THE GAME IS ON

                    This musing and enthusing in the morn
                    Is how, most days, another poem is born
                    While I am sitting in the semi-dark
                    Dreaming up rhymes to hit the end-line mark
                    And conjuring from my semi-conscious mind
                    Some way to make such happenstance designed
                    And even seem intended from the start,
                    Although I know I haven’t been that smart.
                    But truly it’s a mystery to me
                    How anything coherent comes to be
                    Emerging from a mind that’s nebulous
                    And seems spontaneous not sedulous,
                    For sprezzatura is my writing’s aim,
                    To make my mental labors seem a game.

*

MIDSUMMER

                 It’s midsummer and the fairies are abroad                
                 All doing service to their amiable god
                 By casting pixie dust in youthful eyes
                 Inciting ardent passions to arise
                 Which well accords with Cupid’s spritely plan
                 That none shall scape his charms—woman nor man
                 But all be captivated, held in thrall
                 No matter how the object may appall
                 The eyes of those with ordinary sight,
                 So even a jackass may cause delight
                 Until the spell be broken and the truth appear
                 That she has made a monster her own dear—
                 Thus was Tiitania herself beguiled
                 By Cupid who her innocence defiled.

*

KOAN

When the great Zen master Fa-ch’ang was dying,
a squirrel screeched out on the roof.
“It’s just this, he said, and nothing more.”

—Ken Wilber

                    Was that despair, then, or enlightenment?
                    We must assume it was a clear insight
                    Into the Truth of things and heaven sent,
                    A comprehension of our human plight.

                   Just now, near dawn, I’m hearing a squirrel bray
                   Loudly from the height of an oak tree
                   In our back yard to celebrate the day
                   Perhaps, and teach all creatures how to be.

                  Or is he just asserting what’s his turf
                  And warning all his rivals to keep off,
                  A message of no spiritual worth
                  But one to make deriding cynics scoff?

                      I’ll say that squirrel is celebrating day
                      As well as keeping all his foes at bay.

*

IN THE ZONE

                    An undergrad adroitly flashes by
                    On skateboard, cellphone pressed against his ear,
                    Clattering on the sidewalk, clearly high
                    On life, with no calamity to fear.

*

WITH A NOD TO CHAUCER

                    When in September and the year begins
                    For schools and colleges with noisy dins,
                    And all of summer’s lassitude dissolves
                    While students make new scholarly resolves,
                   Then texts are bought and sundry school supplies
                    As brains gone lax relearn to their surprise
                    That they can face the rigors of the year
                    As they advance their scholarly career.

*

MORNING SOUNDS

                    The squirrels are braying and chittering in our oaks;
                    One might imagine they are telling jokes,
                    Although more likely is they’ve spied a cat
                    And are apprising others of just that.
                    Then farther off, the sounds of hammers pound,
                    New houses going up here all around.
                    Planes from the north descend just overhead
                    With tourists who from colder climes have fled.
                    Our feathered fliers cheep and chirp and churr,
                    Alert for feline dangers that occur.
                    The sun is brightening as day fully wakes,
                    Reflecting on our radiant ponds and lakes.
                    Though soundless, the sun’s shining causes stirs
                    Beneath the surface of these calm waters.

*

FROM BEOWULF TO NEMEROV

                    From Beowulf to Howard Nemerov,
                    Our poetry in English has proceeded,
                    A history at which no one will scoff
                    Once all the poetasters have been weeded.

*