First the poem, then the explanation.

Bridge Hand

 

A crew of eight; a sea of red.

All hands to port, then full ahead.

Off the banks and the shoals are tight;

drop anchor when the dock's in sight.

 

Hard to starboard one man sails,

bearing straight between the rails.

Crossing the bar where the breakers spread,

sailing alone on a sea of red.

 

 

 

     A few weeks back I was imbibing at my favorite watering hole (as I am wont to do) and I settled in to watch an evening of pool played among a group of eight divided into teams of two.  I noticed at some point that seven of eight were left handed.  I understand that being a southpaw is not unusual but, I thought, seven of eight people in the same group must be somewhat rare.  I then tucked that thought where I tuck away such things, and resumed watching the games.

     Not long after, I remarked to myself as one of the players was attempting an extremely long shot, that the distance to cross between cue ball and target ball covered a lot of red.  "An ocean of red," I thought, which immediately retrieved my tucked away bit and I realized there was a poem hiding here.  Indeed, there was, and after researching a number of nautical terms the poem revealed itself.

     Read it again, keeping in mind it is describing a game of pool.  You might need to find the definitions for a number of words if you are as unfamiliar with sea faring language as I.

 



     Breaking news:  The planets are in alignment; the Druids have returned to Stonehenge; the Great Pyramids are glowing with electricity; the Library of Atlantis has been found in a huge empty chamber beneath the feet of the Sphinx; and I am on Facebook.  That's right.  Facebook.  My work can be found on Facebook at Dean Robbins' Poetry.  Oh, and by the way, all that other end of the world stuff isn't really happening.  I mean, as far as I know.
     The Autumnal Equinox arrives Sunday at 4:44 pm.  Most of us have already accepted the change of seasons as we've noticed the sun now sets a tad earlier every evening.  And, of course, we've just enjoyed the full Harvest Moon.  Nothing to do now but embrace it and hope the Farmer's Almanac is wrong.
     Today's piece originated when I realized in October 2012 that I had once again fallen into the same routine that develops this time of year.  I'm certain it will sound familiar to many of you.

Routine

 

This is Autumn never discussed:

what little daylight remains between

coming home and sunset fades in

soporific stupor as long hour

legs fold into corner chairs and eyes

slip below television screen

horizons until eight thirty is

midnight - just as dark, just as heavy,

and going to bed is redundant.



 

 



      I appreciate the beauty and elegance of flowers, having a particular fondness for yellow roses and daisies of any type, followed closely by sunflowers.  My mother's favorite flower has always been the yellow rose, and I'm certain she deserves the credit for the place it holds in my heart.  Every time I see a yellow rose I think of her.  My affection for daisies comes from an old song I first heard as a child and have kept with me for all these years - A Daisy A Day by Jud Strunk.  Yes, that's right.  Jud Strunk.  It's a very catchy, poignant song.  Look it up and listen to the words.  Sunflowers?  No special reason.  I simply think they are curiously wonderful.
     Obviously, today I'm sharing flower poems.  Two, to be exact.  I've already given you my poem on roses (Annual).  Therefore, the first verse is about a cluster of Brown-eyed Susans which grow every summer just outside the gate to my yard.  The second is a haiku that originated on a September morning trip to Mansfield in 2010.   I have yet to think of a title for it.

Greeting

 

Susan waits along the gate,

brown eyes watching day to day,

ready for her chance to say,

"Welcome!  You've been missed of late,

as I've been too long away."

 

 

(Haiku)

 

Lining north bound roads,

fields of sunflowers stretch

awake at sunrise.


Note:  My mistake.  I realize after checking that I have not shared my rose poem (Annual).  I will rectify that in the future.

 



 

 



     In September of 2012, my daughter asked me to write a poem which would be set to music and performed by the Mansfield University Sisters of Sigma Alpha Iota, Delta Phi Chapter, a professional music fraternity to which she belongs.  Apparently, it is to be sung after music functions.  I wrote the following piece which was paired with music composed by a bright and talented Mansfield University graduate student named Steven S. Miller.  I have heard only a recording of the first sight reading session, which sounded wonderful to me.  I hope to someday hear the official, polished rendition.

Listen

(Dedicated to the Mansfield University Sisters

of Sigma Alpha Iota, Delta Phi Chapter)

 

Listen

...to four winds playing autumn leaves.

Music.

...to raindrops drumming city streets.

Music.

...to snow brushing crystal cymbals.

Music.

...to flames strumming firewood strings.

Music.

...to ancient mountains echo hymns.

Music.

...to oceans sweeping shoreline keys.

Music.

 

And always voices blending, heard

wherever, whenever, conferred

as promise when you hear one word...

 

Sister.

 

Then you are...we are...one.

 

Listen.

 

 

10/25/12 - 11/04/12

 





     The somber cry of a train haunts me as does nothing else, always bringing thoughts of loneliness and rain.  Even on the brightest summer day or the clearest star filled evening, the wail of a passing train stops me cold as I internalize those mournful notes.  And so I would like to share two short poems inspired by distant train whistles, the first from an early morning walk in June of 2006 and the other originating from a sleepless night in March of this year.

 

 

Monday, 6/12/06

 

The echo of a train

cries lonely from afar;

calling, time and again,

no one particular,

as all who search in vain

for where the others are.

 

 

Night Train

 

Just after 2 a.m., the lonesome train

announced its presence to this sleeping town -

a haunting rain-song reverberating

across the valley as a lullaby

played to the rhythm of wheels on tracks.

 

In the morning, the man certain he had

not slept another night before said "I

heard that train again last night."

                                                      She replied,

"Again?  Are you sure you weren't just dreaming?"

 

 



 



 



 

 

 



 

     If you haven't yet noticed, the sun has begun setting ever so slightly earlier.  It's only a minute or two every other day or so, but by the end of the month we'll all be wondering where Summer has gone (there's that time thing again). 
     I've become aware that Autumn is now my favorite season.  Some years ago, when I was still playing and coaching baseball, I lived for Summer.  Not anymore.  I now look forward to the cool mornings and evenings, and the comfortably warm (no humidity) afternoons Autumn offers, even though the season brings a touch of sadness and regret.  I once wrote in a short poem that "...man no more profoundly grieves/  than with the falling of the leaves."  I hope to find that poem and share it here.
     I wrote the following verse in the late 1990s during a week's vacation in Chincoteague, Virginia, home of the annual pony swim.  This is the third and final poem I can legally share from my book A Simple Gift (PublishAmerica, LLLP, 2003).  If you've enjoyed the poems I've posted from the book it is available at www.publishamerica.com.  Sorry for the shameless plug.  Anyway, I hope you enjoy this verse.

August Evenings on the Eastern Shore

 

Something the ocean said about the night,

about its coming sooner than before,

might have offended the great Eastern light,

for early dusk again shades sea and shore.

 

True, water is not one for subtleties,

too often rushing in to fill the void

rather than asking "May I, pretty please?"

No wonder that the Sun would seem annoyed.

 

Do not suppose the daystar ran so soon

in heated anger - stars know not of rage.

'Twas only handing over to the moon

the spoils of a Summer's ripe old age.



 

 

 

 



     I want to share this poem before July melts its way into the history books.  It was begun in July of 2011, and two years later I've added the finishing touches.
     I was sitting in the shade on a hot, dry Sunday in July, trying to write but lulled into listening to the steady drone of my neighbor's saw.  It was a pleasant sound and as I listened I began to consider the differences in the work in which we were both engaged; the different ways we build the things we do; other definitions of work.  The resulting poem follows.

Men at Work

 

The rhythmic buzz of my neighbor's saw

eating through hardwood thick July weeks -

arid days I saturate with ink -

reinforces what I've come to know:

we are both the tools we have chosen

to create our handmade monuments.

He constructs well-crafted additions

to his home while I build line on line,

composing verse on such minutiae

as nighthawks circling my son's yard at

twilight, working on his laboring

illusion that all wings at sunset

belong, no doubt, to myth building bats.

 

 

 

 

 

     Recently, I've noticed a number of spider tents strewn across my lawn in the early morning.  They make me cringe.  I (take your pick) detest...abhor...loathe spiders.  As far as I'm concerned, there are two things to remember about spiders: 1) there is no such thing as a small spider, 2) there is absolutely no reason for spiders to exist on this earth.  I read once that spiders are so numerous that we are never more than 3 feet away from one of them.  Let that sink in and then take a good look around your present location.  I'm beginning to itch.
     So, two spider stories before today's poem.  The first concerns that childhood classic, Charlotte's Web.  One weekend when my daughter was much younger, we stumbled upon the animated version of Charlotte's Web while searching the myriad television stations for something decent to watch.  I had neither read the book nor seen the movie, so when she asked to watch it I agreed, which was no small gesture on my part given my arachnophobia.  (The things we do for our children...)  Anyway, I was actually enjoying the movie when I was taken completely by surprise by (spoiler alert) Charlotte's death.  I had grown quite fond of her and I simply sat there, stunned, with tears in my eyes.  I turned to my daughter and asked, accusingly, why she hadn't warned me of this.  Her reply?
"Dad, you hate spiders."
     To this day, I have not read the book, nor will I, and I will never watch that movie again.
     Second story.  My friend/neighbor works in a prison warehouse.  One summer day in 1985 he came to me carrying a Styrofoam cup and stating he had something he wanted me to see.  He turned the cup so I could see into it.  There was plastic wrap sealing the top of the cup.  Clinging to the wrap was a jet black spider with a red hourglass on its abdomen.  I was looking at a Black Widow Spider, which to my knowledge was not indigenous to Pennsylvania.  Strangely enough, it was at once strikingly beautiful and hideously monstrous.  I asked him where had found it.  He told me it was in a shipment of goods coming from Louisiana. 
     Who knows how many of those things are currently roaming Pennsylvania?

Black Widow

(on First Seeing a Live Black Widow Spider, 8/18/05)

 

 

That this deadliest,

sleek, terrible beauty

should be of one possessed

whose only duty

would seem draining the life from all who pass,

depends on your end of the hourglass.

 

 

Humorous aside:  After reading this poem to and discussing it and other poems with an 11th grade English class, the teacher admitted to me that she thought I was writing about a woman.  Not a bad idea.

 

 

      Today's poem is not the piece I originally wanted to post.  However, after reading my first choice for the hundredth time I found something I did not like.  Such is the life, I suppose.  I'll work on that and offer it at a later date.
     One of my favorite things to do is sit beneath the shady canopy of my large maple tree and read, write, or simply watch and listen.  The following poem came from listening.

 

 

Eavesdropping...

 

...in my yard, I hear fragments

of cardinals calling children home for night;

domino dogs barking along the length

of the alley, one by one dropping word

of some important news; two trains passing

from opposite ends of parallel tracks,

their mournful laments echoing of rain.

Trains always sound like rain,

                                                 and a flurry

of red gathers high in the tall hemlock.

A boy I don't know, walking his black lab,

turns my corner as we feel the first drops.

The kids are home.  The dogs and trains were right.

 

 



     In 1820, English writer Charles Caleb Colton penned the now often quoted (and almost as often misspoken) line "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."  At times, though, I wonder where imitated behavior first appeared; who is imitating whom?
     The following haiku - actually, double haiku - was written in 2012 after my daughter noticed  and compared two seemingly separate behaviors.  The title for the piece was obvious, at least to me.

The Sincerest Form of Flattery

 

Sara notices

birds in a frenzied panic

as rain approaches.

 

They are, she muses,

as people buying bread and

milk before snowstorms.

 



     "Out of the mouths of babes..." as the saying goes.  The following poem was inspired by my 3 year old grandson who, when looking at the quarter moon hanging brightly, said something that could come only from the innocence of children.

Perspective

(for Luke)

 

The last of the light - long faded

- reflected a crescent sky,

when a small voice spoke

that the moon was broke,

and my soul - long lost years jaded

- glimpsed hope in my grandson's why.

 

6/16 - 6/18/2013

 



     Without a doubt, the best and most satisfying part of working in public education is the relationship you form with your students through helping, mentoring and guiding them.  Of course, this does lead to certain moments of sadness when they must be on their way, but the feeling of making a difference in someone's life is worth the bittersweet.
     I believe it was in the autumn of the 2007-2008 school year when I met a freshman student who was trying to find her way in life while dealing with her own specific baggage and demons, as do we all.  We spoke more times than I can count over the next three years: many happy and encouraging moments, some sorrow filled, and yes, a few in anger.  In the end, though, it was worth every minute, as are most journeys.  I promised her a poem as a graduation present, and I kept my word.  The following piece, written in 2010, is the gift I gave her.

The Butterfly Bush

 

Autumn, after having had its way,

passed.  What had been is now echoed was.

I'd prune the butterfly bush because

cold became the color of the day.

 

Knowing what the grasp of winter does

to living things (who, if asked, would say,

"All things equal, I'd prefer to stay..."),

I'd come prepared to excise what was

 

dead or dying; standing in the way

of healthy growth - essential because

I'd seen what clinging to darkness does.

This one would welcome a better day.

 

Enough!  The past is dead; what was, was.

The weary butterfly would not say

no one had encouraged her to stay.

This I could do, and did, just because.

 

 

     "Right from Winter into Summer.  We don't have much of a Spring anymore."  Know who says that?  Just about everyone living in central and northeastern Pennsylvania.  More often than not, it's hard to disagree.  Especially when June 1st feels like any day in July, as it does today.
     This verse is part of a collection of Summer poems from 2006.  Their simple titles came from the day each was written.

Tuesday, 7/11/06

 

Hanging low in the branches of a pine,

a sun the color of tiger lilies -

more a ball of fire than ornament -

foretelling heat, humidity and haze.

The man who walks his beagle each morning

feels he must let me know: "Hot one today,"

while the dog's only concern is something

found in the grass just off the roadway's edge.

 

 

 



 



      Scientific evidence tells us that in the history of life on Earth there have been five major extinction events, at least two of which were aided/caused by the impact of rather large space debris.  Our universe is, apparently, not unlike an unimaginably immense pinball machine with projectiles beyond number darting to and fro.  Science also tells us that it is only a matter of time until one of those giant pinballs finds us again, quite probably ending the game.

     In early March of this year, two such objects passed our planet within viewing range - both extremely close, astronomically speaking.  The following poem was written after these close calls.  You'll notice the title of the piece is somewhat lengthy.  Call me crazy but I've always wanted to assign one of my poems a heading almost as long as the verse itself.

On The Approach and Subsequent Departure

(in a Short Period of Time)

of a Comet and an Asteroid

 

Your visit, understood

to be a calling card,

reminds us that someday

must come.

 

But not today.  You leave

behind a world alive

with fear, wondering when,

not if.

 



 

 

     Today is Friday, May 17 - the eve of my daughter's college graduation.  Remember what I said about time?  I forgot one important fact: there is never enough.
     I'd like to share two poems today.  The first is from my book, A Simple Gift (PublishAmerica.com). It is the first poem I ever wrote for my daughter.   I was a stay at home dad for the first five years of her life.  I will always treasure those years and the time we spent together.  It's only natural, then, that when her first day of school came around I was the one who cried.  I still do. 
     The second verse is a piece I wrote two years ago for her 21st birthday.

     Always, Sara.  No matter what.

Sara's Gone To School Today

 

Sara's gone to school today,

the first in her five years.

The day that once was far away

now, suddenly, is here.

 

And she was in her finest dress,

and brushed her long brown hair,

and it was anybody's guess

who she saw standing there.

 

And just before she left my hand

I gave her one last kiss,

for she will never understand

how I'll remember this.

 

Sara's gone to school today.

Where have gone the years?

While her wide eyes were bright and gay,

my own were filled with tears.

 

 

 

For Sara on Her 21st Birthday

 

In the almost evening twilight

two deer spread a hillside.

The elder, motionless but for

a steady rise and fall

of breath or beating (breaking?) heart,

looks after the younger

who, walking, moves on, lengthening

the distance between their

long Autumn shadows.   Nature's way,

and anyone watching

closely could be forgiven for

mistaking them for us.

 

 

Always, Sara.  No matter what.

 

 

     The arrival (finally) of Spring has reminded of several poems I wrote a number of years back.  The verse I'll share today is one that was first published in a little book of 100 of my original poems.  The book is titled A Simple Gift.  It was published in 2003 by Publish America, LLLP, and because they continue to own the rights to the book they have graciously granted me permission to print three of my poems here in the hopes that it will promote sales.  So let's get that business out of the way: you can find A Simple Gift at www.publishamerica.com.  There are a number of good poems in the book which I believe justify its publication.  There are also a number which probably could have used some more fine tuning.  The rest lie somewhere in between.  As for the book's title, it comes from a piece of music which my daughter first heard as a child and which we have both come to love.

     Here is the first of those three poems.

Squatter's Rights

 

 

Again, that blue jay roosts atop the pine

which I may lawfully consider mine

because it chanced to grow within the yard

that I have fenced.  Perhaps he's standing guard

 

over the feeders on the Shepherd's Cross;

security against excessive loss

ascribed to squirrels watching from the trees.

They regularly take all that they please.

 

The wrens alight en masse, speaking their minds.

A woodpecker has left his branch behind,

instead to pull the suet from its cage

where these same squirrels once provoked his rage

 

by fleeing with his meal, having pried

the sliding door to reach the feast inside.

Small wonder, then, that now a sentry stands

above the yard to keep it in good hands.

 

The sun slips, sadly bidding us goodnight.

The woodpecker and wrens take to their flight.

And still the blue jay governs from on high,

and still the squirrels wait for him to fly.

 

The deed says this is mine, but on my word

I'd say the proprietor is that bird.

 



     My old friend Father Time made his annual visit this past week, cleverly disguised as my 52nd birthday.  I knew who he was immediately; have for some years now.  We stood toe to toe for most of the day.  In the end, the best we could do was acknowledge that we'd meet again.  I know he'll be the victor at some point, but for now, to quote the Black Knight: "Alright.  We'll call it a draw."
     In keeping with the situation, today's verse is a piece I wrote two years ago on the occasion of my 50th birthday.  Keep in mind as you are reading that I enjoy watching birds at the feeders in my yard.

The Poet on his 50th Birthday

 

Ever the heralds of first light;

of falsely immortal mid-day;

of looming, long-shadowed twilight;

and the feeder empties quickly.

I'm slower to the refill now.

 

 

     The title of this poem is the only time you will ever see or hear me refer to myself as a poet.  Robert Frost said that poet is not a name you give yourself, but that someone else gives you.  I have a little story concerning just that, but it will wait for another time.

     It's a beautiful spring morning and I'm heading out to do some yardwork and, hopefully, spend the better part of the day and evening sitting near a campfire.  To borrow another line from my favorite poet, "You come, too."

 

 

 

 



     Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day!  Get a copy of your favorite poem, carry it in your pocket, and share it with everyone.  I'll be carrying a copy of "Out Here" by Richard Wilbur, former Poet Laureate of the United States.  This poem wonderfully describes one aspect of living in Northeastern and Central Pennsylvania.  It can be found in Wilbur's book Anterooms.
     If you will permit me, my poem today is one last dog poem.  This piece was written two years ago for my daughter and her dog, Casey.  Casey is but a few months shy of his 14th birthday and has, for these last two years, been showing his age. It is something all pet owners must endure, and probably the worst part of becoming attached to any animal.   However, an even more sad and tragic poem about a dog is "Dog's Death" by John Updike.  I also recommend Sharon Creech's Love That Dog, a story written in verse by Sharon Creech.  It is one of my favorites.
     Don't forget to carry and share a poem today.

Casey

 

Her once Black Lab now wears a mask of gray

twelve years in the making, and by the time

his aching legs coax him enough to stand

and growl or bark at whatever passes,

it's gone.  He sleeps now more than anything,

and many are the days his food remains

untouched well after noon.  She notices,

home for the summer, that her friend is old.

"It's so sad," she bleeds from her breaking heart,

"He doesn't know."  Perhaps.

                                                I like to think

he simply accepts now...and now...and now,

which leaves him better off than thinking men;

free from the knowledge that each passing day

brings the end so much closer, and yet not

unlike that one guest at every party

who drinks all night but is the only one

who doesn't know he's had more than enough.

 



     Welcome to April and, more importantly, National Poetry Month.  Celebrate the poetic muse all month by reading new or favorite poetry and supporting the poet(s) in your life.  Don't forget - April 18th is Poem in Your Pocket Day.  Choose a poem you love, carry it in your pocket, and share it with others all day.
     I have been fortunate for a number of years to have been invited and accepted as a regular guest to the Lick Run Rod and Gun Club, a rustic cabin found in the woods of central Pennsylvania where I go to recharge the battery.  Approximately 5 years ago, one of the members brought along his recently obtained dog (Emily) for the weekend.  Emily had been abused by her previous owner and, as such, was quite nervous around new people.  Her trust was hard-earned, and rightfully so.  As I recall, we all (Emily included) enjoyed a pleasant and relaxing weekend, and Emily made new friends.
     Interestingly enough, the previous week I had read an article concerning the concept of time as understood by dogs.  It seems that dogs look at the absence of their owners/masters/friends as one thing and one thing only - forever.  Whether a dog is left at home for the lenght of the work day, twenty minutes, a weekend, whatever, the dog knows only that the time passing is forever.  I happened to watch Emily with renewed interest that weekend, especially when her owner left the cabin for any period of time.  At first, she would sit staring at the door from which he had exited.  After some time, she would wander slowly from room to room looking for him, not finding him, and returning to the original exit to wait for as long as it took - never long as we understand time, but apparently forever, time and again, for her.
     This poem is for Emily.

   For Emily

 

Emily sits and waits,

patiently as she can,

then wanders room to room

for glimpse of but one man

 

who left some time ago,

promising to return,

as happens all the time.

Now, Emily's concern

 

is the eternity

passing while she must stay.

Emily sits and waits

forever...or all day.

 



     Stop me if you've heard this before: snow, sleet, freezing rain, windy, cold.  See what I mean about Winter?  The Old Man doesn't want to go.  Winter should be the very definition of tenacity.
     In keeping with the weather, I thought one last Winter poem was appropriate.  This one came from a pleasant conversation I had some years back with a substitute teacher with whom I was sharing lunch duty.

Winterizing

 

A man I know came to Pennsylvania

from East Texas.  It happened that we met

during the height of winter's worst weather:

January snow, sleet, and freezing rain,

which, naturally, was the focal point

of our discourse.  Apparently, winter

in East Texas brings frequent and severe

ice storms to coat the very large pine trees,

the boughs of which weaken under the weight

and snap thundering far across the land.

He told me of standing outside to hear

the echoing boom of breaking branches

exploding in war-like cacophony,

as if the end of all time were at hand.

But no; no tanks, not one enemy plane,

no hordes of camouflaged men who pretend

they can't be seen, but are (Death has sharp eyes).

The damage he described was limited

to any number of power losses -

sometimes for hours; sometimes days on end.

"However," he said with great emphasis,

"no loss of life."

                           I'd like to recommend

to every leader of every country

a week of winter spent in East Texas.

If nothing else, the noise from those iced limbs

crashing time and again, with brief reprieve,

might bring about more consideration

before arriving at the decision

to send hundreds of thousands of good men

and women they don't know to their demise.

Perhaps not.  Men think nothing of the ease

with which they kill each other.  Yet, each freeze

in East Texas must bring words much like these:

"It's such a shame about all those pine trees."

 



     I have a volume of winter poems prefaced with a Foreward written by Donald Hall, former United States Poet Laureate and one of my favorite contemporary poets.  The first line of said Foreward is simply this:

Winter is always again.

 

      It's a beautifully correct statement and a line I wish I had written.  I quote it often.

 

     Today's post is one of my own winter poems, originating from something I had seen several years ago.

 

Snow Gull

 

As if the February snow

had gathered its collective will,

refusing acquiescence to

 

the March sun, knowing Spring would grow

where once was white upon the hill,

unfolding wings away it flew

 

beyond the sky that laid it low;

beyond the frozen remnants, still

searching, perhaps, for what it knew

 

is where a Winter wraith should go.

A phoenix risen from the chill:

white on white hiding in plain view.

 



      The concept of time - past, present, future - has always intrigued me, moreso after having successfully reached and relegated the half century mark in my own life.  I now find myself often contemplating the inevitability of my own mortality, tangible (not in the sense of being solid as the pen with which I write but rather to be as weighty as the sum total of every breath I have remaining) enough to feel it each time I feel the need to look over my shoulder only to find nothing there.
     In the first two lines of his poem The Paradox of Time , 19th century poet Henry Austin Dobson wrote:

Time goes, you say?  Ah no!

                                                           Alas, Time stays, we go.

 

     Concise and perfect.  Enough said.  Game over.

     Tonight we turn our clocks ahead and, by all accounts, lose an hour which none of us can afford to lose.  I offer here my own poem which, admittedly, collects and employs a number of cliches to present a sobering reality.

 

 

Equinox

 

Gain an hour.  Time has come.

Time of day; time of year;
time to spare; time will tell;
time out; timepiece; time line;
time goes on; time goes by;
time and tide wait for none.
Time heals all wounds.  Time was...
Time is short; time to go;
time flies; time fades; time's up.
Time of death.  Lose an hour.


     Now look at it again and realize that the poem consists of 10 lines, six syllables to each line, for a total of 60 syllables.  60 seconds in a minute; 60 minutes in an hour...

    * I am not certain how to complete my profile.  However, I am interested in any thoughts or comments readers wish to share with me.  My email address is: Iampentam@aol.com.





 



  

     They say (and by the way, exactly who is this unseen, omniscient, ubiquitous collective known only as "They?") that it is not how old you are but how old you feel that matters.  Fair enough.  I am approximately eight weeks shy of my 52nd birthday, and most of the time I don't feel a day over 65.    

     This first draft of this poem was written on the evening of August 18, 2007.  I was rocking on my front porch, recovering from an annual and very physical training and re-certification day for a program called Safe Crisis Management.  As I was hydrating with a few adult beverages, an antique Classic Car drove by.  The rest, as "they" say,...



Old

 

Driving an old car down the old highway

(referred to as Old Bloom Road), the old man

must feel young again.  His car washed and waxed,

jet black as if recently off the line,

its age betrayed only by Classic Plates,

runs silently, certain it still belongs

among the newer models.

                                          Then it's gone,

passed quickly, and I can't help but wonder

as I sit in the cooling August dusk

debating if summer has been too dry

to build a fire, if my own plates betray

forty-six years, or worse, how old I feel.

 

 





     If you don't know the meaning of catharsis, I suggest you find a dictionary before reading further.  I wrote this poem in 2010, two months after my job of fourteen years had fallen victim to "sparrow(s) feign(ing) an aura of presence" who used the recession as an excuse to eliminate my position.  My hope was that focusing on composing this piece would alleviate the anger that was consuming every aspect of my life.  Didn't work.
    "Bitter...party of one..."

Catharsis

 

Perched eagle-like upon the fire pit rim,

the sparrow feigns an aura of presence,

attempting to command unearned respect.

Often and easily rises ego

when led by temptation's promised power.

Whether a bird of prey or one of song,

to lead requires strength of character.

Having none, at the first screech of a jay

knowing the truth, the sparrow takes to flight.

Lately, I've been witness to succession

of too many pretenders to the throne.

 

     In my favorite movie, "Harvey," Elwood P. Dowd (Jimmy Stewart) relates that "no one ever brings anything small into a bar."  It's a wonderful line, and I've found it to be true.
     This poem originated from something that occurred one night as I sat imbibing at my favorite watering hole.  It was certainly nothing small.  I've yet to come up with a title for it, though.

 

 

 

Old man on a stool at the fire hall bar,

trying to remember which beer he drinks.

The barmaid smiles sadly as he thinks;

the regulars recognize one more scar

 

inflicted from a blade of years, and let

it pass.  Most times his memory is clear.

They look away as she suggests his beer,

knowing worse things he'd just as soon forget.



      Allow me to be perfectly clear on this: I don't do Valentine's Day.  Enough said.
Having said that, however, I will share with you two of my original poems that fit the theme of that made-up holiday.  If you do wish to read some wonderful love poetry, I refer you to two of my all-time favorites - "Jenny Kissed Me," by Leigh Hunt, and "Proud Word You Never Spoke," by Walter Savage Landor.  They hit the spot without all the hearts and flowers nonsense.  My verses follow.

Valentine

 

At dusk a dozen deer are in the field,

feeding where winter's ice and snow had laid

waste prior to the temporary thaw.

I count them, difficult because they blend

too well with barren ground and dark tree lines

from the rear window of the passing car

they seem to ignore (though, of course, they don't).

And then I'm gone; no longer their concern.

But that evening and months beyond I dwell

upon one line for each, that they might be

as fresh a bouquet, gathered in that field ,

time and again after your roses fade.

 

 

     The next piece took five years to complete, all because of my search for one word.  Which one, you ask?  The word "stay" in line eight. It offers two completely different meanings, both of which are appropriate for this poem.

 

  You, Again

 

"I know.  It's just habit,"

he says standing too close

to an old memory;

trying to warm himself

against a coal burner

some weeks ago removed

from ever offering

to stay the cold again.

I smile, thinking of you,

and wish I did not know

exactly what he means.

 

 

     Finally, I wrote this last poem during the period of Lent in 2012.  I include it here because Lent begins on  February 13th.

 

 

Lent

 

The man to my left once again abstains

from alcohol.  He does so every year,

and each year hears the same exclamations

of wonder at the change when he's sober.

Several stools to my right, a middle-aged

woman with gray hair is swearing off sex,

eliciting a loud but nervous laugh

from those around her.  This is how it goes -

the list of personal crosses to bear

includes the deprivation of cuisine

from chocolate to pizza, and vices

such as foul language, tobacco, gambling.

All of which pales in comparison

to the sacrifice my neighbor describes

later when, alone, she turns my corner,

just as she had when walking her small dog

each night these fifteen years.  The words come hard:

"I had to put Fritzi down yesterday."

 

 

 

Cheer up - Phil was shadowless this morning.  Happy Groundhog Day!



 



     I have been writing Christmas poems and using them as my personal greeting card for each of the last fifteen (15) years.  I know we are in the middle of January and the holidays are well behind us, but I'd like to share a few of my recent Christmas poems, as well as two new verses that deal with common holiday themes.
     The first is from Christmas 2008, although the scene described in the poem actually occurred one year earlier, Christmas Day 2007.

December 25th

6:30 a.m.

 

What more is there to ask

of one winter morning

than the company of

a thankful cardinal

feasting upon a gift

of sunflower seeds left

atop the Christmas snow

as you sip your coffee?

 

 

     The next is from Christmas 2010.  Everything described in the poem can actually be found in a Christmas Card catalogue for that year.

 

 

Christmas Cards

 

 

There are angels, of course: cherubim, seraphim,

arch- and others surely representative of

nine angelic levels; smiling newborns swaddled

in mangers; star-filled skies (one brighter than the rest);

crowded nativity scenes; hands folded in prayer;

candles, bibles, churches.

                                          As for the secular:

Christmas trees and snowmen; cookies, gifts, and Santas

(for what would Christmas be without a few Santas?);

poinsettias and wreaths of holly and ivy;

songbirds, rabbits, deer, mice, raccoons, and polar bears;

horse- and reindeer drawn sleighs; stone and covered bridges,

all leading to and from snow covered villages,

forests of pine, and home.

                                          Among these, though, I've yet

to find the perfect card for you, and so I send

them all.  Merry Christmas.

 

 

     This is from Christmas 2011.

 

Christmas Guests

 

My first holiday guest arrives

wearing red overcoat and hat,

resembling someone familiar.

Snow built and round, standing in my

winter white yard, he will remain

longer than that unseen old man

who visits in the late hours

of December the twenty fourth.

 

 

     And most recently:

 

 

June 25th

 

Dawn whispers in cool breeze,

softly sighing away

summer's close, clinging air;

refreshing break of day,

and singing from somewhere

in my evergreen trees.

 

Cascading strands of light

adorn a fragrant pine.

Perching one branch: scarlet

in good voice and design

for winter card not yet

boxed.  I begin to write,

 

thinking, perhaps, you may

(of wishes you'll receive)

warmly embrace these few

lines some December eve.

Christmas greetings to you

from half a year away.

     If you buy a real Christmas Tree then you most likely go to the same tree farm or tree lot every year.  This poem came to me after a friend told me the man for whom he had sold trees for years was closing shop.  Sorry, but not everything about the holidays is always merry.

The Caretaker of Christmas Trees

 

The caretaker of Christmas trees

took one last look at forty years,

walked through the door of memories,

then hung a sign and turned his keys

one final time, while near-

 

by, the shadows of Christmas Eve

hid one old man adorned in red.

Drying his tears on one fur sleeve,

he turned that none would see him grieve,

and not a word was said.

 

 

     Finally, some thoughts on the new year.  Despite this poem, however, I reserve the right to say "I told you so" when the new year turns out to be worse than the old one.

 

To January 1st

 

Snow, falling overnight as stardust sand

in an hourglass sky, settles at dawn

as fresh parchment upon the earth beneath.

Soon, an opening line of ink footprints

reveals a story that will wind its way

through twelve chapters, ending when autumn winds,

having swept reams of aging, yellowed words

beyond the page's edge, blow winter's breath

again on remnants of the dying year,

transforming stardust sand to empty sheets

of white on which some poet will tread first,

much as today was begun "Snow, falling..."

 

     Until next time...

 

 

 



 



WELCOME!

    "Enter freely and of your own free will," as was encouraged by a certain pale faced nobleman back in 1897.  If you know who he was, congratulations.  If not, do your research and then read the book.  There are worse ways to pass the time, and few better.
     Now that you are here you are probably wondering "Why 'The Last Dinosaur?' "  Quite simply, I have been avoiding this use of technology for as long as it has existed.  Time was, I proudly referred to myself as a Luddite, refusing to join the rest of the world in its excitement over what seemed to be daily innovations in our rush to achieve the inevitable conclusions of our most foreboding science fiction.  But the old ways always die, and the beginning of the end came with cell phones and a "family plan" which, of course, included me.  I convinced myself that this would be the end of my advancement and held out for a number of years.  Then, several months ago, an author who is quite familiar with the new trends in publishing advised me to do three things:  create a blog, join the Facebook revolution, and get on Twitter, all of which would provide others access to my poetry; access which is difficult to obtain through old fashioned, traditional publishing methods.  So, after months of careful consideration, the last dinosaur has created (with much assistance from his daughter) a blog.  But write this down wherever you write things down - there will be no Facebook or Twitter.  That way lies madness.
     So, welcome, and I hope to offer something to you through the poems which will appear shortly.  It is my intention to update this space on a regular basis, hopefully weekly, but no promises.   I will, of course, read thoroughly any and all comments and, soon, include an email address for any correspondence.  Until then...