My Ego and my Shadow plan my Demise

Now as darkness fills my sight
There comes this final thought
Always you had been there
As if pulling the strings
My ego and my shadow

Once we had a great confabulation
An inseparable alliance against the world
There was nothing we wouldnt try
You and I, my ego and my shadow

We were an example for the unsuccessful,
Young were amazed and the old did envy
Our pluck and steady pace
Money was plenty and the girls gave way
To us, my ego my shadow and I

When I thought I held magical charm,
Good hair and tight flesh brought a wink
But the reflection soon would tell
My hold could not sustain the weight
Of us, my ego my shadow and I

For you had allowed me a falsehood
Where I needed caution, you egged me on
Never concerned for the morning after
The ultimate disaster, for after I’ve gone
There will be only you, my ego and my shadow

The Sleepy Old Bluff

He rests all the winter long

Beneath an icy cap of snow

Silently he keeps watch

Over all the slumbering creatures

Burrowed beneath his sheltering thatch


Spring melt wakes his green grasses

All over his round old top

Bright colored flowers greet

Young creatures on their first days

Atop the sleepy old bluff


Summer days are greeted by sparkling rain drops

Birds bath in his tiny streams

Dancing along on their journey to the sea

Curious bees visit each flower

While the sleepy old bluff dozes

Twilight shows many curious colors

In the lavish trees, autumn has arrived

Their sweet fruit and hardy nuts


Provide a bounty for the winter burrows

And the sleepy old bluff watches over all

Dale L. Schooley

It is with deep sorrow that we announce the death of Dale Schooley, formerly of Spencer Iowa, who passed away in Elkhorn Nebraska. Born in 1927 at Wakonda South Dakota he arrived in Spencer working for Montgomery Wards and then selling life insurance. Dale had a great love of the outdoors, horses, and farm life. He enjoyed hard work and it showed in all the improvements that were constantly going on with his farm at Gillett Grove. He was a big part of the mystique as the “Big Bad Wolf” giving hundreds of children memories at ‘Tom Thumb School’ and ‘Grandpa’s Barn’ which he ran with his wife Eleanor. His expertise as a Master Gardner was shared at his recent location of Quartzite Arizona. As a Sacred Heart church leader and Scout Master he made a difference in hundreds of lives. He was predeceased by his wife Eleanor and is survived by his children, Marilyn Hansen, Jo DeMars, Pat Schooley (Lynn), James Schooley, Connie Dunwoody (Mark) and Mike Schooley (Colleen); and his sister Evelyn Canoy. He is survived by 17 grandchildren; 32 great-grandchildren; many cousins, nieces and nephews. Memorial Mass, Saturday Aug. 21, 10:30 at Margaret Mary in Omaha.

Trotsky the Cat

I told you my teacher said I could be anything I wanted to be
You said there was no way that ‘I’ could be anything I wanted to be

I showed you my new glove I paid for with my paper route money
You had a baseball and tossed it at your sister’s cat, Trotsky

I asked if you wanted one of my paper routes
You showed me the new bike your dad gave you for not stealing

I said I could be a ballplayer and asked if you wanted to throw to me
You said that a glove would not make me a ballplayer

I said you would need more balls to back up that statement
You punched me in the nose

I bleed all over my white sneakers
You said you might want a route and rode off on your new bike

I finished my paper route and made another payment on my bike
You choose me to play on your team at recess

I got left out of batting order and got stuck in right field
You took over my paper route, never paying up the overdue collections

I paid the overdue collections
You said I could pound sand if I thought you would pay back the money

I said I would pound you
You punched me in the nose

I felt good about not bleeding on anything important
You said I could be anything that sounded like failure

I watched as later that night your house burned down
You had taken the batteries from the fire alarm for the light on your bike

I asked if you knew what had happened to cause the fire
You said your sister’s cat, Trotsky

I said I had sold Trotsky to the Barley brothers two hours earlier to pay for uncollected paper route fees
You said then why was a burning cat seen running into your garage

I said everyone knows the Barley brothers love to set cats on fire
Guess I failed to see that coming

Catnip Glen

With May tall grass that wets my shin

I search the grounds at Catnip Glen

Finding asparagus, now and then

Old lilacs bloom for none this day

Save starlings and the deer that lay

Beneath the elms where grasses sway

And hawthorns pull my hat again

By harvest, corn will fill the bin

That lonely stands at Catnip Glen

A rusted gate where vines now spin

Wet clothes no longer hug the wind

That echoed sounds of past children

No pictures more, out on the lawn

Of birthday parties now long gone

Summers, Winters, endless dawns

And sunsets, who’d have thought they’d end?

Say, who knows where the plows have been

That should have turned old Catnip Glen?

My cats will notice where I’ve been

But I’ve no notion who lived in

The house they burned, with barn and pin

I pick the roadside spears so grand

Their memories evidence of land

That out produced its garden stand

For corn and soy, no horse or hen

To stride the grounds on Catnip Glen

While trees confer, remember when?

Demons of Heterodoxy

Someone wrote a profound statement

Just as quickly it was attacked, for originality.

then rated for sexual content

and misinterpreted for racial overtones. 

 Pier reviewed for gender neutrality.

Systematically scrutinized for political bias,

while grammar Nazis picked at it

Internet punks trolled the remains.

Casually plagiarized and cursed for its frankness,

redacted by the feckless

and stolen by Hollywood.

Eventually, it was banned in academic settings.

more 'Acquiescence'

'Acquiescence'

Bring me vellum and charcoal bold
  Then lay awhile in tepid light
Humming and winking
  Fresh and naked as a newborn foal

There used to be music
  Fall and winter spring and summer
Comes now the doors rusty report
  With cheeky landlords process server

Bring me parchment and indigo ink
  Then clear the table, strewn in waste
No checks will there be drawn
 On this counter of buckets singing with rain

There used to be words
  Cherished and clever
Before this rasping hollow 
  Conch shell echo of air waves absurd

Bring me wine and honey pears
  But stay a while
Making love on slightly clean sheets
 Knowing the master has left in despair

Hold long the dog-eared page
  The remnant pencil with bitten point
Passages of heroism that no longer cleanse
  You and I in this failing light

Bring me the linen and fine silk thread
  Await to step in the crimson gown
Tunes on the radio acclaim your face 
  Hand in hand with the dystopian dead

The Book of Secrets

She closed the book,
placed it on the table
and finally decided
to walk through the door.

For her, a lifetime of corruptions
were then dispelled.
You were suspected.
I was an implement.
They would do nothing.

The book could encompass
what otherwise impossible thoughts
might carry the imaginer away in their dreams.
Delivering that final comeuppance,
the journey of a lifetime, or simply to re-exist.

One need only cast their thoughts into those pages.

One of the romantic verses could revive a lost love.
And who wouldn’t pay the price?
The elevator had been serviced dozens of times,
and none could circumvent its curious course.

Some whispered a curious curse
when it arrived at the lobby with no one on-board.
All weren’t lost, indeed, many returned
after fabulous adventures or a miraculous cure.
Always, there lay the book,

often a token.

Her's was a baby shoe.

This decision might be her last.

With breath held,

The gate slid shut,

the elevator cage dropped like a rock.

Once colors

Born in the golden hour

of your generous smile

Tethered by the caressing

tendrals of your emerald embrace

Ripened to the full warm

pleasure of your rosey lips

Reflected by the translucent

gaze of your raven eyes

Spellbound by the amber glow

of your translike magic

Frozen in the icy retreat

of your cool white silence

Gray as steel the lifeless

touch of your absent hand

Blue-black the void

inside my stolen sight

Nocturne Eternal

Lay darkly, silently

Ponder not the jagged edge

Turn softly those thoughts against

The way that haunts

Untangle those long bleak nights

Nights of amaranthine naught

Be not sedate of vigilance

In thy pensive thoughts

Embrace the howling wind

It covers the cries

Seek not light to dash out the dark

For there do shadows drown

Fear not the creatures of the night

Become the eyes of the mouse

Divine the ears of the bat

Assume the valor of the owl

Embrace the night, caress the earth

Wake not in fear

But lay forever entwined

With sweet nocturne eternal

How to Spot a Poem

To begin...

Describe the essence in a baby's laugh

Disseminate the message of a drunken preacher's

Sermon on a saint

Whisper to the silence

You find most fearful

Muse over who will be thinking of you

When a certain aroma occurs

Try cupping a sleepy kitten while

Distilling the fount of its tranquil smile

Catch rain in your sleeping hand

Taste it with a pen

Spot the poem

In showing grace for a dying creature

With nothing to offer in return

Only the expectations of the universe

Humming a song with no lyrics

Yet everyone knows the meaning

The undeniable need to cry

Possessing no reason to do so

Spotting a poem is as exquisite as your first breath

And as ruthless as your last heartbeat

All the while finding perfection

In an imperfect world

Black Birds of Autumn

Autumn's crows have fallen out

Solemnly resting on branches barren

Silhouetted in the blushing dawn

Warming their damp feathers

Brooding, chanting their awkward song

In funeral attire, they gawk and morn

The end of Summers sweet berries

Big fat bugs 

Bombing windshields

Pranking the squirrels

Backs to the wind 

They sit and sulk

Reminiscing on gentle showers

Stealing cookies from drowsy babies

Scintillating flowers

Dark sentinels though they be

No admiration do they seek

They only party with their clique

Sharing a joke now and then

That always ends in loud guffaws

Acquiescence

'Acquiescence'

Bring me vellum and charcoal bold
  Then lay awhile in tepid light
Humming and winking
  Fresh and naked as a newborn foal

There used to be music
  Fall and winter spring and summer
Comes now the doors rusty report
  With landlord's cheeky process server

Bring me parchment and indigo ink
  Then clear the table, strewn in waste
No checks will there be drawn
 On this counter of buckets singing with rain

There used to be words
  Cherished and clever
Before this rasping hollow 
  Conch shell echo of airwaves absurd

Bring me wine and honey pears
  But stay a while
Making love on slightly clean sheets
 Knowing the master has left in despair

Hold long the dog-eared page
  The remnant pencil with bitten point
Passages of heroism that no longer cleanse
  You and I in this failing light

Bring me the linen and fine silk thread
  Await to step in the crimson gown
Tunes on the radio acclaim your face 
  Hand in hand with the dystopian dead

Playground Polka

^{There had been}

^{No explanation}

^{Only incredulity}

^{Naturally I reacted}

^{Shoved that flaccid excuse}

^{Right back at her cold hard indolence
I stood in the door}

^{There was no finely polished floor}

^{For her to drop her proud ass on now}

^{Kicking her protestations}

^{Like the spoiled brat}

^{What now! I said}

^{But the silence went on}

^{A vacuous adagio of wind pipes}

^{Her weeping}

^{Could not have been sweeter}

^{So here she will play}

^{Grinding it out}

^{On that lysoled expanse}

^{Her own concrete}

^Playground

^{There it was}

^{Like a sail on the horizon}

^{Getting smaller}

^{Us, it, everything}

^{The door opened and closed}

^{With a loud metallic clang}

^{Let the dancing begin}

'the Eccentricities of Sleepwalkers'

Hastened by the daylight

Sanctioned on the essence of amnesia

Warriors of the mind

Cloaked in darkness

Padding unshod

Armed with a comb

Pursuing the minions of evil

From every tissue of the mind

An indestructible construct

Of pure imagination

Slipping in like children

Among the Johns

Pocket picking the circular jerkular

Leaving like whores

Rescuing kittens

Plucking keys from a river

Sailing the ocean

Plank walking Pirates with teary regret

Peacefully ennobled Saving the ever-loving planet

Returning to bedAnd the essence of amnesia

Taste of Victory

“Choose your weapon” she said,

And so the pacifist and the activist paced twenty,

Turned and took aim.

“But how can I destroy

One who I am obligated to protect?”

The pacifist asked.

“Grow a pair!”

The activist replied.

“Now take aim.”

"If I win it will be said I am a brute”

He closed his eyes,

Taking aim at the Sun.

“If you loose

It will be said you were bested by a girl.”

She said, they fired.

“Either way I loose”

He gasped as a dove fell beside him.

Together they lay dying.

“Who will care for my vines”

He gasped.

“The grapes are my life's work.”

“They taste bitter”

She said spitting back at him,

“Dove killer!”

Introuvable Tears

When first she awoke

She thought she was dead

Darkness and pain

Had seemed to cease

Inside of a moment

She froze like a stone

None would carry her

Nor welcome her home

Down in her heart

A spider did weave

Even in day

She captured all light

Confined in her sight

She wished for the lake

Smothering the day

Slipping away

Stopping her breath

She cheated the chair

Love Like an Abacus

How many times do we recall

Counting the days

Since first we met

The years and tears

Adding our lives on loves abacus

Weighing emotions

Erupting eventually

Like a shaken abacus

How many ways did we avoid

Counting the days

Of silent pain

The cold derision

Counting the good

Subtracting the bad

Exploding in the end

Like a broken abacus

Strange Flower

Oh sweet death, herald of silence
Pale defiler of the impassioned breast

Mocking lover's wounds
Like some wild Heartsease of minioned souls

Robbing thought and gentle touch,
Sweet scent and final breath

Stay the broken heart like that strange flower
Cold and still, casting pale silent regret