Am I Proud?

I'm continually being asked if I'm proud
of the accomplishments of my kids.
I noticed that I'm always confused and
just nod "yes," to be polite.

In the same way that I'm not
proud of Einstein for his
special theory of relativity
(I had no part
in its creation),
I feel that what my kids
have done was often in spite
of my advice that would
have only taken them to
places they didn't want to go
and/or shouldn't have gone after all.

Choices

Sometimes our lives are about making choices.
We come to a fork in the the road,
our GPS isn't getting the proper satellites
and we find ourselves facing a serious dilemma,

A Buddhist said that people who meditate
to make choices get more confused.
Maybe it is the clarity
that makes the choice harder not easier
because the meditator sees all the
ramifications of the potential decisions.

Freud recommended that we flip a coin
and see how we feel about the coin's decision.
I tried this and 8 out of 10 times
the coin was wrong.
I scolded it severely.

Leaves Looking for Good Home

She said if you don't
rake the leaves
the grass will die.

If grass needs that much upkeep
should we keep it?

If grass dies,
then it won't need to be mowed,
and more robust plants
will grow in its place.

You can't rake every leaf.
But your neighbors will try,
and if you wait long enough,
the wind will give your leaves to
your neighbors' rakes and
mulching mowers.

I Like Liberals, Even if They Aren't

I like liberals. You'd think,
(as the expression goes),
I like them because they
are liberal, but no.

I'd be on their side
if they were truly liberal,
meaning they've accepted
the complexity of life
and see the costs and benefits
of all proposed solution,
and then "own" their beliefs.

But today's liberals have a
specific ideology, which
in my mind, makes them as
short sided as conservatives.

Note: I was told, early on,
that one should not speak
of politics or religion.
More forbidden fruit to partake!

Church

When I was a kid,
my mom did not believe
in anything she could not see, including God.

My friend Bruce wanted me
to go to church with him.
I asked my mom for permission to go.
She said no,
that I was too young
and too impressionable.

I don't think I ever went
to Bruce's church.
Before long, though,
I was attending up to
four churches a Sunday,
trying to get a bite of that forbidden fruit.

The Generous Tree

We have lots of trees,
one of which is very generous.
Every fall this elm covers our neighbor's yard
with an elegant layer of golden leaves.

"I'm retired and tired," our neighbor said,
"and I don't have time for these leaves.
I'm going to cut down my oak tree as well.
I don't want to work anymore."

My giving tree, so used to the
morning shade provided by the oak,
droops her remaining leaves in sadness,
and then releases the next cadre of leaves
in protest, as if to say,
"do we not see the gifts
that we receive?"

Ode to Junk Mail

Admittedly, liking junk mail
is as politically incorrect
as being enthralled with a
very unpopular leader.

Before you deny it,
think how devastated you feel
when the mailman comes by
and your mailbox is empty.

Much of my junk mail
is the same junk mail
I've received before
—— many times before.
I get a kind of "deja vu"
fondling, and then disposing of,
these pesty, but familiar, friends.

Can't

Can't do a poem today.

I look out the window
and there is stillness everywhere.

The wind is still,
the sky is blue,
and the shadows are frozen.

The big dog sneaked
up to our bed and is fast asleep.
The parakeet is quietly admiring
herself in her mirror and only occasionally
do I see a car pass on the road.

Maybe I'm living in still photo,
with these letters magically
appearing on my computer screen
as my fingers twitch.

The Train

We took the train from Chicago to Portland.
We'd board in the afternoon,
spend two long nights,
and arrive the next morning to the open arms of our grandfather
who would take us to our favorite hamburger joint.

We are all on a train,
with different destinations, different speeds, and different distances.
The cycle of light to dark to light to dark to light to dark
is our common denominator.

We take work to do on the train,
but our true work is riding the train,
and seeing where she takes us.
Our belief that where we go to bed is
where we wake up is an illusion.

My dog looks out the window anticipating the next stop.

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.