The words of the song in my heart do chime,
“Time after time, I tell myself that I’m
so lucky to be loving you,”
and I’m that lucky guy, through and through
and now I’m telling you.
Twenty-one years today — honey moon,
jogging Vancouver, running Banff, hiking
Lake Louise,
you couldn’t do more to please.
We were so taken with Canada, we ran
to Winnipeg’s concert in the park
and stopped for the Phantom and
The Mouse Trap and Crazy For You,
twice it was so nice, in Toronto
and that I am, so crazy for you,
my dear, dear Chris.
Life has been bliss.
You lifted me from a crisis
and helped me get through
that which I did miss,
because you knew, oh, yes, you knew
and for that I will be forever
indebted to you,
and I offer you this kiss
for twenty-one years of jogging,
cycling, backpacking, camping,
hiking, kayaking, admiring you
as a corporate executive,
cherishing your mixed media
sculptures, cheering your
art awards, caring for our
four Chocolate Labs and on
and on and on.

Those last lines sound so prosaic,
but you are all poetry to me,
so, I end where I began —
“I only know what I know.
The passing years will show
you’ve kept my love so young, so new.”
So, my dear, beautiful Chris,
happy 21st. anniversary, to you.

It’s not good to start a poem
by looking at the clock,
tick tock, tick tock.

Time is supposed to fly by,
but here I sit wondering why
oh, why.

Perhaps, I should just shut down
the computer instead of sit and frown
at clouds gathering for a pour down.

Oh, my, there is the UP guy driving by.
I hope he will stop back by
with the new pair of shoes
I ordered and can’t wait to try.

Here he comes up the drive way
with shoe box in hand.
If you’ll excuse me, I have
a new plan.

Shoes fit, no return and no hassle;
they look good, casual without a tassel.

So here I sit wearing my new shoes
reading some poetry
by a poet making news
while I haven’t been struck by a muse.

There’s no rhyme, meter, no metaphor.
I don’t know why she’s making news,
and I’m not going to read her anymore.

Standing in the elevator, staring
at the door, he flips his flip
phone open to the amusement of
the two young adults standing
next to him.

While staring at the door, he flips
his flip phone open, close, open,
close — a nervous habit. The young
adults stop paying attention.

He closes the flip phone, puts it
in his pocket until it rings a
cute minuet, which it might do at
some point in time during the day.

The doors open and the young adults
hurriedly emerge from the elevator,
reach in their pockets for devices
they will stare at forever.

The man leaves the elevator, looks
both ways, says excuse me to those
waiting to enter and sees a sunny
day on the other side of the
revolving doors.

Being down and in a general malaise,
I thought it might be nice a little hell to raise.
so, in my undies, I stood in the street and “FIRE!” shouted I.
All it got me were querulous looks and, “Oh, my.
It looks like the neighbor has finally his lid to flip.
Perhaps he has had too much vodka to sip.”
My wife came and got me and the dog at me did bark,
My wife said, “So much for your little lark.”
Back inside, she reached for the Prozac packet
and called for the White Coats with the straight jacket.
Next time I’ll remember it’s more time-tested
to yell “FIRE!” in a theater and risk getting arrested
instead of looking just like a true rube
with my tirade up loaded to You Tube.

“It was the most beautiful sunset ever,”
she said looking west
over the lake in early September.
He, however,
missed it all, and may never
see such a sight ever,
because he stared at his phone,
wondering about the upcoming weather.

Bent over like a stork on the prowl,
white running shoes and long black socks
over his calves and just below the knees
such a strange bird is he.
Running brief and naked chest,
not hairy like his top hat nest,
nipples bobbing in the breeze,
a facial frown,
short, shorter with the lean down,
white plumage and white beard tilting
him even farther toward the ground —
Is it his gait that keeps him from falling?
Will his arms begin to flutter madly
up and down instead of forward and backward?
He won’t fly, but the old bird knows that.
He will continue moving forward
at an even pace
and know that
for an old bird,
such movement is filled
with gratitude and grace.

You would think that a guy with
seven decades of life behind him
could put the nagging
insecurities of life behind him
but it’s not the insecurities
behind him
that bother as much as
those sneaky insecurities
behind him
when they land
directly in front of him
like Jason Day draining a putt from
seventy-one feet to get within two
(which is a good thing)
while this guy finds the only
hole-in-one of his life and
it’s the hole-in-one of utter,
total stupidity by getting aggressive
about the wrong thing
and so he hits it into the
water and sand and water and sand
and Phil Michelson, his favorite
golfer, arrives as the golf course
conscience in the commercial
and tells the boys to play
by the rules. Seven decades
and he still hasn’t learned
to play by the rules.
If his dad were alive and
playing golf with him,
his dad would ask
what game he was
playing because it,
certainly, isn’t golf
if playing by the rules,
which the guy’s father
always did, but his
only out is that the
guy’s father had
insecurities of his own,
which really isn’t
an excuse, something
neither Jason Day
nor Phil Michelson
would ever make
let alone understand
let alone ever
tolerate.

The people in the neighborhood live in retirement to scour their yards, lawns, flower beds moving back and forth carefully, stopping when seeing a weed and bending, trowel or weed remover in hand to extricate the invader.

Hour after hour, day after day,
for my neighbors weeding is their play.
But what do they do on a rainy day
when they can’t play?
In the house they will stay,
looking out the window
for signs of alien, green invaders
who into their yards do stray,
and marking the spots, cleaning
the weed remover, rubbing
hands together and with a
devilish grin
pray for a sunny day
to begin and once again,
they can go out and play.

Nervous and hoping to say something
profound to my fraternity brother friend,
who sat two seats over in the darkened
movie theater, I leaned and did bend

past my date hoping she would hear
and be impressed with words so wise,
but mid-sentence, I thought, oh, dear
right out of my mouth the life saver did fly.

Hoping it fell to the floor noticed never,
I finished saying what it was I hoped
would be thought quite clever,
chuckled but felt just like a dope.

In a minute, my date, the first but destined
to be the last, offered me the life saver,
which had dropped right into her open hand,
with the exclamation, “Please do me the favor;
take your life saver.”

It has been said that children one to ten
worshiped all their parents’ said
and then later on many occasions,
wished their parents dead,
but it does seem that time heals wounds
accompanied with good intent,
and with silent, serious listening
and quiet words, it’s time well spent,
for as those years fly by, it is said
children have children of their own
and children worship the parents’ words
then parents eventually hear words of dread
and so, the cycle begins again
and of all this, enough said.