I Live in a Fog Today

I live in a fog today,
with a radius of about two hundred feet.
Objects within my reach
are very clear, or so I think.
Objects farther away are
diminished in clarity dependent
on their distance.

They become desaturated
and middle gray, as opposed
to those close that are
saturated with a full
range of value and hue.

Unlike memory, where
distant images and
experiences can be
enhanced, in the fog
objects tend to follow
the scheme
according to their distance.

What Shall We Do?

What shall we do?

Where shall we go?

Where should we eat?

How about pizza — half price from 4-6?

Mr. Natural has an amazing buffet.

We could go there.

Not that many vegetarian restaurants in AUS.

Have you been to . . . ?

They have their own brand of BBQ.

Nothing vegan, though.

I used to live right around the corner from there.

I think you ought to go to Mr. Natural.

Did you go down and see town lake?

You wouldn't want to walk.

There are a couple of ways to do it.

Make a right on Red Run Hills.

Hard enough just for the two of us.

Lamar is the divider.

Go on Loop 1.

Get off on . . .

Go west . . .

Once you cross the river . . .

And there are some humongous houses.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Have we agreed on anything?

The Spiritual Athetist

I believe in angels, which might
make me a spiritual atheist, if
there is such a term.

Too many good things happen
to me to attribute
my good fortune to luck or skill.
People seem to be around
just when I need them.
People are willing
and able to give
just what I need.
People care what happens to me
as if it is a calling
embedded in their genes.

One of my goals is
to be an angel, maybe as a chance to payback,
and maybe because I like to help
things (and people) in need.

Sometimes people put multiple
locks on their doors to keep
out the angels. The trouble
with receiving charity is that
then you can't complain about
what you don't have, and, as
well, when you receive so many
gifts, you feel compelled to give
to others.

Contrast

Yesterday woke in STL
to come to AUS.

Now @ B & B,
sitting in the LR on an
easy chair facing

a little bronze cherub blowing
a trumpet. One leg is over a log
and, on the other, the knee
is brought up to the chest as
if needed to gather more strength
to welcome the day.

In the kitchen the hubby and his wife
whip a dozen eggs
for the quiche or omelet
that will be served on the white
tablecloth with fine china & crystal.

An idyllic world, contrasted
to all the other earthly worlds,
also orchestrated by g_d's mysterious
ways, that are laden with varieties
of suffering.

My thoughts of these other worlds,
where little girls do not blow their
horns, is quickly drowned out
by the intoxicating breakfast aromas
coming from the K in the B & B in AUS.

Transitional Thoughts

December morning,
the floor is cold,
though in reality,
the floor is laid back
and it is my feet that
are cold.

Someday I'll get slippers
but they've always
seemed slippery to me,
with a slick bottom
and your foot
slips out of them
as easily as it slips in.

Got up early to see
if I could get an
earlier flight so
I wouldn't have to
get up so early.

Why do birds get up
before dawn? They
don't eat all the time
like fish. Eat like
a bird is pretty much
par for my fair feathered
friends..

President George tries
to tell untrustworthy
countries that they
should eliminate the
intelligence to build
a bomb. Other than
sending over lots of
lead toys, I'm not sure
how that might be done.

On the other hand, he
proposes to
freeze balloon loans
and says it isn't a
price freeze because it
isn't costing the government
money. Since when did
price freezes cost Uncle
Sam, except for reduced
tax on increased profits,
that may also come from
the balloon freeze?

I understand there is
a shortage of helium. Perhaps
some day we'll only be able
to get it for those special
birthdays, like turning 100.

Hari Cari or Draw

Cold Thai restaurant
waiting for friend
from old job.

Hearing broken record like
Thai elevator like music
hoping she's later so
poem can be written.

Now later, after
nice lunch, then
catastrophe trying to
be nice helping another
human being, driving
home through sleet,

talking to my son
on phone as he's
walking home in a
static storm, or so
it seemed, and my big dog
barked because I fed my
bird first, and my little
black dog with white specks of snow
barked because I fed
my big dog second, and
I weigh hari cari or
doing a drawing for this
abomination of a poem
and I choose the drawing.

There are No Reruns in Nature

Yesterday, looking out my window,
it was still.
The dogs and I were waiting for a visitor.
Even in that stillness,
subtle movements started occurring.

Today is a virtual fast dance. The
meager but cold snow flurries of an
hour ago changed to a bitter wind
testing the leaves and tall grasses
to see of what they are made.

No two snowflakes are alike,
nor are any two days the same.
There are no reruns in nature. And
each day foreshadows the next, if
only we would read the clues.

P.S. for J.A.

I often have the dilemma
whether to use line, tone, or color.
What I do depends
on whether I'm feeling
austere, bold, or flamboyant.
As well, it depends on what is
particularly challenging me.
Sometimes I get stuck with
one medium and turn to another.
And sometimes, what seemed like
a good idea, wasn't.

Waiting

There is a stillness when
I wait. Everything seems to
be waiting. Even the shadows
appear to be still and my
dog looks out the window,
pointing at nothing, or so
it seems.

Then, out of the stillness,
I start to notice movement:
the water in the pond, the
occasional auto transversing
the road, and the oak leaves,
clutching themselves to
keep warm.

The watched pot doesn't boil,
or so the saying goes, but
still we watch it, not
believing that or any
of the other aphorisms
that could guide us so well.

7 Random Thoughts

The magical brick house across the street
never looks the same. This morning I saw
it laced with sharp shadows, and now they are soft,
barely defining the object of their creation.

Driving out to the country yesterday I
saw shades of gray. Muted colors that
I felt more in my fingertips that with
my eyes.

Why does the sun look that much brighter
when you are in the shade?

My dog, who sometimes sneaks up to our
bed and sleeps all day long is today on
patrol, anticipating a visitor from the
west. Will it be the Buddha?

He started to bark and cry.
I slapped my hands and startled him.
He stopped.

I hear my wife's foot steps above me.
I try to visualize what she is doing.

Our bird looks at himself in a mirror
for 15 years and continues to sing.
Humans go to the nip and tuck doc with
far less reflection.

Waking Up Early

Maybe so much writing
is boring because it was
written early in the morning
when nothing much was happening.

Sure, the wind chimes are ringing,
the dogs are snoring
and the water in the pond
is rushing down its mini-waterfall,
slowing wearing a groove in the
boulder that it transverses.

The sky has a mere tinge of pink,
and occasional car lights
can be seen passing on the road,
punctuating the darkness
with their brilliance.

Compare that to rush hour,
in about a hour, when we
hurry hurry hurry.
Lots more fodder there
for a good poem, don't you think?

Not About Nature

Today was a tough one.
I wrote two poems about
excuses, but they weren't
very good.

The clock whizzed by
from morning to evening.
I noticed our neighbors
lined their gutters
with holiday lights,
and my dog watched
out the window with
a giant drool falling
from her mouth.

After hearing a discussion
about Wordsworth two times
on my Ipod I vowed to never
write another nature poem.

And then I realized I couldn't
see past yesterday's leaves
that were flat and vibrant
in the warmth of the sun and
today are shriveled and dry,
ready for their kamikaze dive
as the wind shook their branches.

Ancient Leaves

One of the trees out my window
is holding on to her leaves
for dear life.

They are shriveled, ancient,
brittle, used, light-brown
in color, and facing
the cold but bright morning
sun.

Some say that one needs to
give themselves permission
to die. Some hold on longer
than needed, while others say
goodbye upon first landing on Earth.

I'm not sure what it is with
these leaves. Are they survivors,
or merely afraid of flying?

Perhaps their mother tree
needs a little shaking.

Frustration

Woke up.

I can't do something
so I buy a new machine.

The machine needs batteries
so I go to the store.

Machine still doesn't work,
so take another trip to exchange
the machine.

I try to do the something,
but realize I need the more
expensive machine. It doesn't
need batteries.

Return the machine and batteries
and get the more expensive machine.

Get home. Hungry. Eat dinner.
Then it is too dark to do the job.

Maybe in the morning . . .

Breathing

Trying to pick the best breath is not easy.

Some are forced, some preachy, and some pathetic.
Where is that pure breath
that seemed so right at the moment–
unencumbered, fresh, ruthless, and brilliant?

Where is the one that came from my heart and soul,
and did not try to console, persuade, and impress?

Where is the one that I would save in a burning fire,
if there was only time to save one?

Where is the breath that I could take
to the next life
to show who I really am?

Oh, here it is, the one
where I stumbled over a twig
laying in the path.

Dirty Dish

Sometimes we just face a
dirty dish, full of crumbs,
once showered and purified,
now tainted and ready for
a cleansing.

What was on the plate was good
enough for our innards,
but now needs to be
sterilized off.

I imagine an invisible army of germs
hovering above the dining
room table, waiting for my
last bite before they
attack. God bless them for
holding out until I finish eating.

Another Morning

I look out the same magic window
that is never the same.

Yesterday, all was still,
while today the wind caresses
the few tree limbs with leaves
and the yellow orange school bus whizzes by.

The sky is white, ready for rain
or a few frigid snow flakes.

The woodpile
waits for winter.
The logs are fast asleep
with their ends
darkened with moisture.

The evergreens, in their moment of glory,
display their rich greens and
mock the shedding trees
for giving up their year's work.

Brrr . . .

It is cold this morning.

Everything is still.
Even the shriveled
leaves are asleep,

their molecules hibernating
until the sun shines again.

The dogs go out, but come
back moments later
when they smell toast,
chancing that the possibility
for a handout
is greater than

the discomfort from
the brrr
of the winter morning.

Trash

I pick up trash by the street.
I fill a garbage bag
with whiskey bottles, fast food debris,
and unmentionables.

I wonder if these gifts appear
through some miscomprehension
of the free-speech doctrine
guaranteed by the constitution,

or if the trash's disposition
is the result of civil
or divine disobedience,

or perhaps, if some of the drivebys
are just thoughtless
or downright angry
gestures.

Not without Money

A poem about money.
Hardly likely, she said.

Money is crass, cold. It comes
from the wrong side of the brain, he said.

We need to wash our hands often
and well when we touch money.
It is laden with germs and viruses.
A living depository, she continued,
for all things evil and small.

But what about a box of chocolate?
I said. You can't have such things
without money.

A necessary evil, she said, and
besides, can't you steal a box?

And go to hell? he said.

(Thanksgiving) Warts

This morning I was sent a picture
of a man who was half tree.

He has an uncontrollable case
of warts and his limbs look
like the roots of a tree.

I suppose that he might have
a future in a freak show, but
otherwise there doesn't seem
much, on this special day,
for him to be thankful.

The odd thing, as I consider
my minor aches and pains,
is that he carries such
an enormous smile
on his face.