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!

Ferry to Chappaquiddick

Three cars, three minutes

each time, on time,

just in time

to midnight –

metronome

for the separate island

releasing triptych cars which drive

twenty-five on one paved road

and less on dirt washboards

of rhythmed bumps that punctuate  

as fishermen, construction crews

returning shoppers buck and heave

on sand bunched like bedclothes

on a humid night when unquiet

blows southwest and sleepers

wrestle unbidden chimera

when morning is far and night

herons rasp in the silence

between ship bells

and steepled intonations

from the Old Whaling Church

where island women married

sailors who went to whale

and left wives stretched

between faithfulness

and widowhood –

and again in the morning

quarter-to-seven captains will key

diesel barges, take tousled sleepers

to Edgartown, each time

on time, just in time.

Our Friend Ed is Seventy

Seventy years of concentration

Drilling down is his vocation.

He’s never let a question hang

He’s Master-of-the-Detail Lang.

Nepal, Bhutan and Papua

He’s captured with his camera,

He’s seen the world through his viewfinder

And again and again with his rewinder.

Binocs he has bought anew

Stabilized for steady view.

To measure wattage, speed and joule

He has the latest biking tool.

Election year, he reads the blog

Of every pundit, cat and dog.

Neuroscience is his addiction,

Spends no time on books of fiction.

Yet there are gaps in techno-lad –

He has no iPhone, no iPad.

An old PC is close at hand,

He’s not bought into Apple land.

Perhaps the price is just not right

For purse-strings that he holds so tight:

Each shirt and pants he’s ever bought,

In seventy years that’s quite a lot,

Is still in Lincoln on deposit

In some bulging box or closet;

Now please note the Audi car,

Eighteen years it’s plied the tar,

From Boston to the west its been

At two hundred thousand, it’s just broke in.

But silos, gadgets, notes tight-wadded

Are not the essence of our Ed.

Sarah, Edmund, Penelope

Katy, Lynne are family –

His smart and active, far-flung crowd

Are whom he loves and is so proud.

Also there’s his gutsy spirit

Ski, skate or bike, he goes for it –

Though after many thumps and jolts

His body’s full of plates and bolts.

Yet, here he is with Romney-hair

A little gray, but plenty there,

A kind and loyal friend who’ll help

Any of us who gives a yelp.

At seventy, let it be said

We’re proud to be the friends of Ed.

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.

Tom

(roommate, friend, 45 years)

Around a turn, runner and bear
startle, stop, regard each other
surprised to meet on a mountain trail
where each had thought to be alone.

Bear rises on back feet to show
his shaggy bulk and better see
this interloper, panting, sweating
on the ledge he thought was his.

Gathering his best bear-wits
the runner calls and lifts his sticks
like antlers on some scrawny stag
so he looks bigger too, and able
to contend with mountain threats.

His bear-wits urge: be confident
keep facing as you back away.
The bear just watches man withdraw
as if the bear might somehow know
it isn't yet his time to go.

Now the bear has come again
not in some woodsy confrontation
but internal, in a fierce contagion
from which there is no back-away
no saving tips from bear-safe wits.

You and I think time was short
too short, the path does not feel right
for death to take our friend and dad.
We've more to learn from gracious charm
from modest wit and irony
his spunk and curiosity. The bear

we meet is loss-of-Tom
our trailway threat is emptiness
that stands erect where he has been.
Again, Tom shows us what to do:
to celebrate alive with friends
with family, to say "You matter
you matter and I love you."

You matter and I love you.