A bridge is a curious thing to cover.
mile after mile of naked road -
then a wooden box over stream or ravine.

Why not cover the road instead
leaving the bridge unclothed?
But where's the charm in that, you say?  

So perhaps it was fashioned for Currier and Ives
or to embellish the music
of iron shod hooves on oaken planks.

Or maybe was built as a kiosk
for fading feed and carnival posters
and jackknife glyphs of amorous initials.

No, all our covered bridges, imagined or real,
guide our passage over deadly waters -
holding us fast on the road
and safe from drowning.  

*March,  2007

(Scene by the brook)*                                

He came seeking solace to Heiligenstadt
    and walked alone by its crystal stream
        welcomed by songs the nightingale taught.

Its cheerful waters made Vienna seem
    a distant, cool and forbidding stage
        where few would embrace a pastoral dream.

He dotted his sketchbooks on every page
    with earthen tones born of peasant heart -
        (though fare rich enough for any age) .                

He poured from the stream the fiddle part,
    and woodwinds sang with the birds in the dell -
        all "choired" together by his masterful art.

At Heiligenstadt Beethoven attended well
    and bequeathed us his golden 'Pastorale.'

*July, 2006

I’d jump at the chance to ride shotgun
on Henry’s medicine wagon
rolling from city to village
hawking 'Stickin’ Salve' and 'Oil of Gladness'.

We’d ride into Elmira’s County Fair
and set up over by the lake.
I’d fix old Diamond a pail of oats
and draw her a bucket of water.
while great, great grandpa
squeezed on his Union coat
and arranged his potions on the shelves.

Henry’s voice would boom
across the water like a megaphone
and people would gather close -
lured in by the old codger's
hypnotic banter of miracle cures -
and perilous Civil War battles.
  
He’d swear on his mother’s lumbago
that 'Stickin’ Salve' works just as fine
as the lead and powder
he’d fired at Cedar Mountain.

The folks would shake with mirth
whenever he bellowed,
“I’m Henry Howard from Bunker Hill -
Never worked and never will."
Women would tug their husband's sleeves
and they’d bring me pennies and dimes.

After dusk we’d tally the coins
and latch down the wagon for the night
then sleep side by side on the grass
beneath the New England stars.

At sunrise I'd wipe his brow -
to ease him gently back
from the thunder of enemy shells
still firing in his restless sleep.

We'd cook up some bacon and biscuits,
hitch Diamond up to the wagon
then head south through the rolling hills
along the Tioga valley.
We’d breathe in the fresh country air
and tip our caps to the farmers.

If Henry would come to tap my shoulder
some promising morning in spring
and whisper "the wagon's hitched outside,"
I’d go in a Tioga minute.

*December,  2006

There's a time machine whirring in my head
    that needs no dials or crystals.
        I shut my eyes and whoosh I’m off to tour my universe.

        I am five eating  sherbet
    nurse-brought to ease the ache
where tonsils lately flared and burned.

A sheepskin's offered at the high school gym.
    Hands swirl pressing ink into paper
        that binds a home to me and me to labor.

        I toss Dad a curve and it snaps in his glove.
    We sip Boston Coolers on the stoop.
I watch a shovel of earth fall to his casket.

Checking the mirror I escape the garage
    steering past farms where ancestors whisper,
        “Welcome home, son, won’t you stay awhile? ”
    Glad for the offer I cannot accept, I drive on.

My machine can fast forward too
    and the future beckons like Odysseus’s Sirens -
        promising pleasures and hidden perils.

        Next month’s journey to Anasazi lands
    is already mapped and scheduled  
and we are camera ready.

After some future dusk
    I will join the ancient ones in the past tense,  
        but for now, undaunted by submerged rocks
    I advance steadily toward the Sirens’ song.

There is a time machine whirring in my head.
    You have one too.
        There is much to see – and time is dear.

                Come ride with me!

June,  2006

LOVE is:
   a dopamine trip
      Paris in the spring
         a really low tennis score.

LOVE is:
   ******
      platonic
         gin and tonic.
            
LOVE may be:
   requited
      unrequited
         or a little of both.

LOVE is:
   a baby's smile
      a ruined Huggie
         graduation day.

LOVE can be:
   brotherly
      otherly
         smotherly.

LOVE is:
   the real deal
      a raw deal
         sweet and sorrow.

Whatever LOVE is(n't),
   without it - no us!

*August, 2010

It was like a dream -
a paradise of intoxicating scents,
the heat of passionate caresses
then the moaning, convulsive
transfer of genetic information.

Rolling on top she declared her love.
Still panting, he combed
his fingers through her hair and
whispered, “Make me a dad some day, ”
“Good as done, she said”
and clicked her ring to his.

With head thrown back
he said the word again,
“Dad”
It had a solid ring to it,
“Dad”

“Dad, Dad.

WAKE UP, DAD! ”

Searching his way
through the pastel haze,
he saw the visage
of a largish boy-man
hovering over the couch.
spoken sounds gradually coalesced
into familiar vocal code –

    “The car keys…”
        “To the mall…”
            “You promised…”
                “Tux for the prom…”

Propping his head on his hands
he surfaced in the land of now.

“You OK Dad? ”
“Sure son and so are you.”
He drew a ring of jingling metal
from his pocket and gave it over -
pointing with his free hand
like a cue for the clarinets,

“Drive carefully son.
Always drive carefully.”

*December, 2006