Tilt-a-Whirl

Tilt-a-Whirl

Three dollars, three minutes, 

the barker tempts.  Tilt-a-Whirl 

spins our backs against its cylinder wall. 

Girls scream, guys muscle their arms, 

no one can move legs.  It tilts.  

Eyes open, eyes shut, doesn’t matter – 

stomach floats into throat.

The solstice is so much easier.  

Spinning a thousand miles an hour 

is like standing still.  Nothing 

at our back to keep us upright 

except atmosphere.  Chili dogs 

and beer trouble our stomach, 

but not the spinning and tilting 

under our feet.  

In June, vacation comes 

for school kids, sun warms the sand 

and our bare feet, strawberries pop red 

among low green leaves, blueberries 

plump for picking, and the fair 

visits the town’s vacant lot.

Do you feel the planet shift –  

the tilt going the other way?  

Sunlight will shorten now 

and bring a little diminishment 

every day.  Hurry, hurry, 

the barker calls, Take the ride 

of your life.

Holy Land

God gave this land to me, one says. 

The land is mine, another.  Their too-close

stories jostle to root in the same soil. 

Lines are scratched to separate the people

of one story from the other – Green Line,

Blue Line; Area A, B, and C; H1 and H2.  

The stories get shouted.  Rocks

rockets and reprisals follow.  The lines

harden into concrete walls capped

with barbed wire. 

Bah!  What do I know of lines? 

I am the land, hurled into the cosmos

eight billion years before Genesis. 

What I know is that fire is hot and burns

the hair of Marwa; that rounds at rifle

speed catch and cripple Mohammad;

that Ayat’s 18-year old arms and legs

become missiles when she pulls

the cord at her waist.  What I know

is that the blood of children

doesn’t nourish the branch 
of even one olive tree.

White

George Washington powdered his wig

white.  Womens’ hair whitens when they let it

and old men’s too where they still have it. 

Shaving cream and Ivory Soap.  Marshmallows.

Wonder Bread.  Milk.  Whipped cream

on french vanilla ice cream.  At the Museum

of Modern Art: White On White,

Kazimir Malevich, 1918.  Linen sheets

with high thread counts that receive you kindly

after a day in the sun.  Clam shells  

scallop, and oyster shells bleached

to reflection on South beach.

In Edgartown, Dr. Fisher’s house is white

and the captains’ houses on Water Street

and the picket fences around them.  The Old

Whaling Church and other churches, but one

is brick with white trim.  At the tennis court,

white clothes are required, though the balls

are yellow.  Clothes are also required

at the District Court, but no color is specified.

Diners in white, sit at white tables

and wipe their mouths with white napkins. 

In 1967, the Moody Blues sang Knights

In White Satin.  Perhaps women wear

white lingerie and men whitey tighties.  

Ceremonial robes of the Pope and Bedouin.

Queen Victoria was married in white

and western brides after her.  But not

in India or China, where brides wear red

and white is the color of mourning.

The morning sun catches each lighthouse –

Cape Pogue first, then Edgartown, East

Chop, West Chop, and finally Gay Head

which is red and must be moved.  You

can see all five if you start early and sail

with the tide and a northeast wind.  Sailboats

have white hulls and white sails,

but 100-year old Herreshoff sails

can be tanbark, and the fleet at Nantucket

parade with rainbow sails.  Rainbow

colors don’t include white, except before

the prism of rain where sunlight

includes all colors.

The Dove of Peace is pure white.  So was Jaws.

Moby Dick.  Cod that saved the Pilgrims

their first snowy winter.  Swans, no longer at Wasque. 

Ghosts.  Phantoms.  Unicorns.  Snow White. 

White Christmas, Bing Crosby, 1954.  White out

in the fog.  Wite-Out on typed pages.  White paper

for printers.  White papers for Presidents.

White wash.  White noise.  White collar jobs. 

White lies, damn lies and statistics, perhaps Mark Twain.

Oceans white with foam.  Alabaster cities gleam. 

Poles for flags.  Stars and white stripes

that once stood for purity and innocence. 

White wine.  White froth on dark beer.  Lines

of cocaine.  A Whiter Shade Of Pale, Procul Harum,

1967.  Two aspirin the morning after.

White is a new beginning.  Wiping the slate

clean.  White amplifies everything that comes

after it, like grass stains on a Red Sox uniform.

It is the color of the page before the poem. 

The canvas before the art.  The sheet of music

before the notes.  It is the possibility 

of everything. 

The Class of '64

We

were here.

We were here in our beanies and blazers – preppies,

pub-schoolers, commuters too – college guys now,

but wondering how much those other guys knew.

Elvis, King of Pop, sang It’s Now or Never, and OWL

Lacey challenged: Look right, look left, one

of you three won’t make it, and backed it up

with a tough English exam, required Calculus

and a hundred yard swimming test.

What did we freshmen know when Castro

nationalized Esso?  When Khrushchev pounded

the UN podium with his shoe?  When the Civil Rights Act

of 1960 passed? When candidate Kennedy

spoke on the steps of the Hartford Times?

When the US committed troops to Vietnam? 

But when Playboy’s first  club opened in Chicago

when the Magnificent Seven screened in theatres

and the Flintstones on TV, when Cassius Clay

won his first professional bout, when beer

appeared in aluminum cans, we were ready.

It didn’t take us long to find The View,

and to learn our way to Conn College,

Holyoke and Smith.

As the of terror of teachers and tests waned, professors

became mentors, role-models and friends.  We

knew their first names, and followed their lives

if not all their lectures.  George Cooper, Snortin’

Norton Downs and Gene Davis made history

relevant and we became lawyers and professors. 

Bob Battis taught the dismal science, Ward Curren

was inspirational, and we became financiers

and financial advisors.  Gus Sapega brought

our punch cards to United Aircraft’s mainframes and we

became programmers and entrepreneurs.  Wendell

Burger in Biology and Henry DePhillips in Chem –

and we became doctors.  Trinity’s first woman

professor, Maggie Butcher taught us math and we

became actuaries and an insurance company president. 

We were here for Saturday morning classes –

well sort of – and were rewarded with hopes

of winning a football game.  And one glorious

Saturday afternoon in 1962, we did beat

undefeated Amherst 25-23.  Soccer brought us

to NCAA tournaments, and Barry Leghorn

set a basketball scoring record.  Baseball, track,

the beginning of crew – fourteen varsity sports,

who knew?

Music came to campus – Joan Baez,

Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, James Brown,

and the Ronettes.  Ah, the Ronettes –

three libido-pumping women in tight

white skirts slit to the thigh who were ready

to Be My, Be My Baby.  Fraternities, clubs

and musical groups separated us, and joined us

together too.  So did mixers, dating and proms.

We pledged and partied, played and performed

and hoisted our dates through Northam windows. 

And when we got too enthusiastic, the Medusa

reminded us how to be gentlemen.

We grew here – learning

something of ourselves, and of others

and of the world beyond our studies. 

As upper classmen, we debated  

the festering issues we had hadn’t

understood as freshmen – Castro

and our failed Bay of Pigs, Khrushchev

and the Cuban Missile Crisis,  Allen

and Chatfield arrested with SNCC  

in Georgia, President Kennedy

shot and dead in Dallas, the build-up  

of troops in Vietnam, the ticking clock

of our own draft eligibility. 

By 1964, there were Playboy Clubs

in a dozen cities – but not Hartford. 

Dr Strangelove was at the movies

and Peyton Place on TV.  Ousting King Elvis,

the Beatles starred on The Ed Sullivan Show.

In Miami, Cassius Clay TKO-ed Liston,

became Muhammed Ali, and a Muslim.

Beer companies introduced pop-top tabs

for our aluminum cans.  And at Trinity College

on a hot Sunday, ready to graduate

we were here.  We 

were here.

Why I Sail a 100 Yearl-old Boat

Today when twin hulls foil on top

Why splash through waves that slow and stop?

With carbon-fiber’s proven use

Why still a mast of sitka spruce?

When titanium’s in demand

Why lay-up fiberglass by hand?

And as I stop to think of it

A GPS would help a bit.

The boat I sail’s a century old

At least in its design and mold.

When Princip shot Duke Ferdinand

That year when World War One began,

When Charlie Chaplin’s on-screen vamp

Introduced The Little Tramp,

Then Cap’n Nat got Emmons’ note

And made by hand the H12 boat.

He had a goal for ease of sail

So kids could learn in Buzzard’s gale,

Though it’s not hard to make her go,

The trick is not to sail her slow.

The gaff-rigged main can be perverse

The peak-set is the devil’s curse:

Stretch it, loose it, lower to lee,

Forget to raise – a tragedy!

There’re more mistakes that can occur

When putting up the spinnaker.

I’ve made them all and here’s my list –

It starts with getting a forestay-twist;

I’ve had it doused into the sea

Which slowed my pace considerably;

Other times it’s up too long

And I jibe the mark completely wrong.

This H12 boat can separate

The best, from sailors not-so-great

Because it tests their seamanship

Instead of high tech brinkmanship.

So when it’s a comparison

Of Cap’n Nat and Ellison,

I’m proud to sail, when I cast off,

The boat that’s named for Herreshoff.

The Last Caboose

We have come today to celebrate

a pairing not so celibate

that’s added to the family mix

a soon-expected number six.

Six children that are under seven

named for candy and backward-heaven,

and now includes, when they get braggin’

Trystan Lewis Azel McLagan.

The challenging poetic chore

is simile and metaphor

on how this pair has matched and mated

using phrases not X-rated.

Turning to that online noodle

we fed to Google the whole caboodle

which gave the great brain pain and strain

until it chugged out railroad train.

Hunter is the large-scale tanker

a thumping, bumping, empty clanker,

and Declan’s car has lots of glass

to spy on everything going past.

The animal car is right for Reece

filled with gators, snakes and geese.

Nevaeh and Kaylee like to star

all dressed up in the parlor car.

Chris supplies the locomotion –

lots of noise and constant motion.

Erika’s the engineer

who looks ahead and tries to steer.

That leaves just one to introduce,

the one who’ll soon be on the loose

all full of wails and poops profuse

Trystan, this train’s last caboose.

Myanmar - February 2013

For Yanks to reach Myanmar

The road is so long and so far.

            You get off the plane

            With stiff lumbar pain

And search for relief in a bar.

But help is not far away

Because Nina is waving, “This Way!”

            Mingalabar

            The hotel isn’t far

And tomorrow will be a new day.

At dawn we’re launched in Yangon

Tour the city and then Schwe Dagon.

            At the golden pagoda

            We behold our first Buddha

Then desperately search for a john.

To Bagan we fly from the coast.

4,000 temples they boast.

            We see markets and nuncs

            Have lunch with the monks

And balloon before most have their toast.

Aye Yarwaddy we attempted to float

Berthed and dined on a sumptuous boat.

            But they fed us so much

            That the bottom we touched

And we’re bussed to Mandalay’s moat.

Then out of the heat and the din

To see where the Brits sipped their gin.

            In the cool of the park

            In the gathering dark

They talked about cricket and kin.

Via Heho some went to a site

To feed elephants dates by the bite

            And then see them roll

            In a deep water hole

And splash in their watery delight.

This brings us right up to today

When we boated the waters Inle.

            Now the red sun has set

            And we think with regret

That we’ve come to the end of our stay.

So let’s toast to Nina, our guide

Who organized bed, food and ride

            And handled our trials

            With charm and with smiles

What a great guide to have at our side.

And to Bob and Diana

Thanks for being the planner

            Of our trip so exotic

            In the land of the tropic

That culminates on this veranda.

Thank you!