his lightbulb flashed E equals m

times c squared, accounting for

the extra energy created when neutrons

begin to multiply like radioactive rabbits

during an angry nuclear excursion.

But, sacre bleu, m stands not for mass

but for money, c for collusion, not

collision, to Albert’s embarrassment.

George Gamow also badly missed

the target when he envisioned his lewd

Big Bang Theory, aka the Beginning

of the Universe and related destinations.

What he didn’t understand was that

it was Mom and Dad who mothered and

fathered Big Bang, creating G.G. himself.

Leonardo da Vinci was so befuddled by

scientific nightmares that he painted

his most lasting enigma, the curious

smile on the placid face of Mona Lisa,

a peripatetic prostitute and soothsayer.

Mona of smiling face soothsaw that she

and Leo would get serious, freezing for-

ever that smile so beloved by multitudes

of adoring Japanese tourists to the Louvre.

My own theory, in all humbleness, is that

Albert and George and Leonardo would

have made strange bedfellows in today’s

world, their gifts to science ignored by

modern Super-Thinkers – Leonardo di

Caprio, George W. Bush and Albert

Capone, all fiduciaries of the Big Bang.

(Published on 6/21/10 online by Marquis Cafeteria Round Table)

Note:  Just a piece of fluff, the “science” of the piece garbled on purpose.  Long ago, I did attend a lecture by Mr. Big Bang himself, George Gamow, at George Washington University.  It was curious to see how a genius operates:  though brilliant, Mr. G. smoked while onstage (a no-no), didn’t know how to tie his shoes and had to have assistance to blow up a balloon.  I ran into many folks like him – and thank goodness for them! – while a consultant at the infamous Los Alamos Laboratories in New Mexico.

Like those halcyon barks of yore.

You blessed this diminished planet

With your loveliness sixteen years,

Plus a few months – a long time

In doggie years, not near enough for us.

Tears were shed, but not the overflow

Of previous losses, since you gave us

Many years of uninterrupted joy,

Coming to share your zest for living.

Wait for us, pray for us, send your

Vibrations our way so we won’t stray.

Another life awaits us – the lucky,

Chosen few, called to Doggie Heaven.

Note:  We returned from a tour of northern Spain and dear Rosie had waited for us just long enough for last goodbyes.  The most beautiful dog ever, drivers would pull up next to Irene as she walked Rosie, express their admiration of her beauty.  Beautiful in all ways, we missed her terribly but knew it was time.  A week later, we drove down to Colorado Springs to visit another rescue Australian terrier – lovely Princess – and brought her home with us.  Six years old and full of love, she looks amazingly like Rosie, with just enough difference to make a difference.  Moral to the story:  there is none.  We just figured, we needed another dog to fulfill our lives.  And remember:  you have a dog (or dogs, in our case, with nine-year-old Marco, too), then there’s reason for living….and you’ll live longer.

said Enrique, our nimble tour guide,

and who would argue with him, telling us

Spanish olive oil ranked Number One too,

much of it carted to Italy so Italianos

can slap their red-white-and-green label on it.

The Spanish speak four different languages,

each incomprehensible from the other,

making it burdensome for a tour leader

to move around easily and convey knowledge.

But it’s easy to see why the Spaniard lives

so long – he and she walk!  Walk briskly,

everywhere, striding like marathoners,

thinking while ambulatory, only good thoughts,

for frowns are rare, perhaps even forbidden.

The Catholic Church finally gave up

its Inquisitional ways long ago, and cathedrals

are everywhere, offering mass every hour

some days, the godly on strudy bent knees,

defying the church’s supplication to give it

more children, the godly more interested in

the fun part of sex rather than the reproductive.

We did see one rather young fellow in a

mechanized wheelchair, though he seemed

more interested in speed rather than recovery,

probably one of Spain’s many NASCAR nuts.

There is little fault about Spain and the Spanish -

the streets are pristine clean, the highways

uncrowded, maneuverable, the food in great

variety and tasty, the women slim and

fashionable, the men….who gives a shit?

But one fault:  few, very few, speak English.

Imagine that:  we go all the way over there,

toss our dollars at them, and they don’t speak

our language.  Makes you wonder, eh?

Note:  Irene and I are recently back from Spain – Madrid, Toledo, Avila, Salamanca, Zaragoza, Laguardia, Bilbao, and Barcelona – loving every minute of it.  Spain is clean, underpopulated, proud, polite, p0lished, and healthy, both in mind and body.  Immigrants are welcome, to do the unpleasant jobs the natives prefer to hire out.  Think about that a minute.  Their life expectancy is something like 88 years.  So, what’s wrong with us?  Nothing really, and it’s always good to return home, even after a two quick weeks.  We stayed abroad nearly ten weeks once, and I came home, kissed the ground at the airport, immediately went off for a juicy cheeseburger.  Did about the same this time, too.

my mother would ruin

a perfectly good slice of cantaloupe

by dousing it with pepper

until the flesh turned black.

That was then, this is now.

Now, with age, I’ve added pepper

to my repertoire, always fresh-

ground, to season a salad,

crust a grilled steak, flavor pasta

coated with tomato-based sauce,

sprinkle liberally on fried eggs

and the side of grits, even dust

lightly the peanut butter I smear

on my toast – it adds a little s0mething!

Ah, yes, you guessed it – I have

also graduated to grinding pepper

over cantaloupe slices, till

the natural color turns charcoal.

I am, after all, my mother’s child.

(Published, I believe, in 2008 in the wonderful online magazine, Slow Trains)

Note:  My mother rained pepper on almost everything she ate, to the point where it seemed all she would taste was the pepper.  I’ve followed somewhat closely in her gustatory misstep with pepper, though not to the point of killing off all other flavor.  Funny that….don’t know if my sisters and brothers have done the same or not.  Our breakfast growing up often was a big plate of freshly cooked rice, topped with crumbled up bacon and a generous slab of butter.  Lots of salt and pepper, of course, too.  Might have been the Oklahoma (from whence my mother cameth) equivalent to cereal, the poor person’s oatmeal.  For quite a long spell there I was sure we were part Chinese.

being overrun in this out-of-control world

by a bunch of conniving schemers.

So many of us dreaming we’ll win Lotto,

snare the brass ring, have Fate smile upon us,

meet Mr. Right, be the last “Survivor,”

sing our way to stardom on a rigged

talent show, collect an Emmy or Oscar.

Better certainly to have a pipe-dream

than to hatch skullduggery, plot a scheme

like fast-dealing, damned convincing

Bernie Madoff.  Bernie’s evangelical

think-alike in my experience was a cohort

by the name of Gene Nobody, last name

concealed to protect those he duped.

Gene, even into his late fifties, had the face

of a fallen angel, the silver tongue that

made people reach for their wallet,

reap enough greenery to propel Gene into

a Ponzi scam like Bernie’s, only Gene’s

bilked from the goodness of Christian pals -

but Ponzi schemes know no religion.

Gene only separated three million from

church friends before they got wise, a trifle

compared to Bernie’s outrageous billions.

Bernie pulled 150 years, Gene only 120.

Hey, dreamers – fair is rarely fair, so there.

(Published online on 4/12/10 in the Marquis Cafeteria Round Table)

Gene Nobody is a real somebody in my life, though I haven’t seen him – just read about his current exploits in the newspapers – for thirty of more years.  We used to be neighbors, got involved in some insurance business transactions.

Why a good Christian boy – or man – like Gene chose to get involved in the ungodly life of crime (did he know what he was doing, I ask myself) is beyond me.  It’s why I write so much about human nature, often exploring the John Edwards syndrome.  People can be so puzzling.

so he hasn’t had quite enough years

to really get to know Mary,

my mother-in-law, whose funeral

service he’s guiding this cold morning.

Of course, when he visited with her

over the past four years they gabbed

but never quite made contact

because Mary’s communication system

had irreparably malfunctioned:

Alzheimer’s, the great divider.

He’s happily chatting away now up there

in the pulpit about another important

old lady in his life, his grandmother,

whose home at the beach in New Jersey

he loved to visit until she introduced

him to death at age eight, about the same

time he was getting close with God.

He told God he wouldn’t stay with his

grandmother any more if He’d let her

live, and he found out that God

doesn’t make deals like that.

It was a nice story, put a lighter touch

on the funeral.  Mary would have loved it.

I know she would have loved Father

Guido, too.  After the funeral, we all

went for a drive to the beach.

(Published in the Piedmont Literary Review, Vol, XXII, Number 2, 1999)

Note:  Another poem about my dear mother-in-law, Mary Kjersgaard, one of the true loves of my life.  It was a painful four years for Irene and me while Mary wound down to that dreaded invader, Alzheimer’s.  She’s been gone for quite a few years now, but never forgotten.  Her joyous, loving spirit still sustains us.

I was handsome, virile,

strong as an ox

and worked like a slave

because I was a slave -

handsome, virile and strong.

Because I outworked my fellow

slaves, and possibly because

I had all my teeth

and preferred the ladies

to the laddies,

I was chosen as The Chosen One -

the fellow bestowed with the honor

of capping the Pyramid at Cheops

with its uppermost stone.

This really killed me, it really did.

Two lessons:  (1) avoid pyramid schemes

and (2) never be a slave to anything.

(Published in the Fall/Winter 2007 issue of The Homestead Review)

Note:  Is this a message poem?  Read the last two lines again for the answer.  Just a fun poem, again linking me to that mysterious subject, reincarnation.  Do I believe in reincarnation?  I don’t, but all my previous selves do.

to see me this morning -

him waiting for his wife to finish exercising,

me having just showered

after water aerobics.

In greeting, he tells me he had

the craziest dream last night -

he was falling through space

and landed on his head,

which he rubs vigorously.

Again, he reminds me he’s had

Parkinson’s for fifteen years and

he’s originally from California

where the Silicon Valley now is,

from a large family of farmers.

I ask him to tell me more about

his dream, and he asks, What dream?

I tell him I had a crazy dream last night, too -

I was chasing naked girls and

couldn’t catch them.

He looks at me, either bewildered

or fascinated, and asks,

rubbing his sore bald spot,

serious as I’ve ever seen him,

Did you fall on your head, too?

(Published in 2008 online in Chantarelle’s Notebook)

Note:  This conversation with Howard occurred one morning at the Derda Center in Broomfield, CO, where Irene and I go for our workouts.  I love to chat with people, and Howard became a recognizable chat-mate over a period of months.  Most of his parlance was pretty much the same, hum-drum stuff, until this particular morning.  Not knowing quite how to answer his opening salvo about falling through space, I invented a dream of my own – oh, wouldn’t I love to chase naked girls! – and it made him pause and reflect:  maybe thinking, is this guy for real or off his rocker.  His final question was, in my estimation, the perfect response.  Sorry to say, don’t see Howard around any more.

Let’s face it:

Our business

In this country

Is the business of war.

We make weapons,

We sell weapons,

We like to use weapons,

Keeping WMD hidden in reserve.

The stock market climbs,

The economy thrives,

Millionaires become billionaires -

All’s right with our world.

Our President knows

Who we are,

How we respond,

Our natural inclination.

We thrive on war,

Launch into one willingly.

Hell, who’s next?

Bring ‘em on!

Note:  Just got nostalgic today for the good old days.  Don’t you miss George Bush and his gang of terrorists?  Naw, didn’t think so.

Continued to grow,

Wilder and wilder,

Petunias and marigolds and

Pansies peeking through

Weeds grown so thick

The flowers looked like

Prisoners peeking through bars,

Thanks to abundant rain

And my grandmother’s

Inability to leave the second

Floor where she was held

Prisoner in her room

Overlooking the garden,

Things growing wilder

As she too grew weaker,

Choked off from life,

Just like her precious flowers,

By wild, uncontrollable

Growing things.

(Published in the July 2002 issue of Offerings)

Note:  Just in the mood recently to write about loved ones lost.  I’ve written so much about my dear grandmother and her garden, which was maybe  a metaphor of life for her.  To watch that garden go the way it did after she began going downhill was another slow death to witness.  Oh, if only I had this love of growing things back then that I have now.  At least she, Emma Bartlett Boswell Roberts, left me her rich inheritance – the love of working in a garden.  Thanks, Grandma.