Back to square one: This colloquialism means to start over again. It may have come from board games that, though bad luck, you had to move back to the starting point.
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Gospel: It means "good news" from the Old English godspell.
New Year's resolutions: This custom can be traced to pre-Christian Rome. The original resolutions were mostly to be good to others. As Rome became Christian, the themes changed to prayer and fasting.
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All over but the shouting: The meaning of the phrase is that at a sporting event that is surely won, the only thing left is the crowd cheering the victory. A sportswriter, as early as 1842, used the phrase.
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Klutz: The word seems to be from the German word "clod" or block head and Yiddish for a dull-witted or clumsy person.
Xmas: People think of this word as a kind of modern shorthand for Christmas. But in fact, it has a long history. It appeared in print as early as 1555.
Mistletoe: The early Celts' word for a twig that brought health. Stand under the mistletoe now and get a kiss.
Yuletide: From the medieval custom to drag in a large "yule log" to be the base for the huge holiday fire.
Getting up on the wrong side of the bed: Centuries-old superstition; if your left foot hit the floor first, it's bad luck and you could be grumpy all day.
Room and board: A term from the Middle Ages. The dining table was a board perched on the renters' knees when food was served. Board came to mean the meal itself.
Ask something point blank: The term comes from 16th-century France. In French archery, the center of the target is white (white in French is blanc), you tried to hit the "Point Blanc." It has evolved to mean asking a question directly and to the point.
When November's winds
Barrel through
Leafless trees
I sigh.
Tell me why I
Stay and face
The cold when
San Diego's sun beckons,
Tropical climates call
To me yet when
I see the first
Gentle snow
I know Cleveland
Will always be
Home
For me.
Getting down to brass tacks: In the old American country store, the owner would put brass tacks, to measure 36 inches, in the counter top as they measured bolts of piece goods.
Inch: We know it as a unit of measurement. King Edgar of England (944) said it was the length of the knuckle of his thumb.
Dress to the nines: If you had a suit made and you ordered an expensive one, tradition says the tailor should use nine yards of material.
Golden hair
The sun
As her bonnet
~
Forest sounds
Leaves rustling
Calls and hoots
~
The night slipped
Around her
Like a dark shawl
I awaken to the howl of a werewolf, loud as a siren.
My crackling bones get out of the casket made of iron.
I walk through the cemetery so quiet and scary.
I bump into a skeleton who calls herself “Mary”.
I hear creepy groans and skeleton bones, an owl that hoots and wears tiny boots.
I see gravestones, slithering snakes and blood sucking bats.
I smell rotting flesh and hear hissing cats.
The dog ran away
“come here!”
It didn’t answer
~
The tri pod
of my fingers
held the pen lightly
~
In the wordless sky
Lightning became nature’s
exclamation point
cricket sings by night
cicada answer day song
bye summer ice cream
Why do we fight each other
Over power why mislead?
It makes no sense to kill a man
For nothing more than greed.
Will it not stop this urge to rise,
For fame which I despise,
The ruins that are left behind,
In war are not a prize.
A night sky, yet clear as day, where stars run wild within your gaze.
A blanket lain across a plush, patch of grass, soft to the touch.
With giant mugs of warmth within, a sip we take, lips touch the rim.
And chocolate feasts of paradise, they melt so slow, yet taste so nice.
The Borealis and the Milky Way, the Ninth Wonders shall I say.
How wonderful the view from here, so far away, yet seem so near.
Enjoy the comfort of a friend, when daily woes make one feel spent.
Hand in hand we two can lose, ourselves in one another’s shoes.
This perfect night does have to end,
but friend’s we’ll be until the end.
Our time together
Is measured
In minutes.
Each second my heart
Cries out
Touch me.
Press your fingers
To mine
Trace my lifeline.
Hold my hand
For a moment
So I might know
I'm really alive.
Never felt I a calm more intense
Than that of your shores in the eve
Patiently waiting dreaming of suitors
That eagerly bathe in your stream.
The horizon you fill with colorful strands
With the sun undressed in the day
Of purple and blue and green are these bands
That too gleam at night on the Bay
On my skin I feel the dew of your touch
As I float on the blanket you lain
Between you and the stroke of the sun’s golden brush
Like in velvet my figure you drape
Haiku
capturing the moment
in three lines
~
Through the trees
the breeze murmurs
placid and serene
~
The moon
masks her eyes
with a cloud
The volunteer
stood ready
Unsure of his commitment
The old man
Looking at his hands
scarred but sun tanned
Oiled bodies on the summer sand
Frisbees in the air
Jet skis in the water
The buxsome woman
arranges her bosom
with her forearms
Summer day
flat lily pads
smile up at the sun
Lonely book
its hidden delights
unread
Our world has two moons,
I saw them both last night,
one in the darkened sky,
and the other
breaking across a mirrored lake,
both silver, but one
cold and pale, and the other
wet and shimmering.
Train whistle
fading to silence
in the darkness
Warm slippers
save me from
the cold kitchen floor
The tree trimmer
repels from limb to limb
as his work crashes to the ground
A leopard sits in the iroko tree,
smiling at the night,
his silhouette dark on the sky.
Look closer, he is not alone,
his lady is at his side,
shielded by the thicker part.
They pant a moist steady wind,
a synchronicity of
soft sound and fierce life.
It snowed last night
came down in a fuzzy dream barely remembered
but when I looked out my window
there it was waiting for me
old pal come to say goodbye till next season
for springtime is like that
pleasant enough but dismissive of old friends
trading white treasure for spangled flowers
so I took advantage one last time
and pushed my thoughts out the window
to be with the winter birds
sleeping in their warm twiggy nests
...
Westlake. Wonderful Westlake.
Beautiful Daughter of Dover,
Beacon of the Western Reserve.
Born of brave men and women,
Forests, streams and fertile soil,
Amid sloped ridges of resources.
Blessed by its Pioneers’ Dreams:
Porters, Johnsons, Coes, Sperrys,
Crockers, Clagues, many more.
Tree’d streets honor their names,
Flowered, wide boulevards their
Early well worn paths and trails.
Spring, the scent
Of blossoms
Linger,
Caressing the moment.
Damp, dew-filled
Mornings
Easing into sunny
Afternoons.
Gentle breezes.
Coaxing buds,
Crocus' smiling
Reaching for the sun.
Spring's world
Alive with new life
Created in silence
In winter's womb.
The wind is stilled
and there are ashes
on an old man's sleeve,
but if truth be told,
the wind is waiting,
it will stir again,
-- oh my, what faith --
and the dust is a history
a man can shake off
if he wishes,
or not, if he prefers
his sleeve dusty.
If I could walk around the Milky Way
and beyond the Pleiades
and then look down upon this Earth
the Amazon would be a dew,
Victoria Falls a mist,
and Everest so petite against the sky
to seem a pebble, and
strewn across this lesser lump of clay
are peoples, places, things and things,
valleys filled with daffodils,
elephants, and whippoorwills,
battlefields and lovers' nests,
and England, France, the Portuguese,
histories, philosophies, our family trees,
a geography written on the tip of a pin
so small that if I hold up my thumb
it would all disappear,
if I could walk around the Milky Way.
My throat tickles and sends violent
signals to my brain.
I have to cough, I must cough,
I must, I must.
But here? Among this crowd,
among these serious citizens,
these scholars, not to mention
the head-nodders?
I'm not contagious,
that would be outrageous,
but they don't know that.
We were nineteen and I wondered,
What would it be like to hold your hand?
To hold the hand of the beautiful Elaine.
So I held your hand - and it was nice...
We were nineteen and I wondered,
What it would it be like to kiss your lips?
To kiss the lips of the beautiful Elaine.
So I kissed your lips - and it was nice...
We were nineteen and I wondered,
What would it be like to hold you close?
To hold close the beautiful Elaine.
So I held you in my arms - and it was nice...
Consider the fly with his wondrous
green and blue eye,
faceted like a gemstone of Heaven,
and the spider with her slender legs
akimbo to our glance, and ask,
is she walking like a clown on stilts
or is she a wiry ballerina
gliding across my kitchen floor,
to pirouette at the wall
and disappear forevermore?
And see the autumn leaves putting on
their spangled beauty to greet death,
unlike ourselves
with our pale mottled skin
and smell of medicine.
The smoke
from the fire pit
chases my chair
The pushers of shopping carts
search for
the shortest line
Soft bed
our hands touch
much like our souls
Snowmen, snowmen
Some are big.
Some are small.
But all snowmen have a smile on their face.
This is why they are so difficult to trace.
They have great vast arms that extend to the sky.
Sometimes I just wonder why?
Snowmen have a modest, orange carrot nose on their face.
Gaze at its nice, comfortable place.
It's like tending a garden
and watching the stems
rise tall and shrink small,
blacks juxtaposing reds
– an interracial affair –
then dissipating into four piles
at the top of the garden,
then picked up,
ripped, stripped,
strewn, mixed,
fixed anew into brand new ranks
piling higher and higher to the right.
One cold night the moon rose full
in perfect periodic roundness
– of course, she is a lady –
and bragged that peoples and nations
have worshipped her, and she liked it,
and that was her sin,
and why she was an exile.
Oh yes, the way it is,
it's in the Book.
I wondered,
does my dog worship me,
I'd like that,
and is that my sin?
He looked up and said to me
– in hushed barks –
that he knows nothing of theology,
that he loves me,
nothing more, nothing less,
and I knew my dog was holy.
The soft music
of an early morning rain
playing on the grass and trees
in B flat major
is as beautiful as
a Beethoven piano sonata,
same key, so I open
my window wider,
my ear gets wet,
and the wind says to me,
– hush, listen! –
and hands me a towel.
To create the most effective spoof,
Select a genius not a goof.
Employ a person so superior
No one could ever class inferior,
For if your choice is near the top,
You cannot cause his fame to drop
By giving him a gentle ribbing
Or with a sting in your ad-libbing:
Such things can't threaten his acumen –
They'll make him just a bit more human.
So let this be your comic rule:
"Laugh with the statesman, not at the fool."
If I am dead
before the snows,
how much I love them
Heaven knows,
my second choice
to blanket me,
a windswept, dappled
autumn lea,
and tender hands
to tuck me in
and toss my soul
upon the wind.
Fuller House
Beautiful old house,
you came to us sailing down
Lake Erie's shore.
How many of your order have had
a sea-adventure like that?
But no more water-trips for you,
gallant one,
you are home
and here to stay
forever and a day.
Have no trepidations,
Huntington is your family now,
and we will love you evermore,
brick by brick,
wood by wood,
room by room,
door by door.
And here's a buckeye
for your boutonniere.
August is a terrible month,
a hot wind from hell
turning sand into glass.
But the latitudes are tilted
at twenty-three degrees
bending times and places,
and September comes on
with her cool-glistening-steel
permitting me to turn
to my romances and endurances,
my October, my November,
white fancies, cold fancies,
and December's dreams
piled up in the meadow,
an annual affair that saves my life.
The lady is flapping her lips
and tongue. She has a cell phone
stuck to her ear with super glue.
A small child is at her side
holding on tightly,
attached, invisible,
wondering if she will ever
learn to talk.
I hope the lady doesn't
ask me the time of day, for
my mother taught me not to speak
to someone on the phone.
I am becoming older
Strangely defiant
Of youthful ideals.
What worked for me
At twenty, thirty, etc.
No longer pleases me.
I am becoming
Someone I do not know,
Someone whose skin
I am not yet comfortable in,
I am becoming who I am not.
I am becoming who I was meant to be.
There is a moth who eats
the shredded fabrics
of discarded love,
and he is very fat.
You have fed him my torn rags,
and I, ever the fool,
run quickly to my loom
to supply his future needs.