Just a little kiss.
That’s all it was.
Nothing to brag about
to the boys.
But my bragging
was 60
years ago.
Oh, my.

Just a little kiss.
She sat in the red
stuffed chair
and she smiled
before and after.
That’s good.
Oh, boy.

Just a little kiss.
It meant something
special to both of us.
Little kisses
communicate, too,
you know.
Oh, yeah.

Just a little kiss.
I bent low.
We touched.
I straightened up
and my back
popped.
Ouch.
Oh, no.

Just a little kiss.
But perhaps next
time she will
stand up.
Avoid the
chiropractor.
Oh, dear.

Just a little kiss.
That’s all it was.
No.  It was more.
A sacred morning
moment.
Sacrament.
Oh, yes.

 

Shimmering heat shafts, like twirling transparent
ballerinas, rise off the molten asphalt pavement.
They dance up and up until the dry desert
wind whisks them away, captives in the
clutches of the afternoon’s misery.

These early days of Sonoran heat consume
life.  Leisure activities only last week
were calendared for any day, any time.  No
longer.  Human activity is defined by the clock:
sunrise until 10 a.m. and sunset until the last
strands of light fade away.  In between, even
the shade is inhospitable, completely devoid
of kindness.

My response to this invading annoyance is to
sit in the cool of my study near the large
windows and watch a slideshow of
contented clouds float by.  Imperceptible
movement.  No rush.  A gallery of ruffled
white smudges on a soft blue canvas.
The most effort expended is their gradually
changing shapes.  Great puffy white billows
do form the most creative images.  I swear,
one looked just like Jimmy Durante.

The heat is here.  Its heritage is much longer
than mine, certainly longer than humankind’s history.
I am a guest.  For that reason, I temper my
complaints and imagine myself in the cool
layers of atmosphere, napping on a soft, fluffy cloud,
riding the great sky ships into distant dreams.

 

It appears that I have nothing to say.
All I need is a word or a lyric phrase
to ignite a thought, set the stage,
but here I sit in this milky haze,
waiting for light to shine.

I wonder if Byron or Keats ever thought:
“I’ve nothing to write.  I’m going to bed!”
Do you think they worried and fretted and sought
elusive words that finally led
to poetic despair and doom?

I’ve been at this keyboard since 4:32
and I’ve nothing to show except empty space.
You’d think that in time even a few
dazzling words would find their place
on this otherwise pristine page.

Curses on poetry, meter and rhyme!
I’ll never again set pen to page!
It will, indeed, be a very long time
before I pretend to be the sage
whose words soar to lofty heights!

But perhaps my muse deserves one more chance.
What if, in the light of a brand new day,
my soul engages the challenging dance
and those bashful words come out to play?
Who am I to deny the world!

 

The soaring notes of the bugle’s call,
the thump of a distant drum
remind me of those who gave their all
for the better days to come.

Semper Fi to all as they stood their ground
in the face of death and fear.
The Corps remembers and honors you
as we hold your memory near.

They climbed through the clouds in dangerous skies,
then fought with determined skill.
Patriots?  The name applies.
Forget them?  No one will.

They manned the rails as they got underway
to take their place on the line,
Sailors who knew the price they might pay,
a risk they would not decline.

The caissons roll in our memories yet,
Semper Fi is honor’s shout,
silver wings in the sky we’ll not soon forget,
Man your stations!  Bring her about!

As one, we lift a grateful voice
for all who stood and met
the evil of war without a choice.
Oh, no.  We will not forget.

Let me lay in the sweetness of the familiar,
the place where memories have been etched
into the stones of time, where sunshine weaves
its way through the dancing arms of cottonwoods
as the wind swirls and dips in early morning,
crisp air.  I want to die gently in a place that is
home in my heart.

Speak to me about sacred moments and silly moments.
Help me smile my way back into the shadows and the
sunlights of yesterdays.  Re-member the memories
with me.  Place your hand on my arm.  Let life touch
life.  I want to die gently to those moments and to
this moment.

Hold my hand and sit very still in the peaceful silence
as I listen closely for the sound of my name floating
through galaxies, footsteps drawing ever closer as
the Infinite approaches, perhaps an irresistible song
that falls upon me, note after note, like those glorious
golden leaves in a glowing autumn.  I will say “hello”
to the welcome emissary from eternity and wonder
what adventure is beyond this moment.

I want to die gently into the benevolent Mystery
that has played hide-and-seek throughout my
span of days.  In a mirror dimly…now face to face.

Gently.

I find no joy in sniffing rocks.
But tell that to my friend!
I tried it once, but my left knee locks
and my back refuses to bend.

I dropped to my hands and knees one day,
stuck my nose down near the ground,
and, Oh, what a price I had to pay
when the medics came around.

I popped and snapped like a cannon shot,
you’d have thought it was World War III.
The rescue team really laughed a lot,
what a comical sight to see.

So Maggie and I have struck a deal:
she’ll continue to smell the rocks
and I will refrain from that wretched ordeal,
I’ll just hug every tree on the block.

Now aren’t we simply a proper pair
a rock sniffing dog and a tree hugging bloke?
But we both enjoy the fresh morning air,
although we worry the neighborhood folks!

‘

Moms, of course, as everyone knows,
pinch your cheeks and tickle your toes.
They “ooh” and they “aah”; you’re one perfect star,
when all the time, what you really are
is a Freshman off to the dorm!

Then comes the day when you’re late for the train,
off for the office, pressure and strain,
when in your head you hear the refrain:
“Now, dear, get your boots on.  It’s going to rain.”
The voice of someone who cares.

Last night my daughter sat down with me,
upset, distraught, as I could see,
“I don’t think I’m smart like all the rest.
I try.  I really do give it my best.
I do wish Grandma was here.”

The road has been long, not always straight.
Age has been kind, but the hour is late.
All the grandchildren gather around my bed.
I pinch their cheeks and pat their sweet heads,
like someone else used to do.

I’m told there’s a place where we all go to meet.
I don’t know where, nor the name of that street,
but when I arrive and pass through the gate
she’ll be waiting right there…it’s never too late:
“Did you brush your teeth today?”

“Yes, Mom.  I did.”

 

 

 

 

 

The ruse and the riddle are now making sense.
The Prince of Distraction is playing his hand.
It’s not about an immigrant fence,
or recovering the life of a once great land.
It’s all about Democrary.

It took three years for the scheme to come clear.
Now the signs are in place for all to see,
and it’s proven to be what we quietly feared:
dismantling a system that’s proven to be
more vulnerable than we ever thought.

Behind the clownish buffoonery,
the threats, abuse and growing fear,
is a calculated lunacy:
the captain whose minions happily steer
the ship toward jagged rocks.

All conflicts, wars, and catastrophes
that have fallen upon this remarkable land,
pale in significance when we see
the unfolding steps of this sinister plan:
the death of this Democracy.

Wait with me into the dark night.

Light softens and shadows grow long.

Songs of the day drift into a smoldering

campfire, glowing ash hoping for one last

explosion of sparks onto the black canvas of night.

Birds watch in silence.  Only the owl defies night’s appearing,

floating his baritone sound on the west bound wind.  In time a

faint call returns with the assurance of presence.

Let us sit together in silence and listen to the earth sigh.

Then, when the moon touches the top of the

tallest pine, let us lay upon a bed of

golden leaves and watch the stars

play among the tree tops.

May our last thought before sleep be wonder,

the last words whispered to the night be blessing,

may angels descending take delight in all

pilgrims  who smile into the

night sky.

It is a sign of a critical illness,

a symptom of a cancer feeding on

the soul of the nation.

We taunt.

We denigrate.

We ridicule

when someone loses and

someone wins.

When did we abandon the

kinder words, the thoughtful

experssions? How did we

move to arrogant smugness

in our winning, vicious name-

calling in our losing and ridicule

as a tactic for success?

Are we no longer informed by

common decency, tenants of

spiritual foundations, the value

of wisdom and historical perspective?

Mein Kampf is not a document of

our national journey or our dreams

for the common good of all.

Ridicule is an ugly symptom

of a people moving in the

wrong direction.