Lett'n Go of Lego

Lettin’ Go of Lego

“Hi Dave”

“Hi Jimmy, com’on in.
Brought your whole box.
With all of mine its J&D Lego Land.
You and me know all the blocks,
and all the ways they snap together and build.
Let’s do the steeple hidden rocket launcher
on the church with RPV control operation inside mounted on wheels.
Now to the kitchen, us two Lego Contest heroes, for some ice cream
and tease Mom a bit.”

“Hey Jim, give me five.
Brought down the stands.
With you and me its J&D Football Land.
You running behind my blocks,
and we always we snap through the line and score.
Let’s do it again at the states and go downfield like on wheels.
Now to the school hop, us two Game Win heroes, for some fancy dancing
and tease the girls a bit.”

“Hello James, glad you’re in.
Big day; big change! Yes, marrying Diane!
Need you with me June 21, be my Best Man.
No more snapping with blocks; no contests or games.
Lettin’ go of lego.

Ahh, my Diane! Mystery!
Her love has no pieces, no win or lose, just timeless.
No above or below, in front or behind, on the left or right.
Remember in springtime, through the woods to the field,
then down the hill path, be enveloped by fragrance.
The blackberry bramble humming with bees, dressed in white blossoms,
Supple green arches festooned with thorns making shelters for its soft furry creatures.
Breathed in the ambient aroma – into our lungs, into our blood.
Pumped by beating heart to flood our minds and psyches,
flow through vessels and capillaries to nourish every cell.
Mystery, Diane, mysterious ambience,
D&D.”

© David W. Oliver 1/11/2011
poemsbydrdave.blogspot.com

Hope's Engine

Hope’s Engine

White-hot coals of anger drop upon the fabric of your soul!
Enfold them and hold them,
they shall burn to a black cinder
the very warp and weft of your heart.

Carry them quickly to your firebox of rationality.
Open all the vents wide to the dark storm winds
of indifference and injustice.
Transform those battering gusts to an oxygenating draft;
fire the glowing coals to incandescent flame.

Vaporize the tears of hurt, pain, and grief to superheated steam.
Drive the pistons of compassion, again and again,
through the cylinders of empathy.
Turn the mighty wheels of action to build:
Shelters, meals, kindness,
Consequence,
Hope.

© David W. Oliver 12/28/2010
poemsbydrdave.blogspot.com


A reflection on the founding of the Irving, Texas–based organization MADD in 1980 by Candice Lightner after her 13-year-old daughter was killed by a drunk driver, Clarence Busch, a 46-year-old cannery worker.

Mommy Ducky

Mommy Ducky

Me and Jimmy like to swim
When Mommy Ducky’s in the pool.
It’s always warm, never cool.
Her hair is short and ducky white.
She makes swimming fun delight

We have to wait through baby time
With mommies walking in a line,
Or in a circle singing softly
Then march to center crying whee!

When the baby’s time is done
Me and Jimmy have our fun.
We jump to Mommy Ducky’s hands
She swishes us to our platform stand.
We swim to her and to the wall
Just can’t stand, not that tall.

She gives us broomstick with end floats.
We paddle with them like we’re boats.
When we get half down the pool,
We sit on the edge ‘cause that’s her rule.

Her ducky pitcher pours from its beak;
We sit still and do not speak.
She wiggles our toes and asks how many.
We can count ‘cause we are three,
We count to ten, Jimmy and me.

The water tickles as it flows
Over all ten counted toes
Then over counted fingers, ears, nose and eyes.
We giggle with each tickle surprise.

We swim to her on front and back;
Then its time to go to have our snack.
Mommy Ducky is lots of fun.
Mommy Duckies for everyone!

© David w. Oliver 10/13/2010

Sacred Dialog of Shepherds

Sacred  Dialog of Shepherds

Nahath looked around at the serious faces of the shepherd leaders in the flickering light of the bonfire. He saw the anger in the eyes of his brother and spoke to him quietly: “Rahuel, you are young and impatient, but this is the night for patience and listening. You know that Gatham and his shepherds are always angry, want to go first, and care poorly for the pastures, but let me lead the talk. We must talk and listen, not shout and fight.”

Grudgingly Rahuel agreed: “All right, I will hold my tongue, but it will not be easy, Nahath.”

Nahath called out to the assembled shepherds: “Gatham, Themen, Lothan, you are leaders of your shepherds and each of you cares for great flocks. This is the night we must converse and decide what is good for our flocks and pastures this year. Remember what our young Rabbi, Benyamin, discussed with us last Sabbath at his reading of our scrolls:

Genesis 1: Let us make Man in Our image, after Our likeness. They shall rule over the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, and over the animals, the whole earth, and every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth.

So God created Man in His image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.

And God saw all that He had made, and behold it was very good.

The Psalmists sang of God in Psalm 23:

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.

He leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul.

He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Remember our Rabbi said to us: “Like God did God make man to be shepherd in garden earth. He said we must hold a sacred dialogue as we do when we discuss the scriptures together. We argue strongly for our understanding, but we listen with greater passion and strength to learn from one another. We are shepherds.

We live outdoors with our flocks. We know them, the pastures, the fresh water, and the paths. We know the grazing animals: cows, buffalo, sheep, goats, gophers, and mice and the hungry predators: wolves, wild dogs, large cats.

Nahath saw Gatham looking away and spoke to him: “ Gatham, you are best and most deadly with your sling. Why do we drive off the wolves instead of killing them all?”

Gatham answered with pride in his bearing: “Nahath, you know we do that so they will eat the moles and mice so that our sheep will not break their legs and be tormented by fleas and ticks.”

Nahath continued: “And Gatham, why not kill all the moles and mice?”

Gatham, answered curtly: “Ohhh, you try my patience. The moles eat the grubs that kill the grass and with the mice they are food for the wolves. Without them the wolves would be ravenous for our lambs. It is the balance of all that Yahweh created, as our Benyamin tells us.”

Nahath spoke even more gently: “And Gatham, what of the shepherds who go first to the pastures?”

He replied with endurance in his voice: “Why they must take special care that the grass not be trampled, spoiled by dung, or eaten to the roots. Then the pasture will be even better for the flock that follows. Going first is hard, because the first must scatter the wolves when they are boldest and must scout ahead for the condition of the grass, and then send back word to those who follow. The first must create balance for those who follow.”

To honor his seniority Nahath asked: “So Gatham, which flock do you think should go first?”

Gatham asked: “Lothan’s flock is middle size. He is one of our wisest and most experienced. He has young and vigorous cousins with him. Lothan, would you lead this year?”

Surprised Lothan paused long and answered reluctantly: “Yes, Gatham, we will go first this year, but then we pick our turn next year.”

Nahath surprised them all: “Gatham, would you take my brother, Rahuel, with you? Share night watches and your knowledge of pastures with him. Share your skill with the sling. Live with him your knowledge of the golden rule of garden earth. And I will take one of your shepherds with us to know and learn from one another.”

Terrorism and Healing

Terrorism and Healing

Americans remain angry and in mourning over the 9/11 destruction of the twin towers and the death and injury of thousands of people. They have great compassion and support for those whose loved ones were killed or injured there. The ground zero site of the tragedy is a memorial to those dead and injured and to these feelings. As the twin towers collapsed into rubble and dust, the Muslim prayer room in the towers was destroyed along with the lives of people of many faiths. Americans share this tragedy and our feelings with others who are experiencing such wanton terror around the world.

On July 1, 2010 in Peshwar, Pakistan twin bombings killed 41 and injured 175 at a religious shrine considered a symbol of peace and tolerance where the message is love of God, respect for neighbor, peace, and harmony with emphasis on the indivisible equality of man. The first bombing took place at 11:20 P.M. in the basement of the tomb, an area reserved for ablutions. The second bomb exploded minutes later in the main prayer area which was crowded with worshippers who gather every Thursday for special rituals.
Pictures of the slaughter at:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/gallery/2010/jul/02/lahore-sufi-shrine-suicide-bombs#/?picture=364478247&index=2

This was the shrine of Persian Sufi saint Syed Abul Hassan Bin Usman Bin Ali Al Hajweri. He is also known as Data Gunj Baksh, a descendant of the Holy Prophet, born in 1010 AD. This was an attack by Sunni Taliban extremists. These hard-line religious militants oppose the Sufi interpretation of Islam, a belief system based on mysticism and exhorting a close personal relationship to God, love, peace, and tolerance.


Sufism is a mystic branch of Islam that has adherents in both the Sunni and Shia sects of Islam and has attracted both conservative and liberal Muslim to its tenants of love and a personal path to experience of God. Its message is conveyed with meditation, music, poetry, and dancing.

                                                                                          
This was just one in a continuing series of bombings. On March 5, 2009 in Lahore, Pakistan’s cultural capital, the Taliban bombed the shrine of the 17th-century Pashtun language Sufi poet, Rehman Baba, beloved all over the province and in neighboring Afghanistan. He is a symbol of peace and tolerance, and his writings are still studied today for their message of love of God and respect for neighbor as you can read in “Sow Flowers”.
                                           Sow Flowers
                Sow flowers so your surroundings become a garden.  
                Don’t sow thorns; for they will prick your feet.
                If you shoot arrows at others,
                know that the same arrows will come back to hit you.
                Don’t dig a well in another’s path
                in case you come to the well’s edge
                You look at everyone with hungry eyes,
                but you will be first to become mere dirt.
                Humans are all one body.
                Whoever tortures another, wound himself.
                                    Rehman Baba 17^th Century

 The great philosophers from Aristotle to Immanuel Kant have deduced the same rule. Scientists of human behavior like Erik Erikson have induced the golden rule from observation. Many of the world’s religions have a form of the golden rule as their basis for human behavior. The story in the Christian gospels that illustrates the golden rule is set on the desolate, robber infested road from the heights of Jerusalem down to sultry Jericho, near the Dead Sea. It was the Samaritan, hated by Jews as apostate, who reached out to the injured Jew by the side of the road with empathetic healing care.

The Imam and sponsors of the proposed "Cordoba House" overlooking the World Trade Center site are Sufi and Americans. They are victims of terrorist acts and lost loved ones on 9/11 and in the destruction of their shrines during worship. They reach out to Americans in shared pain over the slaughter of all the innocents, to build a home at ground zero where we can empathize over our losses and join in celebrating peace, love, and tolerance in our own ways.

We, all people harmed by terrorism, can heal with one another!

Dr. David W. Oliver 9/11/2

A Debt Repaid

A Debt Repaid

By Anne Glasheen

It was the summer of his last year at Harvard, 1929. He was working two jobs and, with the help of his older sister, a new teacher, he hoped he could afford the tuition. He worked in a leather tanning factory in Woburn, Massachusetts, fulltime during the week, and as a guard at the Gardiner Museum on weekends showing people the art treasures of Harvard.

When his boss asked him to dump the chemicals used in tanning process, my father refused: “Those chemicals will enter the aquifer and affect the water these people drink.” Daddy was a chemistry major.

When the boss fired him for refusing to obey, daddy went to the curator of the Gardiner and requested more hours: “But why do you need this money so desperately?”

“Because tuition is due soon and I need another hundred dollars or I won’t be able to graduate.” This was in the twenties and that was an enormous amount. The museum curator reached into his wallet and handed my father a hundred dollar bill.

“I don’t expect to be repaid. Just do the same for someone else when you are able.”

To my father that was a primary debt. He dug sewers that year until he had accumulated that hundred dollars plus interest. He returned to the Gardiner Museum and knocked on the curator’s door. When he handed the money to his benefactor the man began crying.

“You don’t know what this means to me. I lost all my money in the stock market and until you came in thought I had no alternative.” He pulled out his desk drawer and showed my father the gun he had been planning to use.

Leaping

                                Leaping

I was littlest kid at the swimming pool.

The big kids let me play.

Always picked last, have to follow every rule

that the biggest kids change every day.

I could run and jump and swim,

as good as the smallest older one.

So they would let me play with them

till they went to the high diving board.

“This board’s too high for a little kid.”

“Go play in the baby pool.”

“A shrimp like you will just get hurt.”

 Hurt inside by the big kid’s rules.

I knew that I could jump from that high,

Knew I could swim to the ladder.

But the height of the board – was terrified!

what I know just doesn’t matter.

So when I climbed the water slick rungs

and walked to the end of the board,

it was jump down from that terrible height,

or down the steps with their laughter reward.

“Look at him; he’s terrified.”

“Let the baby walk down the ladder.”

“A shrimp like him would just get hurt.”

Walked down with my soul in tatters.

It’s the truth of their jibes that hurt so much

and I wanted them to ask me to stay.

But also I wanted to leap through the air,

hit the water and make a huge spray.

It was then that I had to handle my stuff

Their laughing at me and my frightened feelings

against having them like me and making the leap.

Knowing I could do it and knowing it could sting.

Sleepless and drowning in their jibes and my fear;

dreams of falling when at last I fell to sleep.

What would I do at the swimming pool next day

when confronted with the terrible leap?

Next day all alone at the grown-ups pool

jumped and jumped from the side that’s very low.

When the jumps felt so good that my fears began to fade;

jumped high and twirled around in quite a show.

I ran up to the low board; my fears fading fast,

with confidence and real excitement growing.

Jumped and leaped and twirled around flying through the air,

With delight and confidence from the doing and the knowing.

Then I walked right up to that very highest board,

The usual jibes and laughter heard once more.

And when I looked down from that very highest place

The water was much closer than before.

I leaped and soared; and then plunged deep into the water!

from deep down there, above me I could see

silver bubbles streaming up and up as I rose.

Inside that leap had made a very different me.

I could not count the leaps that day

just a swimming and leaping blur.

I heard a big kid say: “The little kid leaped.”

Words I thought would never occur.

 Winter the outdoor pool is closed

other games and stuff to do.

But I thought about that high dive board

and being part of the big kid crew.

Mom got me into the downtown Y

with an indoor pool, a low board.

So I got to swim couple times a week

with an idea I could work toward.

There’s this guy, Greg Louganis,

who reinvented how to dive.

Our library had CD’s of him

I could watch on my CD drive.

Practiced two steps, sweep the right knee high,

whip arms up, hurdle high as I can,

toes impact board, arms drop to drive it down,

then push off, stretch up to the ceiling.

There were lots of splats and lots of stings,

but slowly the dive grew lofty.

Learned to jackknife at the highest point

open and knife the water vertically.

Then one lofty dive – disaster

would hit on my back and really sting.

Tucked into a ball as hands touched water;

my spinning butt did a wondrous thing.

No sting at all, smacked the water with a: “Whump”,

the splash hit the tile on the ceiling.

Lifeguard yelled ; “Hey, how’d you do that?.”

Knew I’d found just what I’d been needing.

Practiced that splash dive for highest splash height.

Named it the Watermelon.

Because that is what the butt-tuck looks like

when my butt sends the splash up to heaven.

When summer came went back to the pool,

still the littlest kid at the boards.

Watched the big kids jump their cannonballs

then took the last turn, just ignored.

Took the two slow steps, then hurdled high,

jackknifed at the lofty height.

Rocketed down to the water

to watermelon a sky high splash sight.

Jack, the big guy of the big kids,

Ran over as I pushed up from the pool.

“Hey kid would you show me how to do that?

You’re a high diving splashing fool.”

© David W. Oliver 8/7/2010

B and P

              B and P

B and P sent down a drill
to fetch an oil gusher.
       The pressure they found
       broke the well’s crown,
killed Gulf life for decades after!

Treasures

                 Treasures

While I still crawled my Father died

in a distant land of sand.

His Dad, my Poppy, snuggled me

on his lap with adventurous tales.

He read books for kids and men to me

voicing kingdoms, fantastic deeds.

Wove stories in colored tapestries

of metaphor and poem.

When I left our rural town,

Poppy followed me with cards.

Somehow he reached me at earth's ends

wherever my adventures led.

After dives, when I brought up gold,

to be hidden in strong steel vaults,

his richness note of congratulations

was waiting in Jamaica.

A note arrived on Timour

I was sure it came from his hand,

but it was written by my Mom.

I packed the moment that I dropped it.

I sat beside Poppy’s bed

grieving at his fragile figure.

Slowly he opened his eyes and smiled;

his finger beckoned weakly.

I bent to hear his whispery voice:

       “On the stand, my journal,
         at the marker,
         poem just for you.”

When he closed his eyes and drifted off,

I opened to my poem - addressed to me

and dated at the time I’d raised great riches.

        “You dove to deep sunk galleons

         found rubies, diamonds, gold.

         Sought across this earth of ours

         by adventurers, young and old.

         Sweep your life, search ‘cross the cosmos,

         the most precious treasure find

         is the generative give-‘n-take:

         two lifelong loves entwined.

        When adventure loses luster,

         gold and jewels lose their shine,

        bed your roots beside your life love’s  –

        tendrils climbing up together, the trellises of time.

       Springtime fragrant buds and blossoms

        are the children of your vine.

       Yours to nurture through the heat and cold,

        release prepared for any clime.

       Too soon summer yields to autumn frost,

       fruit ripe and ready in its time.

      Children part to find life’s love, adventure;

       renew the treasures of mankind.”

© David W. Oliver 7/10/2010

Read

                   Read

Read with all your senses,
imbed in your minds and hearts
the wise inscriptions of:
        scriptures of the stars,
        writings in the rocks,
        chemistry of the waters,
        gases of the ice cores,
        sediments of the seas.

Read with all your senses
imbed in your souls and hearts
the wise inscriptions of:
        our sacred scriptures,
        lives of prophetic leaders to their deaths,
        wisdom givers,
        passionate explorers,
        unknown quiet ones who love wholly.
Feel in your heart, mind, and soul the wisdom story
of impertinent life to die
       once to meteor crash conflagration,
       thrice suicidally under their glaciers,
       twelve times to volcano’s greenhouse gases.
Yet stubbornly survive with new species
unto woman and man.

What survives man’s suicidal spree of fossil fuels
in ice free time of bacteria matted oceans
belching hydrogen sulfide to a windless sky?
Do they read?


 David W. Oliver 1/31/2010

I Denali

                       I Denali

I Denali am majestic mountains and valleys,

glaciers of frozen fresh water, forest, tundra, and permafrost –

grizzly bear, caribou, wolf, moose, Dalls sheep, vole, and tiny mouse.

I live now near polar North, my Earth’s work

to radiate Sun’s heat to frigid outer space

and balance out the sun flux that beats at our equator.

I now sustain our temperature for fertile growth.

My life is billions of earth sun circuit years.

I have drifted over the surface of our Earth

colliding with and splitting apart from continents

My second is the hundred thousand earth sun circuit years

of glaciation-warming cycles. I knew the wooly mammoth,

giant beaver, giant sloth, gone extinct in my second of time.

My minute is the million year volcanisms; their greenhouse warming.

All ice melted then and oceans rose five hundred feet

from glacial Earth to ice-free Earth.

My day is tens of millions of sun circuits.

A day ago my mountains were under ocean

nursery and graveyard for fish and sea fans.

My mountains rose and rise now an inch a sun circuit.

My year is billions of sun circuits

All ancestral life of earth born and dying repeatedly

buried in ocean sediments, earth graves covered by

weathering of mountain, blown desert rock dust.

Your honorable Ancestors cleansed Earth’s sky of too much CO2

to give you breath of oxygen by their life and death and burial.

My year ago my Athabascan tribe called me Tallest One, Denali.

My second ago I saw your wooden sailing ships

reach my continent to conquer it with your Ancestor burning culture.

You lethargically ride to me in the stink of your domed rail cars and busses

to gape in weak ignorant awe at my majesty.

Trees lean drunken and dying in my softened earth.

Villages, of those who lived here with me in harmony from last ice age,

are smashed by winter storm unprotected by winter ice

or sink into my softened earth.

You rip off tops of my brother mountains and push the rubble into verdant valleys

to needlessly burn your Ancestors for energy to drive your adolescent entertainments.

I Denali mourn for my older brother Appalachians - despoiled.

We, my brothers and sisters, of Greenland, Andes, Himalayas, Antarctica,

have Wolves you need to know.

Our Wolves rest and feast in artic winter on snowshoe rabbit, vole and mouse,

then cull migrating caribou herds of the weakest young and old for health of herd.

The smoke of your fires burns their eyes and defiles their nostrils.

Our Wolves circle your pitiful burning campfires.

Their fangs gleam white salivating and hungering for your thinning.

See in their glowing red eyes: glaciers melt, sea ice retreats, reflecting less sunlight, 

as my dark earth and sea absorb more from sun

to flood your shore-hugging castles of burnt bone and shell.

See my permafrost of your frozen ancestors rot and decompose

to bubble upwards rejoining the air as greenhouse CO2 and methane.

Eight times these our Wolves have ravaged - driving hubristic life to near extinction.

I Denali cry out to you, you foolish blind deaf:

                                   “Desist! Live in harmony!

Else your grandchildren will starve as deserts expand across Americas, China, Australia, Africa …

Rising sea on low islands and coasts will fill fields with salt

then drown your splashing struggling children.

Rivers will run dry and aquifers pump dry of fresh water.

Thirst, hunger, disease, and murderous warfare over the scraps of your destruction

will savage your desperate migrating herds of refugees.”

© David W Oliver 7/10/09       

Reflections

                           Reflections

Unless you speak my language with all nuances,
unless you walk my chosen customs,
pray to my gods in my names of them
in accord with my doctrines:
you cannot be my friend!
My fortress wall of thick solid stone stands broad and wide.

Or

Because you know not the meaning of the sounds of my lips,
because my smiles are strange twistings of my face,
my gestures are arcane wavings in the air,
my writings a gibberish of scratchings,
my gods unimagined and
you have yet to choose:
I choose you friend.
My fragile mirror of thin metallized glass stands broad and wide.

Hidden, you peer behind your fortress peephole to see me
open front and back.

Come close to me, embrace?
our friendship sheltered twixt our two revealing mirrors,
friendship-reflections growing ever-ward our two directions.
More than we can discover and treasure
in our given days.

© David W Oliver 3/19/2010

Rejoice Grieve

           Rejoice Grieve

Krakk – the white chips fly
Rasssppf – white powder rains
Hollows, contours and textures freed

Quiet dip and touch
Hues penetrate the weave and thread
Shapes, feelings, meanings leap

Soft scratch and flow of ink
Trails cross the page and speak
Wisdom, joy, tragedy

Strokes of twinned creation and destruction

A stroke alone and individual
Strikes marble block from hillside quarry
Cuts canvass bolt and nails to wooden frame
Chops page from roll of paper

Strokes empathetic and cooperative
Expressive face, emotive body shapes
Blended pigments - light and shade and depth
Concepts, histories, and futures

Strokes wrestling for improvement
Drama, monument, installation
Romantic, surreal, abstract
Story, poem, song

Strokes meant to dominate
Idol, coin
Accusation, verdict
Doctrine, certainty

Rejoice our new creations,
Grieve every destruction,
Each lesson in uncertainty.
Celebrate life learning.

David W. Oliver 4/4/2010

Words

                                       Words

Words are not some squiggles that are written on a page,
Carvings in a block of clay inscribed by long dead sage.
Heritage and history were songs of ancient bards,
Singing wisdom left behind – remaining poem shards.

Words are like the knots that tie galactic fishing net,
Family, lovers, closest friends we never will forget,
Light that binds the galaxies by flooding heavens night,
Relationships among us, giving life delight.

Words are only tokens of galactic fishing net
That catches every passion and heartbreak that we get.
Growing every moment somewhere behind our eyes
Our legacy to warp drive times, bequeathed past our demise.

© David W. Oliver 6/15/09

Glory Harmony

                                 Glory Harmony

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the world made by the Lord
This beautiful earth He’s given us, our home and our reward
In His image we are shepherds and His garden is our ward
On earth his kingdom come!

Glory, glory hallelujah, glory, glory hallelujah
Glory, glory, hallelujah, On earth his kingdom come!

Spirit-flame came down upon them as they huddled in their fear
They strode out to tell his story and to make his love appear
Through our living and our caring bring a bit of heaven here
On earth His kingdom come!

Glory, glory hallelujah, glory, glory hallelujah
Glory, glory, hallelujah, On earth his kingdom come!

In the beauty of His heavens, of His earth, His deepest sea
He used life to shape their form and to create fertility
Let us use our lives in love to keep this glorious harmony
On earth his kingdom come!

Glory, glory hallelujah, glory, glory hallelujah
Glory, glory, hallelujah, On earth his kingdom come!



© Words David W. Oliver 2/23/2010
Original Words Julia Ward Howe 1862
Music William Steffe 1856 from a camp meeting song

Ski’n Sky

                                Ski’n Sky

Silent creep from tent; wake daughter Barbara in darkness;
her slalom ski aboard, start old Hope, cruise up the lake’s stillness.
Quiet glide to Gray’s dock on Floating Battery island site.
Beth tip-toes aboard with her favorite water ski.

Two teen girl muscular sun-kissed bodies
energy glowing auras,
gleaming smiles in morning faintness.
Putt-putt to the channel, first wake on sleeping Lake George.

Stop engine; hear Beth’s yelp splash echoing.
“Clear”: Barb’s spotter call to idle, circle tow line.
“Ready”: slow forward, tighten line.
“Hit it!”: ram throttle, set thirty-five knots.

Old Hope leaps to plane, dashes to east horizon,
skipper father’s eyes duty bound
forward to see buoys,
Barb’s constant stern watch of skimming skier.

While tented dark in sleeping bags
the trickster comets dip their tails
to flood God’s paint box overflowing;
drops of pigment spatter, staining heavens.

Faint crescent glow at mountain rim;
incandescent colors chasing darkness
scarlet, red, orange, brilliant gold edges,
light blue, deep purples, violet.

Sky streaks, sweeps, rainbowed ripples, gaudy puffs and blotches
above, from crescent rim to dome.
Twinned resplendence in forward windless water mirror,
mountains, islands flashing past on sides.

Splendor colors hammer eyes and senses
to bone and marrow,
beating heart, tingling nerve ends -
streaming windswept morning of eternity.

“Cut!” end of pull of rope, Beth’s ski edge.
Circle in idle, engine stop, glide to Beth.
Dripping ecstatic girl in. Barb’s yelp splash;
her sky leap dash to color fading west horizon.

Father’s safety love gift to not behold
painted sky-girl leaping dawn’s sky-wave jeweled froth.
Few instant sternward glances only, moments eternal,
burnt-in memory.

Cruise back to camping breakfast, wood fire aromas,
girl grins, exuberance.
Glory painted sky dawn! Glory sky-girl teen dawn,
Thank you.

© David W. Oliver 02/26/2010

Apocalypse Day

         Apocalypse Day

Day is as bright as stars of Night
Night as dark as space
They both live in peace
Until Apocalypse Day

© Grace Oliver 3/12/2010 age 12

Friend

               Friend

I am gon and lost with out you.
Your my friend for life

Your awas thaw to lend a hand
when ever I ned you

I no I can cont on you

© Maggie Oliver 6/10/2009 age 9

Foxy-Loxy

                  Foxy-Loxy

Foxy-Loxy ate all the chickens
In the hen house he could get in.
          Who will make the henhouse new?
          Foxy-Loxy! That is who!
He’ll fix our house of finance too.

© David W. Oliver 3/10/2010

Greed is Good

            Greed is Good

Wall Street shows us how to live
It’s better to receive than give
For riches they lust
In their lies we did trust

The banks lent money without thought
Toxic assets were what they bought
The banks wanted their money back
So the market wouldn’t have a panic attack

When banks too big - do fail
Their CEO’s should go to jail
The mafia could learn a lot
Wall Street has a better plot

The illuminati I’ve been told
Control the world and all its gold
In Bilderburg they have no fear
They go to meet there once a year

Helicopter Ben opened the gate
Goldman Sachs loves the rate
Ben loans money at one percent
And one percent is what Goldman lent

The Fed makes money out of air
Congress says it doesn’t care
Honest politicians are hard to find
We always get the other kind

The currency rate
Controls our fate
Free trade is not free
Someone pays -- you and me

China has us against the wall
What will happen when they call
NAFTA started the sucking sound
Now the sound is all around

America’s got talent
Obama is gallant
Let me explain
Barack feels your pain

Borrowing money got us in trouble
Now Obama’s creating another bubble
The national debt should make you fret
It’s going up -- on that you can bet

Gene DiCostanzo 2/18/2010