Thursday, October 27, 2016

The Hunchback in the Willow
















I discovered with the French doors open,
My biggest fan was a stealth Night Heron.
While Pounding the ivories on the piano,
His favorite was ‘’So long Marianne’’.

He bobbed his head to the rhythm.
The concert, his nightly wish…
His joy in life, was the music…
While other herons came to fish…

After I played Joni Mitchell’s Willy,
He flew into the dark night sky.
Refusing to leave before any song ended,
The empty willow, was his “Good Bye”.

The next night he was back again,
As if demanding an encore.
There was a mutual validation
In our hearing the notes once more.

For six years, he showed up each night,
Perched on the very same branch…
To attend another wine induced concert,
Starring me, at my Okieville ranch. 

I remember the night he went missing,
Months marked him absent from the song.
Two years later the ponds and piano,
Willows, house and myself were gone. 

Saturday, October 22, 2016

Boxes





















The tune was, “Pop Goes the Weasel”,
Played while cranking the Jack-in-the-Box.
Twenty years later, I screamed at a clown,
In the drive-thru at Jack-in-the-Box;
Ordering into a garbled speaker,
A Jumbo Jack in a cardboard box.

Thirty years later in an antique shop,
I found a hundred-year-old music box.
Giant brass cylinders, with organized pins,
 All stored in an oak wooden box.
A few turns of the wind-up crank,
Set in play, the best scores of Bach’s.

Now that I’m pushing seventy,
I can’t fight, I’m too old to box.
I don’t even envision a future,
Outside of a new pine box.
My only escape, I’ve recently found,
Is Franzia wine, right out of the box.





Friday, October 21, 2016

Eagles and Men
















Eaglets preyed upon each other today,
To claim a territory in their name…
Tumbling entangled, in a suicide fall,
Our human behavior, so much the same.

We all want to soar the highest,
Predatory winner of all prey…
What a futile, misguided life we live,
We all age, break, and rot someday.

We are equals fallen on the ground,
Humans and history decompose the same.
Historians may discover my bones,
But they will never know my name.