The Lizard Inside

The lizard inside me luxuriates in
the geographic center
of the summer sun’s presentation.
Fully tucked beneath its
blanketing, I am nearly invisible.
At last, I’ve blended into
the wind-carved silence of thought.
Open-mouthed in the haze,
I await the stretching shadows to
capture my attention.
When gravity tugs down the sun,
I will deign to blink.
But not before my cold-blooded
companion, the moon,
commands I recognize the need.

Asking Price

Schooled in capitalism during
the American 1950s,
I learned to negotiate whenever
Father in kinder moods
deigned to throw me over his
shoulder, saying I
was a heavy sack of potatoes.
He would spin me dizzy,
then stop before Mother to ask,
will you buy or not,
to which she most often replied,
only if it promises to
comply with the bedtime rules.
Sensing indulgence,
I’d demand that Father twirl me
again, in hopes of
extracting a better asking price.

Betwixt And Between

Betwixt and between,
dawn pauses on the doorstep before
totally erasing the last
bright stars from the night’s slate.
Vainglorious despite
a broadening horizon, the streetlights
still try to point the way.
Sleep dangles on a loosened knot.
Dark’s splintering
has imploded into fragmented dreams.
Nonetheless, the sudden
dimming of a thousand light years is
noted only by the birds.
A member of that tribe, in communion,
you savor the host on
your tongue before true day begins.
Reverence only deepens
upon transmutation as, now aroused,
time finally exhales.

A Boat In The Garage

He has been building
a boat in his garage for twelve years
as through his busy
afternoons he listens to conspiracy
talk radio programs.
Common sense should inform that
either the boat is too
big or his garage door is too small.
Nonetheless, I’m told,
he knows the sea will come to him.
After all, he explains,
momentarily silencing a radio’s blare,
the rising flood of
fake news will soon drown the truth.
When its tide finally
comes to tear these four walls down,
floating, he’ll survive.

The Story Of Ireland : A History Of The Irish People / Neil Hegarty

While supposedly a comprehensive history of Ireland, what is missing in Neil Hegarty’s book is detailed description of what life was like for commoners living day to day throughout the country’s troubled history.  Narrowly focused, the concentration is on the Ireland’s broader political events, rather than the experiences of the general population.

The book traces Ireland’s history beginning at 433 AD, with a focus on world events that dictated the shape of the Ireland that we know today.  The British dominant role in the country is highlighted throughout.  By the book’s end, as the divided country enters the 2010s, the author suggests that the two halves are closer to unification than not.

Hegarty concludes with the financial crisis of 2008.  With events since then such as Brexit and the ongoing political landscape, chances for a unified Ireland seem even more likely.  The Story Of Ireland is by no means a definitive history, but its overview opens the door for interested readers, encouraging them to seek out more detailed works that will fill in the many gaps.

Summer’s Haikus

Trumpeting angels
worthy of a cathedral––
daylilies in bloom

Beans, potatoes, squash––
the paths laid between, Roman
roads now overgrown

Taxing mosquitoes–
charred hills in July, shade comes
at a premium

Gardeners humbled––
the effortlessness of ditch
flowers’ profusion

Winter’s myth defied––
today’s bare feet will become
legend soon enough

Adam and Eve heard
this same ripened siren call––
why not take a bite

In shortening days––
roots urge the top-heavy vines
it’s now or compost

Open Sky Highways

What a relief
those open sky highways are closed
to us now.
How tiring it was to be continually
tempted by
the sparkle of a better elsewhere.
Today, stuck
in humdrum existence, we find new
reasons to live.
Fresh eyes mining the mundane for
hidden jewels.

Having become
the destination, we await the wind
dockside.
Today, it arrives tropically seasoned,
tomorrow, it could
be a jambalaya of mixed continents.
How wonderful
it is to stand still and let the world
come to us.
Leaning into a gale’s presentation,
wings sprout.

Circa 1960

The sizzle of a summer day
has been dampened by evening dew.
Your family of six arrayed
under the stars on folding lawn chairs.
That band around the moon
betrothing it to the possibility of rain.

Heat lightning punctures
the night, a ghost on its soundtrack.
You’re still breathless after
a barefooted hunt to capture fireflies.
Fearing the pronouncement
of closure, best behavior is ensured.

In the moment’s magic,
even a flying saucer seems possible.
After all, whoever expected
to now be feasting on a fudgsicle.
To this day, you cannot
remember being carried off to bed.

Constellations

Persistent through the years,
even after the flame of her red hair
required the help of dye,
every summer on Mother’s arms
a genetic peppering of
freckles would ebulliently appear.
From wrist to blouse,
up and back, a jostling parade
confounded the ability of
calculating curiosity to decipher.
If only that road map
had not proved to be so ticklish.
Still haunting my dreams,
the constellations undiscovered
by a finger’s gentle trace.