Long Busying Poems
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I've watched them through the lockdown
busying before my eyes,
they're not in isolation, wearing masks or sanitized.
Bimbling or bumbling, dependent on their mood
they all serve common purpose in their daily hunt for food.
No need for great philosophy, just simply living lives,
no great debates, no wars or hate, all happy in their hives.
But now the Buddleias are brown, sunflowers droop their heads,
no more long hours of Beesyness around the flower beds.
As quickly as they came, they're gone,
before Autumn's first frost,
those simple little creatures, and without them-
we'd be lost.
This year autumn is the bugs busying the undergrowth hiding under sodden leaves. It is children playing with and collecting acorns that have scattered the ground sporadically as squirrel’s nourishment for the day. It is the rain that drenches the plants once dried up and wilting in the summer sun. It is the showers that leave the glimpse of a rainbow as if in a distant land. It is the rotting of apples unchosen for apple-pie that blustery night where the log-fire is once again alive.
I’m reminded that now it is autumn as I step into that muddy woodland. It is though someone has shaken the trees of their leaves, the earth an array of colours, nut brown, oranges and golden yellows. Yet, soon the season will pass just as a storm leaves just a breeze and we are left nostalgic for the time we spent in these nature-nurturing months.
Just want to wish you Merry Christmas,
And a Happy New Year.
Haven't been on line much,
'Cause I can't see too clear.
I get these awful headaches,
Whene'er I try to read.
It seems I must have surgery,
So my eye sight can be freed,
From these awful cataracts,
That my pleasures do impede,
Of reading and of writing,
And I miss you all, indeed.
They say it will be Spring time;
March or February,
When I will get my surgery,
So I find sanctuary,
In busying my little self,
With other things about.
I still go to work and walk my dogs,
I try hard not to pout.
I miss my writing and the poems,
Of those I've met on site.
But once I\ve had my surgery,
Then things will be alright.
Till then my friends remember,
I miss you one and all.
I miss the fun, comradarie,
Feel the tug of my muse's call.
So Merry Christmas to you,
And a Happy New Year too.
Can't wait till I can read again,
And be back here with you.
The wind rose early with the busying dawn;
And, rushing into the long avenue of beech -
Laid down years ago to accommodate labouring feet -
Began to scatter over neatly cut verge and lawns
With its own inimitable unruly gust, blow and fuss...
Within a cascading maelstrom of vivid bright yellowness.
Against strong trunks, held firm by steadfast roots,
Groans from creaking boughs as they upwardly heaved
Upon frantically thrashing branches showering
rusted, golden leaves;
Carpeting the rough stones below my trampling boots.
A mad kaleidoscope of leaping, swirling, skipping
colour
Where, as a child, I had once rediscovered...
Two green sandstone gate pillars sat well back
That ushered me under this arched, canopied track.
(for Carol)
Sun was shining and West African kora music playing
As I walked through your open front door
Smiling beauty in apron with dinner aromas wafting
Greeting as one old friend to another
So newly met
Full to overflowing with expectation.
How long ago that winter’s day was
As vivid and fresh today
As the light and sounds, sights and smells
So indelibly impressed.
Now with the first of spring
Busying ourselves loading boxes
For another life-changing move,
Silently we each pray it is our last,
But know it won’t be
As time wears us down
And all the things that gave us meaning
Are replaced by something else.
Someday our hobbies and chores
Gardens and trees, pets, birds and bees
Like our aches and pains will prove too much
And we will retreat again
Seeking solace in ever more simplicity.
Until with senses and memory faded
We will be left
With just the sights and sounds
And the light that still lingers
Through the door you so warmly opened
So long ago.
(3/20/26)
Coming back home, after a long stint south,
I passed the blue sign on the turnpike that reads
“Massachusetts Welcomes You.”
Under the “Welcomes,” some Mayflower blooms,
And a chickadee perches there, under the "You.”
I’d seen this bird busying our woods as a boy,
Seen its black helmet with small streaks of white,
Flitting from thickets to rest on a branch,
Or maybe on mother's stone up on the hill.
From there, it’d cheer the winter woods with a call:
“Chicka DEE DEE DEE!”
Standing as still as a young boy knows how,
I’d see how it puffs out its tiny, tan chest,
Then sends forth the words
It hopes someone might hear:
“Hello!”
“Please be careful!”
“Let’s share what I’ve found!”
Sometimes, my human chest puffs out as well,
Set to deliver my own human calls:
“Hi, there.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So, where are you from?”
Still, some calls get stuck on their way to my throat,
And with all of my puffing, I can’t get them out.
Whenever I try, I feel misunderstood,
And the message gets lost from one tree to the next.
Chickadee, have all songs for your feelings been found
Or do some stay inside, never making a sound?
Two Aloha-shirted Hawaiians
of generous girth were strumming
their ukuleles
on a small stage in front of the hotel’s poolside bar
in the late afternoon,
rehearsing for the night’s performance.
It must have been the low season,
as both bar and pool were deserted.
and the singer, unburdened
by a leis-laden audience’s
Mai Tai-soaked expectations,
was going through a mele
as if trying it on for size,
his voice loose-limbed with an easy grace.
Wrapped in the ukuleles' lolling strains,
his falsetto notes tumbled out into an
uncongested airspace,
where no ceiling formed by small talk, disjointed laughter
or tinkling glasses impeded their progress,
so they unfurled their wings,
lifted themselves into the hibiscus-brushed breeze,
and climbed,
hopscotching and frolicking on their ascent,
skipping from Tiki torch to treetop to balcony.
Some straggled, loitered on windowsills.
Some, afraid of heights, fluttered back down
to rest on top of beach umbrellas
next to shadows of palm fronds.
Still others hang-glided out over the sand
and the lapis water,
lured by the marigold light.
So that, when they alighted on my
hotel room balcony ten floors above,
they were fragments,
excerpted by the intervening air
from the upflowing cascade into
a broken yet voluptuous murmur,
a soft, lilting South Seas benediction
floating around my head.
I’d just sat down in the balcony chair, alone,
my wife being inside the room busying herself
with the correct placement of luggage
after we’d checked in.
And so it was that I found myself looking out
at the beginnings of a sky-painting Maui sunset
accompanied by air that quietly sang.
Maybe it was my senses unwinding
after the bustle of the journey,
or maybe it was simply that I was caught unawares,
but the feeling of contentment,
the almost Zen-like awareness of the here and now,
that overcame me at that moment was something
no convergence of sights and sounds
has been able to reproduce in the 20 years since.
It was, to be sure, an experience I’d paid more than
a negligible amount of money for.
The irony is that it was the first time
I truly understood the simplicity of happiness.
Mahalo.
The sun dappled patio
irresistibly beckoned
pillowed pad to bedeck
cement spongsbob
square pant sized couch cushions
leapt into field of view
as a posse able a gent
provocateurs silently
conspiring as from
azure heavenly vault sent
thus busying mine hands created
simple bed to cradle this loner meant
as temporary escape from cares
and concerns of uncertain world rent
asunder by craven, frenzied, intractable,
lamentable, offal, rogues hell bent
on up-ending peaceful co-existence
across terrestrial plane where decent
folks (including this writer) live
to enjoy simple pleasures
donned with raiment
acquired thrift-store or yard sale couture
affordable dollar, quarter or cent
thus bagged belongings
comprise wardrobe
since personal preference
to expand content
of body, mind, and spirit triage
in tandem drinking warmth
of solar rays event
like manna to this *****Sapiens,
who when basking
pondered where time went
and on picture perfect summer day
pastoral symphony of nature lent
removed bifocals
to let photons of el sol
this archetype
laughingstock wannabe
of Clark Kent
unaware spouse surreptitiously
snuck up perhaps
to steal a kiss or other pent
up animalistic call of the wild,
which elements of huss style
anathema to a convent
where such nun sense
would be abominable,
but secular mores fervent,
especially when
weather fires imagination
as witnessed by 59+ year spent
mortal male oblivious
to presence of wife
until she planted buttocks and bent
bifocals camouflaged
by matted materiel of a fold-up
metal chair which accent
of Gluteus Maximus crushed
side of frame wear
sole pair of spectacles dent
dislodging right side lens thus
to see in sharp focus
cheeky fate did prevent.