News

Doc's receptionist
said it would be
a few day before
they'd determine
if I had a brain.

So I thought I'd
look out the window
and saw an unusually
brilliant day with
the trees glowing
happily.

Behind the wood pile
one tree had a
beautiful nymphet
shadow who fleeted away
when my wife
came down the stairs.

Another tree had a
cross shadow which
slowly morphed to
a dancer arching her
back as if she doing the
"splits."

Across the street
there were a bunch of
trees huddled together
deciding if
the brilliant day with
its rich blue sky is
any more than a meager
attempt to save the
stock market from its
plummet.

In the meantime, my
brain pictures
(unfortunately not
readable by my MAC
computer) are being (slowly)
transported via turtle
down HWY 40 to my DOC

Ring...ring...
Doc says I have
a good working
noodle. (sigh)

Bad News/Good News

The bad news is that
the doc didn't call
to tell me the results
of the test.

The good news is
that he would have
called if they
found I didn't
have a brain.

Here's the
MRI receptionist.
I gave everyone
space helmets
because I was
convinced I was
inside a time
machine, watching
the world through
a periscope, focused
on a sign on the
opposite wall,
"tell us if you
are pregnant."

More tomorrow . . .

Brain Scan

Tomorrow they are
going to take pictures
of my brain. That
seems like an interesting
turn of events since
all my life my
brain has been
making pictures
of them.

I get to hold
still while they
slice it to
smitherines,
and then,
breathlessly some
learned seer will
look at the pictures
and tell me whether
I have a working
noodle.

Assault

or perhaps caressed,
touched, at least,
by the multitude
of glowing lights

coming through
a forest to one
tree, standing
quietly there
minding her
branches.

The sharp
diagonal shadows
of yesterday
were so cleverly
substituted
here, indicating (either)
a choreographer
of immense
abilities,

or a random
generator
that
forever entertains.

The Three Faces of Diagonals

Earlier today
the trees, still
in winter,
shot out a strong
diagonal shadow,
traversing the
sleeping leaves,
and only halted
by another tree in
their path.

Then in the late
afternoon most of
the shadows disappeared,
and those that remained
had a soft edge and
not much contrast with
the ground.

Now, at sunset, the
trees are enjoying
the multicolor sky
as they remember
a good day for
productive shadow
making.

Feeling Ideas

Can you be an
artist without
feeling
the blues?

Does art
need to
provoke emotion
or are ideas
good enough?

Will a fine idea
produce feelings?

Are ideas
and feeling
inseparable?

Elasticity

I noticed
meditating yesterday
the elasticity
of time,
how one moment
lingers around
for a seemingly
eon,

while another
whizzes by like
a hummingbird.

We say, "see
you in an hour,"
yet, depending
on circumstances,
might be
a second or eternity.

Fireworks

We awakened in the
night with the loudest
bang of thunder I've
ever heard.

I glanced out the window
to see the aftershocks
of bright flashes of
lightening.

No trees had fallen,
though I couldn't be
sure until daylight
came.

The explosion was
followed by a torrential
rain, equal, I'm sure,
to what one might experience
in the tropics.

Now the wild party is
over. The oak tree still
has its leaves on one branch.

The leaves swing gently
in the breeze, not able
to describe the fireworks
they had so recently experienced.

Art Time

One hundred and fifty representations
of time before my eyes.

What is time?
Merely a tool
to measure itself?

But what is time, really?

We can't think about time
because we can't abandon it.

I see so many expressions
of time:

time past
time moving
old and new
clocks
more clocks
time space continuum
death
motion
decay
waves
speeding
curves
memories
more memories
events
passages
squiggles
changes
transformations
corrosion
aging
Phoenix
burnt

crude time
and
wonderful time

Time to do this or that
timelessness
Old things representing time.

Your time is not my time,
but is our time to settle in
and settle down.

We all have different times.
Mistakenly we say,
what IS the time,
as if there were only
one time (we know
from Albert E. that
there are many times.)

Motion
is an object moving
through space in time,
but what about a
still object. Can it
not move through a
space that is constantly
in motion?

The clock runs away with time
measuring our precious moments
that never existed before,
and will never exist again.

No One Home

He arrived early,
and no one was home.

The door was unlocked
so he walked in, thinking
this will be a nice
time to be alone.

The floor was cold,
chilling his body
through his stocking
feet. Shoes weren't
allowed in this
sacred space.

A nice caretaker
came in and turned
the light on, not
knowing the dim
light from the windows
was perfect for his PDA.

He thanked him, and
before he knew it,
others came in, crushing his
moment of solitude
but providing good fodder
for this picture poem.

The Soccer Game

It seems like
the wind has been
blowing for days.

The tall grass is
facing northwest, tired
of the indecision surrounding
the upcoming election.

The leaves appeared to be
playing soccer this morning,
with the players tirelessly
running back and forth
on the field.

The wind chimes
cheered the leaf
players along,
encouraging them
to keep running
despite the bitter cold.

Now it is dusk and
the field is almost
cleared of the leaves.
They finished their game
and decided
to spend the night
next to the wood pile.

The Last Resolution

Four days
into the new year
and already
I'd like
to start anew.

If I had
made the last
resolution "don't
follow any of the
above"
I would have
been fine.

What is it
about resolutions,
apparently a
secret weapon
of the devil,
to make us feel guiltier
than sin (what does
that mean?)?

In fact, it seems
one way
to be sure something
is not going to be
done is to make it
a resolution.

How about you?
You can comment
below — click on
"anonymous" after
you click on
"comments."

Sharp Shadows

Finally this morning
my dogs decided
they wanted to go out.
It was a short bout
with the elements,
and then they came in, hoping
that my wife would give them
some scrap.

The shadows are sharp today
as the the wind is cold.
The wind chimes ring like
a siren, inviting me outside.

The bird incessantly bites
his mirror, letting us
know the meaning of the
phrase "bird brain."

The oak tree leaves open up
in the sun and face its
warmth like good soldiers.

The oak tree itself is not
worried about growing during
the winter. It is deep in
thought about one year past
and another year to come.

Two Worlds

The pond is frozen over,
except at the bottom
of the waterfall.

The old bird taps against
his mirror as if he has
found a new friend
who he doesn't
quite understand.

I woke the dogs up
too early. They went
out in the cold and
came right back
in to continue
their sleep.

The oatmeal on the
stove simmers,
provoking an
aroma that fills
the kitchen.

Nothing other
than the tall
golden grass
and the occasional
passing cars
dare to move
this cold early
morning.

Oh, yes, the
curled leaves
on the oak tree
still defiantly
dance in the wind,
determined not
to hit ground
until spring.

In the other room,
there is a philosophy
book, filled with
"deeper" subjects
like "what is piety?"

Socrates

Poor misunderstood Socrates,

indefatigable in
his search for
the truth, and
a gadfly in his
dialogues.

His subjects
were too busy
to talk to him,
especially
when they realized
the shortcomings
of their ascertations.

He never published,
so he wouldn't have
a chance getting
a university job,
but he didn't think
teachers should be
paid, anyway,
especially
since they didn't
know anything.

In the end,
perhaps the wisest
and most influential
thinker of the West,
was sentenced
to death for "corrupting
the youth" and other
serious infractions.

Happy New Year Grinch

In keeping with this special
day, the one that closes
the year, we should go
to a party, or at least
open a bottle of champaign.

But we'll just stay home
and I'll draw a picture.

I remember, when our kids
were young, our baby sitter
was upset with us for not
celebrating a good year.

She brought over a bottle
of whiskey for us.

I want to retain
my full resources when I
celebrate. And luckily
we don't have to stay up
until midnight, since Times
Square is on a different
time zone, and,
obviously,
we are dead beats on
another wave length.

The Chair

He found the small metal
chair with the red seat.

It allowed him access
to all that was just
out of his reach.

He'd carry it around,
climb up on it, and
rearrange our world
to perfect all kinds
of skills.

Looking on were
all of us, totally
clueless about
what was going on
in his golden head.

Waffles and Milk

He doesn't exactly
know the words for
waffles and milk,
but we read
his moods, from happy
to hungry, and then
start trying out this
or that, hoping to hit
the nail on the head,
eventually.

He seems to get his
needs met, somehow,
without an ability
talk. I wonder how
much of our talk
in the bigger world
is really needed
for our happiness,
or even, just our survival.

Toys

Maybe toys came
from the days when people
didn't have much stuff,

or even when all
that they had was
human sized.

So the Indians
would make a
little bow and
arrow to teach the kids
to hunt,

or a doll to
teach the kids
how to take care of a
baby.

I've noticed my grandson
is much more interested
in my things than he
is in the toy closet.

Lucky he has my spare
cell phone. It is one
of his favorite pastimes.

Thanks, but no Thanks!

Sometimes
I ask for help
and regret it.

Not that the
helper was
not well-intended
or even skillful
in their craft.

It is just that
sometimes we want
the job done,
and we don't want
to do the work
involved.

So I asked my
former accountant
father-in-law to
help me set up
a financial system,
only to realize
that I'd have to
rebuild my mental
transmission before
I could shift that
many gears.