Selected Poems

Larry J. Eriksson

On Poems and Lighthouses

The lighthouse is dark – awaiting nightfall and those who will need its light.

The poem is silent – awaiting a reader who will bring it to life.

Second Edition Other publications by Larry J. Eriksson

Poetry Chapbooks (poems in this collection) Moonlight (2010) - 6 poems Moments (2011) - 4 poems Mysteries (2011) Music (2011; 2nd ed. 2013; 3rd ed. 2016) - 3 poems MindGames (2012) - 6 poems Marching (2012; 2nd ed. 2013; 3rd ed. 2016) - 4 poems Memories (2013) - 5 poems MoodSwings (2014) - 6 poems Moving (2015) - 4 poems Magic (2016) - 1 poem

Poetry Collections Collected Chapbooks (2016) Word Waves (2016)

Nonfiction books Business Decisions (2002) Broken Strings, Missing Notes (2005) Waves of Silence (2015)

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On Poems and Lighthouses cover a bit of humor Buy Local 1 Rocky Tees Golf Course 22 Why I Don’t Play on sound and light... Golf Anymore? 23 String Theory 2 Magical Sunrise 3 on justice... Light Music 4 Feeding the Birds 24 What is Justice? 25 on travel... The Road to Havre 5 a bit of politics... Deerfield Diorama 6 Middle Ground 26 Chip Seal Nation 27 on alleys... On Wisconsin? 28 Nosing Around the Alley 7 Life on the Alley 8 on waging peace... The Tool Shop 9 The Wars Never Fought 29 Marching Strings 30 up north... At a Northwoods Grill 10 on the passage of time... Family Reunion 11 Special Collections 31 The Namekagon Crossroads 12 The Bus Stop 32 Sounds From the Past 13 Advice From a Grandfather 33 Night Ride 34 on love and marriage... The Last Sounds of Summer 35 Moonlight on the Goldenrod 14 The End of Time 36 Marital Alchemy 15 postscript... on changes... Canine Therapy 37 Vernal Bonfire 16 Dusk in Summer 17 about the author back Godparent to a Butterfly 18-19 Natural Treasure back on the environment... Living With Richard Parker 20 Earth Day Headlines 21

Buy Local Sustainable growth, support your community – read local poets. on sound and light...

String Theory

a dark quiet night the violin is silent patiently waiting the bow awakens slowly moving back and forth the music begins soon going faster the bow moves from string to string in clouds of rosin a blue glow appears as ions accumulate and the music builds now sparks are flying rivers of color and light a cascade of stars the night disappears lightning arcs across the sky filling the ether energy from strings creating light from darkness as the bow moves on sound and light spring forth pushing the edge of the void expanding the world

(published in Broken Strings, Missing Notes, Quarter Section Press, 2005, and the Peninsula Pulse, Sept. 5, 2008; “string theory” also uses vibrating strings to describe the nature of matter; from chapbooks Moonlight and Music, 3rd ed.)

2 Magical Sunrise

Soft pre-dawn light fills the air, white snow sparkles on the ground, two contrails rise in the east, arrows flying high above with tails of feathery swirls.

A luminous crescent moon dazzles in the pale blue sky, a soft pink hue paints the trees, a low line of clouds blazes with glowing yellows and golds.

Signs of the still hidden sun whose sudden rising proclaims the start of another day and abruptly erases the sweet subtlety of light.

(revised version of poem from chapbook MindGames)

3 Light Music

A treble clef statue of polished green glass, infused by sunshine from a clear blue sky

makes the room sparkle with the music of light, shimmering notes performed pizzicato,

accompanied by the spectral colors of small rainbows formed by its prismatic base.

(inspired by the room where I often write; published in the WFOP 2016 Poets’ Calendar; from chapbooks Moving and Music, 3rd ed.)

4 on travel...

The Road to Havre

Sailing across the high plains Just a few small towns remain, on the lifeline U.S. 2, islands in a sea of grass. a lone ribbon of concrete The co-op sells food and gas. alongside two rails of steel. We take a small, wooden booth. No interstate, no fast food, Children laugh in the corner. just old abandoned homesteads, A young couple talk nearby. endless fields of wheat and hay, Workers crowd a large table. rugged hills and lonely trees. Soldiers stand in the hallway. A tough land of wild extremes, We relax and watch until big skies and far horizons, a tired waitress brings our food. winter cold and drifting snow, The young man and woman leave summer heat and endless winds. for a high school football game. The odor of burning wood, After drinking our coffee, evidence of distant fires. we leave, return to our car, Dusty haze filling the air and follow the setting sun as sunsets glow red and orange. on the long road to Havre. >>>

(inspired by a stop at a cafe in Malta, Montana; from chapbook Moonlight)

5 Deerfield Diorama A rest stop on the Glacial Drumlin Trail, the hot summer sun bakes the gas station. A bicycle leans against a brick wall; the rider relaxes with a cold drink. A riding mower pulls in from Main Street stopping in front of a white FedEx truck. A John Deere garden tractor soon follows parking near a Pontiac Bonneville. A Salvation Army truck with raised hood, three men study the engine compartment. A stream of coolant drips onto the ground. One of the men returns with a hose clamp. The diorama slowly dissolves as the riding mower retraces its route north and the garden tractor drives south on Main – the cyclist fades to a vanishing dot.

(published in the 2011 Poets’ Calendar of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets; from chapbook Moments)

6 on alleys...

Nosing Around the Alley The sweet perfume of lilacs and the earthy fragrance of gardens mulched with grass clippings.

The pungent stench of garbage, the noxious smell of decay, the fetor of dead critters.

The familiar essence of oil and gasoline fumes in musty old garages.

The aromas of dinners drifting through the neighborhood as the day comes to an end.

(published in the 2012 Poets’ Calendar of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets; from chapbook MindGames)

7 Life on the Alley

I still remember life on the alley,

running and playing full court basketball between backboards on facing garages,

watching our neighbors weeding their gardens and washing their cars,

playing hide and seek in the evening among the fireflies,

but more than all these, I see the garage where my dad started the tool and die shop that supported our family.

(from chapbook Moments)

8 The Tool Shop Awake with the rising Sun, dress, eat fast, off to the shop, an aging well-worn building, concrete block walls, few windows, met by the pungent odors of oil, metal, and machines, must punch in at the time clock, at seven, the work begins. Harsh noises, lurking dangers, showers of machine shavings, flashing razor sharp metal, hazardous carcinogens, thuds from pounding punch presses, hard and often boring work, endless sweeping and cleaning, finally it’s time for lunch. The big machines go silent, workers sit at their benches, open metal lunch boxes, eat a baloney sandwich and read the morning paper, a few listen to the news or discuss last night’s ball game, all too soon, it’s back to work. Then the highlight of my day, driving the old pick-up truck cross town to a customer, a chance to briefly escape the dull routine of the shop, a welcome breath of fresh air, had done it a hundred times – but this time, I would not return. (from chapbook Moving)

9 up north...

At a Northwoods Grill

Relaxing at the end of a long day on an inviting flagstone patio, golden sunlight filtering through the trees.

An older couple eating by themselves, just like their first date fifty years ago, chat about their children and grandchildren.

A young man and woman playing ping-pong, volleying in a slow, polite fashion, smile at each other when she scores a point.

A child enjoying a slice of pizza, watching the people eating and playing, surveys the world she soon will inherit.

(inspired by a dinner in Door County, Wisconsin; also published in the chapbook, What Is Hidden, vol. IV, Dickinson Poetry Series, 2013; from chapbook Moments)

10 Family Reunion A weathered olive tackle box, an old gift from my grandfather, filled with smells and tools of fishing, fish line, bobbers, colorful lures. Pinkies my brother and I used to spin cast for crappies, a chrome-plated Swedish spoon that my dad crafted himself, a deep-diving River Runt added by my grandfather, a Hula Popper purchased soon after my father died. An old box filled with fishing lures; a time capsule that still evokes fading memories of the past and of those no longer with us.

(from chapbook Memories; published in the 2013 Poets’ Calendar of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets; featured in the exhibition “The Artists Muse, Wisconsin Artists - Wisconsin Poets” at the Howard Young Art Gallery in Woodruff, Wisconsin, Spring, 2014)

11 The Namekagon Crossroads

At the extreme west end For years, a key portage of Windigo Lake and on a valued route, but a few miles from Hayward, now almost forgotten; is a long, narrow bay, today, speeding cars cross where my grandparents owned its path without pausing – a resort for many years – moving too fast to hear for some, Simonson’s Bay, the echoes of early but Eriksson’s for me, traders and voyageurs after my grandparents. moving through the forest.

Long ago, they would watch canoes traveling from (expanded version of Namekagon Portage the Chippewa River published in the 2014 Poets’ go across Windigo Calendar of the Wisconsin and portage from the bay Fellowship of Poets; to the Namekagon from chapbook Memories) on their journey from the Mississippi River to Lake Superior. >>>

12 Sounds From the Past

Each summer as a child, Now fifty years later, I would walk up the stone steps our retreat in the woods of the old log cabin. also has a screen door. The screen door would squeak as When I open the door, I entered the kitchen it squeaks and brings back of my grandparents’ house. memories of times past. A home of varnished logs I think of the log house with joints of black chinking and see my grandparents to keep out winter winds. sitting in the kitchen. Nestled deep in the woods, a special place filled with (from chapbook Moments) good smells and warm feelings. >>>

13 on love and marriage...

Moonlight on the Goldenrod Walking together in the twilight Strong mild winds from the south Summer warmth with a hint of fall Open spaces stretching before us Light haze covering the sky Humid air enveloping the fields Thick forests at the horizon Colors fading to shades of gray Fragrances of drying summer Fields of ripe corn and waving grass Fallen leaves and fading blossoms Small birds fleeing from night Our arms reach out to join them Floating with the wind Drifting away in silence Moving weaving together One then two then one Holding touching loving Soft light from a harvest moon Yellow fields of glowing goldenrod Magic in the season called September

(inspired by an evening walk with Karen along a Door County road; published in the chapbook, No Breath Is Lost, vol. I, Dickinson Poetry Series, 2010, and the Peninsula Pulse, April 10, 2010; from chapbook Moonlight)

14 Marital Alchemy Newlyweds united in love overflowing with dreams and desires begin their new life together, where each day is a special gift.

The daily rhythms of living weave a family tapestry of joys, challenges, happiness, and wedding anniversaries.

Some pass by without much notice – paper, silk, crystal, and china; a special pause for silver, but pearl and ruby rarely mentioned.

After fifty years together, the alchemy of time mixed with love and hope works its magic and transmutes the common into gold.

A noble metal honoring a noble anniversary, celebrating old memories and anticipating new ones.

(published in the chapbook, What Is Hidden, vol. IV, Dickinson Poetry Series, 2013; from chapbook MindGames)

15 on changes...

Vernal Bonfire The vernal equinox brings the welcome return of light with longer days, shorter nights; the growing season draws near, perhaps celebrated with dancing and even greasepaint.

I prefer the festival called “the burning of the socks” observed in Annapolis by the owners of small boats to welcome warmer weather when no one needs to wear socks.

I think of it as burning excess clutter from our past, leaving space for renewal, as in the days of our youth when we went around barefoot and the future was open.

We are free to plant new seeds or try some old favorites, to take a new direction or revisit an old one, and enter a new season with our old socks left behind. (read at UUFDC Service in Ephraim, Mar. 27, 2011; published in Equinox broadside, Spring, 2011; from chapbook MindGames, rev.)

16 Dusk in Summer

The dark streets are quiet, Clusters of lightning bugs the window lights glowing flitter in the shadows, as children go to bed, punctuating the dark the day draws to a close. with bursts of gentle light.

The humid air is ripe A full moon emerges with the fullness of life, above towering trees – leaves hanging motionless, large, luminous, and orange, not a whisper of air. diffusing its pale light.

Clicking lawn sprinklers A soft composition water the thirsty grass, of peace and contentment the hose glistens with to treasure and recall silver beads of moisture. on a cold winter night. >>>

(published in the Peninsula Pulse, Mar. 29, 2013; from chapbook Memories)

17 Godpare nt t o a B ut t e rf l y c a t e rpi l l a r s / t / r / i / p / e / d whi t e / bl a c k/ ye l l ow i c l n r w g a g fi ndi ng n m i l kwe e d i h gre e n l e a ve s b a e a t i ng m n

G R O W I N G i g she ddi ng ski n l i wa t c he d c n

J- i n g

t w i s t i n g c hrysa l i s-i ng gol d!dot s z -i -p-p-e -d sl e e pi ng d a r k e n i n g c l e a r i n g e m e r g i n g u g MONARCH n n wi ngs f i o d

l n o dri ppi ng i g y d r y i n g f y a a l w

(i nspi re d by ra i si ng Mona rc h but t e rfl i e s from c a t e rpi l l a rs; from c ha pbook Moonl i ght) Poe m : Copyri ght © 2010 by L a rry J. E ri ksson; Phot o: Copyri ght © 2010 by Ka re n R. E ri ksson on the environment...

Living with Richard Parker

A boy and a tiger Six billion people, named Richard Parker, sharing our planet sharing a lifeboat with countless other on the vast ocean, plants and animals, looking for a way need a new covenant to live together. for the care of the Earth. Reducing their needs Waging war on nature, to a minimum wages war on ourselves – and depending on bringing us closer each other as they to the tipping point struggle to survive of our little boat on the endless sea. on the sea of life. Without the boat, they both die; (inspired by the story Life of Pi; read at UUFDC Poetry Sunday, without the boy, Ephraim, WI, Apr. 28, 2013; the tiger starves; published in N.E.W. Voices, without a companion, v.1, no.3, Spring Summer, 2013; the boy gives up. from chapbook Marching, 3rd ed.) >>>

20 Earth Day Headlines

Supreme Court affirms Earth’s person-hood, gives Earth rights under the Constitution, cites precedents under corporate law, notes evidence that the Earth is Gaia; Court appoints guardians to act for Earth.

Earth takes swift actions to protect itself, stops further havoc by exploitation, sues big corporations for damages.

Earth files case with International Court, claims mistreatment and neglect by nations, demands relief and large reparations, insists on strict control of pollution.

Earth asserts property rights to its land, requires leases to access resources, lawyers scramble to work out agreements.

Earth’s account fills from huge revenue stream, funds campaigns for Earth-friendly candidates, begins major pro-Earth media blitz.

Corporations panic and seek way out, lawyers insist on revised Bill of Rights, want person-hood limited to people – Earth moves to evict corporate tenants.

(read at the Dickinson Poetry Series, April 9, 2014; from chapbook MoodSwings)

21 a bit of humor...

Rocky Tees Golf Course

An empty landscape devoid of grass A quarter section of rugged golf Carefully hewn out of solid rock

No trees or shrubs just stones and boulders With yawning traps of coarse dark gravel and granite wastelands of endless rough

Tees tottering in tiny crevices Drives bouncing high off hard rock fairways Sparks flying as irons strike the ground

Just one pin position for each hole Cut cleanly into the polished rock Where even good putts skip off the lip

This is not a club for relaxing No bucolic holes with lush plantings Or bar rooms with cold drinks and small talk

This is a place where fun is hard work Just a hardscrabble course of tough shots Where only the golf is on the rocks

(published in the chapbook, No Breath Is Lost, vol. I, Dickinson Poetry Series, 2010; from chapbook Moonlight)

22 Why I Don’t Play Golf Anymore

Well, I do, but not as much. It’s not because it takes too long – though it does, it’s not because it’s too expensive – though it is. The problem is the game. In most games, you score points: a run or a basket, a goal or a touchdown – good play is rewarded. But in golf, even good shots add strokes, bad shots add more – your score always grows. The only way to win in games such as golf – is to stop playing.

(from chapbook MoodSwings)

23 on justice...

Feeding the Birds

The sign boldly states – don’t feed the birds, a big fine if someone catches you, must keep walking and obey the law – a strict case of legal justice. A woman walks slowly behind me, a flock of birds gathers around her, she tosses them small pieces of bread – a few crumbs of moral justice. Soon the more aggressive birds take charge, the smaller birds don’t get much to eat, pushed away by the big, fast, and strong – an angry fight for street justice. Once in awhile the strong birds lose out, beaten to a little piece of bread by a weaker bird in the right place – a rare chance at poetic justice. Then the woman starts aiming her throws to favor the smaller, weaker birds, giving them the food they need to live – a brief taste of social justice. Seeking fairness, not equality, with fewer rules, more loving concern, to ensure all will grow and prosper – a goal for communal justice.

(read at UUFDC Poetry Sunday, April 6, 2014; from chapbook MoodSwings)

24 What is justice? the victims want punishment the accused want fairness the plaintiffs want compensation the defendants want understanding the judge wants the facts the defendant wants to explain the rich want legal justice the poor want moral justice the victors want rewards the losers want compassion the strong want control the weak want help the strong want individual justice the weak want collective justice the few grant occasional justice the many want predictable justice the rich want to keep the poor need to get the powerful make rules that the weak must break

(read at the Dickinson Poetry Series, April 9, 2014; from chapbook MoodSwings)

25 a bit of politics...

Middle Ground

A nation divided into Often, it’s either red and blue states, that old time religion no pastels or shades of gray. or no religion at all.

The right has simple answers Humanists disparage with no desire to be confused religious references by the complexity of problems. whenever they’re used.

The left condemns simple answers Fundamentalists follow and embraces complexity, an orthodoxy that prescribes but their solutions often fall short. a faith-based reality.

Both groups reject pragmatism In politics and religion, in their pursuit of values we ignore the ambiguities that they declare preeminent. and need for compromise.

Neither side has much interest Instead, too many seek in listening, reading, or thinking the evanescent security outside of their own boxes. of ideological purity.

Our religious beliefs are The middle ground in our just as polarized sharply divided country as our political views. is a largely empty space. >>>

(from chapbook Marching, 3rd ed,)

26 Chip Seal Nation

Our roads wear out, Our schools are in disrepair, but instead of repaving them, and teachers beg for supplies we apply a cheap and easy in overcrowded classrooms chip seal of oil and gravel; as we keep cutting costs they may look better, and tell our students but the road is still broken. they only have to pass a test. Good enough Who needs a real education for a chip seal nation? in a chip seal nation?

Our environment is in crisis Our broken roads lead and climate change looms, to gated communities but instead of real solutions for the privileged few we sell rights to pollute, as millions struggle asking the market with stagnating salaries to make our decisions. and disappearing jobs. Why look to the future Why share the wealth in a chip seal nation? in a chip seal nation? >>>

(published on Verse Wisconsin website and Facebook page; from chapbook Marching)

27 On Wisconsin?

When Wisconsin’s leaders When Wisconsin’s leaders attack the rights of women, forget the ancient sermon, neglect the needs of our children, blessed are the poor, destroy the power of workers, blessed are the meek, ridicule the protesters, blessed are the merciful, reward the rich and powerful – blessed are the peacemakers – where is the moral outrage? where is the moral outrage? When Wisconsin’s leaders Where are the leaders diminish democracy, who will rebuild Wisconsin, restrict government, our country’s progressive leader, trivialize education, the home of the “Wisconsin Idea,” disdain the views of experts, the “laboratory for democracy,” mock its great university – the state of Bob La Follette – where is the moral outrage? who has the moral outrage?

When Wisconsin’s leaders (from chapbook Moving) ignore the majority, tune out the opposition, respond to money, pander to power, impose their will – where is the moral outrage?

>>>

28 on waging peace...

The Wars Never Fought Let’s celebrate... the wars never fought, the soldiers never trained, the battles never held, the heroes never made. Let’s celebrate... the medals never earned, the wounds never felt, the lives never lost, the tears never shed. Let’s celebrate... the guns never fired, the ships never launched, the planes never built, the bombs never dropped. Let’s celebrate... the speeches never heard, the parades never marched, the glory never won, the statues never built. Above our mantels, let’s replace our swords with retired plowshares.

(from chapbook MoodSwings)

29 Marching Strings In my dream, a string orchestra suddenly appeared down the street, no rifles or martial outfits, just black and white formal attire. Led by leaping dancers spinning and twirling colorful banners, surrounded by a vibrant group of banjos and ukuleles. Followed by rows of instruments – a host of petite violins, their synchronized bows producing waves of angelic music. Escorted by endless lines of muscular violas, slightly larger alto voices adding elegant harmonies. Then ranks of sensual cellos, with graceful curvaceous bodies supported by long shoulder straps and radiating deep, rich tones. Finally, massed rows of basses gliding on rubber casters and providing a rhythmic footing for the musical brilliance. Not a band, marching for war, but just strings, marching for peace, leaving behind smiles and sunshine, birds and flowers, love and kindness.

(from chapbooks Marching, 3rd ed. and Music, 3rd ed.)

30 on the passage of time...

Special Collections in the Library Annex The room of abandoned books, obscure novels and treatises that are too long, too boring, with too many ideas that demand too much from the reader. The room of burned books, filled with the ashes of volumes that challenged religious beliefs or used unacceptable language, that sought to create change or threatened those in power. The room of unfinished books, thick stacks of manuscripts, some with no beginning, others that go nowhere, some with missing chapters, still others with no ending. The room of unwritten books by authors yet to be born, a room full of empty shelves awaiting news from the future, written with new words to describe a new world.

(inspired by “The Library of Babel,” a short story by Jorge Luis Borges, and the “Cemetery of Forgotten Books” described in The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón; from chapbook MindGames)

31 The Bus Stop

Twenty-five years driving to work. Rising early in the morning with Lake Kegonsa on the left and the old farmstead on the right. A huge barn next to the highway, winding road to the old farmhouse, a mother and her young children waiting for the yellow school bus. Brilliant morns in early fall, frigid dawns in winter darkness, followed by colorful flowers and the long, warm days of summer. In time, the children grow taller. The mother is no longer there. The siding falls from the old barn leaving a skeleton behind. One fall day, the children are gone. Our fleeting meetings have ended. In a few years, I too must leave and no longer drive down that road. As I reflect on the moments that I shared with those young children, I wonder where they have all gone along with the years of my life.

(inspired by my drive to work along Lake Kegonsa near Stoughton, Wisconsin; from chapbook Moonlight)

32 Advice From a Grandfather

When I was young, I went to my parents for advice,

As I grew older, I talked with my friends about my problems,

When I became a father, I helped my children work through their concerns,

Now that I am a grandfather, I am more hesitant when asked for advice –

My wisdom is based on years of experience living in a world that no longer exists.

(from chapbook Memories)

33 Night Ride

I was twelve years old, Only memories dusk was closing in of the past remained, as I rode my bike then a road appeared through the neighborhood with sounds and streetlights with some of my friends. as my bike rolled on.

It was that special time I heard the voices of the day, not light, of my granddaughters but still not quite dark; emerge from the dark, fireflies were flashing we rode together, as we cruised along. a peloton of three.

Past time to go home, They soon moved ahead but we kept riding seeking the future in the dim twilight, in the cool night air wishing our night ride and soft gray shadows would last forever. of deserted streets.

My bike was flying Stars slowly emerged as friends grew distant from the fading light, and night sounds faded; I was an old man I raced alone through and wished this night ride blocks of time and space. would last forever. >>>

(from chapbook MindGames)

34 The Last Sounds of Summer

Early one November day with frost on the ground, the wind was calm, the sky ice blue with a touch of fog.

Maple leaves were cascading from their branches, streams of confetti forming a blanket under each tree.

If you listened carefully, you could hear the soft crunch that each leaf made as it struck the grass – the last sounds of summer.

(from chapbook MoodSwings; published in the 2015 Poets’ Calendar of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets)

35 The End of Time

Soft morning light filters into the quiet room, a hot cup of coffee steams in the chilly air, the sweet sound of music begins to fill the space.

Visions of the past mix with thoughts of the future, well-worn books line the shelves – memories of times past, familiar dreams persist – unopened flower buds.

The past never returns, the future remains distant, past, present, and future fused together so that time comes to an end and lasts forever.

(from chapbook Moving)

36 postscript...

Canine Therapy

My white bichon, Misty, says that she loves taking walks in the woods – the trees help her get in touch with her inner wolf.

(published in the chapbook, What Is Hidden, vol. IV, Dickinson Poetry Series, 2013; from chapbook Memories)

37 About the author

Larry J. Eriksson is a Wisconsin poet active in the Dickinson Poetry Series at the UU Fellowship of Door County and a member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets. He sees the world as filled with the music of poetry – a cosmic mystery driven by rhythms, rhymes, and riddles. His poems preserve memories, clarify thoughts, explore feelings, or simply have fun with language. They have appeared in numerous publications and are available at www.quartersectionpress.com. For 25 years, he was vice-president of research at Nelson Industries where he co-founded Digisonix and specialized in acoustics, signal processing, and active noise control. He received his B.S.E.E. from Northwestern University, his M.S.E.E. from the University of Minnesota, his Ph.D. in electrical engineering from the University of Wisconsin- Madison, and is a Fellow of the Acoustical Society of America and the Society of Automotive Engineers.

Natural Treasure

Water from rivers and lakes, natural springs and deep wells searched for with divining rods, fought for in the arid west, a necessity of life treasured, wasted, polluted, often taken for granted – until you thirst for a drink.

(from chapbook Magic)

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