We have blown off nuclear
bombs in our oceans,
because no one will ever
notice what we have done
under cover of the ocean’s
surface absorbing,
life-giving sun.
We have blown all the
water-life’s cover
but now the ocean is, like
all life, struggling to recover
from what we have done.
The sea, the land, the air —
all waiting for us to be gone,
so they can all then
breathe free and avoid humanity’s
inevitable denouement.

Three doctor appointments
in two days. All is good.
Then a Mediterranean salad
with black Quinoa and
dried tomatoes, a few pages
of the new mystery and a
noon-time nap as the weather
changes; the wind picks up;
the temperature drops; rain is
on the way. All is right for
sleep as he pushes back on the
recliner and draws a deep breath.
Next to him the chocolate lab
has circled and pawed his blanket
and already fallen fast asleep.
He listens to the dog’s soft
snore hoping there won’t be
thunder to scare the dog awake,
who will then hyperventilate
spoiling both naps.

The neighborhood association may cite us
for all around our beautiful,
beach cottage creation
is an ample amount of detritus —
aging leaves from last summer,
dead bugs’ brittle, disintegrating bodies,
a myriad of critters for biological studies,
weeds (wild flowers to us) in the ground’s natural storage
and, in spring, Morel mushrooms to forage.
We live in the sand behind a dune
along the shores of a big, freshwater, inland sea.
In front is a lovely, swaying,
landscape of dune grass
for everyone who passes to see.
In back, a pond and waterfall
and very tall pine trees.
Just a minute ago or perhaps just a few,
a neighbor had a maintenance crew,
seemingly without a care,
riding mowers from which flew,
in addition to debris,
global warming fumes into the air.
They cut the Kentucky Blue,
which later the crew,
with fume belching blowers, blew
cuttings into bags to be carted
off to a landfills
in the olfactory offending breeze.
The grass was cut to within
an inch above the black dirt
which had been carted in and tilled
then spread with a hoe
to cover the sand so
the invasive grass would grow
and quickly be ready to mow.
Twice a week this drama takes place
to manicure the space
and rigorously maintain
the perfect neighborhood domain.
But this is not suburbia, with
lifestyles lived less than wiser,
gumming up the air with lawnmower fumes
and water with fertilizers.
It could be one of the wild-and-woolly places,
a thriving, beautiful, beach community
with a lot of natural, deteriorating detritus
to replenish the earth,
even though our suburban neighbors
might still wish to cite us.

Because the dog is gentle,
He nudges the hands away
From his mistress. Hands
Had clapped together in faux
Anger near her back imitating
A soft slap. Then the dog sits
Next to the man who sits at
The computer. The dog’s
Mistress enters and gently
Scratches her husband’s back.
The dog gets up and nudges
Her hand away. Whether
Stopping pretend harm
Or a display of affection,
The dog monitors their
Behavior as if to say,
“She’s mine; he’s mine;
You’re both mine. Do you
Mind? “

Some say Einstein wrote that light
curves back on everything in sight.
I’m not sure about all that,
but that sure may be right.
Some say he wrote that time
curves back on everything in time.
If that means I’m just getting started,
well, that would be just fine.
I’d really like the chance to do a few
heart-felt do-overs.
I won’t have to make amends
to all my former friends
and I’m sure there would be several others.
But as T.S. Eliot wrote, when we arrive
back where we got started,
we will be seeing it for the very first time,
but then I won’t have a clue to any sins
committed that were all mine.
And so, regardless of Einstein’s space and time
and T.S. Eliot’s meters and rhymes,
I’ll bite the bullet, smother my druthers,
make amends to all my former friends
and all the many, many others.

The chocolate lab and I
Returned from a short hike
Up to the corner, no more.

His three bad legs out of
Four barely got us out
And back in the door.

I heard my wife in her
Studio on the first floor
Yell, “Hi,” and ascend

The stairs with a new
Mixed media sculpture
By her side. The lab saw

His mistress and wagged
His arthritis free tail
And my wife nodded to

Me, put the sculpture on
The counter and knelt
Before the dog and

Petted him helter-
Skelter, saying, “Good
Boy, good boy, good

Boy, I love you, you
Knows,” and planting a
Big kiss smack dab on

His big brown, wet nose.
Then she rose and
Gave me a passing peck

On the cheek and said
To the dog, “Hey, good
Boy, want something to

Eat?” The dog started to
Bark and huff and puff.
I decided to depart for

The chair knowing my new
Love waited there. When I
Opened the cover, I would

Discover my love focusing
Her charms solely on me.
I looked back and said,

“Nice sculpture, Dear,”
Something from the dog
She would never hear.

She then asked, “Have you
Seen the dog’s scoop?
Come on, Buddy, let’s go

Tinkle And poop.”

I wondered if you could see a zephyr
and then I became one, huffing and

puffing and blowing leaves on branches
of birch trees making them flutter and

tickle each other. I heard them laugh.
I blew on the surface of the pond and

saw the ripples bump into the ripples
flowing from the waterfall. I skittered

through the dune grass and it tried to
cut me into a thousand pieces with a

thousand blades, but I was too fast. I
shot up into the sky and over the dune

and wanted to reach the shore but a
bigger, much bigger wind blew off the

lake and chilled me to the bones I
don’t have. I ducked and settled on the

warm sand and decided to settle in for
awhile and take a nap. The sun shone

brightly on me as planned, but I felt
bad that no one could see my tan.

“Oh, my,” I said. “It’s getting so very hot.
Does anyone have a fan?”

How to get out of ourselves,
we have forgotten.
We cling to our own skin and kin,
the rooms we are comfortable in.
Do we need to venture out,
out of these rooms
to walk among what we fear are tombs
at night,
those places we would go, maybe,
only during the day, but at night
we see that there is light
in the eyes of the many
who live in the rooms on
the margins of white life?
We are afraid to be among
the brown, black, yellow and red —
those, let’s be honest, we would
just as soon see dead
and not intrude upon our rooms.
Who will lead? Where is the spirit,
the will, to guide
us on the journey out of
the white washed but ever dark tombs
of our white lives
into the lives of the other —
the rooms on the margin where
Confucius, Lao Tzu, Buddha, Jesus,
Muhammad, Dorothy Day,
Francis of Assisi, Martin Luther
King, Jr.
and a whole array and panoply
are friends, sisters and brothers?

*idea from a meditation by Richard Rohr

Human-like robots are making
such scientific advances.
Let’s hope they think critically
and increase our chances
of making intellectual expanses.
And if that is the case,
we would like to replace,
with those robots,
the 40% of the U.S. population
that stays with the president as his unthinking base.

While fishing at a sportsman’s lake
to which we belonged in Kentucky
thirty-five years ago, my son and I
discovered a huge snapping turtle,
a prehistoric beast, lurking in the
swampy creek that fed the lake.
We named it the “Killer Turtle.”
Little did we know at the time that
the Killer Turtle was Mitch McConnell
in town on a fund raising campaign trip.

*A nickname for the Majority Leader of the U.S. Senate who is
spearheading the Republican driven senate health care bill, which,
if passed, it is estimated would be responsible for the unnecessary
death of tens of thousands of US citizens per year according to
various sources.