Dawn

It is early.
The wind woke the leaves
and the tall grass
before the sun could
say good morning.

A petite solitary cloud,
tinted red from the sunrise,
looked on
from the eastern sky.

Gradually, the overcast
took the cloud in her belly,
moving gem into memory.

Soon more light came to the plants
as the rising sun
quieted the fall breeze.

Yesterday and Now

Yesterday the leaves
had their last hurrah.

They were bright and cheery,
warm with color and moisture.
They fell one at a time,
each tree proudly still retaining
its summer green
punctuated with the lone leaves
failing to resist
their ultimate daring death dive.

Now the leaves are homogeneous,
willingly falling three or four at a time.
Shriveled up like antique folks,
tired of holding on,
now ready for a long winter sleep.

The Box

I have a strange little box
inherited from my parents
who inherited it from my grandma
who inherited it from her brother.

It is a small silver box
with an image of a man
under a Bodhi tree.
I don't think he is the Buddha
because his legs are dangling
over a rock, and he's reading a note,
the contents of which is probably lost forever.

Inside the box is a wisp of air,
filled with my great uncle's pipe smoke,
and laden with the secrets of his far eastern travels
where he acquired such a treasure.

Stockmarket Dives

Up and down she goes.
The bears trample the bulls
or visa versa
from interest rates
to war to the dropping dollar.
There always is the
daily raison d'etre.

We sit back and watch
assets soar and plummet
making our hearts skip a
beat and our heads
ache a little (or much).
What once made our day
now only reminds us of the adage
"what goes up must come down."

Ode to a Leaf

The leaf comes and goes,
falling through air in a spiral.
It doesn't hit the ground,
but is gently cushioned
by its shadow.

If left to its own devices,
it will decompose
and then regenerate.

If left to our rakes and leaf blowers,
it will be taken from its cycle
and be forced to another,
perhaps less natural, destiny.

The leaf is an old timer,
knowing full well its impermanence.
Still, it basks in the sun until evening.

A Parakeet, Dog, Leaf, and Rubber Band

My parakeet,
obviously lonely from a lack of adult companionship,
sings two songs intermittently,
in a last ditch attempt to be part of a conversation.

My dog, fast asleep,
after a hard morning of clearing the yard of invaders,
dreams of unsavvy spring rabbits.

An autumn leaf,
tracked in by some careless pet or person,
precariously lies in the middle of the kitchen floor,
awaiting its death from a shoe or broom.

A rubber band, resting on the floor,
carefully defining the intersection of three oak floor boards,
is unmoved by a parakeet's irritating chatter,
a dog's dreams or a leaf's demise.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is the day after today.

How often do we spend
today on tomorrow?
Anticipating, planning, waiting . . .

We wake up tomorrow
and it is a new day,
but no longer tomorrow, only today.

We spend the new today
as we spent the old yesterday,
anticipating, planning, waiting . . .

Suppose there was no tomorrow,
which there (really) isn't
because it hasn't happened yet.

What would it be like living today . . . for today?
Not anticipating, not planning, not waiting.

It is nothing.

Sometimes our dog barks at nothing.
The hairs on her neck bristle and
a little bump forms between her ears.

She's threatened by her own shadow
that she doesn't understand tho
she's been living with it all her life.

Our bird chirps away, oblivious to
the ghosts in the front yard and
the shadows that follow our dog
around the yard.

Perhaps we could send our dog to bird school
so she'd learn what it means to cry wolf.

Or we could send our bird to
people school to learn to say,
"Shh. It is nothing."

Library

Libraries used to be quiet places
where people read books.
Books are not quiet, though.

They speak directly to our
brains and souls.

Now, people talk in libraries,
huddled around a row of computers.
Or they talk on their cell phones,

oblivious to that very personal
tête-à-tête between a book and its reader.

Someday the books may leave to
be recycled into paper towels
and newspapers. The talking will
also leave as the sound waves
dissipate into the ether.

The Death of a Nut

I'll never understand
why my dog Zoe becomes so upset
when a lone squirrel
visits her territory.

I don't believe that
any squirrel ever did
her any harm.

I can't even believe
that in any previous life
any such creature
trespassed against her,
unless Zoe had miraculously
been reincarnated from a lone nut,
buried by some enterprising squirrel,
for a scrumptious winter snack.

Best Laid Plans

I woke up early, really early.
The dogs didn't even get up.

I thought I'd look out the window and
write a poem about nature.

It was pitch black outside.
The only nature to be seen
was in my mind.
And . . . then the phone rang.

Today's plan was changing.
Nature once again was supplanted by
a little forgetfulness, and
perhaps a little
unconscious deliberation.

And the poem about nature . . .
became one about the nature of life.

Greedy Leaf

He said it was a bad leaf,
shooting out from her brothers and sisters
to catch a ray of sunshine.

She had no business on this tree ——
greedy, not a "team player"
and obviously exploiting the others
who so diligently grew up
so that the greedy
leaf had only inches to go
to reach the warm sunlight.

But lo and behold,
inadvertently the
greedy one gave back
energy to the tree, and ergo,
to her brothers and sisters.

The Early Bird

I look out the window
early in the fall morning
and see only darkness.
I imagine the sun still as bright
as yesterday when I groped
for my sun glasses.
I'm in a shadow, so vast
I can't tell where she ends.

In time, though, my eyes adjust
and I see first the moon,
then the stars,
only to be briefly interrupted
by the headlights of an early bird
driving down the street.

Spotty Shadows

The leaves begin to fall,
as the sun shoots through the trees,

casting spotty shadows
on the wood pile,
where each log waits
for another winter
to find out if they will
be carried inside
to face the burning embers.

At the bottom of the pile
the logs are safe from the fire,
and termites and rot
will chart its destiny,

unless, or course, it is
an unusually cold winter.

Halloween

Trick or treat:
it gets dark early
and the evening is cold.

Gangs of kids move down the street
with a parent often in tow.

It is a fashion show
of sorts, of the latest
monster costumes,

with the oddball kid in each gang,
either too lazy or too poor
for a costume of her own.

Trick or treat, they say,
as the door is opened, and
ah, shucks, we don't want apples,
a moment later.

Autumn Poem Activity

Autumn is such an overused
subject for a poem.

Who wants to hear
once again about
leaves that change colors
and whither and die
or how the weather
alternates between cold and rainy?

Next election, I'm
voting for the candidate
who proposes making
autumn poems a crime.

That will
surely regenerate quite a flurry
of autumn poem activity.

1000 Miles Per Hour

No wonder we need to sleep at night.
Each day we breathe 20000+ breaths
and then we are expected
to remain upright

on this vast planet that spins
on its axis
at 1000 miles per hour.

Each day we see changes from darkness
to light and back again to darkness.

We are but on a rocket
exploding into an expanding space
and then we wonder why

sanity is
something we need to work at
breath after breath.

Dogs

I often wonder what
a dog thinks about
when she sees humans

get into an iron horse
and turn a key and zoom
off into the distance.

Or when she sees
mom and dad kissing
each other.

I wonder what the various
barks and growls say,
but most of all,

what that thought is
when she comes to me
to be petted.

COMMENT: ABOUT WHAT DO DOGS THINK? A PRIZE FOR THE BEST ANSWER! CLICK ON COMMENT BELOW TO LEAVE YOUR ANSWER.

Stop and Look

We rush around,
looking for peace.
The faster we go,

the greater the distance
between us and stillness.
Our MP4 earphones

take a break from our cellphone
and our cellphone
takes a break for an old friend

coming down the platform.
The train comes, but from the other direction.
We sit down to wait.

Our batteries die from overuse.
We notice the clouds
gently nudging one another.

How Much are Kids Worth?

I'm reading a book
that says it is stupid
that plumbers get paid more

than childcare workers
because kids are worth
more than pipes.

My wife thinks
it is good that plumbers
are well-paid

because they have lots of kids.
If childcare workers had
as many kids as plumbers

they'd have to stay at home
and wouldn't be able
to work. This would,

of course, decrease
the supply of the childcare
workers, so the facilities

would have to pay
them more, which probably
means that people wouldn't

use paid childcare,
or wouldn't have children,
or wouldn't buy big screen TVs.

The big question,
as I see it,
is not what is unfair,

but rather what measures
should be taken
to correct

all the world's injustices,
and what the costs are
of these measures?

Next time you pay a
child care worker,
please add a substantial tip,

and next time you pay
a plumber, ask her if
she'll take less.

Just tell the plumber
it is all
in the name of fairness,

and watch the steam
erupt
from her pipe!

The 5 am Alarm Clock

When you visit
loved ones, there
is always the last

day of a visit,
when you make sure
you've said what

you have to say,
and you try to remember
to pack all the little things

you had brought
with the intention
of not leaving behind.

Being there
becomes so habitual
you believe

you'll be wakened
each morning of your life
with the pidder patter

of a toddler's feet above you,
and then
"it's time to leave"

and you hop on
some mode of transportation
and arrive home

and wake up
the next morning
to realize what had become

a 5 am alarm clock
has been turned off
until the next visit.

Play at Work, Work at Play

Sometimes we
mistakenly believe
that kids play and adults work,

but one just needs
to watch a toddler
and see how

dedicated they are
to the task at hand
to realize

they are learning
about their universe
in record time

and will not
be led astray
by any distractions.

Adults, on the other hand,
with their great understanding
of the world,

seem to have lots of time
for play, sports, movies,
and candlelight dinners.

QUESTION: AT WHAT AGE DO HUMANS PLAY? WHY?

Shaving

How did it happen
that we obsessively
want to shave

certain parts
of our body?
We wake up

in the morning and
feel the sandpaper
on our face,

rushing
to the bathroom
to smooth it out.

We go to the barber
frequently to make
ourselves clean cut.

Woman eradicate the
hair under their arms
and on their legs.

Smooth
becomes the norm,
and rough

the sign
that we've been negligent
in our care.

COMMENT: IS OUR OBSESSION WITH BEING CLEAN-SHAVEN AKIN TO OUR OBSESSION WITH THE "NEW?"

The Plane

A cow's hide found
her way to be a
seat on an airplane

comforting the bodies
of humans flying
to and fro

for pleasure, profit
or grief.
From cows' heaven

moo moo watches
the big sky machine
carrying its karma

to exotic places
where grass has
been eaten by

little lawn machines
or turned to concrete
for cars and

even cattle
trucks going to
the slaughter house.

COMMENT: DO YOU BELIEVE IN COW HEAVEN? IS THE GRASS GREENER?

The Hypochondriac Goes to the Doctor

I go
to the doctor today
to inquire

about a obscure condition
that I've probably always had,
but have just noticed.

I suspect he'll tell me
about the 38 million
who have the same problem,

and that one just has
to live with it.
Unless, of course,

I want to try
some medicines
and surgical procedures

and trade one symptom
for another.
So he gets a pretty penny

for a few minutes with me,
and I get the satisfaction
of discovering that I'm mortal

and I can choose to
live with my body
the way it is,

or go to extreme measures
to turn it in for
another body

whose owner
will surely
have equally minute complaints.

PLEASE COMMENT: WHOSE BODY IS YOURS?

Study

The fly swishes
in my hair as I
wait to begin.

He hovers here
and there after
a full week of toil.

The man on
the other side
of the table

tries to understand
"the deepest wisdom
we've ever read."

The fly knows the taste
of the words
but is too busy to learn to read.

PLEASE COMMENT BELOW: WHY DO WE NOT REVERE THE COMMON HOUSE FLY WHO ALWAYS IS AUTHENTIC AND SPONTANEOUS?

Mouse

He called
to tell me
he had caught a mouse

and wondered what he
should do with it.
Where was it?

By the fireplace.
How big was it?
About two inches.

What should he do with it?
Is it a baby?
I don't know.

You could flush it
down the toilet,
but how about

letting it out
a block from your house.
Okay, thanks.

PLEASE COMMENT BELOW: WAS HE SHOWING COMPASSION BY SEPARATING THE MOUSE FROM IT'S MOTHER? WAS IT NICE TO THE FOLKS WHO LIVED A BLOCK AWAY TO LET IT GO BY THEIR HOUSES?

The Colony

As I step
off my porch,
I see a colony

of ants scurrying
around, with no
time to spare.

We wonder
if humanoids
are too busy,

until we
study these ants——
fine creatures,

as serious as could be,
working as if their
lives depended on it.

We take vacations,
sleep, and retire.
The ants only nap
sixteen minutes a day,

and for the rest of the time,
work, work, and work,

preparing their next
meal for themselves,
and their nieces and nephews.

PLEASE COMMENT BELOW: WHEN DO WE CALL THESE CREATURES OUR FRIENDS, AND WHEN DO WE PUT OUT THE ANT TRAPS?

Soup Kitchen

Classical music,
of the finest quality.
But afterwards,

a gluttonous reception.
Food galore,
with lines forming

at each table.
Are we that hungry
or that greedy

for sweets and
high fat treats
that lead us

to the grave like
the sirens on the
the rocks?

Are we products
of the great depression,
or the unholy holocaust,

never knowing
where our next meal
might come from,

or whether
it will be
at all?

PLEASE COMMENT, ANSWERING THIS QUESTION: AM I BEING TOO SENSITIVE ABOUT THE WAY EVERYONE EATS. IS THIS MY OBSESSION?

That Mighty Villian

How oft are
we frustrated?
When we are late and

the light won't turn green,
or we go to the gas pump
and wait for that woman

talking on her cell
to move her car
Or or or.

We expect better,
that life will go
like clockwork,

swiss clockwork,
that is, keeping
time so precisely

a second is not
lost. Yet we get sick
and injured, and we die,

always with a
surprise on
our face saying

"how could this
happen to me."
Perhaps

all these
seemingly catastrophic
events are not

that mighty villain,
but actually
the stuff of life.