I live on the south-central coast of Oregon.  I am a retired English teacher who lived abroad for a third of my life.  Most of my time is spent reading, listening to a wide assortment of music, and walking everywhere I go, as I do not own a car.  Fortunately, the town in which I live has both a river and a large creek flowing through it, is surrounded by forested hills, and is close to the Pacific Ocean.  As a consequence, walking (even in the frequent rainfall) is a pleasure.  
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Some Jive
for Joseph Glaser


I walk miles each day to stay alive.
Despite your doubts, this is no jive.

Walking past rivers and creeks, I see
herons, otters, ducks, and deer — no jive.

Ambling into the library frees me
from noise of traffic, trains, and all that jive.

Midnight walks remove people from view, 
and I relax, freed from all that jive.

We used to talk, rambling rap, for hours
on midnight street corners.  We really jived.

Admit it Newell, your mouth and feet both
love to ramble.  I tell the truth.  No jive.




​
Perchance to Pollinate


How trivial all words must seem
when
    tossed into the air
                and blown far        and wildly far

and whozit over there shouting punctuate
                            punctuation is linguistic gravity
oh heavy thought oh heavy deed

while whirling overhead children explore all verbal space
    fearless knowing no rules but the abandon of the lift the drift
            of the mind's trapeze
                    the flip and fall and somersault of the clown
oh wild oh freely fallen oh grandly gesturing the lion has eaten the tamer

and we   we spend days on end worrying over a comma a period a deadline a social
gaffe   we   we spend our nights mesmerized by what we have not done in daylight

damn it all "damn everything but the circus" the clown the high flyer the fat lady
the wizard snapping his whip in the center while life surges in every direction and all in
attendance hold their breath

            every comma   every period   every quotation mark
            let them find a home in the stratosphere of life
            where they mean whatever we say they mean

let us pack our bags   hit the road   discover whatever is loose in the universe
let life goose us freely and wildly and let us leap over skyscrapers when she does

ah do you hear the carousel's song summoning us to whirl through the world
over the next hill we may find chaplin   the marx brothers   w c fields
fields and fields of clowns   we may find us returning from a lost childhood





Libiamo Libiamo


His walk, a clock slowing
in its arc toward stillness,

clumps awkwardly in dissolution's
direction without awareness

of anything but where the next
step will be placed to avoid

stumble, tumble, or face first dive.
He hums the brindisi from La Traviata

and surprises himself with a slow
pirouette which ends with him leaning

against a wall, smiling, and waving on
the young couple who stopped nearby

in concern for his well-being; being touched
by their awkward desire to help, he thanks them,

and lurches in their wake, silently laughing,
and wondering if it is possible 

to be intoxicated by song lyrics.  A cold sun 
lights his path homeward.  He resumes humming.