Zug Island

Take me there, please, where men cough and wheeze,

Where emissions and smoke swirl and dance on a breeze,

Where girders and stacks and pipes are the trees;

An oasis of these is Zug Island.

Spellbound, I gaze ‘cross the strait where I stand,

To a factory island — no beaches, no sand;

Instead a fine film of dark soot coats the land.

Life could be grand on Zug Island.

The warm orange glow of a flame paints the sky,

Cargo ships laden with steel pass me by,

A blast furnace calls; I can hear its faint cry. 

I long to reply on Zug Island.

Gas, stench, and steam are its gifts to the air.

The River Rouge issues a toxic flow there,

And you may note, verdant land is quite rare.

No worry or care on Zug Island.

Strange beauty I see in these industry scenes,

Of smoke-blackened buildings and monstrous machines;

Hills of scrap metal and rusty ravines.

No ends, only means on Zug Island.

Yet it is here I reflect on the cost;

The resources, trees, and land we exhaust,

The water and air, polluted and lost.

What bridge have I crossed to Zug Island?

Gregory 1954 - 2019

Like the night sky bejeweled with starlight

Won't display ‘til the bright day is gone.

So it goes with the loss of a loved one —

Memories after death will shine on.

‘Twas my fortune that I had a brother;

‘Tis misfortune that we’re now apart.

Yet fraternal bonds keep us together

And lend strength to my grief-laden heart.

Worcester To Woonsocket

When travelling from Worcester to Woonsocket,

you don't need to ride a great moon rocket.

You need only wheels. More precisely,

a car or a truck would do nicely.

To tour the sublime Blackstone Valley,

you don't need to join a road rally.

A single car; that's what I'm thinkin’

will get you from Mendon to Lincoln.

A journey to Glocester from Leicester — 

by jet plane? — Oh, surely you jest, sir.

You need not be wise or omniscient,

to see that a car is sufficient.

Would you steer a speed boat down river

from Uxbridge, intent to deliver 

yourself to the town of Pawtucket?

I say go by car, or else truck it.

Mirror In The Morning

Mirror in the morning,

What face do you reflect?

A keen enquiring visage,

That does study and inspect.

As I stare and wonder,

At the likeness in your shine,

I’m fraught with thoughts confusing;

Which eyes are really mine?

Flashing form and figure,

From a surface smooth and thin,

What would your picture be without

My experience within?

So when at last I leave you,

What fills your glossy plane?

With no one to peer and ponder,

What does that glass contain?

Mirror In The Evening

Once again I’m taken

To the mirror in my room.

And gaze upon the image there;

The self that I assume.

The countenance is strange to me;

This reflection I behold.

Signs of age are posted there;

Once young, it now looks old.

Is it “my” face in the mirror?

Is my being captured there?

Or is it an illusion,

Born of One that is aware?

These thoughts and doubts do blind me

Even though my eyes are clear;

Lost in an optic echo,

Far away from now and here.

Butterfly, Butterfly

Butterfly, butterfly,

Flitter gently, flutter by.

Wondrous sight, wingèd sprite,

Grace my view, oh flow’r in flight.

Butterfly, Butterfly,

Float the breeze and beautify.

Stop and start, dip and dart,

Your display is nature's art.

Enlightenment Sleuth

Seeker of Truth — Enlightenment Sleuth;

to what ultimate goal do you climb?

Is it not here on this Earthly sphere?

Is it not in this instant of time?

Concepts and thought spin dreams and we’re caught

in the merry-go-round of the mind.

Try as we may, we can’t find a way

to leave image and ego behind.

Where do we look — through words in a book?

Oh, the answer seems so well concealed.

Secret it’s not — we simply forgot:

in this moment the answer's revealed.

Left on its own, the silent Unknown

brings to light what it once seemed to hide.

With duality gone, thoughts are withdrawn

from the myself and True Self divide.

Snow Squall Land

No thoughts of lacy snowflake kisses;

That chance of flurries never misses.

I don’t mind shovelling much but this is

More than I can stand.

I hoped it’d wane, and so I waited,

Instead it waxes unabated;

It seems the Snow Gods must have hated

All that I had planned.

I don’t know why I bothered waking;

My limbs are tired, my back is aching,

And yet more snow the clouds are making.

“Stop it!” I demand.

Oh, how it snowed last year. Remember?

Four months and more from mid-December.

But Heaven’s sake, it’s just November

Here in Snow Squall Land!

Chopin's Art (A Prelude In A Major)

So fervently one yearns

to hear those sweet Nocturnes

A Waltz of charming grace

smooths frowns upon my face

I’m blissfully imbued

with notes from his Prelude

His Fantasy makes whole

the fragmentary soul

.

How pianists improve

when clever Études move

The Polonaise I hear

brings grandeur to my ear

Stars heavenly shine through

his dazzling Impromptu

Thus filled with Chopin’s Art

a joyous and rapt heart

Gifted

I cannot grow an ambrosial garden,

But I take time to smell the fragrant flower.

I could not master a musical instrument,

But divine sounds I hear each day, every hour.

I tried and failed at becoming a healer,

But I so fully feel all that I touch.

I never learned to be a gourmet chef,

But I savor food and fine wine oh, so much.

And I could never paint or draw worth a damn.

See the art God has sculpted!

How gifted I am.

Behold The Planet

Behold the rocket; look at it soar,

blazing on high with a deafening roar.

Millions of dollars – don’t ask me what for–

recklessly shot into space.

Behold the 'dozer; look at the ways

verdure and nature are treated these days.

Millions of acres of trees we do raze;

carelessly wiped from Earth’s face.

Behold the soldier; armed to the teeth,

with missiles above and land mines beneath.

Millions are dead. Oh, please take the sheath

and put your sword back in its place.

Behold the planet; we must be astute,

and realize it is the tree — we're the fruit.

And if it's not treated as such, our pursuit

to conquer will be our disgrace.

Musical Alms

Harmonious strains through my ears fill my heart;

Oh, the euphoric lift from that euphonic art.

Mellifluous melody, a sweet dulcet measure;

My being absorbed in such musical pleasure.

So soothingly, pent up emotions unlock

with Beethoven, Schubert, Hayden, or Bach.

I would give to the poor, needy soul precious alms

of Mozart, Handel, Chopin, and Brahms.

For You, Valentine

No diamond-bright star or ruby sunrise

Compares with the sapphire glint of your eyes.

I could not more wisely spend of my time

Than gazing at gems, so rare and sublime.

And why should I care which plans we pursue?

The time of my life is my time with you.

Our fancies and schemes, the frolic and play

Are born of the dreams that we share today.

I'm thus incomplete; my essence half-done,

Unless we should live together as one.

What lifeblood does beat in this heart of mine?

A passionate love for you, Valentine.

The Pinery

This sand and pebble shoreline in time was designed

By the lake’s incessant waves —  wild and unconfined.

Among the rocks and driftwood strewn along the strand

Footprints trail off from the beach to more verdant land.

Through coastal dunes, a boardwalk marks the wending way,

While junipers and beach grass add to the display.

Under shagbark hickory, dirt paths carry on

To a forest of red pines, silent and withdrawn.

Trees of an oak savanna nearby persevere,

Screening a sun-steeped meadow and the white-tailed deer.

Above, three turkey vultures idly soar along,

And a scarlet tanager chirps its “chick-burr” song.

The old Ausable river teems with buzzing life

Yet placid is the water, cool and free from strife.

This is the place I go to when I lose control;

Oh, how these waves and woodlands soothe my weary soul.

Capturing The Hunter

From Earth to the Moon,

I’m soaring and soon

I’ve said my goodbye to Mars.

Round Saturn then past

blue Neptune at last

I’m wandering through the stars.

So swiftly I race

‘cross these jewels of space;

a familiar form fills my sight.

It’s Orion I see

– giant Hunter is he –

light years in his width and height.

From Rigel to sword,

from his belt then toward

great Betelgeuse I do fly.

From humble Earth he’s

been captured with ease

by just a glance from my eye.

A Rural Christmas Scene

In the valley down below 

stands a farmhouse in the snow.

Rolling hills of evergreen

gently frame the tranquil scene.

O’er a stream that cuts the ridge, 

sits an oak-plank covered bridge.

And a Sunday-meetin’ church, 

high above the bank does perch.

Lamps that glow from windows warm, 

smile at clouds that threaten storm.

Soft gleam in the twilight makes

tiny stars of falling flakes.

Bridge and buildings charm the nights

with their strings of Christmas lights.

 How those decorations shine

in these scene-rapt eyes of mine.

Images of joy and cheer 

may not last, but never fear:

Memories won't likely fade 

of the Season so displayed.

Play On!

Some may feel that my verse is quite flimsy,

But mostly, my words are intended as whimsy.

A dubious poet and writer am I,

But I play where my thoughts and ideas do lie.

And when thoughts of past and future take flight,

I find that my being is ticklish and light.

So, "Play on!" I say to my frolicsome mind,

And leave all my worries and guilt far behind.

On A Scotch Pine

Hanging there is a dangling cat

With a knitted scarf and a matching hat,

Silent bells, and a pewter boat,

A ceramic girl in a red felt coat.

Someone sits on a frosty sleigh

Above tiny wreaths and a small bouquet.

Angels fly near a rocking horse

And on top there sits a bright star, of course.

Furthermore many branches hold

Pretty twinkling lights and a garland gold.

All these baubles and trinkets bloom

On a tall Scotch Pine in my living room.

Sleep Restfully

Sleep restfully,

Dream peacefully,

Rhythmic breathing, rising, falling, in and out, and then you

Wake easily,

Smile happily,

Turning, stirring, stretching, yawning, in the dawn and then you

Stand steadily,

Go quietly,

To a window shining light, you lift your face and then you

See the rising sun.

Oh, the gentle sun—

Feel the warming sun.

One, Two, Haiku!

Lying on the lawn;

rich mix of rustling colors

resting in decay.

---

Sprouting from the tree;

Life’s dazzling celebration!

Death can never stay.

Forgive Me

Billboarded landscapes keep me disgustedly amused as I travel the Interstate —

Corporate con men offering the morality of merchandising to a spiritually-starved populace.

The radio is mumbling something.
I turn it up.

It’s rap “artist" Mini K.
He “sings":

Strip the garland from the garbage
and the tinsel from the trash.
Take the ribbon off the rubbish
and adornment from the ash...

He’s right.
For what remains?
An emporium of emptiness.

Mini K continues:

Tchotchkes and knickknacks,
gewgaws and gimcrack...

I pass by a group of vultures enjoying a roadside meal served up by a fender or tire.
Beyond them a sign; a giant golden M in the sky attempts to lure me yonder for lunch.
I envy the birds.

My car needs attention.
It tells me by way of a crude dashboard symbol that it’s thirsty for some petroleum derivative.

Look there!
Another sign reaching for the clouds.
This one, a large yellow and red exoskeleton of a marine mollusk.
I must to the pump — in good time.

“Whoa!”  I say to my horseless carriage to slow her down for the exit.
The brakes help.

The car’s navigation system chastises me. It thinks I’m a free-wheeling idiot.

I pull up alongside a 21st century watering trough,
and shove a nozzle down my automobile’s alimentary canal.
I feed it fuel drilled or fracked from some foreign land.

Forgive me, earth.

I start the car up.
It emits its special brand of flatus.

Forgive me, air

Look!
Next to me a woman pulls up alongside another trough.
Her car must be thirsty too.
She’s very attractive.
“Hey baby! Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Why not?
You’re hot!"

Forgive me, William Shakespeare.

I could use some grub.
I forgo the urge to enter the golden arches and figure I would fare no worse with the fare from the service center.
I make a foolish choice of a chili-like concoction emanating steam and god knows what else from a witch’s cauldron.

Single, single. moil and mingle;
This mess tastes like that stuff on a shingle.

Forgive me again, Bill.

I’ll soon emit my own special brand of flatus.

Back on the road I reflect —

There is still beauty in life.
There is still quality.
There is still worth and value.
There is still art.

This poem notwithstanding.

Thoughts on Questions and Theories

Questions, conjecture, and theories abound;

Some of them groundless, some of them sound.

Born of desire, the mind feels compelled,

To reach out and grasp what cannot be held.

The past and the future are offsprings of thought;

I must attend to the present if I am to be taught.

Questions, thoughts, theories — best placed on a shelf,

When attempting to know the Unknowable Self.

Ode To A Doomed Kite

In May I just might

buy some kind of a kite

and smile at the sight

of its fluttery flight

How lovely and light

while string tethers it tight

at its heavenly height

against blue sky so bright

Then quickly it quite

by chance rolls to the right

and is smashed to smithereens

by the evil evergreens

Nunc Est Bibendum

Fill the glass and raise your drink

and give each one that ritual clink;

then celebrate the spiritual link

that binds more than we think.

For you will find upon this Earth,

nothing lacking nor any dearth

of bounteous beauty, wealth, and worth

from That which gives all birth.

Nunc Est Addendum

So drink up now, and do not stray

from this moment or else you may

find to your sorrow and dismay,

you’ve missed this precious day.

Wake Me

Wake me, please

With a soft voice,

or a gentle touch,

or naturally, easily at the end of a sweet dream.

These I prefer

To a jackhammer,

or a sledgehammer,

or a nightmare about hammerhead sharks that do teem.

Ode To A Burger And Fries

The challenge from www.poetryexpress.org/: Write a poem of 4 to 9 lines containing the words "mustard," "piano," "elastic," "moat," "notorious."

With a moat of mustard surrounding pickles,

the ubiquitous burger lies

there next to its notorious companion;

the oil saturated french fries.

In the ritual lunch, my pearly white teeth

like ivory piano keys stand

ready to bite into heaven, but alas —

texture and taste — elastic band.

This Departure

My departure

today elicits a sigh;

A sigh as soft as a zephyr’s touch;

A touch so lightly caressing your face;

The face that warms all of my memories.

These memories I treasure like precious gold;

Like the gold adorning your graceful hand;

The hand I will hold upon my return.

My return makes bearable

this departure.

Words From An Instructiphobe

When assembling a table or chair from Ikea

The instructions may give you the following idea,

"I'd be better off figuring this out myself.

But what are these parts and what's with this shelf?"

Then it's assembled without the dumb guide

And you look the job over with satisfied pride.

Then you say, "Hold on a sec, where do I use

all of these leftover bolts, nuts, and screws?"

William Butler Keats And John Yeats

Oh, no one beats Yeats or Keats

For words so sublime and rich.

But of those greats, Keats and Yeats,

I'm never sure which is which.

August Beach

Bathed by the sun, and clothed by the breeze;

moment and mind, at one and at ease.

Naked I stand with sand on my feet,

hearing the waves and shore as they meet.

Watching the gulls in effortless flight,

blue sky bedecked with wings grey and white.

Tasting with joy the redolent air;

 senses are full, while body is bare.

Zephyrs so mild, soothing and soft,

 render relief — with no clouds aloft.

And when I’m hot, the lake cools my skin.

This day provides, without and within.

Man Or Lemur?

Late last night while fast asleep,

a strange dream dreamt this dreamer —

A tiny basal primate was I,

from toe to head to femur.

Living 'neath a canopy

with vines that hang like streamers,

then slumber broke and I awoke —

a man, and not a lemur.

Mid-Day Cricket

Do you dare attract a mate, O mid-day cricket,

Calling all alone from your light-dappled thicket?

Chirp, chirp, chirping ‘neath a hazy, August sun;

You’ll find more competition when this long day is done.

Grand Legends of the Old West

General George Armstrong Custer

Oh, that bastard cuss Custer

just couldn’t cut the mustard.

And thus the dastard bit dust.

His last stand was a mass bust.

---

Wyatt Earp

What is a man?

Consider Wyatt Earp; why he wasn’t worth a burp

when it comes to the measure of a man.

Real men are good and kind; they show love; are more refined 

than those thugs such as Wyatt and his clan.

---

Wild Bill Hickok

You cannot say it’s fact that he enjoyed to kill,

but many men were slain by the guns of Wild Bill.

The lesson to be learned is, brutes like Hickok fall

 at the hands of punks like the vengeful Jack McCall.

---

Billy the Kid and Jesse James

When compiling a list like this 

of such legends, I’d be remiss

if I did not mention the names

Billy the Kid and Jesse James.

Were they heroes, like Robin Hood;

misunderstood, and mainly good?

Ruthless killers is what they were:

Filthy dog and a loathsome cur.

Marianne

she’s like a rare gemstone, yet delicate as a flower

she shines like a sunrise, and she’s soft as an evening breeze

her voice is music; it sings to me like a melody

yet her silence expresses deep emotion; unspoken, like the trees

her love burns brightly, yet soothes me like cool water

and her heart is gentle, yet strong as a sail unfurled

she’s here, now, in this small humble place

but in my life she is boundless: she’s my everything; my world

Up Or Down?

Somewhere in a climate hibernal

A man wrote a poem in his journal.

He intended his verse

To sound heavenly. Worse.

It best was described as infernal.

Ah, Seasons!

Ah, Spring! — hearts sweetened by flowers;

chill ousted by warmth

and more daylight hours.

Ah, Summer! — the weekend of seasons;

vacation with sun

and fun without reasons.

Ah, Autumn! — comes harvest and crisp air;

landscapes of color,

and ducks in the mist there.

Ah, Winter! — where snow brightens dark skies.

A new year of life

will spring from what now dies.

How to Pronounce "Pepys"

It is said that one Samuel Pepys

Had the best diary by bounds and leaps

He penned of a plague

In a style far from vague

His account of it gave me the creeps

Winter Chickens

Winter chickens, slim their pickin's,
Peckin' in the snow.

Cluckin' through unlucky beaks,
“Where did that damn seed go?”