Goldenrod sky
Fire in the distant hay
My stolen breath
poem- prep July 14, 2018
Beneath a cloudless blue sky
I feel the storm coming,
black clouds gathering.
Could they reflect black shirts?
I ponder,
seriously,
if I should be building false walls
to hide those who will be escaping tyranny.
I wonder,
if I am far enough from a border to avoid
occupation.
A century ago,
they didn’t understand the signs,
but now we do.
Those who read are the first removed
when the evil rises.
Do all those kids who demanded,
“Why do we have to learn this?”
remember that their teachers said,
“So you’ll see the signs.”
“So it will never happen again.”
“Remember, they elected Hitler;
“they heiled and fell for his lies,
“because they wanted to believe their superiority,
“wanted a scapegoat for their troubles.”
There can be no excuses.
Shall I buy bricks or drywall?
Where will I construct false bottoms?
Where will we hide in the resulting rubble,
when the jack boots stomp through?
Another cristelnacht, this time in New York?
The hammock swings its consolation:
It can’t happen here.
It won’t happen here.
How many said those words a century
ago?
How many grew to knowing the meaning
of fear?
poem-beaming August 16, 2016
The moon is a street light
dimming the gleam of stars
while amphibian love songs
fill the summer night.
poem-tranquility August 10, 2016
I count three shooting stars
as the porch swing rocks to the rhythm
of one desperately lovesick frog.
poem-geese August 7, 2016
The temperature has soared;
crowds gather on the lake
for another hot summer day,
but early this morning
I heard the geese leaving,
portents of autumn on the wind.
poem-summer singing July 31, 2016
Evening chorus
is al fresco dining
‘Hello out there!’
‘Where are you, baby?
‘Over here, boys!’
Amphibian karaoke.
Beating out its rhythm of
summer romance.
poem-summer July 24, 2016
Hot day.
The mall is packed.
Swimming lessons need a driver
(kids can’t get anywhere by themselves, after all).
Joggers sweating past.
Gas mower chugs obnoxiously around the yard.
I miss the soft swisha-swisha of dad’s old Rotary mower
when summer was gentler
and filled with children’s laughter.
