Verses from the Lake
And Other Musings
***
Citizens
A dove, feathers puffed out like a softball
Against the fog and chill near the shore,
Belies its mythos of 'Peace'
By charging, wings-raised, at a chipmunk
Encroaching on her sacred space
Beneath the bird feeders.
A Pileated woodpecker,
Perching on a tired birch tree,
Drops more suet than she eats
To a waiting scarlet-capped Crossbill
New to the vicinity and obviously
Happy just for scraps.
Harbinger is the ‘word-of-the-day’.
In the foggy Minnesota morning
Just outside the cabin door
A single silent wing flap
Atop an oak tree at the shore.
A Bald Eagle rises in the autumn sky
Till the eye can no longer see
This epitome of Majesty
***
Father and Son
Two eagles arrive just before dusk
As we sit lake-gazing, wine in hand.
They silently appear, wending their way
Into the shoreline trees.
One, a dark-feathered adolescent, lumbers
Onto a decrepit, dying birch
On weakened branches.
Its mentor, with wizened white head and tail,
Perches in majesty in a sturdy oak.
Suddenly, both rise in simultaneous circle
Reassessing the lake-potential for supper.
Upon return, the youth chooses a better limb,
Perhaps seeking some sort of avian approval.
With another silent extra-sensory communication
The two birds soundlessly disappear across the lake.
Beneath the branches
In silent sleight-of-hand,
Myriad tiny occupants of the leaf-strewn carpet,
Chipmunks, squirrels, the variegated family of birds,
Having fearfully disappeared
Reappear as if by magic resuming their forage.
Woodland life returns to peaceful normalcy.
The lake turns red from the sinking sun.
Interlopers
The lake has been invaded by alien avians.
Sudden herds of foreign birds,
Shrill-voiced red wing males,
Brightly colored shriekers,
Dowdy females with demanding children
Pleading greedily for seed,
Cowbirds, starlings, grackles squat, uninvited
Inserting their own muttering lives
Into the low-key cacophony
From the branches above.
Snooty native finches,
Chattering chickadees,
Tuxedo-clad nuthatches,
Even the stolid sparrows
Impatiently pray for the impending exodus
Of these uninvited transients
Whose presence has deflated local
Pine needle-covered property values.
***
Lakeside Lunch
Gazing through the lakeside window
Pondering my noon repast.
Black Forest ham in a lettuce wrap?
Perhaps a beer? Perhaps a nap?
I did not see the burglar’s face
Moving at his leisure pace
Monsieur Bruin approached the feeders
And, with superhero strength
Drew the wrought iron shepherd’s hook
To open maw and probing tongue.
I opened up the porch screen door
Yelling in a threatening voice!
Herr Bear spoke not the least response
Or cast a glance toward my face.
Angrily grabbing a can of juice
I tossed it at the furry derriere!
With sullen look of “Whatever! Dude!’
Frere' Bear turned his back to me
And with ursine dreams of better fare
Waddled to the neighbor’s yard
Perhaps hoping for a
‘Not too hot, Not too cold. Just right!’
Bowl of porridge.
Bird, Bee, Song
If I could be a bee
I’d choose to snooze in fields of flowers
I’d snuggle my honeybee
And nuzzle her muzzle for hours and hours
Life would be so fancy free
If I could be a bee
If I could be a bird
I’d fly above the highest trees
I'd bask in sunshine and sing from the weeds
I’d whistle of thistle and sunflower seeds
You’d hear my wond'rous warbled word
If I could be a bird
If I could be a song
The words would tell you of my love
A melody so sweet and strong,
Like birds that sing and bees that buzz
A carefree life with nothing wrong
If I could be a song
An eagle passes overhead, fully grown, but
Sans the white head and tail of adulthood.
Twitchy, furtive, perhaps adolescently impatient,
Impulsively, the young bird lands, splashing,
Floating for several minutes
In the shallow water by the lakeshore.
Contemplating,
It fumbles for a moment.
Wings lifting, it walks on the water,
Rising to the sky, and back into the treetops
Again, watching, waiting,
'Til it disappears disappointed
Back to its nest on the far lakeside.
***
The Loons
I rise in the night
And head to the room of contemplation.
From my seat by the open window
A full moon is bright enough to read by.
Sounds of conversations in bird-tongue,
Mournful but magnificent,
Chortle offerings of friendship
Mixed with the keening warnings
Of predator approach.
The lake had only one pair last year.
This year there are eight couples.
A grassy island hides nests and progeny.
Turns are taken en garde'.
Dare we hope that change is possible?
That a chance for healing can occur?
That Nature might gaze upon us
With undeserved empathy and compassion
Rather than retaliatory vengeance?
***
Instinct
She clambers between the rocks,
Claws seeking space for her massive carapace.
The tree-lined bank had been a formidable barrier,
But she has persevered.
The annual trek, driven by Darwinian repetition,
Is a heroine’s journey of procreation.
Slowly crossing the unforested yard, she stops
At the approach of a curious golden retriever named Barkley
Who yelps in pain as he loses a significant portion
Of his inquisitive snout.
Unfalteringly, the wash-tub sized Snapping Turtle
Waddles on her way and then, begins to dig.
Sandy soil gives way and a small hole
Finally accepts a few leathery eggs.
Later that night, under the evening moon,
A skunk somehow scents and senses the presence
Of the newly laid baubles.
The morning sun reveals
The torn and gobbled evidence.
Mother Testudo has returned to the water
Oblivious to her offsprings’ fate.
Epilogue:
A cabin guest,
Walking down the stone-studded path
To gaze at the slow sinking sun,
Notices a tiny, skittering movement
In the ferns and broken twigs.
He carefully picks up the single, tiny Testudine survivor,
Placing it near the shore and grins
As the lone baby turtle enters the welcoming water.
***
La Ardilla Roja
The Red Squirrel
And her tiny red-tailed child
Beneath bird feeders
Hoover up seeds and debris
Thrown down by feathered friends,
Brethren who live above
Fellow citizens of the lakeside
Sans her reddish tail, La Ardilla Roja
Would be no bigger than a chipmunk
But her fierce, dark eyes are twice the size
Of those striped, cowering compatriots.
La Mama Roja’s fur is scarred and striated from encounters
With those who try to keep her from her forage
And the protection of her ruddy-furred child.
A large, mature gray squirrel admiring the seed-filled moss
Flexes his bushy tail and throws his weight around
But, fearing potential embarrassment,
Yields to his smaller, russet, feisty foe and
Escapes chattering in frustration to a higher branch.
Indomitability, and fearlessness have
Defeated machismo and greater physical size.
The gray male’s tail-switching bluff has been rebuffed.
La Ardilla Roja, La Mama, Hero-parent
Now rules the moss-covered lakeside turf!
***
Minnesota Murder Mystery
(A true story)
Two bodies of dead Downy woodpeckers,
Were discovered this morning
Laid out parallel to each other
Gang-land style, assassinated,
Lying on their backs in gruesome fashion
On the wooden platform
Next to the legs of my gas grill.
They appeared to be
An unfinished late-night snack
Chewed a bit, but not mutilated
Or decapitated in the habit
Of a Cooper’s Hawk or a Merlin
So ,who could have done the dirty deed?
Owls who live in the trees nearby
Night-time prowling the lakeside air
Capture cats and their kin
Thus eliminating local felines
From the list of suspicious characters.
Perhaps the owls themselves are the culprits,
But, they tend to take prey to their nests
Then coughing up the bones
Which fall to the ground
As furry or feathery pellets.
So, how can we discover which brutal creature
Could capture and kill such fleet, aerial
Citizens of the lakeside forest?
Here in northern Minnesota
The nearest detective, gumshoe, Private Investigator,
A famed sleuth of mystery and mayhem
Is near at hand, not very far away,
Just a hundred miles due west.
We need to get on the phone and call…
Fargo North, Decoder!
Folks! I believe I have perhaps solved this case without the assistance of our intrepid detective, Mr. North! I suggest that the two Downies, mother and daughter, were asleep in their bird house (attached to the tree in our backyard) when a clever raccoon climbed silently and opened the clean-out door to the birdhouse using its wooden knob. The killer then quickly entered, dispatching both the defenseless birds. Carrying the bodies to the side of our cabin, theis nocturnal rapscallion placed them intentionally where I do my outdoor cooking. The message from the thief is plain. "Feed me, and not the damned birds!"
Forcible Entry
***
Bangkok versus Minnesota
Hell-hot and steaming
And sweat-soaked silk shirt
Beats stone cold and shivering
‘Til finger-bones hurt.
Rainwater rushing
Down streetdog-filled streets
Beats slipping and sliding
On snow covered feet.
But, summertime visions,
Sweet corn in a dish,
And friends and cold beer
And home-made smoked fish
And lakes, crystal clear…
An expatriate’s wish.
Willie’s Blues
(for Wm. Murphy RIP)
As phoebe flits by gathering insects for her brood
Waiting open-mouthed in the nest beneath the eaves,
Willie surveys his domain from his perch on the birdbath.
Suddenly, in an urgent animalistic request,
Willie calls out for chipmunk companionship
Chuck, Chuck, Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! Chuck!
An alpha chipmunk pleading for romance
Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! C’mon! Baby! Let’s dance
Chuck, Chuck, Chuck, Get funky now!
A burly, bearded human approaches the tiny striped rodent
Glowing cigar in one hand, peanuts proffered in the other.
Friendship offered, readily accepted
Peanuts fill up chubby cheeks.
Now, his purple Parker Fly guitar and a song
Chuck, Chuck, Chuck! I’m pleading for romance
Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! C’mon Baby Let’s dance!
Chuck, Chuck, Chuck! I’m pleading for romance
Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! Let’s give our love a chance!
Chuck, Chuck, Chuck! C’mon Baby, Let’s dance!
Chuck, Chuck, Chuck! Get funky now!
***
Miscellaneous Musings
I live a life of languid loneliness
And sail from shore to star-kissed shore.
Oft off’ring songs to fools and thieves
‘Midst the springtime buds
And summertime leaves,
And wondering what this all is for
And what means the somber
‘Nevermore’.
I bask in love of one so fine and fair
The years can not this truth deny
The pulsing pounding of this stricken heart
That sometime seems prepared to fly apart
At word of love or oft-heard heartfelt sigh of
“Nevermore!”
I ponder weary, worldly chores and curse the
Fool who sails to other arduous shores
Fleeing from the fleeting feeling
That his dazed mind holds, reeling
In sad demure unseeming
‘Til his fruitless life lies
‘Nevermore’?
***
Autonomonous
I don’t claim to be no renaissance man
Dancin' through life, doin’ the best that I can.
Jack of some trades, I’m the master of none,
Living my life just having fun.
Sittin’ ‘round thinking ‘bout right ‘n ‘bout wrong,
Making up poems singing my songs.
I like to cook, I love to eat!
Play my guitars, Man! This life is a treat!
I like drinkin’ beer I enjoy sippin’ wine
Love bein' with my wife, every day is just fine!
***
On the Streets of Shanghai
Pride
Dignity
***
Notes from Turkey
Premonition: Istanbul 1983
In the back seat
Of a restored ‘54 Chevrolet taxi
On Istiklal Street in urban Istanbul
A sulphurous yellow fog constricts my lungs.
I gasp for breath and ponder death
In a country I both love and fear.
I am asthmatically immersed
In the miasma of burning lignite coal
That heats the winter neighborhood.
Later that night
In sleepless bed
I listen to the whistle
Of my respiration and
The drumbeat of my struggling heart
Awakening in panic, I stumble to the kitchen
Opening a tap to fill a glass with water.
In the sink a red-legged centipede
Fully eight inches in length
Stares glaringly at me,
Defying, daring me to intercede.
Grabbing a dirty kitchen knife
I sever the interloper
Into wriggling partitions
And return to my sleepless bed.
***
Firik
From Istanbul across the border to Thessanoliki
In a battered, yellow Volkswagen Beetle
As the sun begins to set, we drive through fields of fire
Burning the spring wheat to create the firik, a smokey bulgur delicacy.
Just ahead of the advancing flames, storks leap on gangly legs
Snatching insects of all sizes and shapes
And retreating just before the line of fire.
As the sun descends, dragging the dusk into dark,
Silhouettes of avian gourmets prance in the firelight.
Gorging advantageously, perhaps to return to the nest
To regurgitate sustenance to their waiting newborn.
***
One More Night of Passion
Istanbul is a siren spirit calling out my name
Crescent moon with a single star
Mesmerizing, Paralyzing, Hypnotizing, Tantalizing,
Turkish delight on a moonlit night
As the call to the faithful echoes in the wind
The sound of a voice echoes in my mind
With a restless regret for the sins I didn’t sin
Just sadness and sorrow as I leave it all behind
Please, one more night of passion A sign from up above
One more night of passion One more night of love
Like the heat of the sun burns the winter chill away
The heat from a glance burns me till I want to stay
But the wisdom of years says this thing is not designed
Just sadness and sorrow as I leave it all behind
Please, one more night of passion
Before the years have left me blind
One more night of passion
Before I leave it all behind
Please, one more night of passion
A sign from up above
One more night of passion
One more night of love
Like the smell of the sea licking at the shore
The scent of her skin caresses my mind
But this fruit is forbidden I cannot ask for more
Just sadness and sorrow as I leave it all behind
Before the years have left me blind
One more night of passion
Before I leave it all behind
Please, one more night of passion
A sign from up above
One more night of passion
One more night of love
***
Ramazan
To be a witness
Was never my intent.
As I turned the cobbled corner,
I saw the muted crowd.
I saw the fatted calf
Facing toward the sacred place.
A hammer descended.
A blade sliced quickly through.
Prayer and song arose
As blood flooded the concrete,
And the smell of death
Surged through my nose.
I made my way shakily to my home
Past hovels of whitewashed stone.
Soon the Imam will lose the sight
Of the thread of black and thread of white.
The minarets will glow their praise.
The call to prayer will flow and raise
All hearts to celebration.
The gathered faithful will share the food
With those of lesser fortune
While I, cringing uneasily
With queasy stomach,
Contemplate my evening meal.
***
Back in Iowa
Iowa Rain
The early morning
Iowa rain
Has water-colored
The muddy ground
From brown to green,
Willfully speckling the yard
With scattered dandelion-yellow.
A change in the light
Awakens this sleepy-eyed city
As sun-warmed buds
Turn coyly into
Blossoms of white.
The wind from the west
Will soon send the pollen in swirls
And maple tree seeds
Will twirl to the earth.
Birds and squirrels will
Nest and procreate while
Spring peepers peep
In the dew of the night
And in the early morning
Iowa rain.
***
The Black Bowler Hat
In a roadside café a tired old man
Gazes grimly at his breakfast.
Eggs over easy, hash-browns, kielbasa sausage,
And a mug filled with a tepid hint of coffee
A black bowler hat
Is politely placed on a chair next to him
As his mother had taught him to do
Decades ago.
A blast of cold air ruffles his thinning hair
As twin six-year old girls hold open the door.
A pale woman with red, winter cheeks
Pushes a husband-filled wheel-chair
Festooned with oxygen and breathing tubes
And seats him next to her at the table.
When the family’s food finally arrives,
The old man watches as the woman
Holds a coffee cup for her husband to sip
And then lovingly spoons some egg
Into his bird-like mouth
The twins giggle as they fill-in a coloring book with Crayola.
Whipped cream mustaches from their hot chocolate
Leak down upon matching red outfits.
The mother assists one twin with her drawing
Then bends over, gently kissing the other’s curly head
Crudely crafted with crooked corn-rows.
The waitress brings the old man his bill
And as he stands to leave.
The little girls look quizzically at him.
He places the Black Bowler Hat on his head,
Tips the hat as if to say good-bye, and smiles.
In bashful return
The twins shyly flash tiny Chiclet grins.
***
Reunion
In a visit surprise, two old buddies stopped by.
50 years back, they were young. (So was I.)
Time disappeared as we talked of the past
And our youth reappeared, recollections amassed.
Glasses were filled and guitars were uncased
And old songs were sung and our cares were erased.
And, the problems of present-day, everyday life
Dissolved in the dust with our troubles and strife.
Yet it seemed, in an instant, the swift moment passed
With promises made. This would not be our last.
But, who knows what happens? Who knows what will?
Who knows what wishes our hopes will fulfill.
***