New York City, 1970s:

awash in contradictions —

Downtown, 

grit and graffitti lined walls,

pop art and disco

lent a thrumming beat.

Uptown, 

moguls in suits

sent towers of glass and steel

rising in the sky.

At 5 East 54th street,

Larry Ellman’s Cattleman 

stood at the confluence.

A larger-than-life steakhouse,

The Cattleman was part feast, part show.

P.T.Barnum would have been proud.

Broadway filled its booths

alongside businessmen in suits.

In 1977,

my family of five finished 

our chuckwagon meals

then heading outside for

a stagecoach ride.

Yes, a stagecoach.

The Candy apple red coach 

with lemon yellow cushions

sat curbside, complete with 

cowboy-hat clad driver.

You can see the wonder 

in my younger brother’s eyes 

as he listens to the driver 

Prepare us for the journey.

No time machine 

could have been more startling

to his young suburban heart.

Larry Ellman’s Cattleman is no more.

Gone, too, are disco, Andy Warhol,

and any graffiti not sanctioned by the city.

For me, the world is poorer for the loss.

We met for coffee

in the crisp morning hours.

Sitting at an outdoor table,

my friend and I,

both fully vaccinated,

sat a few feet apart

chatting animatedly…

it felt so normal.

At a nearby table,

a woman and her dog were enjoying

the brisk air and rising sun.

Suddenly,

her dog began to howl —

a long, ancient keen

belonging to his ancestors.

An emergency vehicle sailed by,

blinking lights, blaring horns.

The black lab matched

his plaintive howl

to the sirens’ refrain.

“He feels like he needs

to mourn everyone,”

she offered with a light hearted laugh,

until we all realized…

nothing is normal.

The Manitou Island ferry

departs for the mainland

as we stand,

backpacks hoisted on shoulders,

watching from the shore.

The deserted island,

now a national park,

had been a stop for ships

traveling from Canada.

With its deep water harbor,

Manitou offered respite

and wood for ship’s boilers.

But, coal and progress

slowly starved the island of commerce.

Only the ghostly remains of buildings

bathed in evening light

hug the shore,

and a quiet cemetery in the woods

marks the lives

of residents from

a century ago.

Off shore

The wreck of The Three Brothers

lies in the shallows.

Brave souls can dive below

Lake Michigan’s still waters

to gaze at what remains.

A chorus of spring peepers

signal evening’s approach.

The ghosts of Manitou

keep us company

as we make camp for the night

amid glorious evening light.

*poem inspired by Lynn Adams’ Evening Light & Linda Rief

Gray, downy feathers

drift slowly

toward the ground,

like the first flakes of snow.

High on a branch,

bent with cherry buds,

sits a red-tailed hawk,

resting on the limp remains

of an early morning meal.

Chocolate brown feathers

fold down toward

a cinnamon red tail.

A quick swivel

of the bird’s head

reveals a piercing yellow eye.

Understanding is quick,

prey never has a chance.

Glancing up

at the night sky

I notice

whisper-thin clouds

racing across

the moon’s pale light .

Momentarily disoriented,

my eyes return

to the slow moving evening.

Do the clouds

know something I do not?

A quickening breeze

rustles nearby branches,

the scent of damp earth

floats along in the wind,

crickets quiet.

The storm creeps in

on soundless feet.

Check your inbox—

I sent you a video tutorial,

the missive began…

I noticed you were struggling

With tech today

I found a work-around

the kind student continued…

I thought it would be easier 

to show you,

rather than tell you

my heart gladdened…

We all need a little direction

every now and then

he concluded.

No matter what this pandemic 

has thrown at students…

kindness and humanity 

shine through

every. single. day.

I thank heaven for my students.

*Photo by youssef naddam on Unsplash

Every once in a while

a lark from the past

pays a visit,

stepping whole cloth

from a hazy memory.

In this case,

a plump, heather gray rabbit

on the damp grass

of a neighbor’s lawn.

The remembered rabbit —

a long-eared Holland Lop–

joined my college household

on a whim.

Tired of studying for exams,

my roommate and I headed to the local pet store

in search of distraction.

Cadbury Baxter was everything

you would want in a college friend —

gentle, adaptable, a good listener.

On warm spring days,

We took Cadbury Baxter

to the center

of the Michigan campus

to nibble grass

and garner fans.

The rabbit in my neighbor’s yard

hops off to new territory,

just as Cadbury Baxter did

when we graduated

and he took up residence

in a preschool classroom,

happily enchanting

a new generation of admirers.

A simple question in my inbox

from an earnest eighth grade boy,

“How do you write a poem?”

“I am stuck.”

For this student,

a well crafted mentor text

was enough

to move the young writer

from standing still

to a steady jog.

But, in truth,

there are a thousand ways to write a poem…

walk out in the sunshine

or steal away in the night;

close your eyes to rewind a memory

or listen to the notes of your heart;

sit daily at a desk with blank paper

and a pencil

or sketch, paint, color

the outlines of a poem;

play a favorite song

or revel in the quiet.

There is no foolproof method,

no secret guide to

crafting poetry.

Instead,

poems are all around us

just waiting to be read.

The path to Al Marah horse farm

began at the end of my street.

Into woods of pine, ash, pin oak,

maple and birch I plunged,

across stepping stones

on the broad Booze Creek,

up the tall grassy hill

on the farm’s backside

and into large, welcoming stables.

Although primarily home to

the owner’s elegant Arabian horses,

the stables leased horse stalls to others,

including my friend Mary’s family.

On days Mary invited me for a ride,

my pace and heart quickened.

Driving by the Al Marah farmland today,

I see large colonial houses dotting the landscape.

Well paved suburban avenues,

adorned with bright streetlights,

have replaced the waving grass

and wooden paddocks of my childhood.

Booze Creek’s natural banks

are hemmed in

by residential tidiness.

“Progress” has wiped clean,

the gentle sounds of

whinnying horses on the hill,

summer insects buzzing,

children splashing across a wild creek.

*palimptest — something reused or altered but still bearing visible traces of its earlier form.

Inspiration for this post: Isolation Journal prompt #144

Although I walk by the line of pine trees daily,

it required intentionality

to notice them.

Clearing my mind of to do lists,

worries, plans,

I set out to drink in

spring’s early offerings.

The nine towering pines

stand in a straight row.

I imagine the trees began life

as a border between homes,

short saplings offering a measure

of privacy in the outdoors.

Yet, in the half century since planting,

the stately pine trees

have soared above the houses,

standing twice as tall as the nearest rooftop.

Large, nut brown pine cones

nestle in soft grass

below the boughs.

Feathery green needles

shift in the morning breeze.

The leathery, mottled bark

of each tree somehow glows

in early morning light.

The pine trees are magnificent.

As for humans,

they care little for our existence,

offering shade and beauty as an afterthought.