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.

On a Son's Homecoming (June 18, 2018)

The boy home!  The prodigal son returns!

From gothic towers to lannon stone house,

Arriving like he never left, he yearns

Only for milk and cereal.  A mouse

Would make more noise upon first entering,

Yet a day passes, missed sleep is regained,

And suddenly the boy is centering

His days on lost pleasures.   Tuesday it rained,

But Wednesday the sun came out and he ran

The same old route, he played the same old songs,

He drew a sketch in pencil of a man

Like one Rodin once did in stone.  He longs

To roam again, I know; for now, I'm glad.

Happy today, tomorrow I'll be sad.

On Taking the High Road to Taos (June 10, 2018)

The landscape from the window is too sere,

The drop from the side of the road too steep.

The wife will not leave the car or go near

The edge of the overlook, but will keep

Herself away from any risk of harm.

The husband creeps up to the lip and looks

Out over the valley.  The sun is warm

On his face -- New Mexico in June cooks

Like beef on coals; the ground turns red to brown.

He peers over, edging close to the drop;

Beneath the cliff the tops of pines spill down

The slope in waves; below there is a crop

Of some kind that only grows in dry soils.

And in the distance -- there!  -- the farmer toils.

On D-Day (June 6, 2018)

Those men on the beaches lying broken,

Those men crouched above, whispering the rite,

Extreme unction, giving them the token

Of God's love, all they need, the lamp to light

Their way to the undiscovered country…

Cowed by the courage of others, you sit

In the safety of your home, the sundry

Goods of peace surround you, the play of wit

The only contest of your day.   Three score

Ten and four years later, few may recall

The sacrifice; the guns a distant roar,

The men once fallen now no longer fall.

It was a rainy day, the sixth of June,
The men who were so young grew older soon.

On Drinking Wine at Ruby Tap and Listening to Beach Volleyball (June 5, 2018)

A glass of cabernet on a spring day,

Sitting in the open air, river breeze

Wafting up from the park the sounds of play.

The boys tease the girls and then the girls tease

The boys; the volleyball arcs through the sky

With the trajectory of tragedy,

Like the song… ain't no time to wonder why ,

Whoopie!  We're all gonna die.  "The pity,"

He says, "is that it all goes by so fast…

One day you are young, leaping in the air,

Full of vim and vigor, then it is past,

you're old, and a peach is too much to dare."

"No one says 'vim and vigor' anymore,"

His wife sighs.  "Drink your wine, don't be a bore."

On Distractions in Mass (June 4, 2018)

Corpus Christi!   The communion of saints

Requires the communion of us sinners.

Thinking of other things during Mass taints

The real presence of Christ: Sunday dinners

With the family, mental lists for toils

On Monday, the week's tasks, worries to keep

You up at night… the workaday world spoils

Contemplation of the Eucharist… sleep!

(No, no, no… your head should not be nodding…

Listen to father's homily, you fool!)

And yet you think of mowing, of sodding

The bare areas of your lawn, a tool

You might buy later at the hardware store,

To fix the hinges on the bathroom door.

On a Cool Day in June (June 1, 2018)

Not quite summer, the sky is not quite blue,

The flowers not quite lush with mauve or red,

The air still too cool, a degree or two

Below perfection; he can go to bed

Comfortably in the cool of the night,

But he cannot sit outside with a beer

And a good book in the sun; there is light,

But insufficient warmth this time of year. 

Even a fire gives insufficient heat.

All winter long he waits for spring and prays

For warmer days to raise the dead, to greet

Tulips of April mornings, yet June stays

Cool this far north, and winds swoop from the plains,
And the darkening sky in the west brings rains.

On Procrastination (May 31, 2018)

The tick-tick of time, waste of wasted hours,

Awaking at dawn with lists of new things,

Self-improvement projects, the rich flowers

Of a new-made man, but then the day brings

Only the distractions of "news," the old

Breaking stories of a broken new age,

Always the same, always weak, never bold,

The tumescent twitterers' click-this-page

Come-ons.   Who will step back to dream big?

Who will stop, stand still, slow down, save a thought

For the beautiful things?  (Who gives a fig

For the beautiful things?)  The things I sought

Imagined a different, bigger me.

Now I am a procrastinating pea.