René Descartes rested his pen,
to take a Parisian stroll -
stopping to order a cup
at his favorite patisserie.

The waitress queried "with cream?"
and René who sipped his brew black
testily scoffed, "I think not"
and immediately disappeared.

*August, 2013

My oldest cell is pushing seven
and it's time for it to go!
That's just the way it is, pal;
the new kids need have their day.

Perhaps I could spare a smallish speech
to fete the good times and bad -
days amazingly graced
scaling some testy peak or other.

Not all dawns were rosy strewn
but you, dear friend held fort -
cloaking my back through
bitter days of tears and dread.

A favor of you if you please:
when you go,
please stow a portion
of my sorrows in your pack.
and let the new boys have
a sunshine day or season.
We all could use the break.

So "Adios, Amigo,"
Thanks for dancing on my stage.

*August, 2013

in loving memory of my mother

Three simple cello notes answered by horns,
rising and falling winds
shine like the dawn of a luminous day.
Emergent violins wash the hall
with mystic Austrian radiance.

Looking across the stage
I meet the eyes of my Philharmonic friends
uniting in affirmation
of the matchless largesse
of the Brahms' second -
our collective soul vaulting the Atlantic
to the azure Danube's shore.

          *It's 40 Christmas morns ago
          and I am "20-ish" tearing floral paper
          from a large green book and lean
          to give my Mom a thank you hug.

Three quarters of an hour
brush by like an autumn breeze
and I close that same green book
and turn to greet the audience -
searching beyond the walls
for that sacred somewhere
where Mom smiles down
from her eternal resting place.

*August, 2013

for Greg Guenther

A giant pendulum in the cosmos swings
    and guides each planet on its tether
Earth’s axis tilts toward fairer weather
     And soft rains presage new beginnings.

Crocuses push the snow aside, a bluebird sings
      of light and darkness held in equal measure.
Pastel fingers on each bough gather
      as birds and beasts pursue their matings

Softened fields invite the tillers’ blades
      submerging seeds for the rain and sun
to raise into fields of corn and wheat.

The pendulum arcs back and summer fades,
    Earth's axis returns to a cooler inflection.
and farmers bow thanks for the harvest complete!

December, 2006

High atop the mountain
a boy crouched alone in the vision pit – waiting.
Raising his red stone pipe to the four directions
he sent clouds of willow bark smoke
skyward toward his ancestors.

Naked beneath his star blanket he wept a man’s cry –
crying for a vision to come
that his people might live!
Chanting with eyes fast shut he waited and prayed.

First came the cries of the wind,
then the whisper of trees.
Birds swooped and circled about him.
He shook his rattle crying,
“Tunkashila, grandfather spirit, help me.”

A voice spoke in the call of a bird,
“Your sacrifice will make you
Wikasa Wakan, medicine man.
We are the winged ones and we are your brothers.”

In a swirling cloud his great, grandfather came and spoke,
blood dripping from the hole
where a white soldier’s bullet had found his chest,
“You will take my name, Tahka Ushte, Lame Deer.”
The new man on the mountain rejoiced.

Quietly entering the vision pit,
kind Old Chest placed a hand on Lame Deer’s shoulder,
“Four days have passed, it is time.”
and led Tahka Ushte down to the valley.

*June, 2006

Spear shafts splintering beneath its hulk -
the mastodon crashed to the earth,
roared its final lament and fell silent.

Shouts echoed across the ravine.
Dark-haired Clovis hunters converged:
stripping the hide,
carving the flesh.

Others frenzied about the carcass,
tracing broken shafts
to salvage the flint for tomorrow's hunt  -
retrieving all save one.

A triumphal fire hissed and snapped,
hurling heat and smoke
high into the mid–day sky.

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *    

      *The archaeologist knelt to the ground.
      Heart racing, he scraped dirt from flint,
      brushed away the millennial dust
      and raised the projectile to the sun shouting,
      'Clovis point! '

'Clovis point' - an epiphany in the dust:
found inches from the bones of its prey.
Khaki and blue jeaned hunters gathered quickly
to read the epic written in flint and bone:
Mastodon and Clovis united by the point of a spear.

July, 2006

At Woodhenge's sacred circle
hut roused Mississipians
gathered in wintery bleakness
to track the golden crown's
ascent above the solstice post.

Their Solar Priest presided:
explaining,
blessing,
interpreting,
and assuring them all
that tomorrow's sun would rise
slightly farther to the north.

Last solstice morn at Cahokia,
latter day Mississippians
observed our red dwarf star
as it broke the tree - clad horizon,
inclined slightly to the right
and soared into cold December's sky.

Our Sun Priest, robed
in a ranger's jacket
in his own way:
explained,
blessed,
interpreted
and released us
to our journeys home -
assured that tomorrow's sun
again would climb the heavens
slightly farther to the north.

*December, 2006