Einstein and Jesus Meet in the Air

Hot, dry air descends

Into cool, damp coffins.

The Great Grandpa rises,

Says hello and gets

Very cold on the flight

Into the twenty-third

Or thirtieth century

On a diagonal journey

Through the time-

Space continuum,

Sees the universe ex-

Panding before his

Very eyes in a vale-

Dictory experience

Of a lot of work when

He was very young. The

Growing disorder since

The sub-atomic pre-

Quark blow-out that

Got it all going is

Mesmerizing.  He

Realizes, just before or

During or after he blows

Into a mega-gazillion

Quark-like invisible

Particles and attains

The ubiquity of Jesus,

That he wasn’t going

Back because of the

Directional Arrow factor,

Unlike Jesus, and

That the descendents

Of the string theory

Would join him later,

Before or now,

Scientifically and

Eternally speaking.

He says hello to Jesus,

Religious Jew who

Was, is and is to be,

As they pass like

Ships in the night

Of a black hole.

Jesus gives The

Secular Jew the

Thumbs up.  Amen,

Amen and amen.

Except, “So be it,”

Is about now, both

Past and future.

And, of course, it

Really is all about

Now. And those guys

Did, do and will

Affirm it.

Drought in the Michigan Woods

Joggers feet used to pine needles

Scrunch dry, crispy leaves dropped

Prematurely on the path

By trees that couldn’t feed them

Anymore. Seedlings whither, shrink,

Scream silently dying in the dark.

Stunted smallmouth bass dive

Deep for cover from the sun

In the pond growing ever

More shallow. Northern Pike

Give up the ghost and float

White bellies up.

An Eastern Hognose snake

Slithers slowly across the dry,

Scorchingly hot trail in search

Of the pond. It stops, flares its

Neck like a cobra futilely trying to

Frighten intruders. Then it pleads,

“Please let me go. I have to

Get to the water or if you

Wish just stomp on my head

Fast and hard and get the

Inevitable over with.” They

Stand still and watch it go.

Feeling death all around the

Once beautiful trails, they stop again,

Gasp for air and then finish.

The dog dives in the deepest

Place to send the heat flying

And shrink his throbbing,

Swelling brain. A whistle, a wet

Dog, a walk out of the woods,

One jogger spots a snuffed out

Cigarette butt along the side of

The trail. He spews profanity

Up to the drought god sitting,

Like a genie out of the bottle,

Cross-legged on the one

Remaining bough on the top

Of the one remaining red pine

Blowing smoke rings.

Daisy Clover, Me and Thee

I live inside a Daisy Clover

World for a little while.

I see Natalie/Daisy on

The boardwalk,

And Christopher Plummer,

Right after The Sound of Music

Which I understand he just

Wanted to forget

And Daisy sings in someone

Other than Natalie’s voice

Just like in West Side Story

On her way to fame

As she stakes her claim.

Sweet Natalie has a song

That cries to be sung. It’s

1965 (or 35) and the music sounds

Just like it as Ruth Gordon

Croaks out some sounds

On the California (seems like Jersey)

Shore sounding tough for an old

Jersey gal, and a really young (just

Look at his skin) Robert Redford,

Of course, looking Robert

Redford-esk and a lot

Like what I imagine my

Late father-in-law looked

Like when he was Redford

In The Sting, and, Holy Cow,

That was so much like the guy

From the South-side who was my

Late wife’s dad and my son’s

Grandfather, my son looking

A lot like Redford, also. And,

Yes, even though it has been

Nineteen years since she died,

I still miss the blond-haired, blue/

Green-eyed girl who could have

Been Redford’s sister. She’s the

One who I met at fourteen and

Threw straw at on a church hay-

Ride and then courted seven

Years later, married, lived

With for twenty-six years and

Who then up and died in

A day.  While I watch Natalie

Scream and shout and yell

Her Daisy Clover yell

Knowing that she, too

Died in a day, drowned.

As I watch I hear Barbra

Streisand singing “The Way

We Were,” and Natalie,

Christopher, Robert, Ruth,

My late, great father-in-law

And the blond-haired, blue-

Green eyed girl I loved

All dance together on what sure

Seemed like that Jersey shore.

Voices Rise Like Blue Jays

Voices rise like Blue Jays

Swarming a garden and

Claiming their territory

Even from each other,

Except the sound is soft

And quiet, passing only

Between select ears, for

Now, but, later, for other

Ears teased by slippery

Tongues passive but as

Aggressive as those Jays

Claiming their territory

In what should be the

Realm’s version of the

Garden Of Eden, the

Coffee hour following

Worship and later.

Would He Know How To Do It Again?

He sits in the back pew on Sunday morning

Arriving just after the passing of the peace.

He observes the service from a distance

As far away as at least the next galaxy.

He experiences an enormous disconnect from

The pulpit, a place where he stood for forty-

Two years in various denominations, locations

And states of the union, mid-south and mid-west.

He seems to remember playing baseball in

Little league, Kiwanis league, high school

And junior college and he can anticipate

Which pitch is going to be thrown by the

Professional on T.V. and when the preacher

Is going to throw a curve ball or spit ball at

The batters in the pews. But it’s almost like

He never played the game, and almost like

He never preached a sermon, led a service

Of worship on Sunday or a funeral anytime.

Ironically, he can recall, all too well, what

It was like to lead a wedding service

Which he never liked, because the kids to

Be married never listened to him as they

Looked saccharin-ly into each other’s eyes

And it killed his whole weekend what

With Friday rehearsal, Saturday wedding

And then his usual Sunday responsibilities.

How ironic that he would remember what

He didn’t like to do, but couldn’t remember

If he could remember how to do all the

Stuff he had loved to do ever again.

Fire Blasts

Fire blasts out of hell onto earth and

Jumps over hill and dale and interstate

Torching and scorching along the way,

While rain from heaven falls to earth

Like fire out of hell and the drought

Ends but floods roar through towns.

Winds from the West kick zephyrs

In the groin while they flash and trash

Trees and power poles scrunching cars and

People, and coyotes and bobcats and

Mountain lions and the 110 year old

Chocolate Lab scurry for cover while

Fahrenheit 451 rises in the foundry

And plastic and metal and glass

Melt as its breath blasts away

Just about everything, including books,

That anyone ever bought from a long time

Passing or, perhaps, just that morning.

They sit on the back of the yacht sway-

Ing in the gentle breeze and he proffers

That they are all cooked like the

Bacon some had for breakfast and one

Lifts his nose and breathes in the some-

What cool air and blows him off with

The proclamation that this coming

Winter will probably be more frigid

Than any they have ever experienced

Before.

Joseph Smith’s Dreams

Mysteries fly like bats

Out of a cave in search

Of nightly feasts.

Fantasies grow out of

Dreams of visions

Of gods within.

Nineteenth century dis-

Content spawns a

Plethora of ideas

Out of rocky New England

Spiritual soil ready to

Move west

When traditional minds

Shout “Don’t tread

On my Congregationalism.”

Could have been an

Interesting novel, Joe,

But, if you insist,

Where are those Golden

Tablets? Presbyterians

Know the Decalogue

Shattered at the base

Of Mt. Sinai when

Moses got his

Dander up, so they,

At least, have

An excuse,

Or maybe not. A copy

Parked in the Ark

Went missing, too.

So maybe there is

Gold in that there

Lost Ark.

And so it is

That religions

Are born.

Organic or Inorganic

I wrote a poem about a

Poem I read about a guy

Who became a horse,

And wouldn’t you know it

Two days later, I read a

Poem that made that poet

Look like a piker and the

Poem a grade school primer

On metaphors and similes.

This poet, in the span of

Twenty-one short and

Some really short lines,

Became about fifteen

Different things such as

(As, like like constitutes

A simile and therefore I,

As, or like a poet, am

Using a simile in my poem.)

The leaves of an oak,

A feather of a heron

By a pond, and then a

A root artery and a face

Like a star. The poet’s

Happiness was dizzying

And I was just getting

Dizzy.  In the second

Half of the poem, she

Was many things includ-

Ing the tip of a wave

And she ends by writ-

Ing that she is the cloud

With legs that looks like

A lamb. And here I am,

Still after all these years

Trying to correctly answer

The Twenty Questions as

To Whether I’m animal,

Vegetable or mineral, when

Given what I eat, I’m

All three, so instead

Of becoming all that

Stuff about which I’ve

Been reading, I’m becom-

Ing the food I eat and

Vice versa and it doesn’t

Take a metaphor to explain

That, so now the question is

Whether I’m organic or

Inorganic most of the

Time. (Please don’t ask

My friends.) But perhaps

I should reconsider whether

We become what we

Read. Because, if so, I’m

Not sure I want to be a

Cloud that looks like a

Lamb. If so, I would

Much rather be a horse,

A sleek and beautiful

Race horse. But to

Answer that one, it

Just might take a

Poet.

Three Days in a Row

Three days in a row of

visits to physicians like

Jesus in the grave from

Friday till resurrection, he

got shots of cortisone in

each elbow on day one

for bursitis with twelve

hours in hell that same

day with Jesus when

Jesus preached to and

baptized the dead and he

was in colonoscopy prep-

aration and couldn’t even

concentrate on what Jesus

was saying because he had

to run to the John every

twenty minutes for hours.

The actual exam on day two

was a piece of Angel’s food

cake in the Devil’s lair as he

said to the doc just before

slipping into sweet sleep,

“Go gently into that good

hole.”

On day three, the allergist

made the sign of the cross

metaphorically on his chest

with the stethoscope and pro-

nounced him healed. He got

up off the table, folded the

linens neatly as his Dutch

mother had taught him and

walked out into the ninety-

five degree daylight and won-

dered if he was still in hell

only a bright one. Jesus

was standing just outside the

door waiting for him. Jesus

had just finished speaking

with Mary Magdalene, who

had, initially, mistaken Jesus for

the gardener, but the real gardener

was enjoying a siesta with some

other Hispanic laborers. Mary

then had run to tell the other

disciples (many of whom looked

very Hispanic themselves being

Middle Eastern and would probably

need papers if they ever made it to

Arizona, which also is hot as hell

this time of year) that Jesus was alive.

He asked, “What about me? After all,

I folded my linens just like your Jewish

mother Mary had taught you to do.”

Jesus just looked at him querulously

and said, “Don’t fear.  I’ll put a good

word in for you.”

Homage to Becoming a Horse

I read this really great poem in a magazine.

The imagery was palpable, tactile, touchable.

It was about this person who connected so closely

with a horse that he became, not just any

horse, but that horse — body parts

on body parts.

He leaned into the horse; eyes and face

and heart and thumbs and everything else

including his words became the horse; the

horse’s eyes, face, heart and hooves and

finally the horse’s slow moving tongue

became his words.

I tried that with my 110 year old Chocolate

Lab with eyes and face and heart and

thumbs and everything else including my

words. I hugged him closely while he labored

to breathe and then I began to sob

with anticipatory grief.

I couldn’t become Boomer as I had wanted.

I could only love him from distances of

universes so far away from who I am and

who he is, and yet, in the utter intimacy of a

man and the dog who had shown him the gift

of unconditional love.

Body parts became his words with

anticipatory grief

of unconditional love.