Climbing Trees

What happened in life to climbing trees?  

My favorites, the aspen, the willow, the oak 

Perhaps I’m reluctant from pain in my knees 

What happened in life to climbing trees?

The sight of low limbs is still a tease

I think of myself as a tree-climbing bloke

What happened in life to climbing trees? 

My favorites, the aspen, the willow, the oak

The Grandfather Clock

I have stood in this hallway for forty-two years

reliably chiming out hour after hour

Otherwise silent, unobtrusive

In my early years 

my owners admired me greatly

They took note of my hands 

each time they passed by 

Now I blend into the decor 

Though I’m rarely noticed

I observe everything

I know my people inside and out

He the quiet one

She the more exuberant

They chit-chat about various matters

A favorite topic is the thermostat

She likes it higher in the winter, lower in the summer

He prefers the opposite

believing that to be less costly

But she doesn’t worry about that

Other days he offers recycling tips

About not putting plastic bags in the basket

Or paper plates spotted with gravy

She has no interest in these things

He is careful to sort out

the recycling and the trash

In truth, the man knows very little about the household

How to work the dishwasher or the percolator

Or what exactly goes to the dry cleaner

His main jobs are to take out the garbage and shovel the walk

He is not always successful with the garbage

She handles all the rest

The plumber, the roofers, the circuit breakers, the bank

Et cetera

The adult responsibilities 

The woman spends much of her time downstairs with me

Watching PBS or QVC

Rachel Maddow, Judge Judy

Midsomer Murders 

The man is upstairs on the computer

Playing solitaire or fiddling with unfinished poems

Sometimes he strikes me as mildly insane

They do watch Jeopardy together

Also Riverdale and Ray Donovan

At the breakfast table she reads the New York Times (more cosmopolitan)

He, the Cincinnati Enquirer (more provincial)

Then she turns on NPR and does the Jumble

He struggles with the Sudoku

As a clock, I have never had a single complaint

I lead a tranquil and satisfying life

Though I sometimes think 

the humans might enjoy

a little more oom-pah-pah 

Lost and Found

Walking home from the Library

I happened to look down

and there on the sidewalk

a shiny silver stylus

identical to the one I use

to tap out messages on my iPhone

I was more than excited

A new stylus costs ten to fifteen dollars

I could use a spare stylus

In fact, I had my own

in my trouser pocket

I reached in to get it to compare

it with my newfound stylus

Much to my surprise

my stylus wasn’t in my pocket

Then it dawned on me

The reason that this new stylus

looked identical to my old stylus

is that

I had dropped my stylus on the sidewalk

on the first half of my walk

and then I had found it again

on the second half

In brief, I had rediscovered my own stylus

This was extraordinary

What are the odds?

I was disappointed

not to have two styluses

but also fortunate not to have zero styluses

In retrospect, I was very lucky

The finder could have been a five-year-old child

Now I am curious how many things

I lose from my pockets on my walks

I am trying to be more vigilant  

Parenthood

February 1969

A noisy gathering at Ann and Clyde’s 

In the midst of the revelry

Katja (my dear wife) said to the group 

“I have an announcement”

She blushed a bit

then proceeded to explain

that she was going to have a baby

I was stunned

The first I’d heard

“But you are taking the pill,” I said

“Not for several months,” she replied

“But we never talked about this,” I said

She reminded me I’d suggested

a maternity rider to our insurance

Which was true although 

it wasn’t exactly the same

We attended Natural Childbirth classes

and they taught me to help with Katja’s breathing

The fateful day came

We rushed to Christ Hospital

I sat at Katja’s bedside and

said in my most calm voice

“Breathe….breathe….breathe….”

She yelled (uncalmly)

“I am breathing goddammit!”

Minutes later the doctor suggested 

it might be best 

if I were to wait in the waiting room

Katja was in labor for twenty-six hours

Midway she started yelling out

“It’s my turn, it’s my turn”

But they refused to honor her place in the line

The next day we had a newborn son

Justin or Barnaby?  I asked

She had liked Justin

I leaned toward Barnaby 

“Justin” his mother said

We were nervous parents

Our new baby had his own room

We’d lie awake at night

listening for his breathing

When we couldn’t hear anything

we’d leap out of bed and tiptoe in

Sure enough, he would be breathing gently

That was nearly a half century ago

Justin now has two kids of his own

Even though they live far away in New Orleans

late at night we still listen

to hear if our young son is 

breathing in the next room

New Years Ruminations from a Nervous Person

New Years Eve and I, forever a bad fit 

We did do some parties in our younger days 

Katja enjoyed them all right

But I could never carry it off

Too many people, too many strangers

The chatter, the small talk, the manufactured laughter

Hats and horns and tootie toots 

Too much pressure to have the greatest time ever 

I don’t mind drinking too much

But the revelry does me in 
New Years, intrinsically, a bit traumatic

One year at its end point
All those unfulfilled dreams  

The omissions, the commissions

The bumps and bruises  

And then a brand New Year is about to begin 

A  minefield of hazards
Potential disasters   

No wonder the people are driven to drink

I tiptoe into this New Year 

I’ll have another bourbon on the rocks, please  

A Stroll Down Our Street: A Villanelle

Each night I go on a stroll down our street 

The Esquire marquee, the lights, the glare

The pulse of the street never misses a beat

There’s a “Street Vibes” vendor, friendly, upbeat 

The boutique windows offer glitz and flair

Each night I go on a stroll down our street

The skateboarder on Telford, his death-defying feat 

A panhandler asks, a dollar to spare? 

The pulse of the street never misses a beat

Children at the plaza, dancing, so sweet 

A woman walks by, fresh flowers in her hair 

Each night I go on a stroll down our street

Chocolate at Graeter’s, a forbidden treat 

Vape smokers huddle in their shady lair

The pulse of the street never misses a beat

Clifton Market, old chums I greet 

The flautist plays, fire sirens blare

Each night I go on a stroll down our street

The pulse of the street never misses a beat

My Story. By Jack.

My mom and I cherish our cozy homestead

But last week she told me, “No money”

“We’ll have to sell Old Bess,” Mother said

Such a shock, that sweet cow is our honey

We left for the market, much to my distress

On the way I met a scraggly old man

He offered to trade magic beans for Old Bess 

I was thrilled, an encouraging plan

Back home I showed the magic beans to my mom

But she screamed, “You didn’t get our money???”  

I did my best to stay peaceful and calm

But she yelled at me, “This is not funny!”

I ran upstairs crying, crawled right into bed

Out the window went the beans, such a shock

I woke up at dawn with a feeling of dread

But there, in our yard, a huge stalk

I tossed on my trousers, my shirt, and my shoes

Up the bean stalk I started to climb

Two miles high, such astonishing views

In the distance, a castle sublime

Standing in the doorway, a tall lady giant  

With one big red eye on her head

I tried to act likable and compliant

One wrong step, I knew I’d be dead 

Suddenly loud crashes came from the yard

Her husband strode forth, some sixteen feet tall

His face was all ruddy and jagged and scarred

I raced to the closet at the end of the hall

The giant chanted, “Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum  

“I smell the blood of an Englishman

“Be he alive, or be he dead

“I'll have his bones to grind my bread!”

That creature sat down and reached into a keg

He pulled out a mangy white hen 

In seconds that hen laid a golden egg

Worth at least sixty shekels and ten

I stayed in the closet till the giant fell asleep

Then the hen and I raced down the walk

I think that dumb bird must have made a peep

For the giant saw us climb down the stalk

We scampered down that stalk as fast as we could

With the giant following closely behind us

I grabbed my axe, began chopping the wood

I could hear the big brute scream and cuss

At the very last second the stalk tumbled down

The giant cried out in grave fear

Then he crashed right down upon his bald crown

Giant’s end, we were now in the clear

Our hen supplies a golden egg every day

The first one, I bought back Old Bess

Mom, me, Bess, Hen — all contented I’d say

Is this a happy ending?  Well, yes!