On Anticipating the First Day of Class (August 13, 2018)

The day before D-Day was like a weight,

A hundred pounds pressing downward, two tons

For each platoon of infantry.   A crate

Of books weighs less, two stones perhaps, and sons

Won't die from lifting books.  Time is fleeting

When times are out of joint.  But clocks spin slow

In the tediousness of peace.  Meeting

A deadline is not like meeting a foe,

And a classroom is not a trench.  We fight

A quieter fight now, paper battle

To stem the tide of ignorance, the night

Of civilization's last death rattle.

"Oh, get over yourself," your wife will say.

"The first day of class is not like D-Day."

On Not Wanting to Write My Last Brief (August 2, 2018)

A week away from work makes people weep

For joy; two weeks will make them run so mad,

They'll beg to work again.  Warm nights they sleep

Beneath a sheet of silk, like old Sinbad,

Luxuriant, a prince among the sheikhs

Of Araby.  Cold nights they sleep in spoons,

Him front to back, her back to front; bed creaks,

Wind howls; and then they dream of other moons,

The yellow moon in desert skies, afloat

In blackest night.  But in the day they toil

From dawn to dusk, though none might think to note

The blood and sweat and tears they spend.  To boil

It down: we live in dreams, and once awake

We die in dread of these the lives we make.

On Once Again Chastising Yourself for Sloth (July 11, 2018)

A week away from writing lines that rhyme

And bounce along – ta-dum, ta dum – the feet

Of "Man at Rest," retired, tan, with time

Enough to do the things he wants, to meet

The challenge, beat the clock, and still fulfill

His fondest dream, that is, a year of verse.

And yet a week slipped by, the hours until

The end of time slipped by.  A man can curse

His own mortality and yet not stir,

Not move from off his chair, inertia's pull

Like weights upon his soul.   He thinks of her,

The one who brought his cup so close to full,

He thought he would not need again to pour.

She deserves more than this.   She deserves more.

On Wasting Another Perfect Day (July 3, 2018)

One perfect day after another comes,

The skies so blue, cool breezes wafting sounds

Of bells across the grass from church, the hums

Of cars along the street making their rounds

From home to work and back from work to home.

That is for others now.   Young men aspire…

To what exactly?  To greatness?   To roam

The world like Knights Templar?  Old men retire,

They learn Latin, read Proust, listen to birds

All day outside beneath a shade, pretend

To write a magnum opus, but the words

They've stored up for so long now won't descend

From mind to pen to paper.   Yet the sun

Still shines, the breeze still blows, the rivers run.

On Learning Latin as One More Distraction (June 29, 2018)

Ablative absolutes are not so hard,

Just keep declensions clearly in your head,

The rest is easy.  In the old schoolyard

The cries of ancient schoolboys, long since dead,

Echo across from wall to wall, rhyme schemes

Of Latin poems known by heart, the whip

Of pedants lashed across their backs.  Time seems

To stand so still or else time seems to skip

Ahead so fast your mind begins to spin.

Dimissis peccatis nostris… that means

Forgive our sins, but you forget that sin

Includes a wandering mind.  In sylvan scenes

Of old a boy might simply know the words

For things — for sky, for grass, for wind, for birds.

On a Thunderstorm in June (June 26, 2018)

The dog is first to hear the thunderstorm;

It builds out west, then rumbles on the way

To eastern skies; he leaps, then whines, his warm

Breath close to master's face, he seems to say,

"Wake up, you fool, the end of time is here!"

But dogs don't think eschatalogically.

They don't know much, just sounds that they must fear,

A scream of lightning off across the sea,

A shadow lurking, rain upon the fen,

A footstep unannounced at the front door,

The master's skin grown cold as death, and then:

His mistress left to feed an aging cur.

A dog is not so different from a man.

Afraid so much, he loves as best he can.

On Good Fortune Coming Just When You Need It (June 22, 2018)

Lucky man!  Oh, you so, so lucky man!

The cliff approached, the end is near, you jump,

Yet – deus ex machina! – you began

To fall only to find you're saved; the "wump"

You expect hitting the ground now sounds soft,

Like an old man's gray head on pillows' down. 

What keeps holding someone like you aloft?

Why should you have such grace?  Around this town

A thousand men deserve more grace than you;

Around the world a million souls await

The intervention of the saints.   It's true

That you are not so bad, so don't berate

Yourself unfairly, yet be ever humble

That you are raised whenever you stumble.