, it is inevitable, my sensing the nearing of death.
On the longest day of the year, and doing farm chores myself,
I broke the work session into two,
Resting in between the feeding and the overseeing.
(Jessie, my man, was away on his wedding anniversary.)
I was, as usual, slow in my walk and efforts.
At about four, I sat and went through mail,
Enjoying the outside breeze and afternoon diminishing temperatures.
I felt then, I should lie down to rest for a moment,
As my chest felt light and I pondered what was to pass.
I wondered whether or not this might truly be near my extinguishment.
There was no pain, just that feeling of lightness.
I had no fear nor panic; just a soft feeling of possible finality.
I slowly arose from bed and poured a cup of Sake,
Returned to my restful repose, and felt more normal.
I guess I shall survive this wonderment towards the ultimate end.
Well, perhaps this was merely a rehearsal of what it might be like.
I have never panicked concerning my possible death,
This being a gentle preamble to that which is inevitably on its way.

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.

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).

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.

Lesotho--Where's That? opus 614

Did you happen to catch it, when President Trump said,
"No one has ever heard of Lesotho."
 (Pronounced LES SOO TOO, a very small Southern African country.)
The subject of Lesotho came up because Trump placed a 50% tariff thereon.
Trump may not have heard of Lesotho, but the Basotho have heard of him.
I, personally, had heard of Lesotho, the country,
Because I was an 'English lecturer' (assistant professor) in their university about 1976.
This country was and still is one of the poorest countries in the world.
When I lived and taught there, the poverty was evident.
Young boys, tending goats in the wild, were still hunting mice,
To be roasted over a small fire, providing a small amount of needed protein.
The hunting weapon was a sharpened stick called a Tsenene.
In the winter, children wrapped themselves in a single blanket,
And walked around with bare feet on a very cold earth-surface.
As I remember, perhaps Denmark (?), had started a clothing company to create jobs.
This infant industry has now grown to produce and become 'the denim capitol' of Africa.
They also produce the golf shirts of clothing, which even Trump himself wears!
The 50% huge tariff, Trump placed on Lesotho because of the 'trade imbalance'--
Lesotho actually exports more to the US, because it is so poor; US products being relatively too expensive.
As a result, their clothing companies are challenged, losing trade because of the excessive prices--
Businesses are closing, workers are being laid off,
And a long fought-for national industry is, because of Trump's complete ignorance of the situation,
experiencing crumbling sources of desperately needed employment.
Meanwhile the tariff has somewhat mercifully been reduced to 15%,
But the Mosotho Secretary of State reports it will require many months for the needed recovery.
Yet one more tragedy in a long line of uninformed legislation.

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?

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.

A Ten Minute 'Peek' at a Kabuki Theatre Evolved into Three Hours! opus 651

About 1977, I was travelling home from Sweden,
Heading east from Europe towards California.
One of my 13 stops was in Japan, specifically Kyoto.
Wandering the streets, I came across a Kabuki Theatre.
I went in, found a seat in the back, on an aisle,
And settled in for whatever was to come.
A short performance commenced for about 10 minutes,
When suddenly, mainly--'foreign-looking' tourists
Got up and left (a tour).
I was not at all ready to leave and remained seated.
Then the real show began with all its dramatics!
As I sat, enthralled, a Japanese person came to me,
And handed, in English, a synopsis of each proceeding play.
How thoughtful and helpful in understanding
This wonderful type of theatre.
I remained for three hours, leaving with the locals,
Who had with them, by-the-way,
Bag lunches to enjoy during the performance.
I was so completely glad that I remained
Able to enjoy myself with those locals!
The art of Kabuki remains with me until today.

Dancing Days opus 657

The three-four of Strauss came into my ear.
Thoughts suddenly reverted back to my dancing days.
As a child I had formal dance lessons--
Fox Trott, Waltz, Fourstep, Cha Cha.
High School and College and early later life days
Spawned a formal/freeform; a rather dynamic style.
With a good partner, that great style allowed movement,
Which mesmerized many watchers and couples--
Most would simply stop to watch!

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.

The Numbers in My Childhood opus 678

My home phone number was DEcatur 2-0466. I used this phone many times, especially during my teenage years, Calling friends, my love Seta, classmates and church appointments.

My family's main car was a Ford station wagon, license plate 43541, Massachusetts. I learned to drive in that car and took my driver's test among six foot high piles of snow! I passed. My first date with Seta was at her home. I drove my double bass over to Watertown, And had a 'romantic' evening playing a Bach flute concerto.

H2289 was licensed to a little yellow Nash Metropolitan Which my father drove and surprised us one evening. He needed a second car for his work at Arthur D. Little in Cambridge, Where he created and invented product models for businesses of all kinds. Father rejoiced when there were no more elongated bolt holes--US license plates were finally uniform!

My street number was 301 Lake Avenue, between Walnut Street and somewhere far north. It was named for Crystal Lake which was a few blocks north of our house. I fished there; I learned to swim there and we were banned from swimming as polio reared its head. (My mother, Elizabeth, had a deformed foot from childhood polio.)

My address always had Massachusetts,? 61,? We always argued where the comma should go. That was the small beginning of the North American zip code! We had 72 storm windows and screens we had to change every season. Long extension ladders were needed for the three stories of our old house. I was told this house was originally built by the Mafia.

There were six rooms on the first floor--

A dining room with carved wooden dragons at the upper corner of each door frame. My mother, tending the fireplace there, rose quickly and as was said, 'cracked her skull'. We lived with that reminder during all of our childhood.

There was the living room where my parents entertained And where we had the other fireplace and stood the Christmas tree by the bay windows. When the presents were distributed, I always hid one to have an 'extra' at the end!

Across the hall there was the music room with the record player and the upright piano. We had groups come and we played with combinations of instruments. My father even played his fiddle occasionally, and, of course, my mother played the piano-- Even in the evening to put us all asleep.

There was a small bathroom, a laundry room, and a pantry. These all joined the main kitchen where we read comics on Sunday, Cooked, and measured and quibbled over the size of pie pieces. (There's a photo!) There was a back stairway leading from near the kitchen area to the small hallway on the second floor. My father closed it off and stored food cans and liquor! I found this and snitched some, now and then!

Dad also put in a 'side door' to the driveway, where I would meet Frank the Milkman, so named.

Back at the main hall, there was a stairway with, I believe, 16 stairs to the second floor. The kneul post at the base of the railing was large and magnificent. (But at the finish of sliding down the railing, one had to always watch out for that large post.)

At the top of the stairs, which turned twice to the left, was another hall reaching our parents' bedroom, My sister Susan's room, and the 'boy's room', ('Chip' and John) looking over the flat roof, towards the street. Three rooms in all plus a bathroom, where Dad would tell stories, while sitting on the John! A fourth by the bathroom was Dad's office and study, where we often grouped to view collections of old Pennsylvania glass fragments,coins, and his anatomy books.

Going back to the top of the stairs was a door leading to the third floor. That was my realm. A small room to the left, where the old upright phonograph stood, which we cranked and played, A huge unfinished attic to the right, and my room straight ahead, past the skylight. My room had a linoleum 'rug' with the US map, a bed, my rolltop desk, bookcases, and a big closet. The window faced out to the street, and near which we had a rope tied to the radiator, In case there was ever an unfortunate fire which did occur many decades later And which I saw on a second visit, probably because the then inhabitants Had a large radio system, and just plain overloaded the whole system. Because of my mother's fear of snakes, I hid one in the bookcase. I also had a bullfrog which roamed the room, hopping occasionally into a pan central on the floor. This is where I listened to Public Radio, announcing the frightening sounds of the Korean War. That room was where Seta visited and we gently snuggled (only!) on my bed.

The skylight I mentioned was a straight-up wooden shaft. I figured out how to ascend it, Open it, and have a view of the whole neighborhood!

The basement stairs started at the kitchen and down 12 stairs. This is where the coalbin was, the furnace room, with the huge heating device, And a hallway where my father butchered rabbits (mine!) and an occasional squirrel. To the right of the stairway was my little work bench for carpentry. Further over was my father's work place with layths benches, drill presses, etc. He worked several years 'laything' 'cutters' to punch out gaskets for Armstrong Cork Company. Under one of the benches were six model heads designed by my Dad, which were used during WWII To model face shapes for pilot goggles and masks which he created. I always remember those white plaster faces staring out at me. His non-freeze goggles and breathing equipment helped win the war.

Our house and large garage were situated on 1/2 acre of a rectangular lot. We had at least two very large White Oak trees (Quercus alba), One of which I used to construct a 30 foot high tree house. There were also two moderately large Shagbark Hickory nut trees, Under which we collected and cracked open hundreds of little munchy morsels. I always liked looking at the trees' uneven 'shagbark' epidermis. High up on the bank above the driveway, stood a small Mountain Ash (A Hackensack'?, no that was the Larch nearby), Also called a Rowan, growing cosmopolitanly in the global north.) I was not aware at that time, I would later meet the Scottish Rowan (pronounced Rauwan) And my grandson, Rowan. During the summer, I was always fascinated with their small, lovely red berries. That so-called 'bank' was where I photographed my first bird picture (a Northern Flicker-- Then classified the Yellow Shafted Flicker) at eight-years-old. We had no Sugar Maple on the property, but there was a grove to the south In a neighbor's yard, where we also played. My father juxtaposed these native old-time residents, With hemlock, a small front yard boundary fir hedge, a large sprawling Forsythia, And masses of Rhododendrons with their magnificent blossoms, Interspersed with a population of Mountain Laurel.

I lived 1/2 mile south of Crystal Lake, where I swam, ice-sailed, skated, and fished. In high school, I wrote a paper on how the Lake's water was plped miles north, To Bigalow Lake to increase the water volume in order to service a mill there.

These were what surrounded near me as a child. I remember it as if it were yesterday and as I have done so all my life, To take in every detail of my surroundings. It is just the way I am.

Seta opus 704

She returned to me after so long.
I was dreaming, but there she was in a corner of a room.
White walls;  a friend-woman standing next to her.
I softly approached and we exchanged gazes.
I gently touched her cheek with mine.
It had been so long since I had longed to see her.
I was at last fulfilled with her presence.

Then, the dream shifted; she and I were transporting pigeons,
Passing them gently into coops to live and propagate.
As soon as it came to view, the dream beautifully ended.
Her softness lingers with a fragrant mindful perfume.
I am fulfilled and might now pass on, (to meet her?), complete.

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.)

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 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. 

Encounter With a Rattlesnake on the North Fork of the Yuba River opus 730

Being restless one California weekend,
I took the family, with the two boys, Pierre and Basil, east,
Into the Foothills of the Sierras and the North Fork of the Yuba River
To pan for gold, anticipating use of our new gold pans. 
Driving through lovely wooded roads,
We made it together to the river's edge.
Gold panning was fun and we even found
A few small nuggets amongst the deep black sand grains.
After panning for two or three adventuresome hours,
We decided to explore along the wooded shoreline.
Suddenly, I spied a large rattlesnake in the grass.
I called the others to come and check it out with me.
We slowly followed it, as it agilely glided along.
Sensing our presence, I am sure, it headed for a tree,
With an opening in between two large roots.
As the snake was half way into the hole,
I compulsively announced I was going to hold its tail !
This was all done quietly as I explained,
That I was able to do this because the snake could not turn around.
As they watched, I explained how the snake felt--
Strong body muscles, cool to the touch, and very soft skin.
Concluding this bizarre exercise, I slowly released the tail,
And the snake quickly disappeared down into its shelter.
This act was perhaps foolish, but my knowing animals
Made it very safe, and we all, in our own way, will remember
Our interaction with this dangerous, but now 'controlled' creature--
A creature of mystery and stories, giving us each a memory
To last until the end of our lives!

Dinosaur Footprint Hunting opus 731

While teaching in Lesotho, Africa,
I had my first child, Pierre,
Who at two, 'followed' me around the countryside,
Collecting bees at night 
And finding dinosaur footprints in daylight.
This, all between my biology classes at the University.
One spectacular trip was to a large valley,
Where there were myriads of tumbled sandstone blocks,
Strewn randomly throughout the area.
I slowly walked amongst these boulders,
When suddenly I found my first prints.
A large, three-toed series of impressions,
Spread across the flat surface.
I carried with me plaster of paris, a water container,
Strips of cardboard and a clutch of paperclips.
I made a cardboard border around the print,
Tied together at the ends, with the necessary clips.
Water and plaster were mixed to a soft-solid consistency;
Then poured into the void, the print primed with vaseline.
Several prints were cast and then the waiting time.
Each was pulled up and removed, now in a solid state.
These prints were made in the seventies
And many remain today (2026) on my farm to our delight.
The five decades of preservation here on the farm,
Equals nothing to the 60 million years of waiting in the sandstone,
To be admired by humans today--
They, nowhere to be found during this creature's long past reign.

Surveying a Pond Base opus 733

After my dear mother died, I inherited her house on our farm.
It was smallish, but tidy with a few solar embellishments.
The four huge wooden house rafters extended eight feet outside,
Creating a rustic ambiance.
The roof (and ceiling!) and beams were absolutely horizontal.
As well, the tiny main porch was unimpressive with a concrete flooring.
This was all nice, until we had our first severe rains--
The badly sealed flat beams guided water inside to leak in the rooms.
The porch guided water back to the inner house wall,
Because some idiot had not checked the slope before pouring concrete!

Each time I cope with these 'flat' problems,
I am reminded of my fish pond constructions and surveying.
I created ponds from deserted quarry mining,
Shaping, molding and carefully building each pond, 1/2 to 2 acres.
Unlike the builders of my mother's house,
I carefully surveyed the floor of each pond,
Allowing not less than a three inch drop,
From the furthest end, to the opposite drain pipe area.
I built the ponds long before my house inheritance,
But now, with each rainy California winter, as the house has its minor floods,
I recall the diligence I mustered to slope my ponds just right,
And continually wonder why the builders of a house for humans,
Couldn't have been as careful as I, constructing a home for plain old fish!

Meditations opus 736

A young couple stopped in Istanbul from India about 1972.
They had studied with the Maharishi,
Learning Transcendental Meditation.
They taught, giving us a mantra; each.

Meditation stayed with me, I reaching into it now and then.
The next real moment was in Egypt.
I was in the Great Pyramid with its long corridors of stone.
Being in a pyramid, I found a corner 
And produced my alpha waves
(Remember 'pyramid power' in the 70's?)
The moment of exultation was great,
Augmented by the largest of all pyramids.

Then a sojourn through Belize 
And its modest Maya pyramid structures.
Quietly returning to the area after dark,
I climbed the high, narrow steps of one to its summit.
I sat there with the moon, looking over the dense jungle,
And my mind, catalyzed by my mantras,
Sent alphas through me and the surrounding forest. 
I was at one, blending with encompassing Nature.

My alpha waves have given me balance through time.
How fortunate to have been on the path so long ago,
With those two tarrying teachers travelling home from India.
They have given me a levitation of my mind
And an aura which joins me with my world and my existence.

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 Additional Value of Postage Stamps opus 741

I have delved into the Numismatics of our coins,
And have discovered wonderful history as told by them.
The minting of coins throughout our history,
Portrays US history that might today otherwise be overlooked.
Tha loss of the Danish postal system
Manifests adumbrations of another loss of history.
More obviously than coins, stamps (philately)
Reflect pictorially what a nation holds valuable,  
In that this mini-art form speaks out for a nation's values.
This important minimal art portrays 
Human heroes and important landscapes.
If and when our postal system is modified or eliminated,
Yet another quiet depiction-recording of our civilization
Will be sadly halted, just as the Egyptian petroglyphs
Were finally and abruptly cut short 
With the loss of the utilization of the art of stone carving.
(Originally, before stamps, recipients paid for a letter,
But with so many ships sinking, the sender started paying.) 

Will K Cars be Our New Coffins? opus 742

Having returned from Asia, Trump declared his love for the tiny, economical K car.
Prominent in Japan, would these tiny cars fit into this country's traffic?
Offsetting economics, they are small and slow;
Placed into a rushed society, having many accidents.
A huge trailer-truck attempting to slow suddenly behind a smaller, slower car,
Could most likely result in a catastrophe of a crushed car with its driver.
Our high-speed freeways might introduce a new category of death.
With such decisions, we must consider the adage of water and oil.

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.

Pierre's Pancake opus 748

Pierre, my son, was coming with his son, Rowan,
To visit our farm as occurs every month or so. 
As we planned the visit, they would leave to come,
Soon after he made a pancake breakfast for Rowan. 
I knew how delicious his pancakes were,
So I asked him if he would bring a couple for me as well.
This he did:  a beautiful evenly browned cake,
Tucked in a Ziplock bag to keep it moist.
There was only one because, as he explained, 
The rest were just gobbled up.
I drew it partly out of the bag to give it a test.
Even though it had been created a few hours previously,
The sweet, pancake aroma struck my nostrils.
The brown pattern was perfect, the thickness was even and delicate.
I sank my lips around it and utilized my incisores through it.
Oh, my, the moisture, the mellifluous taste, 
Just lifted my emotions almost to a state of imbibition!
Just a 'plain' pancake--no syrup nor butter,
Stood alone as a gourmet achievement par excellence!
My son, Pierre, has indeed perfected the 'art of the pancake'!

Does This, My Dream, Reflect the State of the Present World? opus 751

I was parking my white Ford van in which I travelled,
At a remote area by a large lake to explore.
I started hiking and soon was in an oak forest,
But destroyed in swaths with the harvesting 
Of surface sandstone boulders.
As I explored in the moonlight, I was hot, so unclad myself,
And left my clothing in a pile to which I would return.
I had left my car keys, driver's license, and credit cards.
I explored farther in the forest areas, and then the ruined surface areas,
Which had torn-open deep, red, rich soils open to the sun.
I tried to return to my clothing, but they were not there!
I searched farther and farther away, but to no avail.
I passed small shacks, some tumbled down and others inhabited.
I passed workers who were not outgoing, to help me.
I had somehow gotten onto a lower, lakeside road,
Whereas I had formerly been traversing a higher, middle-level road.
I just could not find my vital keys, enabling me to leave.
I woke at 0640 Hours and for a transition-moment,
I felt I was coming out of the 'real world' and into another.
I lay there confused and attempted to gather my thoughts.

Was the large lake a symbol of Lake Berryessa around which
I had worked so long to preserve its neighboring habitat?
Was the open red soil a reminder of the highway of my youth,
That caused such destruction where we fished as children.
That my distraught and tears caused the family to go home?
Were the silent workers symbolic of how divided our world is?
Were the shacks symbols of our world poverty,
As well as depictions of all the ancient ruins I had witnessed?
Was I lost, mimicking the mass of homeless people around the world,
Caused by needless war, and territorial gain and control?  
Were the loss of my keys and my crying out, demonstrating my lack of ability
To help solve the surrounding enigmas that stubbornly manifest?
I dream in color, which makes it all the more realistic!

The Winter of Our Discontent opus 759

I have experienced much in fourscore and four years.
I saw neighborhood children beating on pans in 1945.
I heard radio reports featuring jet sounds over Korea.
I watched TV documentation of the downfall of McCarthy.
I remember a school newsreel, showing Jains sweeping as they walked--
I recall, then, researching the all-encompassing Jain 'Golden Rule'.
I also recall, from those same newsreels, the Palistinian prison camps. 
I experienced my graduate schooling, interrupted by the Vietnam War.
Because of that war, I was guided into Pacifism--
I could not partake in an unjust conflict and kill others.
We are all experiencing an unknown future, molded by the Climate Crisis.
Thus we all are an integral part of the Sixth Extinction.
And recently we have democratically voted in 
A government, the truth from which, most of us are now unsure.
"We are going to deport all immigrant criminals",
When the reality is, that even innocent citizens of color are nabbed.

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.