cacophony

four am . . .

perched in the lilac bush

outside the bedroom window

he begins singing at the top of his lungs

signaling all the neighborhood robins

to join him in his enthusiasm

for the dawn he believes is imminent

doesn’t matter whether it is April or June

he consults the wrist watch worn

around his left leg with the precision

of a station master in charge of arrivals

regardless of when the sun

pushes the darkness away

no consideration given

to human occupants huddled in beds

after a long winter of snows

unwilling to shut the window

or bury their heads under pillows

to shut out the robins’ cacophony

life is like these dilemmas

one can’t have it all

sleep or singing can’t coexist

the robins make a clear choice

in favor of singing out their hearts

the better choice in this crazy world

Ode to My Cane

For some reason a number of odes had been showing up in my life, so I decided to memorialize my cane that has traveled far and wide with me.

Ode to My Cane

Trusty is her name
       keeping me safe from all harm.

She prevents me from
       falling flat on my face.

She has traveled across the globe
       putting her footprint
       on strange and foreign soil.

She has kept me upright
       during fierce seas
       and cobbled streets.

She endures all manner of weather
       snow, sleet, heat, rain, and ice.

She bears the signs of age
       her blackness nicked and scratched.

She wore out one padded handle
       so wears a handle transplant.

She endures being hung
       from tables and chairs
       while maintaining her dignity.

She is common in appearance
       a soul friend who resembles me.
     
She bears no envy of other canes
       with fancy painted designs or elegance

She is dependable and ever curious
       as to where we might go next.

And if I should ever be in danger
       I could use her to wield a mighty whack!

BLINK

          This sprung weather is like

                   dark grey, rain
                       bright green, sunshine
                   dark grey, rain
                       bright green, sunshine
                   dark grey, rain

                       then - 
                           finally night descends

                           as if the eyes of our neighborhood

                                are blinking
                                       in disbelief

                                                             -Clem Nagel

                         

We are BACK!

No, we did not die, leave the country (other countries do have Internet, you know), or quit writing all together.The problem is that we have been suffering from a serious medical disorder called Garden-body.

Seriously!

Garden-body occurs from an excessive number of hours and days spent gardening.

Usually, we begin cleaning up our garden sometime in March - after the snow has disappeared. Not that it doesn't snow here again in April, but late season snow does not usually last very long. Then, the first of April, we plant pea pods for stir fry, followed by radishes, lettuce, scallions, broccoli, and other cool season crops. By the first of May, when the oak trees' budding leaves are the size of mouse  ears, as my grandfather used to say, in go the potatoes. By mid-May, its time for tomato plants, peppers, and eggplant.

In between veggie planting, we trim dead wood out of shrubs, put in new shrubs, including a rose or two, split and move perennials, and put new perennials in empty spaces. Though by now there aren't many empty spaces left. It's like a symphony with its moods and movements, all carefully composed for the pleasure of its creator and its listeners.

However this year it was still snowing in early May and the ground covered with winter snows.

The result? Garden-body. We have done about  two months of gardening in two weeks. Other than keeping bills paid, milk and OJ, in the fridge, and gas in the car, our lives have been consumed by retrieving our garden from the effect of last summer's drought and this year's extended winter.

Now I am happy to say the hard work is over. And we can resume normal life. That is, if life can ever be described as normal.

The worrisome issue is climate change underlying all of the "crazy weather." Part of the present cause of weather events is melting Arctic ice, pushing cold air much further southward into the USA. When that cold air encounters warm gulf air it creates the makings of disasters. The melting ice floes from the high Arctic that we encountered, as we crossed the North Pacific last spring (that meant returning to Japan to find another route), was further evidence of these massive changes.

Folks here, me included, have been grumbling and complaining a lot about the weather this spring. One grey rainy day after another. But we have had it easy compared to other places around the world.
Excessive high temps in the SW and forest fires. Flooding in the east and central parts of this country. Tornadoes. Eastern  Europe flooded and unseasonably cold. The list goes on . . .

So in scheme of things, our sore Garden-bodys will heal. At this point, our garden looks like we are living in an English gardener's paradise.  And we now have time to "take pen in hand" and resume our writing lives.

dis asters

sometimes I wonder why I keep things

things of which I know little
      or fear to know more

like a small crumble of red brick
      I took from a pile of rubble

I know I should have
      left it where it lay

but it already was broken
      and there were so many

just as lives once filled
      long rows of barracks

I saw the museum with pictures
      and all the shoes

and signs in languages
      I didn't understand

why I chose that broken brick
      near children's barrack #23

I do not know

not often, I hold that remnant
      and wonder why I keep it

why do I keep the memory of my escape
      from those memorial grounds that day

to eat a sandwich from my day pack
      seated on a gray boulder on the sunny hillside

overlooking a far-distant river and
      watching a storm pass through the valley

why did I feel so unsafe when I became aware
      my discarded granite boulder

was just one of ten giant jumbled stone block
      letters that once spelled Buchenwald

why do I remember myriads of blue asters
      peering through tangles of rusty barbed wire

behind me
      by the guardhouse watchtower

somehow feeling safe outside the compound fences
      knowing I could go home . . . and would

sometimes I wonder why I
      keep things

that never should have been


                      The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy
                              is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet,
                              alone with the heavens, nature, and God.
                              Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be.
                                                                                                                      -Anne Frank
                                                                                                                       1929-1945

                       
   
   

Untitled Until Later II

Poetry is an oral and written art form. It is meant to be read both in silence and aloud. Today, much of the poetry that is written is free-style. Here, poetry becomes a visual art - the white spaces on the page as important as the words themselves. And such poetry relies on a rhythm and music embedded within its words.

When I sent my poem, "Untitled Until Later" to my dear friend Carol, who is a marvelous poet, she asked if she might suggest some changes. When I received her efforts back, I said WOW! What an illustration of the visual importance of a piece of poetry.

Below are the results of our collaboration.

trees      bewildered     by continuing snow
stark    bare       silhouettes against grey sky
waiting       for the signal to explode in green
when     this prolonged winter      becomes summer
                                            in one day

tiny     white snowdrops
hopeful sentinels      bloom under May snows
buried bulbs     hesitant         to push upward
Arctic melt carries seals          on ice-floes
                           blown far southward

fearful       frightened people
reach for stability         in the absence
of seasonal cycles    a stability      no longer
existing        they are afraid to trust
                              any sudden warmth

inept           brothers bomb innocence
shatter illusions          of safety
a thirsty nation       devours every detail
in a media frenzy          so many questions
                                      elude answers

during grey days       winter-weary people
collectively search         for some assurance
crying out      for anchors        they cannot find
while heavy air            saturated with chaos
                                      hangs over all

trees    frozen symbols      in time and space
everyone        uncertain       of any future 
waiting        for something not named
for    what lies ahead         what is possible
                             beyond imagination

                     still having hope

Now scroll back to my entry on Monday, April 29th. Read this first version out loud. Then come back to this entry and also read it out loud. At first glance, this latter version looks jerky and abrupt with all the spaces within the lines. But surprisingly - there is music embedded here too.

Untitled Until Later

                          The trees bewildered
stark, bare silhouettes against grey sky
waiting for a signal to explode in green
prolonged winter cold becomes summer
                                          in one day.

                                         Tiny white snowdrops
          spring’s sentinels bloom under April snows
          buried spring bulbs hesitate to push upward
         Arctic ice-melt carries seals on floes blown
                                                    far southward.

                                            Fearful people
each out for some stability in this absence of
seasonal cycles buried deep with their bones
a stability that no longer exists, afraid to trust
                        the sudden warmth will stay.

                                                     Inept brothers bomb
                  an iconic event and shatter illusions of safety
                 as a thirsty nation devours each minute detail
                 this media feeding frenzy eluding the answers
                                               to what creates violence.
                        
                                       Winter-weary people
     on an collective search for illusive assurance
   cry out for the past that provided an anchor
   while the air saturated with chaos and change
                                                 hangs over all.

                     Bewildered trees a symbol
all of us frozen together in time and space
so uncertain of what might lie ahead of us
waiting, we wait for something not named
                                 beyond imagination.

                 And yet we hope.