RANDOM RHYTHMS FROM THE BEACH


HELLO, PELICAN --

Friendly, finicky,
perched on a rail --
ate its keeper’s fish
but not his shrimp --
and now its snout’s a-drip
with drool.

Pet-able by regulars
who know the drill,
it did not encourage me,
eyeing, sidling, inching away.

Nothing personal.
It’s probably natural
for Florida pelicans
to shun
touristy one-night
stands.


MEANDERING MANATEE

. . . seemed bored.

Cruised the beach
to catch the show --

volley-ballers
and surfers on boards --

all
unaware of the cow
just yards
beyond.

Tail and head surfacing,
its shadow drifted under the pier
and continued south.

TYPHOON LAGOON

Interrupted at Disney’s water park
by a two hour rain delay.
Insult compounded injury --
getting wet outside the pool.
Less than five innings played,
so had to stay.


NAKED BEACH YOGA

From the back,
just a strap
or two
tucked from view.
No curvy fannies, just butts.
Hands down, one leg up.
Down, dogs!
An imagination bust.


DRK
7/16/11

 

Ain’t We Got fun

In The Mornin’

                         

Newspapers, bagged and looped

o’er my ‘47 Schwinn,

pedaling east on a paper route 

I encountered a mountainside

bordering my Minnesota prairie town.                                        

The sun, about to rise, would

light this ersatz phenomenon,

expose its prairie absurdity

and shoo it off with the morning dew.   

I had to hurry to cruise its

short-lived vistas

and exotic avenues.

In The Evenin’          

Seated, wearied, in a western hotel bar,

we watched a Wasatch evening Alpenglow.

Sunlight crept up the mountainside

as the evening lifted the day away.                      

A sequence of hillside nighttime lights ensued,

featuring a red

flashing “U,” which . . . they said

meant the Utes

had won another game.

Celebrating, we ordered another round, the same.

                                                                                   

In the Meantime, In Between Time

From a low swale of creek-cooled air,

and damp-enhanced aromas

of magnolia, pine and pulp mill sulphur,

a wrist twist sent my Honda responding.

Its twin cylinder cycle vibes

thrust me up the far side

of the road dividing Georgia’s red clay earth

into the evening’s displaced warmth.

Ain’t We Got Fun.

Dennis R. Keefe

March 23, 2009 

"Ain't We got Fun," 1921.  Music, Richard A. Whiting.  Lyrics, Raymond B. Egan and Gus Kahn.

 

AMPHIBIFUN

Paid a frog a fee

Now my drive to town, fog free

Well, it worked today

And who is to say,

Some kind of God oddity

Or just poetry?

DRK

4/27/19

 

 FREE FIE FOR FROM

"Free To Be You And Me"*
A potent truth

We are free
For
All we can become

But I grow increasingly aware
Of how free I am not
From
Me

That ladder will no longer be
Climbed by me
My golf clubs languor wistfully
Gone the fun
Of worked up endorphins
Going for a run

My thoughts, too, struggle with me
An old dog, new trick free

Fortunately, I have a few cards still in play
Singing, an occasional stab at poetry



And we have each other
Not free from, but blessed by

The terror of personal solitaire has haunted me
Losing memories to share

I would be a different me
Without my history of thee

Keep me going as well as you can

Given me

DRK
3/8/20

*FREE TO BE YOU AND ME
MARLO THOMAS
RUNNING PRESS ADULT, 2002
FIRST PRINTED, 1974 

 

HALLOWED PLACES

 

A streetcorner

An intersection

The drive up a hill

 

Places halo’d

By those who lingered there

Sharing time with me

Words, lives, coffee

 

Precious then

Aware, now

 

Too late for a good “Bye”

Last conversations lost

Clumsy talk

Nowhere near the mark

So undone

Would I want to say, “It’s done?”

 

I grieve --

And attend

Wait for it . . . more

 

DRK

7/19/24

 

THE BUZZ

Will you check out these

Bees love our anemones

Easy eco bit

DRK

8/4/19

 

 I-N-V-A-L-I-D

 

My retinue of roles

On their journey

Playing out the rules

    Let me get that door for you

    May I help you up that curb

        Young man

Young man?!

 

Life's logic urges

Move along

 

Were I to question that logic

One of us could be declared

As/an

 

I-N-V-A-L-I-D

 

DRK

1/16/25

 

 

 

THE TROUBLE WITH GETTING OLD

 

Is that not everyone does

Someone is left

With what remains

 

In the brain

 

Unpreventable intrusions

Infusions?

 

Phantoms

Rummaging

Jostling for brain space

 

Is there still room in there?

 

Do these visitors occupy

Empty areas?

 

Or do they create

Maybe dignify

New spaces

That might have

Mouldered away?

 

That is the hope

Welcome, spooks

 

DRK

4/5/2025

 

SOCIAL DISTANCING

 

Thinning air up here

Hair, too

 

Is that you over there?

No need to ask

In a younger year

 

Rare birds, we

Can barely see the herd down there

 

Check out that ladder

Sturdy

Been given some care

“Hey, stranger

May I ask?

Anchored where?”

 

Hope to see you soon

Climb a few more of those annual rungs

 

DRK

4/23/21

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BACKYARD SUMMER DRAMA

The last dog walked

and garage rolled shut,

backyard stirrings cue

the porch’s invitation

promising tonight’s

summer evening presentation. 

Take a chair

dim the lights.

the curtain rises . . .

to heavy muggy air

settling, darkening to night –                                                              

harkening the first fireflies...

Stage left, then right.

Rise and disappear.

Cricket interludes intrude –

scattered . . .

building . . .

pulsing . . .                                             

to a surround sound

insect etude.

Rock it, cricket, rock it, cricket

rock it, rock it, rock it, rock it, . . .,

          

From a tree,

Excited chirping

sears the air –

trumpeting tension.

Unseen.

Where?

Minute gnats

take the air bringing

twisting bats weaving

through their dinner space.

Then long-awaited fireworks    

slo-mo, everywhere                             

rise and disappear –

a firefly ground finale,                   

ballet sans choreography

the heated evening mating urge, severe.

Rock it, cricket, rock it, rock it, rock it

A stir of breeze;

showers rattle the maple leaves.

The drama cools.

Night’s curtain falls.

Time to  exit

reluctantly

Dennis R. Keefe

May3, 2007

 THE LAST BIRD WORDS


The roll was taken from the porch,
    in whispers,
of those who came to our backyard vespers.

Neighborhood redbirds
and red breasts arrived
with the slipping evening light
to claim their first-come, first-served
roosting rights.

An evening duel ensued
o’er who would have
the last bird words.

The redbirds, last at the feeder,
    chirped it shut for the night,
but couldn’t out-wait
the robins’
slow, drawn out antiphons,
    warbling down from the trees,
    trailing silence through the leaves.

These psalm-like prayers
prompted  "Amens"
from those below
not too busy to care
    who sang when
        or if the last solar lantern
            came on before ten.


Dennis R. Keefe, 9/30/12