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Meteor Shower
Soft, soft the sky rains down its tears,
and washes the electric-scented sorrow
from the stars. All the lonely nights since
time began they have gazed down upon this
round blue earth, and witnessed the plight of Man,
and watched his bloody wars, and read his poems,
and stored his history in their haunted glittering
eyes, which - 'til tonight - could never cry.
Now, across the night sky, their tears blaze -
soft and silent they wend their way to Man's
very door; each raining meteor a tear of stone
that the lonely stars have shed for the tortured
earth and all her inhumane scars.
Rain Dance
Raindrop dancers on my roof
Top their tango with its sound -
With drumming self-applause as proof,
And whistling mockery, 'gainst the ground.
Earthward lured to pirouette -
Reeling in rhythm to gravity's pull -
Drawn low to pay the ocean's debt
Which seems to have come due in full.
Merrily ringing down the spout;
Gushing on now; - solo mente -
Heedless forth, sans fear or doubt;
Sure of their role in God's ballet.
What Lucy Taught me
I watch my excellent, beautiful dog
As she sleeps beside my feet,
And think how simple life would be
If I lived life as does she.
I'd greet all I met as long-lost friends,
And take naps whenever I could.
And always wag my tail and smile
When told that 'd been good.
I'd ask for what I wanted
In ways hard to ignore,
And nap as often as I could,
And not mind if I snore.
I'd greet all my loved ones at the door
With wet-kisses upon their return,
And make sure they knew how they
Were missed, and how my heart did yearn.
I'd take long walks and explore every path
And, in the car, I'd be driven.
I'd bark a lot less, and growl a lot less,
And bite someone only if bitten.
Yes, I could learn much from my dog -
More than she has learned from me.
In fact, if we all took a lesson or two,
What a wonderful world this would be.
Tempest
The wind is throwing coastal temper fits
going Postal on my fence, and every flower
I've labored so hard to grow in my poor garden.
Its tossing birds around the skies, so that even
the crows, despairing of flight, have begun to
hike about the neighborhood, or lurk in sturdy
trees instead. My dog won't venture out to
do her "business" - although she clearly wants to.
She just stands at the door and watches the
lawn furniture dancing on the deck, and
decides, "What the heck, I can hold it"
You'd think I'd have grown used to this,
living on the Oregon coast and Hawaii.
But, it never fails to both thrill and appall
me when the air takes on this evil-tempered
attitude. I often wonder if this rude behavior
has to do with being taken for granted most of
the time.I know I'm awfully nasty when I feel
neglected or ignored. I never understood, though,
why the trees seem to get the worst of the wind's
fury. They're always its most willing playmates,
swaying to the gentlest breeze or softest caress.
That's the way of the world, I guess. Our
churlishness is usually lavished most heavily
on those closest to us. Ridiculous, when you
think of it, but - sadly - true nonetheless.
Teacher
The heron steps fastidiously
there on the tidal flats -
stilt-walking and intent -
his vigilant eye scanning
for crawdads, and fairy shrimp,
and quicksilver-darting fishes.
Even when he unfolds himself
to artful flight, his deft feet
will not disturb the briny silt.
Many of the beings hidden there
may never be aware of his hunt.
They are left to grow and feed
some other creature, to live and
breed and create the future,
or perhaps simply to make
his supper on another day.
That is the way of the world.
We should all watch our step
and remember this is a fragile
planet, and we are not its center.
Storm Front
The birds overslept this morning,
and began to chirp in double-time
to catch up to their quota.
But, this bruised and brooding sky
has dampened their fervor, until
even they have been silenced - finally -
by the expectancy of the coming storm.
We are like nervous fathers
in the world's waiting room.
The sky is pregnant with moisture,
and the boom of thunder will-
any moment now - signal her delivery.
Everything is still and gray,
and the birds flit silently and fitfully
about their abbreviated business.
It is impossible to get my chores done.
Running my vacuum-cleaner would seem
like some sort of cosmic sacrilege.
Its mechanical thrumming
has no business breaking this
supernatural silence of nature.
So, I wait - with the birds
and the rest of the world -
for the coming storm to unfold,
with only the scratching of my pen,
and Lucy's subdued snores,
serving as symphony
for my starved ears.
Squash Lesson
Once, I saw a square squash
at the summer farmers' market.
The clever grower had bound
the young fruit into a milk carton,
and it grew to fit the contours of its prison.
One might argue for the ease with which
such produce might be stored and shipped,
or the delight a chef might find
in slicing an immobile squash.
But, all the potential buyers at the market
simply gawked - like me.
We loaded our shopping baskets
with more rounded and unwieldy samples.
In our secret hearts,
we were aware that nature had it right -
despite culinary and transportation difficulties -
squash was never intended to be square.
Squash rolls somewhat,
and that's as it should be.
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