He marveled at the trees
In the breeze,
Swaying with such apparent ease.

Away from dark thoughts,
His heart began to utter
sounds of joy and grace.

I read three meditations and three poems
First thing each day
Before reading the warnings and dreaded omens
Of social and political life gone so far astray.
Otherwise, I’m afraid the white-coated men
Would come to take me away.

Clouds gather; winds whip;
sleet slices early fall
frightening those who
wait patiently for
brilliant colors
before leaves fall;
A golf cart whips
up leaves on
fancy fairways before
descending to hell.
Thousands and thousands
in tropical heat
try to survive
and pray for cold,
clean, comforting sleet.
It doesn’t come.

With the death of our
dog Buddy Baloo,
a part of my heart
went along, too.

Little did I know
his presence kept
me from the flu.

We don’t live on a farm
as those who do
know and knew
that animal germs
keep us healthy, too.

Or maybe they didn’t know;
they just benefitted from
the bacteria all over their
animal crew.

But now, thanks to science,
we do.

So, when we adopt a dog,
which, again, we probably
will do,

we’re bringing the farm
into our newly acquired,
enlightened, healthy
purview.

So, dear old Buddy Baloo
wasn’t just good for our
emotions and spirits, too.

His germs were good
for our lungs,
circulatory system and,
in point of fact, our lives
through and through.

Excuse me, I feel a cold
coming on.

‘S Wonderful, ‘S Marvelous —
The Donald’s musical (stealing lyrics
by George Gershwin and music by Ira Gershwin)
based on his visit to Las Vegas, Nevada to
comfort the survivors of the horrendous,
domestic, terrorist attack in America
(killing 58 and counting and injuring
400 plus).

Hello, Las Vegas!!!!
Hello, victims, living ones, that is!!!
So happy to be with you.
I love this town. It’s been
so good to me. And I’ve
been so good to you. And now…

‘S wonderful, ‘s marvelous,
You victims could survive to see me.
Well, ‘s awful nice, ‘s paradise
‘S everything I love about being me.

‘S wonderful, ‘s marvelous
It’s just great being me.
Well, ‘s awful nice, ‘s paradise
‘S everything you could hope to see.

And that person you hoped to see is none other than me —
Botta bing, Botta bang, Botta boom!!

Love you, Las Vegas!!! Gotta go.
Sorry Melania couldn’t make it. Oh, yeah.
Here she is. Don’t you just love the spikes!

‘S wonderful, ‘s marvelous
You got to see marvelous me.

Good bye, Las Vegas!!! Love, ya, baby.

He was born in about the middle of the
Twentieth Century into Middle American,

White life; he thought Ozzie and Harriet
Were great; he wanted to be Ricky. The

Books he read in school showed cute,
White kids prancing around after school

In their Levi jeans. He wanted to be one
Of those kids, so he used to climb trees.

He loved the Mickey Mouse Club but
Never had a desire to wear the mouse

Ears. He was happy in the late nineteen-
Forty’s and all fifty’s into sixty’s life.

He lived and died and lived again
Playing Audie Murphy and never died

Playing Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rodgers
And the Lone Ranger. He wanted to be Pat

Boone, crooning “April Love,” and could
Jump from couch to chair to floor

Playing Superman, until George Reeves
Committed suicide, the Civil Rights

Movement came along, along with Viet
Nam protests and a hundred million dead

In the 20th Century and suddenly Jesus
Said, “Boy, you have been living in a

White, privilege cocoon, and it is time
For you to wake up to why I arrived on

This earth in the first place.” And he
Did and now his life is filled with an

Upper case Jesus the way Jesus had only
Been in the lower case and, by that grace,

He knows why he feels grateful and glad
And, at the same time, so very, very sad.

Because by now
every progressive organization
has his number,
he receives e-mails galore
from more
than worthwhile
organizations,
either asking for money,
or to contact a
state or federal representative,
or both,
but he is not in the mood,
given that he has slipped
from enthusiasm for
the cause and protest
to the depressing
state of ennui
with the unfolding
horror of the presidential
election and the daily
news stories of how
much worse it is
than he ever could
have thought,
so he reluctantly
deletes them for now
in the hope he will
regain his enthusiasm
for the cause, but
even as a non-violent
protestor, he has no trouble
venting his spleen
at the countless ads that
barrage his e-mail in-box
all day long.
He scrolls down to
“If you wish to be
removed from our
mailing list, please go here.”
He hits here with
the vengeance of a
terrible swift sword
and cries loudly at the
computer screen, “
I’ll tell you where to
go. Take that,
you capitalist scavengers,”
but he still has to
enter his e-mail
address and click
remove
by which time
he, once again, has
slipped back into
ennui.

I wish not to speak
of darkness,
except in sleep,
where darkness
envelopes and
allows one to go deep
and wake refreshed,
but soon the darkness
does seep
into one’s wakened soul
for darkness envelopes
us whole;
we pray the darkness to lift;
in darkness,
our voices will not lift
us beyond the darkness;
it permeates the land,
which feels more
like quicksand.
And so, we, frightened
beings of the dark,
worship weapons
and embark on horrific
violence,
and then disembark
and the darkness
grows darker
and we cannot
see
where to flee
nor
can we sleep
anymore.

So, they may film art films
in such esoteric terms that

only the truly enlightened
could understand Ingmar

Bergman’s films, but that
is nothing next to the poems

esoteric, obscure, cryptic,
abstruse and recherché,

that grace the poetry page
day after day, laughing at

us to figure them out like
the most complicated cross-

word puzzles ever devised
to confuse humankind in the

NYT’s. And then there are
those who say, “Why and what

the hey? I just want to say
something fairly clever and

understandable come what may.”
And so they do and so do I,

and this little poem is
the result of asking “why.”

I’m taking a break from
writing poetry about Donald J. Trump.
It’s not worth the time
or energy to write about his
ego — a tennis shorts clad
big fat rump.