It seems these days the modern world,

Knocks ever at my door,

It finds time to interrupt,

My routine and my chores.

For reasons unknown, I answer,

The knock that loudly rings,

Though I know no good comes with it,

And sorrow is what it brings.

I chose my home for isolation,

And we have that in spades,

But now and then some amenities,

Would be nice in our sheltered glade.

Modern folks have “pocket phones,”

They speak freely on the breeze,

But all I hear from where I stand,

Is the whisper of the trees.

Our land line is all but useless,

On old dilapidated wires,

Not enough people to pay the repairs,

For our “service” suppliers.

I hear friends discuss their favorite shows,

I haven’t watched our tv in twenty years,

But I watch the world as it goes by,

With interest;  joy, or tears. 

My mules grew old and the tractor came,

Though it came with many regrets,

They told me of all the work it would do,

And my mules might be kept on as pets.

But the tractor isn’t dependable,

It doesn’t care if it works or not,

It’s wiring is often shorted out,

And when it works it’s loud, smelly and hot.

The mules are always glad to see me,

They enjoy the work that they do,

As much as I enjoy the time,

Spent following after those two.

But they grow old as I do,

All things must come to an end,

The price of draft stock climbs upward,

And I can’t afford to replace my friends.

My lights in the house are now flickering,

As the wind whips the trees on the hill,

I’ll soon light the coal oil lanterns,

Or sit in the dark until,

Someone is sent out to enquire,

Why the current interrupted now stops,

Trucks and men will gather,

Where the fallen line crackles and pops.

But the power bill’s always dependable,

Guaranteed  to arrive in the mail,

It’s only the service that’s iffy,

But the pay is required without fail.

Though it’s warm I know winter is coming,

I must gather in firewood and hay,

Can up the goods from the garden,

Cure hams and store them away.

They say it’s easier to go to the grocery,

No doubt they are probably right,

But who knows what’s in the food they are eating?

There’s much goes astray out of sight.

Is the meat red from its freshness?

Or has it been “chemicalized?’

Why does this produce smell funny?

There’s beauty but you can’t trust your eyes.

I feel lost in this new fangled world,

What is a Luddite to do?

If one doesn’t go looking for convenience,

Convenience comes looking for you.

We’re told to run to the latest new gadget,

We’re told we should want ever more,

Perhaps it’s best to ignore this thing called “Progress.”

When I hear its loud knock at my door.

On this Flag Day in America, I reflect on the deeds of possibly our greatest president.  It was a poor kid born in a tiny log cabin on Sinking Spring Farm near Hodgenville, Kentucky, who rose to our highest office during a time of conflict and division.  During this turbulent period he never waivered in putting our nation and the people ahead of himself.  Abraham Lincoln was a true leader!

“Of the people, By the people, For the people.”

He protected our democracy
and it wasn’t at small cost
because of President Lincoln
our nation was not lost!

A poet skips town,
absconding

with Scotch eggs
& buttered scones,

the scoundrel!
What a scandal—

he’ll get caught
as he ought

but bloody hell,
who can blame him?

~for Kiah, it happened to me, too

When Karie told us we should do
thirty squats a day
Susan said she does thirty
just using the commode

The red scooter rusting 
in the culvert belongs to a boy 
who’s gotten too big for toys, 
now there is working the controller,
pushing his player through levels, 
past bosses, hours committed
to the dopamine rush
of seeing his avatar 
on the scroll of high scores.

Lame is father
yelling at him to get up,
get out, cut the grass —
For chrissakes, do something
with this day —
dad’s Adderall kicking in,
all do, do, do —

mother asking if he wants 
his favorite mac & cheese
because she’s worried he’s angry,
angry at her, and there goes
her last nerve, off to pilates.

They’re so easy to see through, 
it’s no challenge, really, 
easier than Zelda
or COD or Grand Theft,

this boy’s life, so boring,
game he’s already mastered.

First, I lost my way walking to the Basilica of Saint Praxedes, the shrine of a Roman woman Rome who lost her life defending her new Christian faith. Before her martyrdom she  cared for the bodies of martyrs and collected their blood with a sponge and their bones to be bur-ied. Praxedes was not lost but found and buried where her church now stands. There a Pope named Paschal built today’s church in the ninth century, lost (one might say) in Rome’s urban sprawl. I finally found it after a weary loop to Repubblica and on past Saint Mary Major around the corner. And there I found the great mosaics, but lost the light and had to dig to find a euro to buy illumination. I marveled at my find—colors proclaiming life lost and faith found. And, intending next to find a cartoleria to buy folders to hoard my re-cent research, I felt for my wallet—only to find I had lost it on the basilica’s cold benches (or one of Rome’s pickpockets, “post-graduates in the art,” a friar told me later) “found” it in my open pocket). My theological conclusion:               

Anthony had takenhis feastday off!

A book passed by
recently
on its way to being forgotten
I stopped it in its tracks
asked what it had come for
and learned a way into the mists of future
not otherwise discerned

last night i emptied all the clocks into the bathtub
(they kept clogging time’s artery with their minutes)
earlier, we dragged june across the garden
by its wet sleeves
we said:
“let’s snip off the faded roses”
and we snipped them off
“let’s save the daylight”
and we filled three jars –
the daylight ferments beautifully
beneath the kitchen sink

the good and the bad years sleep together
in the drawer like tangled christmas lights

not saying that with a heavy heart either –
I feel quite spry and light as a feather
(according to recent measurements,
a memory weighs less than a sparrow)

the years are seaweed around my ankles
with small silver fish that nibble at my toes
whenever I pull at a strand of wire-weed
the whole frondy circuit instantly
lights up

the lake god
buttons the night’s shirt
smelling of distant thunder
laughing through mossy teeth
as the sky above lights up too
with its chandelier of bright plump pears
and there’s only so much to do on
this blue dinner plate
left unattended
far too long
in the sink of the universe