To love means my heart does little skips when I
look at my wife  and she hasn’t noticed I’m
looking so I can see the complex mixture of
browns that blend so perfectly to make the color
of her eyes.  It makes me smile.

To be there means to make The Little Kid put on her
Aztec hat, not because it makes her look cute, which
it does, but because it stops her face getting red
and puffy in the bitter wind, even though she looks sweet
with those fluffy red cheeks.

To be at peace means to notice the snoring of the dogs
as they lie stiff-legged in that sun, plush against the
carpet and to smile, again, at the silly sounds a little dog can
make whilst it sleeps.

To be happy means to take all of these things, live
them fully and let them sink slowly into what makes me
who I am right now; a happy man.

To be lucky means that I can tell you about them.

I woke gently, but all of a sudden today to
the sound of a cartoon voice singing rhymes
in a fake Manhattan accent.

The dark is hollow, lit by the sound of my snoring
dog which bounced off just-familiar walls and
rapped against the ice on the windows. A
rumbling echo-locator beacon mapping the room.

The Omaha cold has a smell. An aroma that you
don’t get back in the nooks and crannies
of British suburbia. Over there the cold has an odour
of rotten wool or skanky grey cardboard. But here,
here it is… incisive. Like the edges of
a pattern cut into a good quality glass.
Etched. Purposeful. It tricks you like this.

And here the wind doesn’t nudge you about and
flick playful flakes at you; it pinches your ears and
slaps the raw open palm of its hand full and hard
against your sore cheeks and tweaks the end of
your nose to make it drip drip drip sniff.

Home-coming is the sound of ruddy-faced people
knocking the life back into gloved hands followed by
the communion of banging boots free of snow that
doesn’t melt. Watching are hurrying snow plows
littering dirty white drifts at every road junction;
sullen funeral pyres where Nebraska’s December
buries the bones of our long sweet lazy summer.

Up, with a cuddle for the roused snorer and a
pat on the head for Toto’s double before I stitch
myself into my great galumping snow boots and
ram my “ear hat” down hard to thwart frostbite’s
chances. Fingers straight and stiff in waterproof
gloves; required, essential – skin dies here in minutes
if you let the swirl of the wind start to snack on it. I kiss,
check, keys, check and head Oates-like to the car.

Half-light twilight and the crackle of trees flexing
nakedly in the chilling breeze that bites. The blipper
clunks the door locks and, with an OCD glance for the
right park light, full red dial, full blast fan on; both
heaters set to beat the ice away from the poor
shivering windows.

So I begin to scrape away winter from your windshield.
Methodically because that’s how my mind likes to do
these things, the way I’m designed. Square scrapes,
neat edges, top to bottom. The sound of the blade
bounces off the garages and walls. A rasping, juddering
staccato cackle of frozen resistance. No bird sounds,
no traffic noise; just me and the scraper and…
that…
damn…
stubborn…
frost, thicker than the glass I’m hacking it from.

Meepos thinks she smells lunch

Things I learnt:
* Goats eat everything they want to eat, especially the neighbour’s rose bushes.
* Goats don’t like standing on wet grass and much prefer standing on the roof of your car.
* Never let a goat burp in your face.

Here’s a poem about Meepos.

TV Goat
Oh Meepos dear, my lovely goat
with your black and white and shiny coat,

You sit on the chair and watch the telly
even though your breath is really smelly,

and as you walk about or skip or run
you drop a stream of currants from your bum

and if I leave you in the room alone
I think it’s safe coz you can’t use phones

but bills, and cheques and five pound notes
you think are tasty food for goats.

Your favourite show is Strictly Come Dancing
you bleat and kick and copy their prancing.

But weirder still, you like Anton Dubec
and can tell the difference between Ant and Dec.

You don’t have time to read the papers
you prefer the celebrity dancing capers.

Instead of reading about credit crunch
you eat the papers for your lunch.

You prefer your news shown on telly
and especially read by Lorraine Kelly.

Thank god I haven’t got Sky TV
or there’d never be TV left for me

because you’d Sky Plus all of BBC1
and have non-stop celebrity dancing fun,

and when I tried to find the remote
I’d turn and see a chewing goat

munching on crunchy remote-control plastic
watching them trip the light fantastic.

I snore to success
and spin to impress,
arms stretched to the clouds
as I wave to the crowds
in my drifting sleep journey
with all cares swept before me.
My conciousness flows
to sleep traffic control
as I sweep to a landing,
defy all understanding.

With snores, tossing and turning
on the edge of returning
but in dreamy nirvana
I remain a while longer
with a lightness and shine
I have limited time
for my air sailing will stop
with the sound of a clock.