Poem: Sipping on Generosity

Sipping on Generosity

Sometimes we just sit around and tell tales,

Tales of warning from times gone by or tales

Of love and pleasure from days now long past,

Sipping our coffee or imbibing our

Wine or maybe whiskey while we begin

Our work of saving the world from ourselves

And our less than better angels, demons

Really, that we harbor deep in ourselves.

How does one shake all of that to make this

A world safe for everyone, not just

Our friends gathered here in the tavern or 

Round the kitchen table? We cast out imps

That in us dwell. We build friendships that last

Longer than any mistrust we harbor.

We share food that we ourselves have prepared

In love of all the variety of 

Flavors in the world for every type

Of person, sipping on generosity.

March 2025

About This Poem:

I wrote this poem after having had a gathering of friends for dinner or something--maybe just a drink--and it just seemed like so many problems melt away when you spend time over food and drink with people. So I wrote this poem. The picture is of my family in Connecticut back in the forties gathered for some meal outdoors. I see my grandmother, great grandfather, and an aunt that I recognize, but it was before my time, so I don't really recognize most of them except their familial resemblances. I just thought it seemed appropriate to this poem. That and I just like it.

 

Poem: A Jog with Friends

 

A Jog with Friends

Once we ran like the raging winds,

Fast and furious, tearing down

Anything in our way, jumping

Over obstacles to finish

The race we set out to run, win.

Now we run as gently as a

Summer breeze, stopping now and then

To admire roadside splendors

Or simple conversation, a

Breath or two caught between us from

The speed we no longer have or

Want. Earlier in time we may

Have pushed the other aside to

Get to the finish first but now

We know it’s not a race between

Rivals, no, but a jog with friends

Discussing the speed at which our

World seems to want to destroy its

Very self and we will, with feet

Stable, stand to protect it from

Those raging winds that lead to naught

But bruised and anguished muscle aches.

 

March 2025

About This Poem:

I just found this poem, and it seems appropriate for today when I'm laid up with a knee injury and Cross-Country season has begun. I'm not much of a competitive runner anymore, but there was a time. But I do love going on runs with friends and this poem is about that and our conversations that are solving all of the world's problems. The picture is an old snap of some of my cross-country kids during practice.

Poem: August Prayer

August Prayer

Thank you, Lord, for this day,

A day in which I’ll have lots to say.

What, in your plan, needs to make it so hot?

Not gonna lie, I think it’s a lot of rot.

I know it’s not really my place

To complain of the heat in your grace,

But you even named Jacob

“Wrestles with God,” and hot it is, God.

But maybe that is part of your plan

Because in this heat I do sweat, man.

Not likely to get me wrestling well

When I’m slick as grease. Oh hell,

You make it just as hot as you please

And I’ll figure a way to cool a spot. Geeze.

I know you care for the sparrow that falls

And in this heat, you got a lot of gall

To make so many of those little ones fall

And my morning whining is just my call.

Thank you for September when it cools

And you don’t have to hear this whining fool.

August 2022

About this Poem: 

It's August and it's hot. I assume that is what inspired this poem some four years ago. I also enjoy playing with forms and rhyme, even when it's not my typical form. This is an example of that with a touch of humor, somewhat religious in nature, I suppose. Living in the west also has the added distraction of smoke from wildfires. The photo is an example of that from the other day just outside my backdoor.

 

My 250th Love about being American

250

In my previous blog (that got removed with the expiration of my work email) I started enumerating things I love about my country and being an American based on the number of years we have been a country. On our 250th birthday I want to continue that, and since I no longer have access to my old blog I might repeat myself. So be it.

This year I am inspired by my countrymen and their striving to make “a more perfect union.” I love how Americans protest against actions our government takes or doesn’t take. We believe in humanity over corporations and we continually struggle with that in our highly capitalistic society. We have protested in No Kings marches, Right to Life marches, Black Lives Matter protests, etc. Sometimes I can’t agree with the protests but I have to admire the people who refuse to be silenced. We have the freedom of speech and as a people we exert that right. That makes me unbelievably proud to be an American and, in spite of my English teacher misgivings, believe in more perfect.

 

Poem: Precipice

Precipice

Standing on a precipice jutting out 

Over a canyon, a hoodoo, perhaps

Is something I often envision of 

Myself, terrified that I might just fall

To a painful destruction like that gal

In Yellowstone while her entire fam’ly

Watched in horror, her body becoming

Like a jellied orb of a blinded man.

What did she fail to see that all her kin

Saw in blatant terror? That precipice

Upon which I had been photographed safe,

Like a twelve-year old’s first public speech

Trembling, nearly in tears but his mother

Smiles and tells him he did such a good job.

“Did you imagine us all in under-

Wear?” The ridiculousness of that all

So common instruction abruptly wakes

Me to my precarious standing here

On a hoodoo above the river that

Would carry me away if I could live

Through this fall that I am about to take.

February 2025

About This Poem

I was inspired to write this poem after seeing a photograph of me on a cliff in Canyonlands in Utah. Just looking at it terrifies me, so I don't know how I got brave enough to get out there. So, of course, the poem is about that fear of heights I have. The photo is of a Hoodoo at Smith Rock in Oregon.

 

Poem: Minimalist Enough

Minimalist Enough

My

pen

writes

words

that

sometimes

mean

something

to

me

and/

or

others

and

sometimes

(maybe

now?)

they

mean

absolutely

nothing.

Is that 

minimalist enough?

February 2025

About This Poem

I wrote this poem when I was trying different forms. The first stanza is made up of single words while the second is made up of two words (obviously) and the form was telling me it was minimalist. So, being confronted with a bit of writer's block with that form, I wrote this. The photo is from an artwork at the Museum of Glass in Corning, New York. It looks like a minimalist drawing, but since it is actually made of glass it probably is not so minimalist...

 

Poem: We Were Given the Stars

We Were Given the Stars

The stars on the flag unite in a

Blue sky that would render

Them meaningless if they fell

Apart. Living together like stars

Means space and orbiting

One another in mutual respect,

Not floundering meaninglessly

Adrift to collide exploding

Into nothing but cosmic dust.

United we stand, divided we fall

And I want nothing to do 

With the failure of falling

Nor the game of blaming,

Relinquishing any responsibility

To predecessors who could

Not be infallibly prescient.

We were given the stars

So let’s wish and dream

Upon those stars in the blue sky

Together.

January 2025

About This Poem

I think the bickering of politics is what inspired this poem. I get tired of it, even when I have my bouts of contributing to it. This poem expresses my belief in the promise of America and I think it is completely appropriate to publish this week now that we have been an independent nation for 250 years. Happy Birthday America! 

I took the photo in my backyard on a clear night. I'm amazed that you can actually point a phone at the dark sky and make out constellations. If you look, you'll see the Big Dipper (Ursa Major).