The Ancient Prayer Of Trees

 Ancient Prayer of Trees
 
Dear Lord,
 Most High Creator of  
 roots
 trunks
 bark
 branches
 leaves
 and fruit,

 grant me but an inch of loyal dirt,
 black and rich with nutrients,
 a drop of cooling water, 
 and the gentle warmth of morning sun. 
 
i’ll share my shade with all who linger, 
 and cope
 (as best i can)
 
with children's swings, 
 heart carvings,
 (Phil Loves Katie)
 hardheaded woodpeckers,  
 and  rickety tree houses.
 
One more thing:  
 please, please,  oh please 
 forgive me
 for bearing silent witness to
 lynchings. 
 Amen

Don’t Try This At Home

Don't Try This At Home

The last time
i
tried this

maneuver

it took

the neighbor lady,

an Uber driver,

the kid up the street,

and a rusty wheelbarrow 

to load me

into the back seat

for the trip to

Tucson Urgent Care.

When A Man Goes His Own Way

 When A Man Goes His Own Way
 
Mother and Child struggled alone—
robbed of all hope by he.
 
His heart built of cold and bone—
never looked back, did he.
 
Mother and Child had it rough—
abandoned and shunned by he.
 
Composed of sturdier stuff—
scrimped and found smiles, did she.
 
She missed his strong, loving arms—
to help and hold, did she.
 
Weary each day, but up to the task—
Dug deep, resilient was she.
 
Where has love gone? she wanted to ask—
vowed so often by he.
 
So competent and clever—
women make do, like she.
 
Her barren life imagined? never!
caused loneliness, did he.
 
She craved to hear his deep voice—
and loud laughter, did she.
 
But divorce offered no other choice—
cheerful songbird, became she.
 
Music and laughter arrived that day—
there was no other way.
 
Mother and child, good as gold, they say—
danced and flourished, did they.

Innocence Abroad

 Innocence Abroad
 
At the hotel check-in counter in Lucerne,
 a travel weary American family of four, 
 on summer break,
 
had just walked across the
 Reuss River
 on the world's oldest surviving truss bridge.
 
They'd also viewed the incredible
 Dying Lion stone carving,
 a tribute to immense bravery.
 
"Your passports, please,"
 the natty clerk said in impeccable English.
 
Tobi Anne, eleven then, 
 a blond braid engineered by her mother's nimble fingers
 hanging mid-way down her back,
 
asked,
 innocent as pie,
 
"Why do you need our passports?"
 
"Because," he replied, 
 "Some people pretend to be someone they're not."
 
"Oh," daughter mine said,  
 a coy grin tugging at her lips,
 
"Who are we going to be tonight, Dad?"

Gone Missing

 Gone Missing
 
She had pressed
the 
autumn leaf 

 between pages 
 578 and 579
of her
college dictionary, 

 a reminder that she 
had visited there 
to better understand

 the word

nuance.

Years later, 
a Seattle detective
hunting for subtle

 clues
as to her 
whereabouts,

 shook out the book
and watched the
leaf flutter to the floor.


 “Let’s go,” he muttered.
“Nothin' here. Musta run off 
 somewheres."

My Pet Peeve

 Pet Peeve
 
I once had an
Airedale named
Peeve.
 
(or she had a human named John).

she was a 
splendid pet 
I sometimes

called Steve.

forgiving me 
that tremor
of the

mind,

Peeve came 
whenever a friend 
 i needed to

 find.
 
she offered me, 
as all dogs must, 
unyielding loyalty,

bottomless love , 
and
unbreakable trust.

Unmerited Finery

 Unmerited Finery
 
She said, “Open wide.”
i did.
she said, “Close down.”
i did.

even though i’m barely
a commoner, 
 more the 
peasant or serf,

she treated me as 
 Royalty,

placing a crown on
an exhausted molar.

“thank you,” i said, 

and hurried home
toward

Buckinghorse Palace
 lest
 i be found out.