1A poet bee
3Another pole, Cat
5Look, sea
6Fall thankful
7Layers not enough
8The soul of music
9Predawn sounds
10A spider lesson
13Cheer up tree
14Northward bound
15Forward reflections 
16Blue moon
17Always clockwise
18Moon twist
19Slight insights
20Moth supper
21Moths don't die
22Mourning meal
24Beauty abounds
26O', pen
28October's end
29Bedtime boo, who?
30Spell bound
32Team names
33Why? Zed
35Just say know
36Moth math
37How rumours begin


A poet bee

A poet bee. A moth
I'm not. Beetle done
with it. Fly. Or flea.
Good morning,

'Tis me. I not bee.
I am.



our poet bee,
is large and solitary.
She's rude and crude
and does not live
in any hive.
Instead she tunnels
in wood
and feeds pollen to
her brood.
At this she's very good.

She doesn't dance
nor take the chance
to follow sterile sisters
to work the flowers
to make honey
for mother queen,
who has a contract
with a keeper,
who sells their sweat
and sweet labour
for money.

Too obscene.
Virginica's wise.
She skips that scene.

Much she knows:
in flowers are lies.
Pollen and nectar,
and deadly surprises.
Such it goes,
she realises.

An unquestioning sister,
with dance directions,
finds some showy petals.
Too late for reflections.
A crab spider's grab,
and the sister's a meal.
Soon freeloader flies
will be there to steal.

Unlucky sister, worker,
we're so sorry and sad.
What a horrible deal.
You were had.
Apparent success
and then the

The poet bee
is independent
and free.
She's alive,
as are we.

What a buzz.


Another pole, Cat

From East to West,
there's another pole,
unmapped by cartography.
Wild mystery
and history,
endlessly changing
and struggling,
across time's
long topography --

Hey, Cat, free yourself.
Exit your inside bubble.
Give the outside troll
her helpful toll;
leave behind
your pocket's
digital unimagination.
Explore and discover,
look and listen,
poke and smell.
Think what and why.
Learn when, where,
and how.
Now, who will you tell?
Will you get in trouble
if you find
and share
new secrets?
But your mind
will fly
so exceedingly,
excitingly well.



Three days of autumn
after the equinox,
they came in force
from the north,
flew low above
the hickory-browning,
just barely winter-turning forest.
Strong, noisy birds,
more muscled than our residents,
they Hitchcocked the moment.
Their flock,
silhouetted by sinking sunlight,
was a mass of tightly packed migration,
clustered strands
of dark Christmas dinners
on long, broad wings,
too many for a well kept V.

The wild horde,
thirty birds at least,
flew past me
towards our lake.
Will they land?
Will they rest the night?
I was thrilled
by the thought
of them staying.
But no.
After dominating
all sound
and my focus
for a minute or two,
they flew on southwards.
Together their communal calls
faded away.
Sadly they were gone.
A brief joy,
their gift to my memory.

What are those sounds
arching back from the southeast?
Yes, soft honks.
They're coming back!
The gregarious cacophony
made its second pass,
turning up Nature's volume
to noisy again.
Maybe up to fifty geese
is my second guess,
as they beat past me,
over the lake once more,
then fade.

There's hope.
It's safe here.
Y'all should come back,
I wanted to call.

And they do.
Their third pass
swings in from way out beyond
the western ridge's trees
that tower above the water.
Their figure-eight
caution tour completed,
they drop down
from the dusk,
land, and silence.
Fifteen minutes after sunset
their flight ends.
We are blessed,
hosts of travelers.

Well hidden below our house,
wrapped by trees,
our guests can rest.
I am compelled
by curiosity and respect
to meet them,
greet their journeying spirits,
learn their number and ways.
But I cannot.
Darkness comes,
delays my welcome.
I must wait.

The too-low-in-the-eastern-sky moon,
one night wane from full,
readies with light.
She'll get up
but can't be rushed.
So like an excited
night-before-Christmas child,
I can only imagine
the presence below,
until more light appears.

Two hours after
the flock's arrival,
a coyote pack howls
near the far, shallow
end of the lake.
Do the geese care?
Are canids their friends,
a reassuring sign to them
of wild hunterless safety?
I do not know
but hope so.

An hour after midnight,
Moon's high in the sky,
flushing light on and off.
She's quite bright
in the clear sky
between the white clouds
but unhelpfully dim
when the wind blows them over her.

Enough of patience,
the time is now right
for loyal dog, Sophie, and I
to sneak down for a peek,
pay our honoured guests a visit.

Poor Mars takes a pass.
Out of view above the southern horizon,
he hides behind the trees
and cannot watch our show.

Armed with binoculars, camera,
tripod, flashlight, and phone,
we set off for the dock
at the deep end of the lake.
Sophie soon heads off
to explore on her own,
oblivious to the big birds,
I suspect, armadillo chasing
being more her speed.

I am alone,
thrilled at my first sight
of the distant,
dimly lit geese,
floating murky blobs,
clustered this side
of the beaver-chopped
flotsam, fallen logs,
and swampy shallows.

You're too far.
Creep closer,
my inner child commands.

Using the moonlight, I do.
I take the path
through the trees
to the small sapling-cleared old field,
which edges the lake's middle.
Slowly, quietly
I station myself
on the shore
by the bullrushes.
I dare not go farther,
for I fear the flock
might scare.
I cannot go farther,
as thick switchcane walls back
the reckless child.

I have a view.

The birds are not asleep.
Necks up, they swim slowly,
pushing through the carpet
of green Wolffia pond scum.
They do not feed.
Pairs and larger groups
fission and fuse.
From the shadows
of the far bank's trees
to the birds on the open
moon-blue-lit green.
the dimness hides
the white cheeks of all.
I struggle to count forty.
Then again, forty-one.

A rustle comes
from near the cane,
through the grass.
Sophie returns to my side.
She pukes yellow slime
by my foot.
No more cheese for you,
I whisper.
It's time for bed.

Good night, Geese.
Thanks for coming.

The barred owls are silent,
no cooks for you.

Our usual morning routine begins.
We're outside by 6:16.
I photograph porch-light moths.
Sophie chases critters.
After twenty-one moths
and critters gone,
I record the predawn sounds.
A distant crow caws,
tree crickets sing,
cardinals chime in,
an unknown trill and rattle,
a nut falls,
a lonely ground cricket tries,
distant traffic drones.
No honks.
I wonder.
Warm up notes.
When will the symphony begin?

A honk.
First call.

I dash to the dock,
as quietly as fast can do,
recording as I go.
More honks.
Tree crickets chorus.
Cardinals play piccolo refrain.
Many honks.
I count 43 geese and try again.
A Lord God bird hollers.
Other birds tweet in.
Too late for my last count.
Our guests are leaving,
coming towards me as one.
In sudden, dramatic excitement
four hundred pounds of honking Canadas
paddle, flap, splash, barrel together
down the lake, get airborne.
As they come overhead,
wing beats deafen
in helicopter synchrony.
Tchaikovsky's cannons unneeded.
The mass passes.
Doppler silence.
A straggler flies to catch up.
Their calls go forth.
A handful of minutes before sunrise,
they're away.

The pileated woodpecker now bashes bark
atop the majestic skeleton of a scarlet oak.
The cricket chorus continues.
Another nut crashes through the trees.

Unsprayed, uncut, unplowed, unshot,
my life here struggles and thrives.
Its music tells of seasons,
of health, of peace.


Look, sea

On Venus
it's so hot
the oceans
are steam.

On Mars
the atmosphere
has gone.
Nothing left
to breathe.

On Earth,
trouble too.
Our fears
higher seas,
three feet
in a hundred years.

And, no.
It's so,
not a dream.

plan to tell your
great, great
to go
step up
from the coast
or boast
of water
twice as high
as their knees.

If they avoid
wicked witches,
they'll be safe
in Kansas.


Fall thankful

I hear the wind,
nothing more.

No rain drops,
for they have stopped.

Nor footsteps,
wet-leaf quietened.

The unbothered
November gusts
brush past
the unfallen,
blowing in
the unknown.

my core is calm
in the fogless,
fifty-degree warmth
of today's predawn
before-light darkness.

Silent thoughts.
Harvest done.
No hunger here.
Dreams well met.
We need no more,
just each other.

Now winter comes
with its rest.

the wind talks
of yet another year.

What awaits us?

We'll see.

Together we walk on.


Layers not enough

Below piercing stars
of a clear winter sky
the steady moan
of northwest wind
over and through
the dark silhouette
of the forest.
Leafless trees
in reply
no shelter
from the bite
of the coldest night
in years.

The greed
of bitter cold
slowly drains
warmth from
protective layers
upon upright hairs
not enough
to shield my skin
nor deepest within.

Tonight life is silent,
sleeping, or gone.

It waits for warmer weather.


The soul of music

and thousands
of years ago,
long before
whistles of bone,
even drums,
our forefathers'
listened to the night.

They learnt
to appreciate
and inculcate
rhythm, beat,
and tone
into humanity's
young soul.
Atavistic traits
that now give us
and great

Eons later
in the cold drizzle
of English weather
pre-Druid friends
stayed up at night
and waited
for clouds to part,
clear sky,
and unnamed constellations.

For some cheer,
they listened
to their early souls
and imitated
with drums
and song.

By day,
they dragged great
rocks around
to celebrate
the night sky,
maybe sunlight.
Who knows?

we dedicate
to song,
not the fizzle
of star gazing
behind gray clouds.

Hear, ye. Hear!

And play!


Predawn sounds

A million years
of hard rain
and gusty winds,
rustling the trees,
grinding through my brain,
down my spine,
and then with uncontrol,
shuddering the flesh
around my deepest
animal soul.

Listen to the predawn.
Within its festival of love,
hear also calls to warn,
of territories
and societies,
and simple terror.

The intensity
of the death scream
of a fawn
will haunt your next dream
and stay with you forever.

But "Love, love me do"
is the general theme.

Frogs chorus for love.
Spring peepers squeak
their fast, high
me! me! me! me!

Bullfrogs grunt
their slow, deep
wanta thump?

wanta thump?

Birds crow for love.
A distant rooster
says to puritans,
"Get up!"
but to sassy hens,
"This cock could doodle you."

Listen to barred-owls' beautiful
"Who cooks for you?
Who cooks for you-owl?"
become caterwauls
of witches' wails
and fast cackles
when love progresses
to wildly playful.

Loyal dog howls applauses.

The summer supplicant



for hours and hours,
ceaselessly incessant,
begs his goddess
to grant the invariant want.

Beavers slap for love.
One tail crack on the water be
a warning.
for greater danger?
Three, or more,
it's a party!
come hither.
Let's be naughty.

Hear chaotic
yip-howls of a coyote pack
intimidate the darkness.
Family friendliness
or fear despotic?
Advance or stay back?

The song of insects,
risking life for love.
Ka·ty·did here.
Ka·ty·did there.
An arena of crickets,
snow, tree, bush, ground,
all around,
singing for love.

A defensive cicada
shatters the night
with the most startling,
piercing, vibrating scream.
Sudden fright
for inquisitive dog.
Ugly insect escapes her jaws
and playful paws.
Not a bite.


Isn't that the cat's meow?


A spider lesson

There was a young lad,
who tried to be good
but sometimes wasn't.

One morn he found
a beautiful,
dew covered
spider's web.
And with two twigs
he captured it,
just for fun.

"What have you done?"
cried the spider.
"That was my home."
She was livid.

"I did nothing,"
said the boy.
"'twas my brother,
who just ran away."
He lied to the spider.

"A curse on you.
Your hair will turn gray!"
spit the spider.

And it did.

Now fifty years on,
wise and gray,
I remember my youth,
respect Nature,
and wonder,
"What evil did
bald men do?"



Beauty, slay the blind
watchmaker, for He
knows not thy design.
Ancient Megalopyge,
precious, gorgeous gem,
radiant wings of orange
flames, scales of hair,
thin waves in black,
laced with white
streaks, curves,
speak to me.
Black feet,
alien form afront,
your hair covered
yeti stands firm,
eyeless, mouthless,
grated swords afoot,
all with purpose,
but I know not what.
Speak to me!
Tell me your silent
secrets so strange.
Haunt my night's
thoughts together,
as random words fly
around. Navel orange.
Jaffa. Ombligo.
Omphalos. Zeus.
Two eagles.
My sleepless madness
stirs childhood, but
does form emerge
and meaning advance?
What do you tell me?
Of the art in your
texture, colors,
not by design,
nor chance,
all in my mind.
I wonder, watch.
Maker, I'm not.



'ay, bee, see d' e'fect,
o' puttin' pollen
on me anther?
Nuffin' doin',
not even selfin'.
So anther me not.
Just answer me why
doest thou not
dust thy grains
on my stigmata.
I must outcross,
not be cross
w'th thee.

Sterility's a stigma.
So please, please
pollinate me.

A cross you bear;
the stigmata I wear.
Crown of thorns?
Not 'ere.

Fail not
or like the
frown of corn,
no nectar for thee.
I'll 'ave de wind
blow me.


Cheer up tree

you made
blood-purple to pink
candle buds stab forth,
ignite, unroll,
unfold a treeful
of grand cream-white
saucer-cupped blossoms
for us all to wonder.

We gasped,
breathed in
your spectacular
ornamental splash,
a life-memory, gift of joy,
a proud, vain beacon,
harbinger of spring.

But what now?
A week gone bye,
the ground awash
in petalled tears,
fallen beauty.
Flowers done.
You's through,
off the scream thrown.

An ephemeral flash
and you's as plain
as the other trees,
vanity forgiven
but unforgotten,
moving on to leaves.

Console yourself.
The beauty,
come and gone,
is not the fade
of your youth
into endless age.
After summer burn,
fall reflection,
winter slumber,
with good health,
she'll surely return.

When wisdom
or beauty grow
with the years,
one's truly blessed.

So go ready your star
for next spring's louder show.


Northward bound

A little after three today,
in a warm February gusty breezy,
whilst bowing on my dam,
throwing arrows into hay bales,
I heard them,
grunting their trill
sounds in the sky,
the magic of big louds.

Below the low,
fluffy-white gray clouds,
way above the bare
oak and hickory fingers
stretching towards the heavens,
a flock of seventeen passed,
flying in a crescent,
not a V-formation.
And on, to the north.

Then gone.

My thrill
in their sighting
left behind.
I've never seen
the migration of these
noisy large birds
over my house before,
only to the west,
above Atlanta and beyond.

Then more fast grunts
from the south.
Within a minute,
two more Vs together,
formation flying,
breaking up, reforming,
as they passed,
off-on obscured
by the canopy zebras.
The second flock,
thirty-nine more
travellers together,
with the uncertainty
that I might be out
on my count
by one or two,
as their dance behind
the treetops challenged
my old eyes to keep
step with them,
moved along at the same
steady, swift speed
as the first flock.

And now they're gone too,
to Lake Michigan surrounds.

Once again
Florida empties
in preparation
for crane pairing
and the coming
work of spring.

And mystery smiles,
how do they know
when and where to go?


Forward reflections

A week ago, dog and I,
we heard a peeping
good dawn. Our frogs
woke up for some fun
this season.

Two nights ago,
the first lonely
rain-soaked daffodil
echoed beauty,
the coming of spring.
Narcissus would have been
proud of his namesake.

In today's predawn,
the treetops rustled
a bit of wind, flooding
their Costa Rican-style
music from my memory
into distracting recall.
Nineteenish types o' moffs so soon
braved the February chilly
and made it to my calling
porch lights, thus themselves
distracted from readying for
this year's explosion of life.

Our science struggles
with logic and numbers
to predict what
the moths, flowers
and frogs know
and do.


What do the Fates
have in store for us?
Are our lives set in stone,
at birth or before?


Blue moon

above a slight hoar frost,
chunks of a super moon
went away.
When low in the sky,
she started to die.
First reddened,
then top eclipsed,
she was clawed
by forest life,
strangled for a bit,
before we shifted,
and she escaped,
only to have her bottom
washed out,
then blocked out
by the near sky.
between Earth's
cloud and shadow,
her dark eye,
the Sea of Crises,
on her east,
over our west,
held out til
dawn's very end,
winking it's good day
to my shivering dog
and cold-fingered me.


Always clockwise

The Sea of Crises swirls,
chases Tycho,
but never catches him.
Serenity and Tranquility,
more centered,
somewhat avoid their
too-so-slow-to-be-dizzying game,
not even a full circle.
Copernicus looks on.
He keeps exactly
his same place
away from them all.

By the waking
heart beat of Helios,
Selene retires.
They're gone,
to return other nights,
but not every night,
and endlessly repeat
their play,
yet again
and again.

Such a calm,
joyful watch.


Moon twist

Last bright
in the super cold,
dinosaur Dunno
went to look
at the wolf-done-gone moon.
Twice he did.
Her moon face twisted
over the course of the dark.
When she was high in the black,
her beady eyes faced up,
as if she were staring back
at Dunno. Then later,
after she had moved
from full view
into the leafless trees,
heading towards where
the orange thing goes to hide,
her face was resting on its side.
Her eyes were still
open though,
looking at silly Dunno
getting cold
and wondering,
where did all the warmth go,
and why?

No moths came to join the fun.
They're presumably much smarter
and will probably out live
any cold-challenged dinosaurs,
wasting life away on thought
instead of food and slumber.


Slight insights

The large dinosaur droppings
by the lake
are not.

A happy man
with a large onion
can weep for weeks.

The green tree frog
by my porch light
waits but not for dawn.

As the shell-less slug
makes it home slowly,
my small dog barks too much.

When God is an atheist,
sadly, even the saints
stay away from Heaven.

The webless spider
looks to jump
but doesn't.

The lonely wasp
stings me not
but would if grabbed.

Tonight's owls howled
for a reason
but I know not what.

In his mourning
the poet without a word

And my radio
without a sound
tells little.


Moth supper

Some moths,
like sphingids
and most others,
sip nectar
given by heavenly
flower angels.
they rub anther,
tease stigma,

the Spartan ones,
forego such
venal pleasure
and neither eat
nor pollinate
a thing.

After sun up,
we breakfast
on fruit,
spread seeds.
Moths sleep.

Do they dream?

Do we think?


Moths don't die

fear not the manes,

Give your pneuma
to the wind,
upon which spirits fly
back to the underworld.

Leave behind
your mortal flesh,
silk entangled,
for a spider's feast.
It will journey long,
through animals,
Earth, and plants,
before Cupid,
love, larva, pupa,
voluptuous Hedone
grows, ecloses.

Goddess of pleasure,
joy, delight,
let us then
breathe again,
give flight,
up the ghost,
to a new moon-wild
mating flight.


Mourning meal

A bat flies
over my light,
up to know good,
not bad for breakfast,
a moth if he could.

Moths on the wall,
lured by false moon,
rest, safe for now.

But no,
before sunrise,
hunting chirps,
sharp eyes,
red crest.
What the bat
didn't have,
cardinal bird will.



Dis morn'
ol' clogged
heart'll get
no profit.
Mo' ham
in dem eggs
dan I've
ever seen.
Salty bacon,
ugly images
So just coffee
an' a 'nana
to go
must do.

'n cream,
no sugar,


Beauty abounds

Let's start with
stunning images
of rain drops.
They trapped my mind
this early morn.
Shaped by wind,
shattered by impact,
gravity pulled,
refracted delights.
Colored by Actias,
green moon scales,
purple veins,
yellow thorax hairs
in waves.
Planets and nipples
magnified from unseen.
False eyes
now alive,
sparkling with
water's unexpected
third dimension. Eat
your heart out flat-
faced Mona Lisa.
There's more than
a smile in nature's
discordant harmony,
elements molded together,
then separate
Symmetric angles
of life, jeweled by
exquisite random
chatter -- small
shining spheres,
larger tears.

I remember well
the bird songs
and smells of wet dawn
not flash recorded.
Wildly awake, my
mind burnt an hour
off needed sleep,
confused dreams,
consumed by such unusual
beauty, joy discovered.
An ageless moment,
time well spent.


Storms pass.
Spring's sun rises.
Drops dry.
Luna life is short.
Saturniid adults don't feed.
Moths die.
Two red crested
cardinal dinosaurs
hunted for breakfast,
adding their timeless
taste for flesh,
success, to the mix,
our life's direction.

Add my smile to da Vinci's.
Warm thoughts.

More to come.



the soulful slug
who pulls
eyes in,
your gaze.
It slimes ahead
before a sun
comes up
and dries
its path.
No stalked tears
for any silly words
rattlin' 'round
perfectly silent,
maculate movement.

Judge not
sinister imperfections
of Nature's form.
The swirl
of a snail shell
reflects it's hard
to calcify
without blemishes
in a world
of dextral whorls.
Yet the whole
all functions,
still protects.

Let the ages
of time


O', pen

On grave shrines
fellow pilgrims
placed flowers,
pennies, pens,
'n poems scratched
on pebbles.
Emerson, Thoreau,
Alcott, even Salem's
grumpy Ha'thorne,
so honored,

Under blue sky,
Nature transcends.
Her canopy,
white, red and scarlet oaks,
red and sugar maples,
white pines,
towers above,
cloaks a carpet
of needles, acorns,
dappled, reticulate
Below the
authors' ridge,
in skins untrapped,
have returned,
flooded land.
Their dead trees,
stand tall.
No votive candles
need burn
in the clean
October air,
for glory be t'all.

I walk with friend,
no saint, Peter,
Don Pedro
de los Pajaros
We talk.
Here's Henry,
Louisa, Nathaniel.
Where's Waldo?
We laugh.

No quarters found
for Peter to steal,
so a pilfered pen
must do.
Neither poet
nor pilgrim giver
will know
or care.
We laugh again.

My friend,
grave robber
he now be,
sees me leave
a shiny copper
on Emerson's
He wonders why.
A small tribute
to the poet's life?
Or to inspire more
lines in mine?
the purloined pen
is under God's radar,
so it's not payment
for a thief's atonement!

Sleepy Hollow,
sleep some more.
Albeit corporal rest
is your endless fate,
your ideas will live on
way beyond this date.
Ours to read,
build upon.

We pay homage here,
inspired by your
aughtful words,
not deeds of
violent sacrifice,
as on Concord's
Old Bridge near,
two centuries ago.

So y'all should
steel a pen,
not a sword.
Spend its power
to better us all.

Think! Write!

And then
once more
we'll laugh
maybe even
be expiated.



Weave the winter weather.
Believe the princely air.

Bee til I die,
not moth,
or fly.

Neither dog
nor donut needs
sonnet sounds to flee.

Large lumps of Larkin
hast thou been.


Tis way beyond
this poetry seen.


October's end

Autumn crestfallen,
failing-light saddened,
wasp nests disband.
Their souls go off.
Queens mate,
winter hide.
Drones done,
sisters spent,
they die.

Goldenrod heads
blow in the wind,
wave the flag
of summer gone,
then fade,
shed seeds,
dry back.
Only some brave asters
show longer,
feed the last
of the bumble bees.

All creatures
and green
heed October's
cloudless blue,
chilling crispness.
shorter days.
The lucky,
those sent forth
still living,
They suck in,
fatten up,
change form,
dig deep,
or move away.

Sun treks south,
sends his warm rays
to austral lands.

Songs stop.

Trees flash fire
before their damned
leaves drop.

Heavenly angels retreat.
Our darkening north
is no safe place for them.
They abandon us.

But we are not alone.

Possessed gray moths
fly through the black.
The spirits of the dead
rise up with them,
return by the horde.

Halloween beckons.
It's time to celebrate,
remember, reckon,

Without the sun-loving,
the righteous,
we're all home now
to party,
dress wild,
drink blood
burn together
with the unknown.

Get out.
Have a bang.

We carry on.


Bedtime boo, who?

More claws,
white fangs,
red eyes
are out tonight.
Dread, boys
and little girls,
the demons that hunt
your young, tender souls.
Fright hangs,
bangs, and swirls
before Halloween.
Our doors
are locked tight,
but is evil here
inside? Take fear,
when you see
shadows move slowly.
You can't hear
soft, distant screams.
Ghosts have no smell.

Too true.
They're after you.


Sweet dreams.
Sleep well.


Spell bound

The giant
orange and black
cumulus called,
sucked me toward.


I was lured.

God's work,
in full glory,
burning sun atop,
brighter than any
cathedral stained glass,
window of the soul.

A calling.

Puffs of darkness
The devil's brush strokes
crowded the white,
cloaked around.

We sped forward.
I leapt from the car,
dodged three lanes
of rush hour,
ran down the road,
jumped onto
a magic carpet,
and flew its waves
around and over
the erupting
Vesuvius of weather
for what seemed
like a life
but was really
not even
so very far.

Talked to Dog
the whole way.

We landed safely.

What a ride.
Even have a photo
that I can show.
Cell phone technology's
pretty good,
you know.

And that's me story.
Not much else to tell.



Close your eyes.

Like a bee,
you're pulled
to a flower.
Evolution's glory,
but now handcrafted,
man made, warped.

Tiles and tiles
of art
on some cloth.
A thousand shades
of oil,
by chance control,
our galaxy of thought,
many years.

Pink thrushed
to red,
yellow mushed
to middle,
a show pushed
to perfect
in life's go rush
to replicate.

A look will shame
your mind's picture,
when words are still wet,
paint dry.

Nature knew her first,
then its creator,
with blessings,
not yet you.

If your eye's distracted,
leaves these words,
looks for pattern,
seeks form,
finds one,


Imagination unneeded,
never to return.
Soiled by a glance,
your creativity tamed,
no longer wild.

Look away.
Hear the poem.
Dream the unseen.



Team names

A shot of alcoholics,
A needle of addicts.

A rude of comedians,
A face of clowns,
A silence of mimes.

A gaggle of geese,
not a giggle of funerals.

A play of children,
A care of nurses,
An arrogance of doctors,
A moan of patients.

An expression of programmers,
A rhyme of poets,
A rule of bureaucrats,
A hope of dreamers.

A chart of cartographers,
A forest of dendrologists,
A swarm of entomologists,
A sentence of etymologists.

Untied dyslexics.

A salad of horticulturalists,
A muddle of impressionists,
An incognate of intellectuals,
A feather of ornithologists,
A mob of moffs,
A grope of Greeks,
A rope of hangmen,
A disgrace of politicians,
A slumber of government,
A ménage of spiders,
A spread of virologists,
A cage of zoologists.

A count of mathematicians,
A pack of dealers.
A fight of beliefs.

A skin of cats.

A flush of goldfish.


Why? Zed

A four-year-old questioning lad
asked, "Dad, what do you do?"

"I'm gettin' a Ph.D.," he was told.

"What's that?"

"Oh. One must find out something
that nobody else in the whole world knows,"
was the reply.

Oh, my!

To the lad's great surprise,
he had just discovered
that adults don't know everything.
The next question,
he asked to himself,
"What ever don't they know?"

(Nearly everything, as it turns out.
And much of what they think they know
is often wrong too.
The earth is round, not flat.
The sun doesn't go around the earth.
'Cos many mistakes abound,
don't fear to doubt what you hear.
Think about what you're told.
Any flakes, or fakes, or simple lies?
Be bold -- believe in evidence,
cause, and luck.
But let's not get stuck
on such a wild idea.
It could be wrong.
We should move along
with our boy's story.)

So what does a boy do
when he hasn't a clue
where's the boundary
between the known and unknown?
He asks many, many questions,
and then many, many more,
just to make sure.

"Why's the sky blue?"
Dad's an engineer,
so his answer's way too
complicated for the lad.
"Mumble, mumble, wavelengths,
mumble, mumble."
"Are you joking? I'm four!"
is not expressed.
Enough said.
Dad clearly knows.

And the lad's on to more stuff.
"So why's the sea
sometimes blue
and sometimes gray?"
And on it goes.
It gets tough.

His teachers despair at the disruptive lad.
A questioning machine.
Too much to answer.
And the lad doesn't even seem
to listen to what they reply.
Just questions and more questions.
Why? Why? Why?

And neither does his mum understand.
"Why doesn't he ever wait for more
than my answer's first few words?"
she wonders.

"Simple efficiency, Mum.
No need for your whole answer,
if my real question is
'Do you know? Yes or no?'"
was never said.

The boy's poor brother didn't
learn to talk for years.
No need. Everything possible
was asked by his personal interrogator.
Why? What? Where? Who? How?
And on and on it went.
Time well spent
in a quest to define the unknown.

Eventually, exhausted, the clever dad finds
a simple answer to the boy's every "Why?"
-- "Zed."

"What's zed?, Daddy", the boy questions.
"As in ex, why, zed," the father replies.
And they're through.

The boy must now do
with what he's gleaned
from his tired, spent elders.
He has gained a great grasp
of what they know and don't.
'Tis time for him to explore
and discover the unknown.
He has a fun life ahead.

And y'all do too.
But it's time for bed.
Ask many questions of your dreams.
All I've got for you right now is "Zed!"
But if you're good, there's more tomorrow.
Night. Night.
I love you.

Believe me or not.



Add apple and ant
Bat boat bird bog
Cat cuddle
Dog do done door
Fed food fly face fog
Go goat
He help who hope how?
It icky
Just joy, Jack, John
Kid kick king
Lick, like, love
Me Mum, mice, men
No not now
'op along on
Put pull push play pig
Quite! Quick quack
Run rub rot rob rat
So sow say see
    saw suck sea
Tell toe tea time ta
    two too to t'
Up ugly under
We wood wet way
    wise won when
    why where what?
Ye yes you
Zoo Zeus zed


Just say know

As parent I say
Know. Know. Know.
Simply know.
Absolutely know!

So does your child cry
Know. Know. Know.
Simply know.
Absolutely know?

We miscommunicate.

Read these words,
not my lips.


Moth math

Unmuzzle your mind.
Here's a puzzle.

Let's say you find
two moths at a light,
each night,
for a week.

How many moths all told
did you seek?

Okay. Think away.

Your reply could be just two,
the most seen at once.
Or multiply two by seven
and be bold, say fourteen.
What about eleven
in between?

All are possible.

Now why?

Were the moths that came
every night the same two?

So don't just count the things you see.
Learn about their change over time.
When there's date after date
you should study their turnover rate.

If the number of moths is x,
this riddle might help:
what's after c,
former wife,
before e,
English drink that rhymes with pee.

Understand the simplicity
and complexity
of dx/dt
and its components.

Now get a life,
mark your moths,
and solve the puzzle!


How rumours begin

Mummy, where
do polar bears
come from?

Let's start at
the very beginning,
a little after
"Once upon a time,
one little moth
braved it in through
the night's bitter cold
to beat its brothers
at life's game."

First, doubt your parents,
no matter what you want to believe.

Then your teachers,
who seem to know everything.

And your preacher,
who doubts not the word.

Then your government,
as wise grown ups do.

The press sells papers.
So they have an agenda.

The man with sweets,
he does too. Beware.

Don't buy everything
they say.

Trust only the poets,
who know and don't care.
They alone can tell you
the pure truth.

Polar bears...

They're white rabbits
that ate all their food
and grew up to be big
and strong.

So eat your dinner.
It's nearly time for bed.



Good morning,
word jumble
in my brain,
as Dog and I go
to face the rain.
I mumble,
"Where hides the Poet Bee?"
Does Beetle know?
She's with her friends,
Moth, Fly, and Flea,
warm within my beard.
Beetle done with it.
Insane. Too weird!

Fri Nov 16 20:41:31 CST 2018
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