As I sit here, at the dining room table and stare over decaf coffee at the screen on my Mac
my eyes are drawn, once and awhile, to the picture sitting on the buffet in the butler's pantry.
Before we continue you should know that "butler's pantry" in this case
means the "third bedroom" that we saw in the listing on Realtor dot com before we bought the house and that,
in the usual real estate-ese, is an optimistic label at best.

But I was talking about the picture.

The picture sits, slightly askew, in a carved wooden bowl given to us by my wife's boss
as a housewarming present.
It, the bowl I mean,  came with salad tongs or forks,
depending on what it is that you call them,
made of water buffalo horn.
They sit in the bowl too and,
although she'd never admit it,  
I know that the thought of serving salad with water buffalo horn salad forks...
lets just say.....
doesn't appeal to my wife.

Right, the picture....

It sits in on the buffet,
in the carved wooden bowl,
next to another wood bowl.
This one full of carved wood fruits and vegetables,
which evidently, includes sugar cane.
When my wife's dad moved from his house to an assisted living facility
the kids, my wife, her brother and sister, took turns going down to help him move.
My wife was the last and dad insisted that
someone
"had" to take the fruit.

But, the picture....

It, and the wooden bowls full of fruit and unused salad forks,
are surrounded by both faux and real glassware
and placemats
which all sit perched
on the top of the buffet as precariously as refugees
and all of their belongings
on the deck and roof of an overloaded fishing boat
chugging from their homeland
to some place that is hopefully better.

The picture...

It was painted by my father-in-law and,
of all the others we have in the house,
is one of my favorites.
It sits on the buffet, askew in the carved wooden bowl with the horn salad forks,
amid polycarbonate and glass drink ware,
and placemats,
unframed for some reason.
All of his other works came framed
but this is one he did not...
and did I mention that it is one of my favorites?

I like his choices of frames on all of the other pictures we have,
but this is just canvas, stretched over a frame,
sitting in that carved African wooden bowl
with those salad forks made from water buffalo horn
on the buffet next to the other wood bowl full of wooden fruits and vegetables,
and wooden sugar cane,
in the butler's pantry.

The human mind is an interesting thing
Mine is very
As it tends to wander
I mean
Explore

I have been told by an authority
My wife
That she's never seen one like it
Although how she can see a mind
I don't know

She has seen a lot in her life
Both with and before me
She was a Travel Agent
She's been to Turkey
I like turkey

I made an interesting stuffing for turkey once
It was during my time in the seafood retail business
In a fish market
It, the stuffing I mean, had shrimp, scallops and crayfish in it
My wife didn't like it much, she's of Irish heritage

She's been to Ireland too
Twice
Once in college and once with her family
Ireland is where Delorian made his cars in the 1980s
Before he was arrested for trafficking in *******

I have not been to Ireland
I have been to France, Belgium and England
I stayed in Waterloo Belgium for two weeks
In the 80's
When I was 25

Waterloo is where Napoleon was finally vanquished
Beaten by an Englishman
They have a monument, the lion, on top of a big hill there
I had to climb it twice
The first time I forgot my camera

I got a new camera recently
A Pentax
I have had several since Waterloo
The camera hasn't been anywhere interesting
Just my back yard

I use it to take pictures of birds
At our feeder
In the big maple tree
On the ground
There is even a turkey that comes in our yard

My wife's been to Turkey
She was a Travel Agent

Patriotism is normal
alive and well
vigorous
flying high

Patriotism is voluntary
is love of
is love of country
is a love of and devotion for one's country

Patriotism is when love of your own people comes first
racism
more than flag
too often the refuge of scoundrels

Patriotism is as dogmatic as the old
a kind of religion; it is the egg from which wars are hatched
conviction that this country is superior to all other countries
no excuse for stupidity

Patriotism is alive in america

Bright green buds on dead sticks as Hydrangea, like Lazarus, rises.

Snowfall brings
peace
quiet
this winter's morning

The last snow grabs at new green shoots, indifferent crocus awaken

In a sunny spot resides a new bench.
It would be a perfect place to sit among the flowers
with children sitting at your feet
teaching them all that you know
about animals
about the great outdoors
from a time when they were experienced in person
not on the Discovery Channel
not on TV

You could read a book to them there too
like Wild Animals I Have Known
by Ernest Thompson Seaton
the naturalist.

You could sit quietly in the sunshine
and nurse an unfortunate animal back to health
like a Gecko
or turtle
or opossum

You could just sit
your Dunkin Doughnuts iced coffee in your hand
and take it all in
or let it all out
your choice.

But you never will do any of these things
on this bench in the sunny spot
among the plants
and flowers
and smooth river rocks painted in your honor
by the children to whom you are missed
because the bench is dedicated
with your name on it
in memory of you.

In a second grade classroom
a tiny ant with a treasure thinks only of taking it to his colony.
A big hero he will be.
So he drags a piece of popcorn much bigger than he.

he drags
and pulls
and tugs

On a second grade classroom floor,
the ant's work is hard but will be worth it.
A big hero he will be.
So he drags a piece of popcorn much bigger than he.

he drags
and pulls
and tugs

On a second grade classroom rug,
the ant's task seems insurmountable but he knows of no other way.
So for an hour, he retraces his path backwards dragging a piece of popcorn
across the classroom rug.

He drags
and tugs
and pulls

In the open of a second grade classroom,
the ant feels exposed on the carpet but cover is closer now, he can feel it.
It's just there, where the wall meets the carpet.
A space just big enough to hide an ant.

Closer and closer.

He tugs and pulls and drags his prize closer still
Pulling and dragging the popcorn lurches across the carpet.

His rear legs reach cover
Then his thorax, his abdomen, his head with antennae and mandibles

then

The Problem.

and...

In a second grade classroom
a line of popcorn rests
where the carpet meets the wall.

With blooms apparent, "crocus patch" revealed as amaryllis instead.

Hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
Lies a stone.
And as I sit, drinking a gin and tonic
Looking over the spent plates
where crusty bread
fried calamari, which is a fancy word for squid,
and two Oysters Rockefeller
sat
until recently consumed by two parents
both in that awkward state of freedom
and longing
when their child is at camp,
out past the ducks on granite rocks
puffing themselves up
flapping their wings
towards afternoon sun on Winnipesaukee
my thoughts and eyes are drawn back
to the wheel of stone
leaning against the rotting wall of railroad ties
covered in a remoulade of Honeysuckle
Rose of Sharon
and other viney things
that are unidentifiable to me.
It has been painted during its time
but the paint is faded and chipped
and the feeling is that the stone
has outlived the painter.
Yet I do wonder.
What was its job 50, 100, 200
years ago?
Was it in a mill?
Did it lie flat, grinding?
Did it roll, upright, crushing things?
What else did they use round stones for?
Is this what retirement for a working stone is?
Cast to the side,
forgotten
hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
in an alley next to a waterside Wolfboro restaurant
where parents sit
Looking at Winnipesaukee
over spent plates of bread, squid and Oysters Rockefeller
thinking of a child at camp.

I think of mom often.
Like when I read anything by Jack London
or Ernest Thompson Seton.

Her memory swirls around me when I see a dead opossum by the roadside
it reminds me of the one we had as kids.
Yes, we had an opossum.
It wasn't a pet as much as it was a wounded soldier,
convalescing in a field hospital close to the front and cared for by Florence Nightingale,
except the field hospital was our carport under a suspended Old Towne wood canoe,
the battle, with a Ford or Chevrolet, on the main road near our house in Connecticut.
Florence was Mom.

She peeks at me around corners in the kitchen when I make fish,
or soup,
because I hated fish as a child.
She made us eat it because it was healthy and the blocks of frozen Turbot were cheap
and she was a single mom at forty two with three hungry mouths to feed.
She tried to make me think it was exotic because it came from Iceland.
I thought Turbot was Icelandic for "more bones in your mouth than you ever thought possible".
Mom was, however, an accomplished homemade souper.

She's by my side as I explain wild things
to other little wild things which hang on my every word.
Words put into my head which make it seem,
to the under four foot set,
that I know everything.
Knowledge put there by her in our yard,
by the lakes of New York, the mountains of West Virginia or deserts of California.
She is in every frog that jumps, whippoorwill that calls or each stalk of Jewel ****,
which is a cure for poison ivy by the way,
that grows near a stream in the woods.

But then today
as my daughter opened the overhead sunglass holder in her car for the first time,
the Subaru she inherited from Mom over a year ago,
and Grandma's sunglasses fell out,
there were no thoughts of lessons learned
or knowledge imparted.
Today,
I just thought of her.

Crocus sprouts unaware of the snow that is coming soon

I had to run to the store today at lunchtime
we were out of paper plates
we had a party last night
and didn't want to have to do dishes again

While there and while moving quite quickly
although in the shape I am in, "quickly" is being very kind to myself

I came across a man
In a blue blazer
with yellow shorts and
knee-high yellow socks
in beige shoes

My first thought was
I need to get paper plates
my father-in-law is waiting for his lunch
he's eighty nine and flew over the Pacific
during WWII in a PBY Catalina
one of the most beautiful flying boats ever created
pulling pilots out of the water
who had come up short in a dogfight
or of fuel
I needed to get paper plates

This isn't Bermuda old chap
or a cricket match in Rhoorkee
the british invented great campaign chairs there
this is Connecticut but then

I realized that I knew the man
I had worked with him in a previous life
in a long dead company
that burst before the internet bubble did
He was a former British Sergeant Major
and as such took his colonial British very seriously
that attitude fascinates me
his office I recalled, looked like a colonial governor's office in India

So I said hi
and we talked for a bit
and wished each other well
and said good bye
as I needed to get paper plates
my father-in-law was waiting for his lunch

Wrist knows first as warm sauce slides past, then mouth confirms, great barbecue.

When I think about the Forth of July,
and I am right now because
a. it is the Fourth of July and
b. I am writing a poem that purports to be about the Fourth of July,
I struggle with it's icon, the one thing or picture or symbol that hangs over the day
like the patio umbrella I should have purchased
when I had the chance
for the deck out back where the temperature in the sun is over 100 degrees.

Sure, most of my bible-thumping, self-proclaimed patriot friends would say
The Flag.
The American Flag or Amurikin Flag...
actually the flag of the United States of America, because even though we seem to think that we are the only Americans,
we're not.

Some would say Fireworks.
In fact John Adams himself even said fireworks was an apt celebration for the Fourth.
I like fireworks...
Now that my daughter is old enough to sit through them without our needing to hurriedly pack up and run screaming from the field after the first launch.

I have one symbol for The Fourth.
Potato Salad
Yes, potato salad...actually non-specific potato salad.
It doesn't have to be a fancy recipe...like
German potato salad, which my mom made a great version of by the way,
or creamy potato salad,
or the Egg Potato Salad from the store here in town.
Just Potato Salad because the humble potato salad reminds us that
together is better than individual.
Mixed and sitting together over time brings harmony,
brings out the best in the combination,
the best of each individual.
Working together in the same bowl
is better than holding ourselves apart
in different little round-walled porcelain or glass fortresses
cut off from the rest
wondering why the potatoes have a bigger bowl,
who invited the cilantro,
or what the hell the bacon is doing here in the first place.

Unmotivated
to go out
so...
It's curried fried eggs
tonight!

Dark around my house sounds
Scratch of little claws on tiny feet across my front porch
Rough slide and tumble of a dry leaf on the patio
Faint hoofsteps pointing noses to where my green Hosta grows
Flap of Catalpa leaves in an unexpected but welcome summer breeze
Neighbor's door and then the cover on her garbage can
   Then her door again
Dead branch falling through the maple tree to the ground
The call of an owl
  furious perhaps
  hungry
  having missed the tiny claws on my porch

The first enchilada was created in the summer of 1968
In a small house near Seal Beach
In Southern California.

The house was owned by a friend of my dad's
Or my mom's
And we had gone over for dinner

I was eight

I would like to say that it was a cool beach pad
With wood paneling, all the rage back then
And an Eames recliner in the corner of the living room

I only remember the paneling
but since I am writing this
The Eames piece stays

We had gone for dinner
And the owner of the house had made enchiladas
Beef ones as I recall with sauce from a series of Old El Paso cans

I can still smell and taste them
They were the first world food I had ever had
Besides canned Chinese food from the supermarket which doesn't count

And because I loved them with their ground beef and sauce
Their hot oil softened corn tortillas, sour cream, cheese and green onion
And little tiny bits of black olive

They became the prison guards
Throwing open the gates of my suburban Connecticut upbringing
Letting me leave the confines and walk freely in the sunshine for the first time

They were followed by many other firsts
Sushi, Crepes, haggis,  tiki masala and sea urchin to name a few
All of which owe their very existence in my life

To that first enchilada.

I seem to buy disposable socks
I buy them
I wear them
I put them in the laundry basket

I never see them again

Ever

It seems to me that the smaller the monument
the more likely it is to survive
over time
to be passed over by water
or vandals
but with brevity comes the issue of remembrance

Over my father and mother
and dog Chipper
lie several rocks
just rocks without any label or ornamentation

Which begs the question
is a monument a monument if it bears no explanation
and the monument's creators have passed
and with them the knowledge of why it was placed?

Tangled in thick grass the young dragonfly, freed by a gentle gloved hand.

Mayonnaise is not an instrument
it
is gorgeous
is better
is nothing but oil
is on sale right now for $1
is so easy to prepare that one often wonders why
is made with lemon juice instead of vinegar
is on Facebook, sign up for Facebook to connect with I hate mayonaise
is in your extended network
is just fat
and yet
is my favorite Smashing Pumpkins song

Sleepless
Tossing
Turning
Exhausted

I don't know what the day was like
But I want to believe that it was glorious
Cold
Clear
With the sting of February on the face of a doctor
A father to be
Hurrying his wife
Probably in labor
Down the steps to the car
For the trip to the hospital
Actually the sanitarium in Clifton Springs

Then, after awhile in the waiting room
The news
And the promise of a baby girl
His first child
The first of five

The child who won't die at the hands of a drunk driver
The only one who won't be a doctor
Who will marry
Have three children of her own
Loose a husband
Gain daughters and a son in law
Grandchildren
And who
Sometime later
After the roar of a hurricane passes
Will pass herself
Hiding the pain that ravages her small body
And tells her that she's still alive

But for now
In the sanitarium
In Clifton Springs
Only the promise
Of a baby girl
In the arms of a new mom
His wife

Spring peepers peep in newly warmed wetlands, bullfrogs nerver peep.

small waves speckle shore rocks and summer sun erases

When the bond between a family
is removed by chance
and scattered to the winds
the family may come apart

Working on car engines and in fish cases
has enabled me to cook
for often
when the process of cooking is a balance between hands and heat

my old fingers
battered and beat up as they've been by the heat of a Pontiac V8 manifold
or five hundred pounds of shaved ice every day for seven years with no gloves

shrug and shake it off
as an old cowboy shakes the dust from his chaps
after being thrown to the dirt by a horse who doesn't realize
how many times the cowboy has been in the dirt before
and gotten up

There is perfection in the perfectly sauteed shrimp,
pink and plump and juicy.
Marinade clinging to the gentle curve of its back...
specks of lime zest and tarragon...
slide slowly down the sides,
a hint of tequila,
of honey
curls their way from pan...
to proboscis
and I smile.
Then...
gently with tongs...
turn them over....
...
...

How cold the morning tile
against bare feet.
I need slippers.

Or

A picture of a duck
standing on a frozen pond.

On the hook on the back of a door
A pair of faded jeans hang motionless
Soon they will move again
But for now
We are left to wonder

Are they to cover the legs of a farmer
soon to be covered in the dust of the barn?

Are they to protect the legs of a construction worker
destined to wear the scent of concrete and wood?

Will they dance and stand on stage with the musician
drenched in sweat and smelling of cigarettes and stale beer?

Will they go to sea with the lobsterman
and be wet with the sea and smell of the algae that covers the lobster trap?

No

They will soon be sitting in small chairs
and smell of crayon and pencil and several kinds of lined paper
and applesauce and desk cleaner
for I am an educator
and these pants are mine.

I am thankful for you dear
and will until
you no longer hate me

The smell of grandma's porch was wonderful
but not in the clothes on the line or fresh apple pie on the windowsill kind of way.

Grandma's porch smelled of old paint
of winter even in the summer and of
damp wicker, an ancient outdoor rug, oxidized aluminum siding
and dust from the cars on First Avenue speeding to,
or from,
the Post Office on Main Street at the bottom of her street

These were not necessarily "good" smells
We'd wash them off of our hands before we ate lunch in front of
the TV with grandpa, watching Jeopardy
but the old one not the one with the Canadian guy

But they were good smells to us because
they reminded us of a grandma who allowed her grandchildren to build massive forts
from blankets
and every chair and sofa cushion in the house
TV tables too
As long as they were dismantled before Noon when Jeopardy came on
and grandpa would want his lunch
and the vapor rising from his bowl of Campbell's chicken noodle soup
would wash away the smell of grandmas porch from our noses.

bloodshed
in the name of religion
against color
because of differences
due to gender

hate
due to religion
in the name of color
against differences
because of gender

intolerance
because of religion
due to color
in the name of differences
against a gender

prejudice
against a religion
because of color
due to differences
in the name of gender

senseless

Explore
Plant the seeds
Of change
Shut up and compost
Breathe
Choose to be Eco
Contribute
Rock the trip
Green is easy
Do not microwave
Hot

The persecutor feels
persecuted
because the persecuted
speak out

An old green motel chair
sits on a flagstone porch
overlooking a lake
and a gap in the mountains
the center of which frames
another peak.
The chair has outlived
three generations
of my family
who are drawn here
to this spot
in West Virginia
where a mountain is reflected,
mirrored in fact,
in the lake
created by my great-grandfather
for that very purpose.

Two clay vases sit by my fireplace
recently discovered in their post move-in places
and relocated there.

One is small,
easily fitting into the palm,
and is covered with smokey brown lines
left by hair, lost during chemo,
placed on the vase while still hot from the kiln.

The other, large
filled with artificial roses
where once real ones burst from it's rim
and watched as people sat in wooden rows
remembering.

Both remind me of a lost one
someone who is no longer around
and yet, through fired pottery
is.

To be legit
do poems always have to be deep?
Do they need to burst open
spilling metaphor
simile
or can they just be about anything
like the young doe
standing in the woods across the driveway
from my window
like a statue
silent
but for the sound of green maple leaves
being ground between her teeth
her eyes fixed
on the movement in the window
as a middle aged man
writes about poetry.

sound like I've no walls
that separate me from marsh
frog date night full swing

Not shaving could tell people, beware!
It could say
I am grumpy
From a late night argument with the baby
She's seventeen
Or with the misses, she's not
It could say
I suffered some terrible loss
Or got a bit of terrible news
It could say
I am tired
From working late into the early morning
On something important
Or just ******* around with poetry
More likely it could also say
I am just lazy this morning and didn't feel like shaving.

If God is
And if God hates
Does he hate people for loving?
Does he hate an entire people for their equality?
Does he hate all who don't worship him the same way?
Or
If you believe in a vengeful God,
a hateful, punishing God
you must pause and wonder...
would he really hate and wreak vengeance
on twenty innocent children
for their people's tolerance and love of others
or on those who seek to spout hate
Intolerance of any of his creations while
cheering the slaughter of children?

Don't judge a book by its cover.
It could be hollowed out
In the shape of a gun
To hold one
Undetected
Or
On an old man's bookshelf
Still the hollow shape
Of a gun
Filled with wrapped candy
A stash
Protected from his wife

The indecision of a man
whether he be of power
or of the earth
is of his own making

Webbed feet grasp wet granite
And after standing taller
a series of *****
send water,
like diamonds in the afternoon sun
from wing tips
And
bourne by Newtons theory
return to Winnipesaukee

Tiny copper Abe Lincoln
rests on damp sand
amongst minuscule pieces of driftwood
a baby scallop shell
and tiny clams
waiting for another assassin,
this one the sea
to come and take him away from us
again

My pudding cup won't stand up
It can't support the weight of the spoon

When it's full of pudding it holds it up just fine
but when the delicious ballast is removed
and the spoon placed back in the cup
it tips over
like a small sailing boat
in the hands of an inexperienced crew

It's like the designer of the pudding cup
couldn't conceive of a time
when a spoon would be in the cup
without pudding

So the cup is clutched in hand
then emptied
and discarded like a husk
never to meet table again

and the spoon?
tossed in the sink with a wine glass
and an emptied bowl
until recently full of hot creamy clam chowder
and crunchy oyster crackers

still cradling it's spoon mind you

Amber
with a head of foam
refreshing to a point
then, after too many,
not refreshing at all
only rented

Sometimes
When I need to read a long poem
I find I don't have the patience.
So I don't.
You're welcome.