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.

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.

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!

The Center of Europe

Six bikers, eight days, three countries to see

The center of Europe and its history - 

Who's conquered lately, whose ghost may still lurk

The Hun, the German, Soviet or the Turk.

And now the Americans invade it by bike

Swilling the Kofala they’ve learned to like,

Laying waste to the road, to the hill, to the mile

Though teeth chatter sometimes when they try to smile.

Eileen has her guidebooks and is eager to hear

What Jani will say about each local beer

Which she lists on her iPhone so she'll be reminded

By her digital assistant if she ever can find it.

Josh and his iPad keep us current on news

Times editorials and CNN views.

In spite of the shivers and on-coming cold,

His Wiener Schnitzel never gets old.

Dick's feet are like magnets attached to the pedal

For distance and steepness, he gets the medal.

But when Kathy asks, "What would you like to do?"

He quickly responds, "My dear, after you."

So Kathy pumps it, right up the hill

And sometimes at dinner, she pays the bill

Which she does with unusual wit, style and grace

Showered, shampooed, not a hair out of place.

Barbara is ready for unguided thrills,

But may over-shoot when she speeds down the hills.

Uphill, she's steady, determined and strong

Once into granny-gear, she seldom goes wrong.

Don's breathing sounds like the big bad wolf's huff

But hasn't the oomph for a house-flattening puff.

Instead as he pedals, he thinks of a poem

To share with the bikers when they finally get home.

Our leader’s alert to “Jani”, “Jano” or “Jan”

Assisting, cajoling as we bike along.

Counting our noses, he's helpful and quick

Because bikers, like weather, are hard to predict.

Ivan is right there at the top of the turns

With gorp, fruit and water when uphill legs burn.

He fills up the bottle and pumps up the tire

And brings in the bags so the guests can retire.

North cross Slovakia, our hearty bike band

The river in Hungary and Polish hill land,

Shared some of ourselves over coffee and meals

On a trip that's been more than just spinning wheels.

Tonight is the time for our last celebration

Reprising our three-country biking migration.

Lets raise one last toast, one final libation:

Thanks Jano and Ivan for a great bike vacation!

Galapagos

Neoprene sealed in our fiberglass wells
We kayakers scuttle like hermit crab shells.

Assemble for fun at the earth’s hot equator
We’ll know the Galapagos well nine days later.

Sea lions are playful, they’re curious and grand
As they frolic in water and sun on the sand.

Truda’s an artist with camera and Mac
With vision and verve that most of us lack.

Oliver’s a tester of things to begin
He’ll swim through a tunnel, though he may lose a fin.

Charlie’s a therapist, a specialist in kind
With his kids ever moving, he’s not far behind.

Laura’s a Roosevelt, but turned down her prom
Studied management at Yale and now answers to “Mom.”

The Galapagos Penguin, is it fish or a bird?
Black and white on the shore, in the water it’s blurred.

A motocross racer broke bone after bone
So Darcy’s a jock-doc to take care of his own.

Carolyn’s smile’s an attractive aesthetic
But she’s a real knock-out with her anesthetic.

Blue-Footed Boobies, who gave them that name?
They’re clearly not boobs when they dive with fish-aim.

Dick is a doctor, kayaker and biker
Who’s now set his stethoscope on Kathy the hiker.

And Kathy’s a mother, a reader and neighbor
Who has artfully captured the bike-doctor’s favor.

Iguana’s aren’t boastful, they’re quiet and shy
But their camera-like eyes see all that goes by.

Peter’s aflight with ideas ever bolder
But smartly has married an air traffic controller.

Karen’s a down-to-earth practical thinker
Who has cleverly captured the inveterate tinker.

Behold the old tortoise – how ponderous he goes
Been ‘round here so long, can’t guess all he knows.

Barbara and Don are the long-married couple
Who count on their Advil to keep their joints supple.

Above all the action, attentive of mind
The Frigate Bird searches for what’s left behind.

Thanks heaven for Eduardo, our leader and guide
Who handles our questions, let’s no details slide.

Vacations must end, and responsibility
Become something more than just kayak stability.

We've seen and we’ve shared, and we’ve learned something more
We are not the same folk we were once before.

The Derby

He
grasps line, doubles
rod – feels male, more
competition than dalliance. Hoping,
daring, challenged by The Derby,
alone, off-shore, naive sea
peace. Big one testing
our filament.
Spooling,
tighten drag,
don’t line out, turning,
retrieving. Turns away,
against drag, against tide.
Reverse boat, clumsy chase
backward, not steering, reeling,
tip up, tip up. Spool out,
back boat, reel in.
Dark
shadow,
what’s that? Dorsal
fin, great rolling belly,
white belly, half boat length,
boat length away. Skin plucks
taut line, nervous both ends. My
fish, goddammit, him and me, not you!
Awkward maneuver boat, fish,
shark. Lazy arrogance,
shark continues,
seals ahead.
Hour,
no give, line
binds, 7,000-pound boat,
unweighed fish, 12-pound
test. Must be big, Derby winner,
picture taken, little speech,
Hemmingway. Con-
centrate.
Half
hour,
arms tired – he
must be tired. Raise
him? No. Spool out,
hard to back, wind slaps
stern, sea peace gone, gusts
coming. Run again, waves top
stern, not safe. Pay attention.
What are we going to do here, fish?
He
lets go.
No tug, snap,
just release, simple easy,
end of handshake – good game,
sport. Game over, rewind line,
seaweed. Was that it,
just weed?
No
one
watched, I
never saw him. Hope
pride, imagination? Gone,
he didn’t get lure, I didn’t
get him, nor shark. No
trophy, no pictures,
nothing but
poem.

Vertigo

Rocks in ears,
they call it, sounds
like musician's dream but
only ringing
remains. What it's not
is good – heart, stroke,
just annoying, not life-
threatening. Cheap
buzz requiring no
roller coaster, pirouette
or LSD. Getting up
will do. Evidence
that earth truly
spins.

On Rafting the Grand Canyon

From Switzerland, also the land of the Queen,
From Maui to Boston and lives in between,
We gather like babes in the womb of the earth
Immersing ourselves in the gap in her girth.
Each turn we descend makes us ever more small,
‘Til embryos just on the great mother’s wall.
Callus-like sediment covers her skin
And hard rock below from her great heat within.
Shedding our cell phones and lives clean and dry
We’re absorbed in the river and cliff-focused sky.
We’re humbled and tumbled as she works to deliver
Our small group of souls down her life-giving river.
Where did we come from, how were we conceived?
Our lifetime seems puny, so little perceived
Of the billion year history she bares for our view;
It jumbles perceptions, starts thinking anew.
We cannot ignore our own unconformity –
Our existence so brief in earth-time enormity.
At the end, we’re delivered, wet and shivering like birth,
We twenty-three brothers and sisters of earth.

On Biking From Bryce to Zion

From cities in Eire and across the US
We gathered to join in a southwestern quest.
Old marrieds, just marrieds, and some just plain friends
Responded to all those brochures Backroads sends.
A few had worked out in a diligent way
Preparing to bike that eighty mile day,
While others prayed the “down hill” to Zion
Would be sufficient to keep their wheels flying.
We met in the shade of the Ute Crystal Inn
And checked out each other before our first spin –
How strong are his legs, how good are her lungs,
Are they really determined, their spirits – how young?
First, Jeanie and Gene – damn they look buff,
Then Randy and Bruce who have worked out enough.
From Middletown, Long Beach, Frisco, State Hill
Four trip-ready women prepared for this drill.
There’s Rick and his wife, a biker named Bobby,
Who look like they’ve never even tried a soft hobby!
The long-legged Siofra and her new man named Scott
Look like they’ve worked out together a lot.
Trina and Erin are guides in command
And Matt looks quite strong with his stubble and tan.
Oh dear, I don’t want it said on the wagon,
“It’s time to collect old laggin McLagan.”
But once we got going and the route rap was held
We shared M&Ms and our group quickly jelled.
The picnics and dinners and treats at the top
Kept all of us moving and not grumbling a lot.
The days went by quickly and now they are past,
One final ride, and a dinner came last.
It worked out quite nicely because, in the end,
Through bike and hiking, we’ve all become friends.

Flying

There used to be romance in flying,
the friendly skies had seats worth buying.
To get away, what could be better
than take-off as a cool jet-setter?

We used to find our liberation
in a Super Constellation.
Later came the first class heaven
upstairs in a seven-four-seven.

There was a time of flying grace
when you could stretch in your leg space,
no need to beg the prior row, “Please,
tilt back gently, save my knees.”

Once air line brought some pride to mind
and not the throngs you wait behind
to check your tickets and I.D.,
standing shoeless for security.

Now, bankrupt, merged, de-regulated,
union and fuel cost inflated,
Pan Am, Eastern, TWA
no longer wing the skies today.

No, flying’s not what it used to be –
romance is now banality.
What once inspired anticipation
has now become just transportation.

Approach

Beyond fir cones, waving pines,
yellow grey clouds rain,
thunder threatens,
breeze and sun retreat.

On the path, I hesitate
anticipating the storm’s breath.
The clouds have not arrived,
but drops already swell the stream.
Bangers on a suddenly narrow sidewalk,
they rumble, proclaiming their turf
where now I am an uncomfortable stranger.

The wind shifts,
the yellow grey arrives,
glances,
passes.

The air is clear,
cool now, but
under the pack,
my back
sweats.