Swiftly Alone

Posted: July 6, 2016 in poem, poet, poetry
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The coming and going of the ones in our life
One day they are there
the next they are gone
They move on in their travels
as I do and they say the same of me
None of us really knows where.
River of life is filled to its banks
with the flesh and souls of the ones we once knew
Family tied together by thin threads
Others appear as strangers one day
and we are carried by the currents together
trying to stay within reach with heads above water
attached only by our weak grips and wet string
but swift and deep waters slowly move us apart
Pulled from the last touch of our finger tips
we can only raise our hand in good-bye
yelling of places we will meet just around the bend
watching and listening until we lose sight
and each other’s shouts are no longer heard.
we are left moving swiftly alone.


We the People

Posted: July 3, 2016 in poem, poet, poetry
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We in America do not have government by the majority. We have government by the majority who participate.”  Thomas Jefferson

I allow myself to be patriotic, nationalistic and idealistic for one, maybe two days a year. The 4th of July is one of them. And for at least one day I must. I must remember that I do indeed come from “we the people”, as do you. Have a great celebration of our Independence Day!


We the People, we who remember.
We are the pushed, the shaken and the torn.
The good are taken from us,
some taken to lead,
some to do our bidding
some to succeed,
some to die.
We the People, we who remember.
We are the hard-working and the builders,
the unspoken, the wholehearted.
We the tolerant, the patient, the taken advantage of.
Quiet with ideals too hard to express,
We the People, we who remember
the good of every man, of every good cause, of every dream.
We, the Children of the Mother of Exiles *,
the mother who stands with silent lips.

DSS  7/4/2011

*The words “Mother of Exiles” quoted from the famous poem “New Colossus”.

Olympic Art

Posted: July 1, 2016 in poem, poet, poetry
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The arch of the foot
the curve of the back
the lines of the thighs
The smooth feel of the torso
Determination in her eyes
the placement of the arms,
The tight form in erect rolling motion
to the splash-less submersion.
The dive of 10 meters.
Poetry in motion.
Olympic art.


How Hard the Life

Posted: June 29, 2016 in poem, poet, poetry
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What have I to say?
I can say the sweet things, the accepted things
the heart warming, precious things.
Speak of love and the expected things.

But how hard the life?
The road of bumps and gravel dust,
of roadside weeds and ungated railroad crossings.
And always forgetting to look both ways.

The life of pebbles that break windshields
and jiggling of toilet handles to prevent a flood.
Watching dimly lit gas gauges on E
and quickly mown lawns with untrimmed edges.

Oh, to notice the perched hawk, saying hello to him and following his stare as I pass
Wanting to remember the first days of the new seasons
and to watch the Sun and the Moon
and to know when and where they will rise and how full it will be on my free Sunday.

How hard the life to forget these things?
How good the life?
To want these, to have hope of these.

I am as much as the beetle stranded on his back.
For even he struggles to right himself and live.
If he, then so will I.



This is the first poem that I posted on WordPress in September of 2013. But one that I wrote so many years ago. I think it is time to dust it off and give it a little light once again.

Between the Blinds

Posted: June 27, 2016 in poem, poet, poetry
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Staring between the slots of the Venetian blinds
looking beyond the tasseling corn stocks
toward the towering 20000 foot clouds
painting the blue sky background into my memory
cutting audio grooves in my mind of the birds
the frogs and crickets.
the 70 degree morning clears of its mist
and the sun shines.
The wind is still.
I am peering between the blinds.



Risk of Blindness

Posted: June 25, 2016 in poem, poet, poetry
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As we gaze out into the morning’s early start, it is predawn twilight. The Sun will surface very
soon, but for now its only evidence is a lighter sky and crimson horizon. The Orange Orb
will peek above the earth’s rim, through the lightly layered clouds, at first slowly. But with a
squint and blink of the eye, it will appear to pop to the surface as an air filled buoy rising
from the Atlantic’s depths. It will be a perfect Orange Circle with sharp defined edges.
For just a moment, we get a glimpse of the Sun with the naked eye. For just a moment,
as it rests in the distance, we can see its round completeness. We are allowed only that
brief moment before it turns into a bright burning point of light that for the rest of the day
we are forbidden to stare at for risk of blindness. This is how our days begin.


Turning his head only briefly as if saying good-bye or perhaps “Geronimo!” to his nest mate, he jumped from the rim of the nest and frantically fluttered his half hair , half feathered wings. There was very little air cushioning under him. He landed hard on his ass, but he somehow managed to hit the ground running. Looking confused he ran to hide under the first clump of grass that he came to. I once again witnessed a youngster’s first jump into the slim promise of life’s thin air.

Each year since we’ve lived here, a robin has build her nest on the top of our spring season wreath that hangs from our front porch light. It must seem hospitable in the spring, the wreath being made of green woven grapevines and fake broad grapevine leaves. How she knows how to build a nest fascinates me each year. It just seems to appear from nowhere overnight. One day there is nothing, the next, we notice that the nest has been made. She must work feverishly through the night being careful not to be noticed and hoping it will not be attractive to the curiosities of other beasties that frequent our porches’ shelter.

Last year was a very hot spring. We had a 100% morality rate. The nest was expertly made, 3 eggs laid, 3 birds hatched but one by one each was evacuated from the nest only found dead on the hot cement below. But this year, four eggs were laid, two birds were hatched, two eggs were pushed from the nest. Mother and father both supplied bugs, worms and bird feeder morsels and the two survived.

This weekend the nest is empty and mother is only seen occasionally as she continues to provide food to the demanding fledglings hidden securely somewhere in our backyard hedges. We will see them soon after they begin to fly. They will see mother or dad as they graze in our yard and flutter their wings, mouth opened, begging for food as they did in the nest. The parents will responsibly share their food with them there on the ground, well into adulthood until we won’t be able to distinguish parent from child.

Later in the summer, we will feel fortunate to be able to again see mother and child meet, obviously recognize each other  and watch as grown adult child’s mouth opens and mother shares her meal as if she still sees it as the helpless, weak fledgling still in the nest.

How different from the birds are we?



Thoughts and Prayers

Posted: June 13, 2016 in poem, poet, poetry, politics

Ya, that will do it, thoughts and prayers. Prayers from those that are religious and thoughts from those that aren’t. I hear both after any catastrophic event. Those that will just think about the dead and their relatives and those that will just talk about the dead and their relatives with a make believe fairy or elf or omnipresent mystical being. Yep, that really has been working for us. Thinking about it and talking to ourselves earnestly, making everyone believe that we are thinking and talking to ourselves really, really hard.

Love that phrase “Thoughts and Prayers”. That pretty much covers it, we don’t have to do much of anything else after we say either one of those. We are pretty much covered under the etiquette of Anglo-sexton social mandates. That covers us real well, thinking and talkin’ to ourselves until the next catastrophic event happens.

I’m an agnostic so I only say “Thoughts”, I prefer just thinking about what happened and who it happened to. I have family and friends that prefer “Prayers” to their silent God.

It doesn’t matter which we do, one gets as much done to prevent it from happening again as the other. The Congress, Supreme Court and even the President have been great about spewing out the “Thoughts and Prayers” to the dead and their families the last 20 years or so.

We seem to have a lot of “Thoughts and Prayers” happening out there, and seems we just don’t have much “Doing” going on. It’s the “Doing” that is hard for us.

I think that’s why we Americans like foreign wars. We find it natural and easy trying to keep assault weapons out of the hands of the foreign enemy in, (pick any mid-eastern country) but find it impossible how to keep assault weapons out of the hands of the enemy right here in the “good Ol’ U. S. of A”.

Maybe we should do a little more “Thoughts and Prayers” for the fighting overseas in the Mid East. It would be a whole hell of a lot cheaper and would work just as well as it has been working right here at home.

Thoughts and Prayers, how’s that workin’ for us??




Just a Spot in the Yard

Posted: June 3, 2016 in poem, poet, poetry
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There is one large spot in Ethan’s yard
And grass does not grow there
An evergreen tree once stood there
and reached what seemed 50 feet
On the year of little rain a little worm came
made it sick and it died that spring and was cut to the ground.
There was only a bare spot left
and grass refused to grow there,

Ethan planted a small globe willow
in the spot with no grass
and for 17 years the tree grew round
and reached what seemed 50 feet
But the ice storm came with frozen rain
the branches became heavy with crystal ice
and the big but fragile willow split in two.
She lost her leaves and died that spring and was cut to the ground.
and the grass still refuses to grow there.


Old Shoes and Socks

Posted: May 27, 2016 in poetry

Now I sit and try to forecast what will be –
with many plans and promises made
but no idea how to perform each because each is a mystery
that has failed and is broken and I am expected to provide the fix.
Like mending socks and then wearing them again
in shoes of worn cracked insoles and linings
that are the cause of the holes in the toes and heels
but I continue wearing them both though the shoes are the reason for my discomfort
and I continue each night threading the needle
and sewing with thin thread made of poor cotton
patching and reasoning that I may just this time truly revive this mismatched pair –
I cannot sew fast enough because the new mysteries keep appearing
and the old promises and repairs just keep on breaking