Monthly Archives: April 2017

First, the elements of the pencil

Are natural:

Graphite in a long thin cylinder

Sandwiched in a hexagonal cedar casing,

The metal ferrule holds a rubber eraser,

And so, I feel connected to the earth.

Paper in the notebook comes from trees,

And I sense its texture (like 800-grit sandpaper)

As I form these letters, much as I have

For decades, I am linked to myself

And my past.

The poem finished, the spell breaks

As I tap cold, slick plastic in front of

A hard screen to bring

This poem to the

World.

Dan Verner

April 12, 2017

The gates come down and

Red lights flash and

I can’t cross the tracks

Because

A train stretches

Down them

Nearly out of sight,

Stopped.

I used to find this delay

Irritating

But now,

As the train slowly

Starts toward Alexandria and

Union Station and points north,

I watch coaches, baggage and

Sleeping cars and

At the end,

A private vintage rail car, and

I wonder who these people are

On the train,

Where they are going,

What they are thinking,

And who they love.

In the private car,

It is a dining car, and

I see red carnations in vases

On the tables and

A couple having breakfast

Which they will finish

Before the train

Stops

At their

Destination.

Dan Verner

April 11, 2017

The secret to sounding like a dog

Is simple:

Inhale when you bark.

It’s more resonant,

And you can make people think

A rottweiler has gotten into the house,

So warn them first

And you’ll cough after you do it

Which doesn’t sound too threatening,

And so you’ll cancel out the bark.

But do it anyhow.

Your friends will love it.

Dan Verner

April 10, 2017

Our house has

Three climate zones

Just like the Earth.

A three-story,

The basement is the polar zone

And even has a freezer

And it’s cold,

Even though the furnace

Lives there.

The main floor, where we eat

And talk

Is temperate,

Comfortable and inviting.

The top floor is tropical

Warmer than the other floors

As you might expect

Made that way by warm air rising

And heat produced by our computer.

We have, in this house,

The world within our reach,

Or at least the

Climate zones.

Dan Verner

April 9, 2017

When I was a teenager

I couldn’t sleep enough,

Rising on Saturdays

About noon

If not

Later.

My idea was that I got up

At 6:30 to go to school

All week and at 7:30

On Sundays

So I figured

I had to make up for

Lost sleep.

I woke up at 5:30 for

Thirty-two years

To go to work

And now that I’ve been

Retired for nearly

Fourteen years

I’m sleeping late

Again, riding at

Nine. I figure

I’ve earned that

And it feels so good

To lie abed

And know

I don’t have to get up

Any time soon.

It’s about the best thing

About retirement.

Dan Verner

April 8, 2017

My brother Ron and I in 1952, ready to ride the range.

Today at the gym I saw

A boy, about five,

Leaving with his mother

From the day care

Near the entrance.

He ran ahead of her—

No, he didn’t.

He skip-hopped,

Looking for all the world

Like a horse,

And then I saw he had his hands

In front of him as if

He were holding reins

And so, in his imagination,

He was riding a horse.

I did this when I was his age,

But my brother and I

Had Roy Rogers cowboy outfits,

Complete with cap guns,

Although we used up all the

Caps we had the first day

And had to go, “Pow! Pow! Pow!”

Which was all right

With us

And we pranced around our back yard

Shooting our guns, keeping the West safe,

And riding the best horses

The world had ever seen.

Dan Verner

April 7, 2017

So. Major League Baseball changed the rule

And now batters, pitchers, catchers, umpires, managers, teammates, fans present,

Listeners and watchers at a distance,

Players and teams as yet unborn or thought of,

Will no longer have to endure

The charade and senseless lack of drama

Of four pitches thrown wide

And each carefully, slowly returned.

It might as well be an absurd

Game of catch.

That’s all.

But now all the manager

Has to do is raise four fingers

And zip!, the batter’s on base

And we’re all relieved

That the game can continue.

But thinking of it,

This saves maybe 20 seconds,

Which is practically non-existent

Compared to the hours taken

For a game,

And I wonder if changing were

Worth it, after all

As I do

With so many

Other

Things.

Dan Verner

April 6, 2017

Coming home,

I take out my key,

Put it in the lock

Of the front door

And go in.

Before I take two steps

I hear the thump from upstairs

That means that Nacho the Cat

Has awakened from her six-hour nap

And is coming downstairs

To see me.

More properly, she is coming

Not so much to be with me

As to be fed by me.

I take her food out of the refrigerator

And put it in her bowl.

She devours it as if

The nasty-smelling stuff

Is good.

She’s a cat, after, and my good companion,

And she is old, and I wonder

How many more days

I will hear her

Jump down from the bed

Upstairs.

Dan Verner

April 6, 2017

Like many people of a

Certain age

I take a nap

Every day,

And occasionally

I dream

But my dreams are not

Of fantastic landscapes

Or terrible encounters.

No, I dream that I am

Taking a nap.

I see myself lying

On the bed

Dreamlessly

Asleep

And when I stop dreaming

It is as if I

Stepped through a door

To wake myself

Or, as happened last week,

Waking was like moving through a mist

Which fell away to reveal what passes

For the real world

Although I wonder which

Of these is

The real world.

Dan Verner

April 6, 2017

Poured from a word bottle

Or decanted from a

Morning of dew

Or dipped with silver nets

From streams of golden fish

Or distilled from

The last star’s shining

Before dawn

But rather

Blocked piece by piece

Fragment by fragment,

A mosaic of

Half-remembered dreams

A tapestry of forgotten imaginings

And a weaving of

Lost desires.

Dan Verner

April 5, 2017