The Poet's Room

  "Mug Shot of The Tennessee Three"          The Republican controlled majority in the Tennessee House voted on April 5, to expel all three of these desperados from the legislature. One vote failed to reach a two thirds majority.   Accused of the incredible heinous crime of shredding the States constitution by use of a baby bullhorn. An unbelievably creative crime that would be believable if they worked as a Nashville backup band with an electric guitar and humongous amp. Shredding would just come natural in that case.          Tennessee State Representative Justin Jones, Gloria Johnson and Justin Pearson led chants from the floor of the House, known as the well, calling on colleagues to pass gun control legislation while hundreds maybe thousands rallied outside for for that purpose. This violated one of the most sacrosanct unwritten laws written in invisible ink on the gold plated ass of a Republican Elephant. Or maybe its on the ass of a Republican sitting on a gold plated

             My friend Sandy points at the birth year of a daughter tree, cut down at the age of twenty-six. Pictured below the stump of the Mother tree and behind her the broken stump of her mother; the grandmother tree. Beyond these trees the apartment building where I live, looks out on this small copse of trees. Last year a Humming bird mom nested and raised two young to maturity in the Silver Maple closest to my window.           A  story of organic life and death to be told.  A floodplain tree Silver Maples can live for 130 years. Fast growing with shallow roots Silver Maples  tolerate wetter conditions than most. Frequently planted in yards and along streets they tolerate typical lawn watering. I grew up in southern Indiana on a short street lined by large Silver Maples. These large trees provided welcomed shade. On the hottest steamy day I could walk down the middle of the street and remain under their cooling shadows. Many changes have occurred since my boyhood years that now

  Fishing for God                   An  outer space Fisherman seeks a connection with God. He sits in his little boat contemplating the fishing pole and line. He leans forward, his gaze fixed narrowly on the boober. Sending Out A Call          Failing to get even a nibble he changes his approach. After putting away his rod and reel he writes a message, a prayer, a Call if you will on a piece of paper.  His vision widens as he looks out into deep space. Making a paper airplane he's ready to send his Call out into the Universe.  In Response -- an Expansive Vision               As he relaxes in serenity on a crescent moon he catches a vision. A response to his Call.  The vision of an unimaginably grand Universe filled with planets and plenty of space. A Safe, Gentle, Landing               Safely held by this grand vision he gently returns to Earth with a broader perspective on his life and that mysterious creative power some call God.          My friends we're all that Fisherman,

                      We all start out in the dark. Tiny sea creatures floating in  amniotic fluid inside the warm cave of our mother's womb. Vibrating in time with the rhythm of her beating heart we grow. Nourished through the umbilical cord cells divide, multiply, specialize to become us. A potential human being that contractions force out the vaginal canal to cry with eyes shut tight when first exposed to the bright light of our birth day.            No wonder we feel awe upon seeing a new born. For our journey also began after sperm met egg, followed by nine months gestation, during which we sprouted head, arms, legs, then fingers, and toes; all body organs needed for two legged upright being.  And the ability to smile. Love the picture below.                Now as mature adults we can reflect on our life's journey. Wonder at being at all. To reflect, think, consider the trials, tribulations, joys and sorrows on being embodied.  To reflect requires a mysterious potentiality

Beth Steffen               In the dark walking her dog at 6:30 a.m. Beth Steffen began crossing  South Syene Road   just above the top of a small hill in Fitchburg, Wisconsin.  A car driving south crested the hill as she neared the other side. Hit violently Beth never reached the other side. January 3, 2023 became her last day on planet earth. The accident happened a short distance from where I sat in our apartment sipping coffee. Unaware of the tragedy unfolding I stared out into the dark across Nannyberry Park toward where Beth lay taking her last breath.  I heard no sirens, saw no flashing lights. A fire station is within a stones throw of where the vehicle struck her. So close  sirens weren't needed. EMT's were probably on the scene almost immediately.   An educator and proud civil rights advocate, at 56  Beth worked as the interim principal at Badger Ridge Middle School in nearby Verona. She's survived by her husband, son and daughter. There's no report about wheth

                  My mother's prints of the Four Seasons by Currier & Ives hangs now in our living room. For as long as I can remember the prints hung behind my mother's couch in the living room where I grew up.  After she died my father remarried. I removed the prints without seeking permission. They had been and are an important part of the landscape of my life which began in December.      Winter when all plant life has gone to seed; dormancy and hibernation seem to be dominant themes. The potential for rest, recuperation and a focus on the contemplative self becomes real.  A time to reflect on the past year of growth and development. To count things lost or let go of, and think on that which has been gained. A time to count the years on planet earth and wonder at this thing called Being; the consciousness of sentient being and how that can be expressed. One winter I received the gift of a song which expresses this Wonder as longing. Midwinter Dreams of You Snow falls so

           This year I saw only one Monarch at the conservancy where I walk daily. The conservancy includes a large planted prairie with very few Milkweed plants. Those Milkweeds grew near the paved path where the prevailing winds blow toward the houses and mowed lawns across the street. The following poem reflects my attempts to help the Milkweed plants spread there wings so to speak and increase next years crop.           Freeing The Fairy Seeds! As one season bleeds Into another, Green photosynthesis Dies to the light, Reveals a  Spectrum of Red, yellow,  Bronze and brown;         A night rain           Wets grounded earth,         As wind gusts shake       Loose leaves;      Today...      A good day      To just put      One foot      In front of       The other; Rut ready To begin, The boy's  Ancient man Flares nostrils, Inhales The fecund odor Of Autumn; Gravitas and melancholy Form counterpoint, A somber symphony, Beyond wish Or Desire;                            Monarchs, W