WRESTLING WITH IKO

 

Our schnauzer is a world-class sleeper 

until I get up and get dressed 

whereupon he comes to the edge of the bed, 

leaps up on his hind legs, 

and paws ferociously at the air. 

Rrrhhaahg Aarghhh Arrrhh 

“Okay Iko, you’re asking for it.” 

I push his shoulders down, press on his snout. 

Grahmmg Rrahgg 

Iko jerks his head free and snaps at my wrist 

but I grab him by a back leg 

and spank his hind-quarters. 

“Rub-a-dub-a-dub.” 

Ghrrarr Rrahrr 

Iko snaps, I give him a poke. 

Over he goes onto his back. 

Whrahhrrr Arghhaah 

Bouncing this way and that, 

kicking his legs in the air, 

Ggrrhhm grraahh 

I punch him gently in the ribs. 

“Take that, Mister.” 

Iko twists all 22 pounds back and forth 

and tries to bite my forearm. 

Brrggg Rrufff Rff Rff 

He rolls back onto his feet 

and shakes his head. 

Grrahh Rrgghhh 

Grips my right hand in his mouth. 

“Ouch. Not so rough, Buster.” 

I shove my knuckles against his teeth. 

Iko twists and turns, backs up and growls. 

Rrahgga rhurgg 

And so it goes, on and on, 

until we finally get tired. 

“Okay, let’s go.”

 Iko leaps down onto the carpet 

 and out we head for our morning walk. 

 Rmmff Grahhrrr

I AM COUNTING ON WORDLE

 

I wake each morning at half past nine, 

brush my teeth, swallow my pills, 

brew the coffee, 

then tackle the daily Wordle. 

Wordle is what gives me life hope. 

Like mother love 

or finding a twenty-dollar bill. 

A mind-tickler, a super-vitamin, 

keeping my neurons and protons firing, 

the red blood pumping to my frontal lobes. 

One gets six guesses to find the secret word 

but four or five are usually enough. 

Three are cause for celebration, 

two are like winning the lottery. 

This is why Wordle is addictive. 

Mental strain, yes, but 

one success after the next. 

I play Wordle with the multitudes, 

fellow Wordlers in Stockholm and San Salvador, 

Cedar Rapids and Missoula. 

Republicans and Democrats, 

Blacks and Whites, 

Church-goers and atheists. 

Billions of Wordlers, 

all working together 

toward a single goal. 

My son does Wordle too. 

He is more successful because 

he belongs to a more woke generation. 

The New York Times tells me how 

my results compare with the masses. 

I am proud to report that I am 

almost always a perfect average. 

A reassuring accomplishment

for one who worries 

that his brain might be getting wobbly.

A BOWERY TALE

 

                                                                  with nods to Robert W. Service and the Salvation Army 

When I reached age twenty and thought I knew plenty I moved to New York to find work 

Fresh from the U.P. and thrilled to be free the city was a mind-blowing perk 

For I longed to be a writer who would make the days brighter and I scoured the Big Apple for material 

Ten million stories full of heartbreak and glories and characters whose lives felt ethereal 

The Bowery was the best with its souls dispossessed who hoped they’d survive through the night 

So I started going down and just hanging around to gather strange tales to write 

There were lots of old drunks and a few mean-eyed punks but most chaps were docile and kind 

I’d pay for their beer which produced lots of cheer and they’d tell me dark secrets on their mind 

One day I drank a lot and didn’t feel so hot so I headed for the subway uptown 

The mission’s service was starting so instead of departing I decided I ought to stick around 

The room was jam-packed with no space at the back but the front row contained one last seat 

There were hundreds of men who were back once again and were desperate for something to eat 

The mission served dinners but their true aim was sinners so a sermon preceded the meal 

Major Cherney had zip and she shot from the hip, saying winos deserve a fair deal 

Major wound up her thing by insisting we sing, then invited non-diners to go 

Not planning to eat I got up from my seat and the crowd whispered, “This guy’s so slow” 

Major pointed to the rear and though wobbly from beer I finally stumbled to a door 

The hall was pitch black and I nearly turned back when a grasping hand shook me to the core 

It was Captain Olive Green in her uniform pristine whose intent was to save me from my fate 

She asked lots of stuff about life being rough and dissected my addled mental state 

I vowed to leave skid row, work to conquer my woe, and hopefully regain my lost pride 

Olive said that the Army ran a mission less smarmy way up on the Upper East Side 

I promised to attend although that was pretend and my only desire was escape 

Captain Olive wished me well, said I wasn’t bound for Hell, and prayed I would wind up shipshape 

So my last Bowery visit was less than exquisite and the time came to say my farewell 

And yet, nonetheless, I am happy to confess that I did find a story to tell

OUR U.P. ROAD TRIP: A VILLANELLE

 

A grand adventure with our frisky CR-V 

Passing Milwaukee the very first day 

We are back in the wild and wondrous U.P.  

Lunch break at Culvers in Wausaukee 

Butterburgers, custard, our diets now astray 

A grand adventure with our frisky CR-V 

The Interstate Bridge to Menominee 

Sheridan Road tracks the shore of Green Bay 

We are back in the wild and wondrous U.P. 

Our family is here, such hoopla and glee 

The kids at Farm do their artwork and play 

A grand adventure with our frisky CR-V 

Katja does the fudge store, the thrift shops for me 

My birthday at Berg’s Landing, the high point of our stay 

We are back in the wild and wondrous U.P. 

A time to share, be laid back and carefree 

It feeds one’s soul to travel so far away 

A grand adventure with our frisky CR-V 

We are back in the wild and wondrous U.P.

AT THE SYMPHONY

 

Schumann 

Wonder how long it will be? 

Should be pleasant 

These are really good seats 

Probably cost a fortune 

Katja should have asked me 

Balcony would have been fine 

Maybe even better 

That woman has pretty hair 

I wonder if it’s natural 

Unusual color 

Must be dyed 

I need a haircut so badly 

I hate going to the barber 

Hate having to make small talk 

It doesn’t matter 

I don’t need to look decent 

I don’t even need to shave 

A retirement perk 

I wonder how the department is doing? 

It’s amazing how quickly I forgot my career 

I never give it a thought 

They’ve probably forgotten me too 

I do still have all my books and papers 

What will happen to my stuff when I die?   

We don’t even have graves at Spring Grove 

I want to be cremated 

but I’ll probably die first 

and Katja will stick me in a casket 

Charles died last week 

I am running out of friends  

They either die or move away 

We’ll have to get along on our own I

hope we’re able to stay in our house 

Whoops, there’s the end 

(I stand and applaud enthusiastically)

EIGHTY-FIVE AND STILL CHIRPING

Though uninvited

and hardly welcome, 

my eighty-fifth birthday 

arrived today and settled in.    

Holy Mackerel, eighty-five.  

How did that happen?

According to gerontologists, I now belong  

to the “oldest old” category.

That’s annoying actually.  

It’s true that I am definitely older 

than I ever was before,

but I’ve quite a ways to go 

before I reach my “oldest”.  

These first eighty-five years have 

been full of surprises and pleasantries. 

Parents and siblings, school, marriage,

fatherhood, home, career, dogs, and 

now my leisurely retirement years 

filled with poetry writing

and contemplation.  

In some ways these years are the best. 

I have occasional regrets, of course, 

but that’s a built-in part of life.  

A while ago my doctor 

said I don’t look my age

and I don’t act my age

but I should keep in mind

that I am my age.    

At first that struck me as profound

but now I’m having second thoughts. 

Eighty-five is not a fixed thing 

like an iPad or a fire hydrant.     

There are as many different ways

of being eighty-five as there are 

grasshoppers in the meadow 

or tadpoles in the brook.  

My year ahead promises

to be comfortable and rewarding. 

We expected to celebrate my birthday 

by going to the Warren County Fair

but the heat advisory crimped our style

and we’ll do a seafood restaurant instead.  

All in all, I think I will  

embrace eight-five and  

try to outwit the prognosticators. 

That’s my birthday strategy,  

at least for the time being.      

JUNE WAS BURSTING WITH EXCITEMENT

 

So perplexing this weird month of June 

It’s been hotter than a Sierra wildfire 

I hope that I’ll see my sister soon 

In the meantime we’ll sit and perspire 

We’ve been watching the hearings on January Six 

The picture gets worse by the day 

Trump has been up to his most evil tricks 

I hope he's charged with nine counts of foul play 

French Open tennis, a most historic scene 

Nadal faced Norwegian Casper Ruud 

A straight set win, Rafa’s number fourteen 

Casper, outclassed, was a feckless dude 

Stephen Curry and pals played their finest hoops 

The Warriors won the entire shebang 

My sister Vicki cheered faithfully for the troops 

Now time to relax from the Sturm und Drang 

Our Improv class performed its last show 

A melodrama, “The Factory of Despair” 

We improv’d lines in the ongoing flow 

The teacher’s reaction, “Keen wit and fine flair” 

We attended a friend’s birthday party 

A boat trip along the Ohio 

The crowd was cool and arty 

So long Covid, Oh Me-O-Mio 

Katja’s purse disappeared one day 

We searched every inch of each room 

She called up Visa in utter dismay 

But there was her purse by the broom 

Each night I baited two traps with cheese 

Each morning two bodies of mice 

Murdering mice makes me feel like a sleaze 

One more smallish mouse might suffice 

Our attic air conditioner broke again 

The water poured right through the ceiling 

I first saw a pool on the rug in our den 

“Dog bladder mishap” was my feeling 

Our attic is home to a sizeable beast 

Perhaps an opossum, perhaps a raccoon 

Each night the bumping noises have increased 

We will call the trapper number pretty soon 

Our little dog Iko hates firecrackers 

He whines and crawls under the bed 

I get a bit peeved with the neighborhood slackers 

Though I know there are worse things to dread 

OLLI has started a new poetry group 

It meets every Thursday for eight weeks 

Just what I need to stay in the loop 

And fiddle with poetic techniques