What're you doing? Nothing.

What're you doing? Nothing.  .
Clearing my brain, looking at rain
What're you seeing? Nothing.  
Hoping to bring some little thing to ackowledge my being, nothing.
Where're you going?  Nowhere.  
Moving my feet along down the street, getting from here to nowhere.
Nowhere to go, moving real slow, going? don't know, just somewhere.

The snow is non-discriminating . . .

The snow is non-discriminating -- that is what I view.
It falls upon the gardens but upon the Common too

Carpeting so beautiful, of the softest quality
Embroidery on the branches of the most ordinary tree

Snow will touch an open hand, no matter poor or rich
And kiss the lakes or puddles, not ever caring which

Upon the rooftops in the slums, the snow falls pure and clean
As it does upon the mansion roofs of men of wealthy mien

Snow rings the bells of churches and, as gently, signs of dives
And hugs the puddle-pusher's cart, like the car the chauffeur drives

The pious and the godless men are equally painted white
And the white and black are equal as if they walked by side at night

Oh snow, you turn to beautiful, the dump, the garbage can
And truly you're magnificent, treating equal every man

When I consider . . .

When I consider how my time is spent, I often pretend I'm blind
And try to remember just what it meant to look for and to find

When I consider the time I use and even stay up late
Making lengthy lists, "To Do"s and deciding what can wait

When I consider how my time is spent, and the hours I stay awake
Something important didn't get sent (time flies, for goodness sake!)

When I consider how my time is fun, remembering this and that
Keeping house when there's noone (oh, sometimes the
neighbor's cat)

When I consider how my time is spent, I cringe and wonder why
I seem to want to circumvent the fact that I must die

That the substance that is "I" gets spent, not knowing itself
just how it went. And sometimes someone now must find
a new world , of a different kind, where we don't spin around,
as in a vent, and wonder how in the world our time
was spent.

new poems

Shades of Green

The pine, an almost intense green,

and almost as dark as night

The appletree blossoms, falling fast

Are as soft as the sky is light.

White blossoms and green leaves

come down with a shower in a gust

of wind that lays on the garden and lawn

a painting in green and rust.

And the sun shines down on the

painting, giving it now a shine

I would like it to have it my signature

But God says, "No way - it's mine."

Oct. 3, '09

Charles Street Is Special

My neighbors, the greatest

Are always there, for me

I think of them always there

Just where I love to be

My house, standing lonely

And the river, running free

The ducks, the geese, the herons

Do they ever think of me?

Little Bird

Little bird, up there in the tree

You'd be singing your head off

if it were not for me

Little bird, with nothing to do

You're looking at me and

I'm looking at you

Sweet little bird, up there in the tree

I can't reach you up there -

Will you come down to me?

Paddington, It Will Be All Right

the clouds seem restless
like something opening up
blue lakes here and there
thrusting the light forward
the sun popping
where'd she go, the sun?
tufts of dark
spots of light
powdered green
racing caterpillars
long necks, gaping shovels
sponge-like sky
heraldic
small blue lake in the sky
gray sharks swim over
no form, no faces, no angels
purposeful, with a plan I do not know
frivolous
where are the trains?

Family

Working on my family tree is never-ending,
as I pick up photos here and there, I start to wonder was I there
then -- too many things going on at once; too many people
A lot of bending. Confusion and whatever transpired, I am left
with a happy feeling of being with each and every one
of my brothers and sisters. Some of those special moments
pop into my head now and then, but it's my very scrambled memory
that keeps changing the scene. Interruptions, there when
the memory brings forth one moment clear but brief,
and there must be a lot more I've not remembered -- good grief!
Who's keeping score?Frustrating, like not being able
to finish a book when you can't find it again
or somebody took it, so make your own ending
and as I write, and look out the window,
a heron in sight, Carol leaves not only the breakfast table
but even the kitchen, Mike too, not in sight

It's got to be Friday -- Oh, I'll see them about
when I learn what I'm doing
or who's going out.

where are the birds

In 1988 I began to notice the birds were diminishing around my place in Medway. I wrote this poem about it:

Where are the Birds?

What has happened to the sparrows? Oh yes, there are still a few around. I could say at this time of year, spring, that they have all gone into the woods, where it is peaceful and there is plenty of pickings with buds and berries, BUT where were they when the ice covered the tree buds and the goodies, such as they were, on the ground? You would think the sparrows would flock to this yaard where Tommy puts out all kinds of seed, and makes sure the supply is replenished daily. But no, the sparrows, I'm afraid, are thinning out! But we do have other birds around.

First I shall mention our guests uninvited -- the pigeons who leaves our patio blighted; the doves who walk on my car, like the cat, and leave prints on my windshield that I never get at. And now with the big ones, there's always the crow -- but lately he's gone and why, I don't know. And speaking of blackbirds, there are some and then some: We like to see grackles, but then starlings come; and the catbird, the bluebird --? (I'm drifting away) the cowbird (a brown head), I saw
Nuthatches; finches, both purple and gold; that bluejay! We watch her, so wicked and bold; the cardinal is one to be seen and be heard, and we all love the siskin, a sparrow-like bird. But my favorite of all, on the tree or the ground -- the cute, little chickadee, always around. Did I mention the redwings who come when they can; woodpeckers (redheaded, downy, hairy) in Jan (??). Now, springtime, a few have flown up and away, there's a robin -- whose lonesome -- what more can I say?

Tommy in the Garden

Tommy, look now -- see him drag
The hose to water his flowers near
the window, where my mother, aged
sees danger
Calls: "racoon out there in a rage
Get someone to handle whatever grade
of rabid animal. -- they/ve got the gear
Tommy, drag it over --squirt it grand
He'll wreck his garden now, oh dear!
There's the truck, their coming -- dang!
Why is he bringing that Great Dane?
Don't go out there --My mother's anger
wasn't like her. Lily's the dean
around here and she's grand
But Tommy! The flowers! How can he earn
a living this way? The phone -- it rang
"There's no Edgar here"
And looking out over the water -seer,
my mother asks "goose or gander?"

horse and wagon

Truly it's been an honor
for me to learn from you and grown
among so many special ones
who paved the road I traveled, gone
are they, and I awash
with sentimental thoughts, or worse
no thoughts at all. Myself I drag
along the shore
goose or gander throughout the ages
come and go, feathers shorn.
Me? I hear not, see not -- where's the sage
now to rescue me? Blow your horn
I'm not asleep. I am aware

What Do They Drink?

The Japanese are
a people humble, shrewd
appear shy, but are not really that,
look at you out of the corner of their eye
would like you to look at them that way
They will bow their head and extend their hand
to greet you, they are gracious and will
invite you to their home for tea.

Their home? Modest, there is no
spread of lawn, or fancy driveways
and walkways -- they have squeezed
a small area without mountain, to
build their modest house. They do not
measure their land in acres.

But their hospitality is unmatched
and their food good and plentiful,
for guests

Rice and fish are their stable foods. They
are great fishermen.

What do they drink in Japan? I asked

They now have foods they mix,
especially for their guests, now
that they have supermarkets
and the women are great cooks.

What do they drink? Someone offers "saki"

Oh yes. The men drink
and the women put up with it. Seldom
do they leave their men. I think
there are few if any divorces in Japan

If someone is faulted, or thinks he has faulted
he will commit suicide to "save face."
A Japanese man will not be humiliated,
and stay around.

But, I asked, what do they drink?

w a s t e b a s k e t

Wondering this morning what it was
thinking to myself, what a waste
these "treasures" over which we stew
and mine, confusing me, the task
still lying there ahead; ideas I saw
up over my head, every bat
flying helter-skelter while I sat
dipping down, dumbfounded in my seat
nameless people dumped in a basket
how they laugh and tease
me in my coldness, in my sweat
all my clothes now soaking wet
I burn, as in the sun to bask
night creatures, they, so why? I ask
do my photos now they eat?

my week

I like SUNDAY. Nobody has to go anywhere. Oh yes, I do have to go to Mass and Mike or Carol have to drive me there (have to! what a harsh, commanding term that is) --they don't think I should get a bicycle). But the rest of the day: Oh, I can do anything I want to. Have I written today? Read? Or maybe I should get on with my photo albums. Today, though, is a day of rest.

MONDAY comes and goes. Now, after breakfast, we hope to start our mornng walk -- should be a nice, cool breeze. If I don't get a sweater, my arms will freeze. Those arms! The only part of me that feels cold with a summer breeze. But that's all right, let's get on our way and listen to the birds along the way, even though I can't look up into the trees, without losing my footing.

When TUESDAY comes along, we have another plan after breakfast. I am not sure what it is so I'll just write until I find out. Easy enough. Just grab my socks, my glasses and my hat and we're off -- oh, oh, the water? Now it's suppertime already and I have to look out at the Marsh. No big birds -- the water is too high now. Maybe tomorrow.

Tomorrow already -- WEDNESDAY. This is the "hump" day I think they call it. After today, we're headed for the wonderful weekend. So what am I going to do today. I will, of course, write, even type my writing -- now, that will use up a good part of the day. It's nice and I think the porch will be a nice place to read. And it is -- but llisten: just like an orchestra practicing for an evening symphony. The oboe strings, now the shuffling of chairs, the drum feathers, symbles, now "C, C, C, C" the instructor calls out, and someone's finger touched D with A flat and it reverberated. And what has happened? Seems, the violinist is upset and the girl at the harp not sure.

THURSDAY came up fast. Breakfast, oh, bacon! Write, let's sit on the porch today and read. First, the walk. Then a shower. Oh, this room. I must clean it up a bit -- what to do with, what? My photos. Will take all the people out of my albums, away from scenery, and put them in a separate album... oh, oh, it's suppertime already. But.

It's already FRIDAY? will definitely sit on the porch today and read. After breakfast. And here I am, settled here with a book, and .. can't get away from the birds. Look, there's that beautiful little wren, singing just to me. I move closer and she doesn't fly away but sings, sings, CHE CHE CHE

SATURDAY is a nice day -- everybody liked to work outside on this day, and fix whatever needs fixing, water the lawn, plant the bush, and away we go -- the day is over before we know it. Oh, no interest in albums, writing, reading -- just look at that marsh -- no, it's more like a large lake. My eyes are getting tired. Oh well.

I hear

I hear music
I hear my own voice
I hear there's a sale at
I hear you live near here
I hear ringing in my ears
I hear carolers out there
I hear but don't always listen
I hear bacon frying
I hear the bird but can't identify it
I hear water running
I hear noises down there
I hear it's a great place to eat
I hear bells chiming
I hear you're involved in
I hear it's crowded and noisy
I hear better now, with the hearing aid
I hear he's a terrific cook
I hear nothing -- what is it?
I hear she's taking piano lessons
I hear the kids outside
I hear it's not all it cracked up to be
I hear they make them fresh
I hear the choir, but
I hear cats out there
I hear you made it yourself
I hear the words but they don't make sense
I hear it was just a lot of nonsense
I hear violins
I hear my own voice
I hear someone who sounds familiar
I hear nothing
I hear you like your new job
I hear you were there
I hear you have a new car
I hear the wind
I hear you have a new job
I hear it isn't worth it
I hear several voices
I hear the speaker well but
I hear it isn't worth it
I hear she bought a house there
I hear there's a concert tonight
I hear but I don't believe what
I hear
I hear them all too clearly
I hear what you're saying, but
I hear something
I hear she's no longer there
I hear it's not what it's cracked up to be
I hear you had an exciting day here
I hear a cardinal
I hear the rattling of dishes
I hear something drop
I hear a piece of silver hit
I hear silence in the kitchen, and then
I hear a banging and
I hear rattling of dishes, silver?
I hear a cabinet door shut
I hear a lot of noise
I hear something drop against something
I hear a pan echo in the sink
I hear metal touching metal
I hear the pen writing
I hear myself move in the chair
I hear the clunk of the foot of the chair
I hear my breathing

how would you like it?

How would you like it if someone pulled
on your hair and removed your warm
covering and said "oh, you're not ready yet"
and just when you're trying to get comfortable
again, having to fight off those fat white
creatures that were just disturbed and now
blame you? And how would you like it if a
tractor's noise kept you awake all day and
then came in deep enough to pick you up
and toss you helter-skelter into a bed of briars,
against a big fat watermelon or a wire fence,
or even not that far but just out in the open,
in the burning hot sun that eventually makes
you wrinkled and worthless? And think of this,
if you think my life is a bowl of mashed
potatoes -- oh, what am I saying? -- That's
another thing, being mashed. Or how would
you like it if someone pulled you from a
oven, where you are trying to get warm and
comfortable, like under the ground, and told
by some potato head (oh,oh!) , "you're just perfect"
and when you are lifted out you feel so imperfect?
And another thing:How about someone nice,
or at least you thought at first, comes toward you with
a bread knife and you look around and see
no bread -- what can you expect? After all,
you're just a potato!

one sentence

Outside I found myself because the day was
so perfect but what I wanted to do was
out of the question since I no longer drive
and besides I don't even have a car anymore,
but my choices of things to do while I was out
on such a beautiful morning were unlimited,
making me turn to something beside drivingn
somewhere, spending money on something
I really didn't need, or even or something I did
need but not just now and spending money
nonetheless and in addition wasting good time
that could be spent on other things like
getting the gardens raked up and the soil
there readied for planting so that the yard
would look beautiful the way it used to look
when Tommy and Lily brought the plants
now in the greenhouse after having been
earlier brought up from the cellar where they
had been sleeping all winter and now about
ready for the gardens which are close to the
patio and house and which my mother enjoyed
and which never seemed to be without a
variety of color, adding to the morning glories,
the climatis, and the colorful blossoms of our
Japanese Cherry tree and Dogwoods, and the
green lawn which Tommy and later Carl kept
mowed and nourished, or if I chose, I could still
get out and wield it against those small trunks
of the unseemly bushes have died but where the
roots are still deep in the ground and beyond my
feeble strength and where they make an unseemly
border between my yard and that of my close
neighbor and cousin who has never complained
being the nice person she is -- or if I feel so
inclined, I could always sweep out the "bungalow"
or with the large broom, give the garage a good
sweeping.

Things I never tire of

A soft breeze in the summer
Rain falling, anytime
Birds singing, especially in spring
Ducks on the river, without Canada geese
Poetry (not especially Irish or Scotch)
Crackers and peanut butter
Trees --all of them
Silence
Chimes if far enough away
Water to drink, or just water
Chocolate


Things I do tire of

Conversation I can't hear (I can now!)
My own voice running endlessly
My own voice with a frog in my throat
Doves and their constant cooing
Stopped traffic and no red light visible
Dressing and undressing, especially shoes
Undated photos and unrecognized people in photos
Computer's reaction to my wrong choice
Speakers who look into their own writing instead of up
Questions I don't know the answer to
Puzzles that trick me

June and Love

You told me love was in the air
I looked at you, then asked you "where?"
It's all around, just look and see
There's someone for you someone for me

A slip of a boy, you talked so free
to a slip of a girl behind a tree
You talked, I listened, shy, I heard
My heart picked up your every word

Someone nearby will hold you dear
You'll find him soon -- he's very near
"How will I know his love is real?
"How can I tell him what I feel?"

I saw him coming all the while
Open your heart, he said, and smile
"How do you know he'll be here soon?
I have this feeling of love. It's June

I Never Got Up Smiling

When I came downstairs in the morning,
my mother would greet me with
"Good morning, Mary Sunshine"
Did I not get enough sleep?
Was someone's foot in my face all night?

We had a "Girl's Room" and a
"Boy's Room" upstairs and slept
3 or 4 in each bed. My sisters
used to hug one another because
there was nowhere else
to put their arms. They knew
where to put their feet --
generally, a foot in my face!
I do remember pushing feet off my face.

Richard was the youngest. I can't
seem to remember Richard --
did they put him in the Boy's room?
Or let him fall asleep on my mother's
and father's bed, and move him later?

Ernie (very young) did sleep in the
Girl's Room, across the foot of one bed
and I slept across the foot of the other.

Ernie and I were usually sent off
to bed before the others. One
evening he was already in bed
when I went into the room.
He put his finger to his mouth,
"Sh! he said, "listen!"
I can't remember what we were
listening for, but I would guess we
heard someone come into the house,
like Mabel, and we were curious.

I remember there were no chairs
in this bedroom. Two beds.
Not the two beds now in there. Lily bought
the twin beds, with the bedsprings
and the mattresses, for my mother
in later years, when only she
and Lily slept there. Our beds
were complete with a spring and a
thin mattress, with sheets and a
blanket or two -- maybe someone's coat
in the wintertime.

What did we wear?
Maybe we slept in our underwear?
Maybe the older ones had shirts?
Mabel had a nightgown.
Thelma and Lily had pajamas, I think.

No heat upstairs in winter.
Warm in summer. The older boys
sometimes slept outside on the lawn,
with old Indian blankets
(or army blankets later).

We never came down to breakfast
without being fully dressed, complete
with shoes -- well, maybe
summertime called for bare feet,
but I don't remember eating
breakfast with bare feet. Perhaps
my father made us put on shoes.

All I remember here is that
we were given a good morning and
a bowl of hot oatmeal with bran
and sometimes raisins, and in the
summertime, cornflakes, maybe with
blueberries -- or we liked shredded
wheat because of its shape,
and there was always something to read
and games and pictures on the packages.
On some, a prize -- some small thing --
made of tin.

More Rocks

I love rocks — everybody I know knows that
Rocks in my garden, rocks in the Park
rocks in the road, rocks to sit on
rocks the cradle, rock to throw
rocks back and forth and rocks to know
Oh yes, let's not forget rocks in the head

My brothers, Tommy and Charlie, know
the rocks, especially those that are a threat
to the canoe. As my tan-backed brothers
paddle our long, green canoe up the channel
of the Charles River toward Caryville (bet you
never heard of that town!) there are many,
many rocks under water, but the paddlers
skillfully turn this way and that, avoiding the
threats to the tender and unknowing canoe

And if you are not in the canoe, but happen
to be standing on shore, just look across the
River's channel to the woods and just at the edge
you will see a large rock that I have known since
I was one of those kids who wore an undershirt,
sewn in the crotch — a makeshift bathingsuit to
wear when five or six of us piled into the canoe and
weighed it down to where only its rims showed
above water.

Back to rocks: If you who are standing there on
shore would look down the channel toward
one of the river's dams, right in the middle of
the channel is another large old rock, the
favorite of the Great Blue Heron.

Uncle Tom

His station wagon pulled
to a stop in our driveway
that morning.
"Who can that be?" my mother
asked nobody in particular.

A man, dressed casually and
under a soft hat, looked
around and just stood there.

"It's Tom," my mother said,
"It's your Uncle Tom,"
and started for the door.
Of course, we reached
the door first.

I remember the last time
Uncle Tom visited with us.
I remember the times he would
dump out a box on the dining room table.
Colored paper, erasers, paper clips,
rubber bands, yellow, blue and white
cards and I had never before seen such
an array of pencils, except in school.

My uncle Tom was a printer
My gift the last time —
a small lead plate, reading:
“MARY ELIZABETH JONES.”

This morning,
his one glass eye stopped us.
Even his smile, as my mother
approached and he gave her
a big hug, didn't move us closer.

Reaching into his wagon,
he came out with two oranges
placed them in each of our hands,
"Here," he said, "for you —
all the way from my trees
in Florida.

"Where's Joe?" he asked.
And before anyone answered,
his head in and out of his wagon again:
"This is for him."

The last time he was here,
Joe asked him if he could
drive his wagon.
"Oh no, this old pal of mine
has to take me all the way
back to your Aunt Bessie,
bless her."