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!

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.