Snow Removal

My back is stooped and achy
my hands are gnarled and shaky
and now the looming forecast
has me feeling slightly flaky,

intense accumulation
has caused my deformation
but lately has me pondering
strategic relocation!

Thawing

The sky is cornflower blue
the sun a daffodil yellow
yon steeple has the greenish hue
of copper left to mellow,

a swollen river’s swirling brown,
red robins rise in number
and people aren’t as quick to frown
when Spring awakes from slumber.

Precipitant

As everything gets blurry
I feel the need to hurry
so I scurry, scurry, scurry
forever in a flurry.

Assistance

Along a desolate degree of road
my rusty ride began to spit and lurch
then died before an ominous abode,
a long unused, dilapidated church.
It looked just like a horror movie scene
the moon above obscured by wispy veils,
I searched for hints of glowing eyes between
the boards that sagged upon corroded nails
but much to my relief I was alone
(at least that’s what I told myself was true)
and once I utilized my trusty phone
I waited for my rescue to ensue,
impatient to be swallowed by the din
that keeps what we can’t see from creeping in.

Drainage

Replenished rapids roar
as bawdy crows implore
me not to throw away
the scraps they so adore

but this is how we live
too self-consumed to give
until it’s all just gone one day
like water through a sieve.

Relief

If it moves you
it’s art,
if not
just a fart.

Calisthenics

I pondered, while ingesting my perfectly seared meal,
the glaring lack of empathy I always seem to feel
then realized while savoring the sweetness and the salt
that most of the uneasiness is sadly my own fault
and my mind did another somersault.

Apparently I look for more than most will ever give
contingent on the caveat that all is relative
for those that show me everything will get ten times from me
but I have yet to be amazed by such humility
that makes my heart do jumping jacks of glee.

Weathered

These mounds of white may indicate
the geezer’s tantrums won’t abate
until we’re leaning just a bit more starboard,
and then perhaps a temperate clime
(while being furthest from sublime)
will make things more amenable where we’re harbored.

Foundation

See the church with its pristine steeple,
a tribute to God from devoted people.
Fire destroyed only plaster and wood
not the bedrock on which it stood,
for love is more solid than any concrete
lending its strength to conquer defeat,
so now as the rafters are joyfully raised
join us in singing Let Him Be Praised!



***Dedicated to the United Presbyterian Church here in Amsterdam, the place looks great.***

Poof

I’ve got my super powers
packaged right beside my Poe
and wiled many hours
devouring to and fro,

it’s hard to segue seamlessly
from someone wearing tights
to beauty captured dreamily
when thought attains new heights—

but all involved are masters
pouring passion from their hearts,
offsetting our disasters
through the magic of their arts.

Position

How plastic can you be?
We shall see, we shall see
petroleum based products are the key
to staying slippery
and keeping all your openings free
of rash anxiety.

Collared

The ambivalence of night is my confessor
insinuating in disembodied whispers
that the darkness emanating from the vespers
is there to cover up the growing fissures.

Covered

I can picture so clearly in my mind a trusted companion from long ago that listened to whatever I had to say and held my secrets close, and still to this day is available for me to reminisce with whenever I want to revisit those days of endless wonder - my first notebook.

It's a battleship gray, double pocket folder affair that is covered with scribbles (mostly lightning bolts - flashes of inspiration?) and has two layers of yellow cracking tape along the spine because of being so packed with the rambling of a young curious mind. The paper inside as varied as the thoughts: construction paper, napkins, backs of junk mail letters, company stationary from several places, and every kind of notebook paper imaginable. Sometimes I pull out the old vault and open it up reverently, remembering the hopeful dreams of the youth that coursed through me. Then I read the stream of consciousness type drivel I was fond of writing at that time and I laugh my ass off. What was I thinking?

But we have to start somewhere right? I honestly cannot for the life of me remember what prompted me to start, but I remember carrying a notebook with me at all times before I was out of high school. My really good friend Joe (guitar playing fool) heard me read one of my poems in class or something and before we knew it we were writing songs. Joe used to jot a line once in a while and I have in this old notebook one of the greatest examples of drunken redundancy ever recorded on paper. I've kept it all these years (just about 30) because it always makes me laugh, thanks Joe.

The happier I am the more I laugh. The more I laugh the happier I get. The happier I get the more I laugh. I laugh a lot when I'm happy, so while I'm laughing I get happier. I like to drink when I'm laughing and being happy. I sit down happy as can be. I order a drink and laugh. I'm happy because the bartender is now laughing at me being happy. I smile because it's always been a habit since I find myself happy when ordering a drink. I laugh at the way I smile because I am happy to order that drink. That drink makes me happy to make me happy to smile and then laugh because I am so happy to be laughing. Thanks to that drink I'm laughing and happier than I was before that drink.

If that doesn't convince people to drink in moderation I don't know what will. I also found one of my old favorites that inspired me to start writing, it is attributed to Anonymous.

Look To This Day

Look to this day.
For it is life,
the very life of life.
In its brief course lies all
the realities and verities of existence,
the bliss of growth,
the splendor of action,
the glory of power...
For yesterday is but a dream
and tomorrow is only a vision,
but today, well lived,
makes every yesterday a dream
of happiness.
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well, therefore, to this day.

Wow it sure has been great going through some memories again. I love words and being creative. I can remember playing scrabble with my Mom and her Mom and her Mom's husband Frank, they all read voraciously, and helped me learn to love language at a very early age. Frank could do the Times Union Crossword puzzle (did it everyday) in about 10-15 minutes, he was quite an amazing person. My grandmother Abbey, who always smoked Kools and drank only gingerale, used to admonish me for my dark poems, she'd say "Nobody will ever want to read that stuff, it's too depressing." Well I fear she was right but I am what I am. But Abbey was also very supportive, and she used to give me clippings of places to send material (mostly poetry.com) which I did a few times. Most everything just got stuck in this notebook though, including a poem Abbey wrote that I'd like to end this article with. She said to me, "When you get famous you can show this to people and tell them this is where you get your talent from." Then she laughed with a twinkle in her eye. Well thanks for believing in me Gram, I doubt I'll ever be well known but you're going out to a global audience and hopefully Mom's with you at rest now.

Thoughts - Abbey Burby 1970

The lightning flashed, the storm raged
The man felt as if he was caged
He looked outside and what did he see
But a rainbow - oh ecstasy.

It was all colors from yellow to pink
It surely makes one stop and think
Life is this way, dark dreary and sad
Until goodness drives away the bad.

Put out your hand to someone in need
Put a smile on your face and plant the seed
Of future happiness, trust and joy
For every young girl and boy.

Brothers and sisters we all are
Whatever our color - whether near or far
Reach for tomorrow everyone, everywhere
For a big wonderful world without care.

Murder

While shoveling I heard a pigeon coo
and suddenly I felt a searing jolt
remembering the one near cut in two
that day a hawk came down like Zeus’ bolt,
which prompted me to ponder if I’d seen
a raven ever play the role of prey,
this morning they created quite a scene
but nothing seems to make them go away;
no other creature cares to take a bite
preferring to lay low when they’re around
until their raucous horde at last takes flight
the snowy valley ringing with the sound,
just proving what we all have come to know
that no one ever wants to swallow crow.

Get Back

Of course the life of royalty
is bound to be abuzz
with those that hang upon their every breath—
don’t make the tale a tragedy
like poor Diana’s was
by badgering the dashing Prince to death.