S O N G S

I remember thousands of songs
Songs from my childhood
Songs from when my heart was tender
Songs from when, al fin
I found my own true voice

The rhyme and rhythm of each
Catches something of that era
And I revert to who I was
When the words and melodies
Were etched forever in memory

The anguish of torch songs
Balm to my often bruised heart
Sophisticated lyrics of Cole Porter
Dressed my poor emotions
In the glitter of Broadway

I recall verses of bawdy songs
And many nonsense ditties
Which make my grandsons giggle
Much to their mother's dismay
I can't please everyone, now can I?

FROM NATURE

I find solace looking at the sea

Each wave’s retreat from a beach

Carries away with it my troubles

Leaving me at peace

Some sites do this so well

They remain as revered shrines

Destinations for future pilgrimages

The Shrine of Limantour

The Shrine of Point Lobos

The Shrine of Timber Cove

The sea’s moods are infinite

Each admirable view, unique

Forever providing hints of

My place in the cosmos

TRUTH

It is getting so we can only discuss natural phenomena in their own limited context. This must be driving philosophers crazy. “True” statements are now only true in their own neighborhood. At the onset of the scientific revolution, there was optimism that we would soon understand much about the universe and our place in it. Even after Einstein’s General Relativity, we still had hope. But, with Quantum Mechanics the ground beneath our feet began to crumble and Heisenberg only added to the uncertainty. Now, gravity has turned too strange to contemplate and the enigmatic dark matter and dark energy have in our time become the leading actors in our play. Ordinary matter and energy? Only bit players. So, what is our play about? Who the hell knows?

EYES CLOSED

Why do we close our eyes to see deeper? Can
I perceive what I feel for you with open eyes?
No, I must close my eyes and lay my ear upon
your breast. I must hear the beating of your
heart. I must touch you, in order to know how
deeply you have touched me.

A WOMAN

Never made love to a woman
Too near her to see but a part
The curve of her bosom
Played a tune in my heart
Along the track of a nerve
My hand and my cheek
Fit each perfect curve
With no effort to seek
For this we’re blessed with touch?
May be assuming too much.

TINY HANDS

Now, shorn of indifference, I, the aged warrior, found my heart overgrown with memories. Tears come easily. Not the nurse’s hips but the infant’s tiny hands bid interest rouse and follow the rolling perambulator. The suffering of others is personal with me. Who would have guessed?

Fellowship of Learners