Oh Dear

I have just now written a grampa poem based on perusal of photo-archives and remembered stories from relatives. It could be a ballad if I could rhyme things oftener, but I'm happy with it. Hope you are too. --Geo.

Oh dear, what shall
I do, and what good will
It do when I do it?
Grampa took a train
As far as he could,
Hired a boat by the bay.
He made his way through
Thoroughfares, Bedlam,
Where squares became
Parallelograms --in defeat,
Buildings lunged onto streets.
He found my great aunt Ann,
And likewise uncle Joe,
Gave them cash, food, wine.
So they got though it fine.
Grampa was a good man,
As angels grade themselves.
He never spoke of his good works
Then died when I was twelve.

Time Travel Poem: My failure to Capture Billy The Kid.

(To Norma)

I stepped out of the 
Pumphouse (it was a
Million o'clock in
The morning) and drew 
The door behind me,
Confused in light and
Dew --I remembered you.
An early investigation
In this young nation of
Fields and farms: I went
Wisely to the school-
Marm and asked, "What's
Billy The Kid's middle name?"
You said, "A definite article."
I said, "'The?'!"
You said "Duh!"
"How does he outrun the law?"
"With a modifier --always did.
Fools everybody -- it's
'Billy The Other Kid'!"
I said,"You're right, of course."
As I fell off my horse but
Did not fail to mention she
Should return with me to
My century as it really
Could use her attention.

Potted Olive Tree

                                                         Grayboy

When day brings 
Him into learning,
Grayboy springs
Into action, attacking
One or another fraction

Of all things, uniting
them, wrestling, testing
Himself  in all he sees.
We too might learn from
Wrestling olive trees.

Imagine Autumn

In fantasy, fish swim
Flames of the sun--
Lenses sailing light,
Twist and glide in dreams
That are never done.

Norma

Future is at best a
Dappled thing --time
Dancing, light, leaves--
That retrieves
Starlit sky from
Focus in early
Westbound blur
On an east wall.
Amnestic reel calls,
Spins where Norma is.
A new day begins. 

Late Fledgling

She makes no sound
And melts among colors
Of the ground --much
As a memory sinks
Into the heart of me.
Time passes, clouds
Roll, doves instruct 
The human soul.

Ductile Time Revisited

Nine years ago, this poem attracted one comment, from my dear friend and grammar coach since 1965, Willie.  I decided it wanted  pictures, something glowy and something definitive. This is glowy:

Melting points
Make crystal relax.
At 98 degrees,a
Human may be
Drawn like a
A wave over years.
Tungsten takes 6000.
Dreams stream off.
Where do they go?
What current causes
Them to glow? 
 *******************