Brotherhood

My first memory is of

his pushing me so high in 

a swing, I could but cackle

as though tickled on the feet.

Between time I learned from him 

how to throw a curveball with

such finesse, batters would be

mesmerized as they swung, missed.

My last memory of him 

is his pushing me against

the car, grabbing me by my

collar, saying, If you go in my house I wll kill you.

In India, by phone, I 

got word, my brother had died,

but ’twas a long time coming,

not at all unexpected.

The very day he died, I 

dreamt his death . . . then weeks after, 

I did go in his house and

found it knee-high with beer cans 

but for the room where he died

and where I did learn to pray.

Speaking of Close Friends

I think of the few I harbor 

today, knowing that tomorrow 

but one of us will die, leaving 

the rest behind—you must figure,

it’s not likely we’ll disappear 

at once, altogether done in 

by a single catastrophe . . .

oh, what a hoot that would be!

On the other hand, such 

a denouement does happen, 

so it’s thinkable, just not probable.

More than likely we’ll wither

away on the vine of circumstance

one by one, one at the time, by

way of initial conditions . . .

ah, the big bang then big fang!

Still, ’tis my very best guess, 

the end will prove to be but

a new beginning . . . unless

one can figure out a way

to turn loose the mortal coil

and, like the beloved salmon,

swim up stream to the clearest light . . .

empty many, One Only!

Hilarious Lunch, Recollected

Now it comes to me

why my friend and I

laughed so hard at lunch.

First, one of us said,

the worst thing about

retirement, your sphere

of influence shrinks

almost to zero.

And the other said,

but that’s the best thing,

because then you are

responsible for

just about nothing.

Sure, not so funny 

now, but then, at lunch . . . 

a kookaburra!

Lunch, Laughter

At lunch with a friend

We got to laughing

So hard, by the time

We could recover

We could not recall 

Why we’d been laughing.

Word Games?

A poet said on

the radio that

poems are word games—

any more is just

being pretentious.

What if word games are

the very pretense 

of making poems,

putting on an act, 

regardless of things . . .

all the while leaving 

world to languish in 

anonymity,

and poets to be 

swallowed up by words. 

Who would then miss them?

Freedom of Religion?

The very thing of

yore meant to unite

now divides us so

some can express their 

bias as business.

Sleep

Writhing in pain I

find it hard to sleep

so the mind wanders

wondering, Why sleep?

Sleep studies suggest

it is needed for

repair and order

of body function.

Mind function’s at once

addressed, to process

unresolved feelings,

thoughts, wants . . . stresses of

biochemistry,

like adrenalin 

and cortisone

storing guilt and grief.

Evidence points out,

lack of sleep likely

contributes to dis-

ease, forming disease.

On the other hand,

it turns out, the more

we relax, the less

sleep we seem to need.

So the why of sleep

points directly to

its how: find your way

of relaxation . . .

I but watch my wandering mind wonder.

Sooner or later words put me to sleep.