If not fame, then humility
If not fortune, then contentment
If not genius, then judgment
If not talent, then persistence
If not passion, then nothing
For nothing less will suffice.

 

Dallas, 1968, thoughts in medical school.

Nothing good
There is I know
About a cold
Except it goes away.

Some day.

 

Colorado Springs, 1972, a medical officer, US Air Force.

“Getting old is really something,” Little Muh complains.
Small, getting smaller,
Barely consequential,
Little Muh’s not as big as before.

“I didn’t always look like this, you know,” Little Muh exclaims.
Small, almost tiny,
Clearly incidental,
Little Muh couldn’t get much closer to the floor.

“I never thought this would happen to me,” Little Muh explains.
Small, nearly gone,
All but invisible,
Little Muh hardly is anymore.

 

At Lynwood Ranch, 1978, talking with my wife’s petite, aging grandmother.

Wonder why men get
Bald more on top than the
Bottom?

And not on the sides
Where they’ve generally
Got’em?

‘Spose it’s the wind
That blows the hair
Off’em?

Maybe that’s why they
Wear hats and why they won’t
Doff’em?

 

Dallas, 1981, watching my baldheaded neighbor rake his yard on a windy day wearing his baseball cap.

Age does things to people I was told,
Though I really couldn’t conceive it,
That in my case I’d ever grow old.
I simply chose not to believe it.

A prince among men I considered myself,
As self-assured and proud as a king.
Nothing was there to bother my health,
Especially not stuff that old age brings.

No eater was there more regal than I,
As robust and royal as was possible.
When it came to choosing my pie.
My love for the cherry was unstoppable.

Then one day while eating dessert,
I took a bite and bit down on a stone,
And I thought to myself, “that hurt,”
As the pain in my jaw shot to the bone.

The next day my dentist said with a grin,
“You’ve got a crack there in your tooth,”
And he opened my mouth, took hold of my chin,
And extracted my youth.

 

Dallas, 1983, at the dentist’s office getting my first crown.

Spirit of springtime,
Come into this place
Blow in as a breeze.

Come not as a gush
But as a warm presence
Singing your song.

Make the gentle music
That softly says I am yours.
And you are mine.

 

Dallas, 1983, sitting at an open window in April.

Some days my piece of the pie seems awfully small,
But, given the similar size of my neighbor’s. It’s
Fair enough and likely all either of us can handle.
Jaw wise.

 

Lynnwood Ranch, Texas, 1984, on Thanksgiving Day.

The best argument for believing
There is, is the wanting to.
What’s inside we call soul always does.
When earthly certainties fail and fall away,
The wanting to remains.
And thank God for that.

 

Dallas, 1985, in church on an Easter Sunday.

The sound that you hear
At graduation this year
Is the rustling of wings
That every June brings.
And the reason we sigh
Is that they’re ready to fly.

 

Dallas, 1986, at my son’s high school commencement.

Stuff of value doesn’t float,
Weighted beneath the bottom sand
Treasure awaits the silt-sifter.

 

Dallas, 1986, my son goes off to college.

Success is a bowl of effort
Flavored with a pinch of talent
When available.

When not, just stir harder.
Few can taste the difference.

 

Dallas, 1987, random thoughts.

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only for an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

 

New England, 1923, Robert Frost, Yale Review.

Nothing gold can stay is true,
Of nature’s colors it’s her briefest hue.
Her early leaf, the flower, soon fades.
So, morn lapses into afternoon shade.
So, after Eden all things must change.
Yet texture, not tint, is what sustains.

 

Dallas,1986, at my son’s high school graduation.

There was a time when I could call time out
Two weeks between one year and the next

Not because I wasn’t ready for the pitch.

Later I was happy with a week off the roster,
The old seven days play that the ump couldn’t

Call as an out because I was already on base.

Today I’d settle for a day out of the lineup,
Twenty four hours to eat peanuts and sip a beer,

Or just to sit down between innings would be nice.

 

Dallas, 1987, another Christmas spent on call at the hospital.

There are many kinds of love in the world,
Like the love of a family, of a boy for a girl,
Like that of two friends, or that of two lovers,
Or the kind that’s saved especially for mothers.

There’s the kind that’s reserved for a dog or a cat,
Or the kind that’s meant for a coat or a hat.
There’s the kind that’s subject to luck or persistence,
Or the kind that’s determined by events or by distance.

And yet there’s one kind that never changes,
Never fades, never frays, nor rearranges.
It’s the kind that follows the birth of a child
Made indelible by that very first smile.

 

Dallas, 1988, on my daughter’s eighteenth birthday.

Rain fell onto the tree over me
Rattling leaves onto my lap
For a solemn moment of surprise.
Wind blew the leaves away,
Sun pushed through the wet,
And dried me off.

 

Dallas, 1990, sitting on the deck during a brief summer shower.

There’s enough that’s shocking in this life
Without lights that come on without switches.

Where’s the firm-fingered snap that says,
“I take responsibility for my actions.”

What’s next in a world where lamps
Make their own decisions?

 

Dallas, 1991, visiting a house with clap on/clap off lamps.

“What,” said the boy, “is the meaning of life?”
“Listen to us,” said the people, “and we’ll tell you.”

“To me,” said the mother, “I’m the one who meets your needs.”
“To me,” said the father, “I’m the one who provides your example.”
“To me,” said the friend, “I’m the one who makes you feel good.”
“To me,” said the teacher, “I’m the one who teaches you skills.”

“All well and good,” said the boy, “but what is my answer?”
“Who knows,” said the people, “but it’s the best we can do.”

“Still,” said the boy, “am I to grow up without knowing?”
“Yes,” said the people, “but by then you’ll have forgotten the question.”

 

Dallas, 1992, sitting in church listening to a sermon on the meaning of life.

Why do you come?
I said to the Rose,
Why are you here?

To silence the cries within me,
The Rose replied,
To not hear them weeping.

Who weeps?
I said I to the rose,
Who is it that cries?

Flowers inside me,
The Rose replied,
That will never blossom.

What can I do?
I said to the Rose,
How can I help?

Stop our suffering,
The Rose replied,
And offer us solace.

Sleep then, sweet girl,
I said to the Rose,
And to the flowers who won’t bloom.

And perhaps to dream,
The rose said,
Of what might have been.

It’s the least I can do,
I said to the Rose,
And, the most.

 

Dallas, 1995, visiting a childless young nurse, Rose, dying of cancer.

Why I climbed the stair wasn’t there
When I got up in the air.
So, I came down to the ground
And looked all around.
But the intent of my descent
Had already went.

 

Dallas, 1998, coming to grips with the beginning of forgetfulness.

“Don’t say old,”
Says my wife,
“Just say ‘getting older,’”
Like old was a bad thing.

Not comfortable,
Like my gray flannel shirt
Hanging in our closet
Bought one Sunday in Colorado.

Not useful
Like my tweed touring cap
Purchased in a rain storm in England
That my grandson now plays in.

Not even beloved
Like my wife herself
From as far back as I can remember
Or would ever want to.

“Sorry, my dear,”
Says I,
“Old is good enough
For the likes of me.”

 

Dallas, 2005, looking in the mirror on my Christmas Day 62nd birthday.

Beauty, intelligence,
Wealth, and power
Make you famous.

Patience, tolerance,
Generosity, and kindness
Make you happy.

 

Dallas, 2006, from my book of life’s lessons learned.

Think of golf as if it were
A metaphor for life as you
Stand on the tee box and
Get ready to swing away.

The next hole could be
A new day filled with
Promise and the hope that
Offers something better.

Forget the last hole and
The slice that led to the
Errant iron shot that left
You in that lousy sand trap.

That took two shots to
Get out of and onto that
Lightning fast green fifty
Feet from the frigging hole

Which resulted in a four putt
And the triple bogey that ruined
Your entire round and fouled
Up your whole dadgum day.

Come to think of it. Never mind.
 

Dallas, 2007, one year after taking up golf.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence;
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

 

Robert Frost, 2014, in deference to greatness.

Just a sprig brought home from the nursery
Costing ten dollars or twelve or some such
Planted in a tiny springtime hole in the yard
Out front with some work but not very much.

A double flowering peach was what the man
Said who seemed to know how it takes awhile
To get growing and that never matters to a tree
Planted in a comfortable garden or to a child.

All the time in the world and everything’s new
In the soft rain and the warm sun on smooth
Barked limbs laden heavy with thick blossoms
Busted out without warning from every groove.

Years go by and years upon years until one day
Crust cracks here and there and sticky sap runs
Down twisted trunks and makes uncertain turns
Despite the best efforts of the rain and the sun.

Yet blossoms continue to come year after year
Unchanged in their beauty as in their intent
To affirm and to celebrate wholly and not be
Discouraged or put off by the parts that are bent.

In the end as in the beginning the circle rounds
With dust to dust and new life that remains
Measured, stacked by nature, and waiting for
All the time in the world to begin once again.

 

Dallas, 2008, looking at the springtime blooms on my neighbor’s ancient flowering peach tree and pondering the circle of life.

She never wants to be the belle of the ball
Or in any way different or to stick out at all.

It matters not a pinch, not a pound or a poo
How much you love her, only that she loves you.

The important thing, the thing that astounds
Is how she treats others is way out of bounds.

To be with her friends in those moments spent
She never complains about where the time went.

She shares herself with the best of intention,
As she focuses on you and pays full attention.

No stranger gets past on our walks up the street
Everyone gets their hello as I look down at my feet.

Whenever she’s sick, she never does fuss
But hops out of bed and takes care of us.

If you were starving and starting to beg,
She’d cut on the stove and cook you an egg.

If you were freezing and shivering at night,
She’d go get a blanket and tuck you in tight.

If you were crying, she’d listen to why
And make you better before letting you by.

Whatever you break she’ll try hard to fix
And give you a lift up out of your ditch.

She never points out the bad stuff we do
Or puffs herself up to be bigger than you.

Regular folks like us just don’t understand
Going out of our way to give others a hand.

If goodness like hers begins in the blood
Then hers is as thick and as natural as mud.

If the truth were told and boiled in a pot
She’s the belle of my ball. Like it or not.

 

Dallas, 2009, a Valentine ode to my wife.

A head’s full of words
Like a tree is with birds
Like Le Sueur is with peas
Or a goat is with cheese
Like a cow is with milk
And all things of that ilk.

As much meaning as sound,
Words get tumbled around
Like a hog does his bacon
Or plates they put cake on.
Like wind ends as a breeze
It’s best if they please.

The thing that strikes at the gut
Is the who and not the what,
Like a brute with his mate,
Or someone’s color and hate.
Words don’t cause pain
Without a mouth and a brain.

 

Dallas, 2010, random thoughts while watching the news on television.

Now I’m ten, I’ll take me a little walk
So, I can take my turn.
To see what I’m meant to see,
And learn what I can learn.

I’ll start here at my mother’s house
And take me up the street.
Until I find myself a way away,
And meet who I’m to meet.

The corner comes and ‘round I go,
So, I can take my turn.
To find out what there is to know,
And learn what I can learn.

Now I’m ten, I’ll choose my own path
When I take me up the street.
Until I find what I’m ‘sposed to find,
And meet who I’m to meet.

Only it’s getting dark outside
Since I made my turn.
And there must be some other way,
To learn what I can learn.

I should have brought a snack along,
As I take another turn.
An empty tummy makes it hard,
To learn what I can learn.

It’s colder now and I forgot my coat
As I take me up the street.
And I’m getting a little bit afraid,
Of people I might meet.

I’ve gone all the way ‘round the block
As I take me down the street.
And I’m thinking I should wait a while,
To meet who I’m to meet.

Maybe when I’m eleven or twelve or so,
Then I can take me up the street.
My warm coat filled with peanut butter crackers,
To meet who I’m supposed to meet.

Now I’m ten, I’m walking up my front walk,
And here’s what I have learned.
To go inside, hug and kiss my mother,
Before she gets concerned.

 

Dallas, 2011, a late afternoon spent with my ten year old grandson as he struggled with his desire for independence.

White stripes etched on black all around,
While warm inside I watch from above
Out my window and looking down upon
My roof top toward the frozen ground
Gripped by icy fingers in a brown glove.

Struck by a sameness and solemnity of line,
I accept brief and welcomed contentment
Filled with comfort and peace of mind
That eventually must be paid back in kind
By a straightening of limbs that were bent.

Tomorrow the sun returns to the street
With a dripping down from overhead.
But tonight, I am struck by what lies at my feet,
Not a pledge of victory nor of defeat,
But falling fat flakes coaxing me to bed.

Not changed but never the same,
After watching snow fall and roses climb.
And listening to nature as she exclaims.
With a quiet heart, she presents and remains
True to a story told only by time.

 

Dallas, 2012, looking with wonder out my upstairs study window at frozen roses clinging to a trellis during a December snow storm.

Families with underpinnings
Pushing their white trunks upward
Keeping pace with their neighbors
As they stretch toward the sun.

Shedding limbs as they climb,
Leaving behind dark eyes.
Ancient onlookers who keep
Watch and refuse to forget.

Wise beyond our comprehension,
Well-instructed, these motivated
Savants offer no advice and they
Give no consent.

While we, like cut roses
Laid down upon earthy graves,
Wither and die, uninformed by
Those who know but won’t say.

 

Colorado, 2013, thinking about mortality in a November Aspen forest high in the Colorado Rockies.

My wife and I walk almost every day, rain or
Shine, cloudy or sunny, feel bad or feel good
Doesn’t much matter to us as long as we’re
Getting outside the house to see nothing too
Big, just the small things that make up a life.

Like having to give way and cross the street to
Let a young mother of twins have the right of
Way for her double sided stroller. Or to avoid
Being barked at by the fenced up dog at the
house at the far end of first block after ours.

Or talking to Ben at the park and his old dog
Ralphie who wears a sweater even when it’s not
Cold and doesn’t bark. Or Lee Otis the big faced
School crossing guard who assures me that
He’s figured out why the Cowboys are losing.

Or to Lee Otis’s wife Rosaline, also a school
Guard up the street, and she and my wife hug
For reasons known only to women with large
Hearts. And I agree with Lee Otis, the Cowboys’
Problem is their owner talks but doesn’t listen.

Small things like the sudden sound of a siren
And the flashing of lights as a fire truck leaves.
Followed by an ambulance and a police car
Driven by good men and brave women who do
Nothing all day but take care of us. And we wave.

Small things like the new houses being built in the
Old neighborhood, and the lawns being cut. And
The trees being trimmed by Jose and by Carlos.
And by hard workers who say “morning” even when
They don’t know what they’re saying. But we do.

And then there’s the springtime Wisteria, purple,
Abundant, beautiful, and sweet on the old fences.
The older the fences the prettier the vine is what
I say. And my wife wonders what that means and
I say, I’m not sure but smell that smell. And she does.

And the freshly mown grass in the summer and
Lingering smolder of early morning fireplaces in
Winter. And the leaves in the fall and the rain. And
If we’re lucky the snow that sticks and makes us put
On our water proof jackets. And we get sweaty.

Like I say nothing much big happens on our walk
Only small things like the sidewalk chalk pictures
Drawn by the little girl next door who’s in college
now and her puppy Daisy who’s getting older. And
getting older is okay when we’re this close to home.

 

Dallas, 2016, reflections on a life time of neighborhood walks.

I have a friend who is dying today.
I have a friend who is passing away.

His eyes are open and so is his heart,
He knows I am sad, and he is doing his part.

He is ready, he says. But ready for what?
What will he see when his eyes go shut?

Will there be others right from the start?
Will he be a whole? Or be just a part?

Will he be able to think and to feel?
Will he be stardust, or will he be real?

Will he know all the answers and soon
Will he be singing his very own tune?

He’s not afraid and seems to know why,
I pray that’s me when it’s my turn to die.

I have a friend who is dying today.
I have a friend who is passing away.

His eyes are open and so is his heart,
He knows I am sad, and he is doing his part.

 

Dallas, 2014, coming to grips with the impending death of my old friend and college roommate.

Old men have spots on their shirts
Because when they look down
At the front of their shirts.

It hurts.

 

Dallas, 2015, upon seeing spots on my shirt in the mirror.

Good things like a wife
You must borrow
But give back tomorrow
Leaving you stripped as with a knife.

No longer to be found
At the worst possible of times
In a song without rhymes
With a tune that no longer sounds.

That you didn’t see coming
Leaving you alone in the wind
Searching for glue that can mend
Like buds blooming or wings humming.

Yet flowers won’t grow nor birds fly
When your life has been diminished
By the feeling you’re being punished
For a crime and don’t know why.

 

Dallas, 2016, upon hearing of the unexpected death of a friend’s wife.

One thing that can never be found is Allison’s cat.
He’s never wherever he’s supposed to be at.

He’s not in the closet nor on the chair.
He’s not in the bathroom nor on the stair.

Really, oh really, we never know where.
He’s not in the closet nor on the chair.

Surely, oh surely, he’s got to be there.
There in the bathroom or on the stair.

Sooner or later, he’s gotta come out.
Outta wherever he’s nosing about.

Outta the room at the end of the hall.
Chewing his mouse or batting his ball.

And look up at us with a curious grin.
And wonder wherever we all have been.

And fall to the rug as if shot with a shell.
And act nonchalant like everything’s swell.

Purring his purr and licking his toes.
Doing the job that every cat knows.

To never be wherever he’s supposed to be at.
The thing that can never be found, Allison’s cat.

 

Dallas, 1996, tracking down Russell, my daughter’s elusive big black cat.

One day when I was alone and afraid
I met a homeless man with coffee-colored skin
Electric black hair, and quickly pleasant blue eyes.
I gave him what money I had. He took my hand,
pulled me to him and touched his forehead to mine.
He blended my white with his black and prayed for me.

Not for this thing or for that thing but only for me.
He was grateful that I was. And he thanked God.
I turned away, but when I returned, he was gone.
Though I gave him only money, he gave me much more.
Not changed, I remained afraid,
Yet I knew I was not alone.

 

Dallas, 2017, having been diagnosed with pancreas cancer and meeting my Christmas angel for the third time.

Everybody loves things,
Especially old things,
Like letters and rings.
Big things and little things,
The tall and the short,
And the comfort they bring.

Things that have been touched
And have touched in return,
Memories that clutch at the heart.
Things that remind us,
Of those whom we have loved,
And have loved us in kind.

 

Dallas, the new year 2022, at my desk surrounded by mementos of my parents.

I was born different, had trouble drawing
A straight line, and trouble writing my name.
But I could run fast.

I lived in the country with my parents,
And had a bent over willow tree in my backyard.
Which was crooked like my best friend, Charles Hopper.

Charley had polio and wore leg braces.
And could not run fast like me.
But we were best friends anyway.

My dog, Buff, had only three legs,
And was last to be picked from his litter.
Inexpensive to buy but priceless to me.

Buff could walk up our willow tree with his three legs.
As could Charley with his leg braces.
As could I with my wiggly lines.

We would sit together up in our willow tree fort
Built for us by my war-saddened father. Looking out
At the squirrels that chased about in our back yard.

And at the rumbly old cat who sneaked in from next door.
Up to no good. And in need of close watching.
And we three would watch him. Closely.

Buff would finally clamor down and chase them away.
His three legs were not enough to catch them.
But they were enough for the trying to.

Like Charley’s crooked legs, and my crooked lines,
And my dog’s crooked three legged waddle,
Our crooked tree was plenty for us.

Charley and I were different, but we had squirrels,
And a rumbly old cat who wanted close watching.
And a bent willow tree, a three legged dog. And each other.

We were not the same as everybody else.
But we were the same as us.
And we were just fine.

 

Dallas, 2023, looking at an old black and white picture album and recalling distant childhood memories.

On the day you die, you will be ushered
Through the outer gates by Archangel Gabriel
And placed into a quiet room with many others.
All hoping for admission into Heaven. You will
Be left on your own without instruction and
Have to decide for yourself what to do.

Two doors, one in front and one in back
Suggest the potential for a lining up. A
First come first serve sort of a deal.
Like the life you just left on Earth.
And how did you handle that? Pushing to
The front or allowing others to go ahead.

Some of you, like you did on earth, will line
Immediately up at the front door and secure
Your best position possible, as close to the
Front as you can get. Saving no place and
Making no allowance for anyone behind who
Is not as strong nor as capable of succeeding.

After all, those with more to begin with should
Be first, where they were intended to be. Using
Their earthly advantage to secure their best possible
Place in line. Pushing to the front door that leads
Into Heaven. Behind the Archangel Gabriel who
Brings the good news and keeps the gate.

The line will form quickly. And the quiet give way
To the bickering and the on line clamoring that
Jockeying for a better position invariably causes.
Then Gabriel will return through the back door.
“Turn around everybody,” he’ll announce in an angelic voice,
“And come this way.”

 

Dallas, 2024, thinking with my heart and not my head.

A writer who writes books or plays
Or poetry, especially the kind that does not rhyme,
Should remember Alexander Pope’s admonition:
One truth is clear, whatever is, is right.

A writer must then start with whatever is,
To show the real ins and the outs of the world.
And not turn away from the mirror that reflects
Only what is truly there.