A selection of poems by Earl Glusac


THE FETCH

the wind is high today

but not higher
than other days
with lesser waves 

consult the oracle

google
said it was 

the fetch

the length of open water
over which the wind blew 

the amount of time
the wind had
to wreak havoc 

a ripple
at the windward tip of Long Island

a crashing wave
on the Connecticut shore 

I reminisce
a lot
of late 

earlier days

small
eager
exploring 

building
mating
doing 

we slept
the sleep of the dead
till morning had long broken 

a mind reaching out
a body flawless 

but then
already
leaning forward

and the waves crashed by
largely unnoticed 

the buoy bell
there
but mostly
unheard 

much less
savored 

lots of rain today
lots of wind
lots of crashing 

seagulls
flying sideways
and quickly up
and down 

staccato
bobbing
crisscrossed flight 

but continuing
toward whatever destination

with binoculars
I see the waves at mid channel
some growing to white caps 

some stopping there
pummeling a freighter 

but most
continuing on

beyond mid channel
the whitecaps are full 

full of power

but power

all around

not unique
to one wave 

not different
from another

nearing the Lee shore

power gathered 

shared

maybe
not ready
but willing
to fold 

a crash 

then a spray

mixing with air
for a moment 

then
falling on rocks

back

to wetness

undertow 

no wave function

the fetch

began
grew
peaked
melded 

done

the ride
in hindsight 

never
a wave 

always
the sea

THE LOON RANGER

They called him
The Loon Ranger 

he looked after
the loons 
of Lake Winnipesaukee 

motoring his craft
from island to shore
checking every nesting pair 

laying strings of buoys
cordoning off the nests
safe from Bostonians
who played along the waters 

his government paycheck
was not to be envied 

but his office!
clear waters, reeds and white pine

the loon
striking black head
red eye
filigreed back 

duck feet
set so far back
it can hardly walk 

but
boy
It can swim 

and dive
100 feet in a heartbeat

the uncommonly heavy-boned bird
leaves us mortals
in its wake

I would sometimes go with him,
The Loon Ranger,
on his rounds 

now two men
and Winnipesaukee
and 30 pair of loons 

the loon
no other creature quite like it
its red-eyed black beauty

and 

its call

the first note
a wail
a mourning
a joy 

the echoes
that follow
and remain 

speak of
a loon-filled,
unpeopled Winnepesaukee 

and a place
beyond time 

it is why we love them
and employ The Loon Ranger

to fend off the jet skis
and keep them around 

the work of The Loon Ranger
is solitary
and quiet

he and I,
on occasion, also sought
some louder fun 

shooting the rapids
of the Pemigewasset 

a manageable river
much of the year, 

in May,
it is not 

a deluge of melt water
peacefully
floods its valley 

but where it falls,
peaceful, it is not 

a torrent,
roaring

a tsunami
of standing and moving waves 

two wooden paddles
and a canoe
have hardly a prayer 

our kevlar craft
light as a feather
smashed

on a cottage-sized rock

The Loon Ranger and I
tumbling downstream 

Keep your feet in front of you!

we finally came up
shaking with cold 

our kevlar beauty
folded in two 

I admit to some panic

my friend
the lone Ranger
did not 

he calmly unpacked
his waterproof bag,
still tied safely in 

and like a magician
unfolded the boat

and put one long stripe
of duct tape
around her middle 

with unseemly decoration,
she floated
good as new 

The Loon Ranger
knew what to do 

to steward the loon life
to salvage
what seemed like
a totaled canoe 

the buoys around
the loon nests
may be
only duct tape 

but this threatened species,
has their numbers growing 

in the hands of a maestro
duct tape virtuoso 

maybe
just maybe

duct tape can work

FLASHING

Sun high over Long Island Sound
thousands of flashes
on uncountable waves
on the fourth of July

on a day of freedom
in randomness, the waves
in freedom
flash

evanescent, confounding
white, silver
eternal fireworks

flashes seen by Connecticut colonists
three hundred years ago

by Quinnipiacs
three thousand years ago

elsewhere, by australopithecines
three million years ago

and by no one for pre-Cambrian eons

flashing was
and is

the flashing is like little else
intensely brilliant, shapeshifting

it stuns

stops thought

there is only
flashing

A buoy bell bounces on the waves
and sounds
over and over
all day
all night
randomly

while the waves flash
on Granite bay
Umbrella Island
the East Haven Shore

all,
in freedom, flash
and the blue world flashing

7/4/2026 (For Galway Kinnell, 1927-2014)

WHAT IS A POEM, THEN?

What is a poem, then?
a friend asked 

if not metered
if not rhymed 

it was a good question

hopefully
a picture painted
concisely 

of a setting
of a thing
of a thought
of a state

not a meter
but a pace 

and
sometimes
a stutter 

metaphor

tacking upwind

if straight at it
won’t get you there

not words that rhyme

words that point 

using space
as much as words 

space leaving space
words leaving space 

uncovering layers

and
maybe
occasionally

more

the best ones
come from deep within

or maybe
not within at all

Not an essay 
Not a treatise 

of mind, yes
but not too much 

something softer
something harder 

more raw
more felt 

less of head
more of intestine
more of blood 

an exploration
of

that

(For my friend, Mary)

DEMOCRAT ISLAND
(41.2543 N, 72.8451 W)

Democrat Island
sits just beyond our shore

I like the name

really just a rock
big enough to hold a small house

gleaming in the morning sun

which reflects
softly from the cedar roof
harshly from the aluminum boat ramp

a tiny figure, Mr. Democrat,
sits on the porch 

with a cup of coffee
trying to wake up

like me 

looking at the waves
as I look at the waves 

We share a political view

or maybe he’s a Republican
on Democrat Island  

Why live on an island?
to get away from the riffraff?

or to go where we all are?

alone

but there is also a boat

and to shore we must go
together 

an osprey sets atop his lone tree
with no party affiliation
scanning the sound 

we look at the waves
the osprey, Mr. Democrat and I

CEDARS

sleep lifting
at first light
after the rain

little cedars outside the open window
in steam

are still

quiet uncovered
always was

in cobwebs
of welcome lingering sleep

no task
minutes
meaning

just this    

LONG ISLAND SOUND

a buoy bell sounds
over and over 

almost dawn

darkness obscuring sight
but not sound

the bell sounds
rhythmically
randomly

rolled by the waves

the waves
lapping, hissing

on rocks as they meet the shore

first light
vaguely revealing the world
in black and white

the bell sounds 

it sounded all night
did we hear it?

it sounds
now

it sounds
a call to worship 

worship what?
God?
the natural world?
the one who listens? 

I do not know

but when it is heard
tears are with it 

the good kind

there is another ringing
more subtle

sometimes heard at night

before sleep
after sleep 

another ringing
always

where ringing starts and ends

the buoy bell
still sounds
over and over
on the waves
of Long Island Sound

GOSPEL OF THOMAS

Gospel of Thomas,
shunned by the fledgling church 

a sole copy
found in a pot
where it lay in secret 

beneath dirt
by the Nile
for centuries 

a buried pot

because someone

loved

thumbing their nose
at those who would silence it

Why burn it?

“Split a piece of wood;
I am there.
Lift up the stone,
and you will find me there.” (Logion 77)

“If you bring forth
what is within you,
what you bring forth
will save you.” (Logion 70)

sin, repentance, crucifixion

not mentioned

a man

who pointed

not upward

but inward

Thank you, Mohammed, Ali al-Samman,
while looking for fertilizer,
for finding this pot 

you were hesitant
to open it 

unleash the genie?

but you did
when you thought
it might contain gold 

turns out 

It did

DRAGONFLY

a dragonfly,
hovering
flitting

to a flower

eons of pollination

ancient, terrible, exquisite

says

I am for myself
for nothing, everything

I am

BRAIN AND MIND

Inside a cave of bone
the color blue

Outside of it
who knows?

particles and waves
they say

450 nanometers
release of glutamate

glutamate becomes the experience of blue?
Renoir’s blue
Picasso’s blue
The hard question

Inside a cave of bone
A world appears

WAKING

eyes flutter open
whose eyes?

where am I?
don’t know

but

I am

a whisper of a struggle to remember
don’t struggle

Let

everything

be

exactly

as

it

is

ABIDING THE EDGE

Oh, what is the name for that?

I know its color
how it moves
all the things it does 

It’s at the tip of my

hippocampus?

It refuses to be said

… It will come to me

… It’s not coming

Well, what is it that is looking for it? 

it’s a heightened thing
probing nearby places
similarly named
bits and bobs

can a camp be set up in this space?

stretch out the tent stakes
build a fire
cook up some rice 

the mind wanders to nearby trails
with patience, it may return to camp 

and maybe even

listen to the birds there
the wind
the silence 

it will come to me

someday
some moment
it will

 or

it will not

but I will seek to abide
its edge

REALITY MINUS EXPECTATION

Reality minus expectation
That’s how happiness gets measured

Our expectations
are pretty high 

My expectations
are pretty high 

A positive sum?
Surprisingly rare 

Millions live in squalor
In Mumbai and Calcutta

If lucky,
a patch of dirt big enough to sleep on
with four corrugated walls,
in a sea of corrugated walls 

They hate their poverty

But their sum is often surprisingly high

Family  Community  A spiritual life?

No privacy
No my car
No my house
No noise canceling headphones 

No loneliness

HARD TO HEAR IT

Rough seas today
wind from the west southwest
buffets
gusts

whitecaps

birds flying sideways
lots of flapping

a sailboat
listing

tacking upwind

we do that a lot

it’s required

low tide
rocks high
pounded by the surf

new rocks appear
mariner, beware

the buoy bell
sounding

louder than usual

but
obscured
by the roar

a flotilla of Canada geese
fight the surf
a little
and win

now gone
round the point

barges in the distance
seem to make their usual progress

an osprey
masterful flyer
using the wind
to glide

the sound
of Sound
is Loud

churning thought
drowning thought

the pages of my notepad
flap in the breeze


Hard to hear it,

but
still
there,

in
the sound
of the surf,

in
the sound
of the wind,

in
the silence,
amidst the roar 

STRAY THOUGHTS ON WRITING

part of me
wants to focus 

apparently
not all of me 

OK, not much of me 

thoughts come
keep coming 

fruitful ones?

write them down
maybe come back

flesh out
unravel 

what’s beneath that?

and that? 

next page in the notebook

It’s blank 

it will fill

with what?

patience

and something that doesn’t have patience

a pause

different now?
usually
always 

which direction?

where is the map?

maybe, the words will make one
they do make one

accurate? 

won’t know
not for a while

another pause 

water shut off?
or time to marinate 

a small step now

deeper?
or away 

have confidence?
not quite right

have trust?
better

is it the result that counts?
or getting there 

where is there?

still
here

FOR MICKEY

Born in poverty
Montenegrin American
youngest of nine, 

mother died when you were two.

Living in a converted storefront
newspaper covering the windows
three to a bed
a pot of beans, soaking
always 

Toting the family wagon to and from the grocery
where an account was kept
and dearly paid 

Growing up motherless
with the love of seven sister/mothers 

Father, with few words of English
taking the bus each day to Ford
to shovel coal into the foundry 

First in the family to earn a college degree
then law
Life as a local politician
Working quietly
for a better Detroit

Raising your own three children,
My sisters and I 

A self-described introvert,
you were the life of the party
Many big family parties 

Your warmth,
a magnet

Your success,
a family pride

You fought against self-pity
mostly successfully
The depression, baby
of an ethnic family 

Now dining with the elite of Southeast Michigan

You particularly loved the University of Michigan
Ivory tower of the state
And the Victors Valiant 

You never attended it
Your children did 

You loved good food
and shopping for it
Hail fellow, well met
at Farms Market 

You loved your work

You loved the city of Detroit

You loved your family

You had a big big heart
For nine-plus decades 

Eventually

it gave out

The sobs at your memorial
were many
and deep

Thank you 

Thank you for playing catch
in the backyard
night after night,
when I tried to learn
to throw a curveball

Thank you for wrestling with me
on the living room floor
and occasionally letting me think I could win

Thank you for fishing with me
for tiny striped bass and perch
on Cedar Island Lake

Thank you for letting me pilot
the pontoon boat
on Walloon Lake
Making a 10-year-old believe
he commanded the waters
of Northern Michigan

Thank you for being with me
at that great game in the snow
at the Big House, where we beat the Buckeyes

and at the U of D Fieldhouse
to see sweet Terry Duerod light up the night
and make Highland Park High School
the darling of Michigan basketball

Thank you for teaching me the game of tennis
and for the memory of when I first beat you
on that dusty Court in Nova Scotia

Thank you for encouraging me to develop a thoughtful mind
For pouring over my English papers

For encouraging me to be a public speaker
For giving me the groundwork to make
a terrible high school graduation speaker audition
And giving me the love and the tools to craft
a final graduation speech that expressed my heart

Thank you for teaching me how not to waste money

Though I don’t thank you for scolding me
for buying a tie for a med school interview
that you thought was too expensive

Thank you for the last few years in Chicago
as we ushered each other into new phases of life
semi-retirement for me
end of life for you

Then, there was the role reversal
me the parent/doctor
telling you what you should and should not do
And you listened…mostly
Thank you for that

Thank you
finally
for a thousand things
that words can but poorly express

(For my father, Michael M Glusac 1930-2025)

ALL CARS SHOULD BE WHITE

All cars should be white
White cars stand out

Why buy a black one?

I suppose

it’s like buying clothes

how you see yourself?

how you want to be seen?

but with cars
perhaps
it shouldn’t be so

to be seen at all
at the edge of your vision

dark
doesn’t stand out

Red
it’s hot!

but still doesn’t quite pop

Yellow is good
better than brown

but then
folks
will flag you down

All cars should be white

but if they were white
if cars were all white

would I ever find mine?

and will the right color
help with rage, fear and guilt?

all that we feel
behind the wheel

He cut me off
damn it

I cut him off
sorry

He’s going too slow
I’m late 

She’s is going too fast
reckless

OK
maybe she’s late too

saving ten seconds
always
saving ten seconds

adds up to a day?

and if it does

what will we do
with it

DEMOCRAT ISLAND (REPRISE)

Democrat Island
still sits off our shore

mostly uninhabited
vacation spot only

occasional retreat
for Mr. Democrat

he’s mostly off working
for the common good
or his own good
or none

the house has a really nice roof

from a tall point
cedar shingles slope

an interesting slope 
with a gradual curve

sending water on a journey,
a circuitous one

and the porch is to die for

wraparound

its broadest expanse
facing the sound

its sides
facing the houses
crowding two shores

when Mr. Democrat is in
he takes his coffee there

actually,
the island is mostly
Not uninhabited

it is continually inhabited
by its actual owner

the osprey

he doesn’t take vacations

leaving the island
only to venture
to his place of employment

the sound

returning quickly
returning often
with a fish in his claws

transport is part of his vocation

the egrets don’t do that
they swallow their catch
right where they catch it

Ollie
(we call him, Ollie)
always brings it home

Will Democrat Island
ever be more peopled?

someone
loath to leave
the wraparound porch

Democrat Island
is not very big

but it is pretty high

safely above
the tide

protected from the surf,
I think the home may survive 

until someone
faithfully

commands the view

BIRDWATCHING

actually
they say we should call it
birding

112 species
on my checklist of 
Birds Of Connecticut  

so far I’ve seen seven 

better keep my day job

House finch?
Purple finch?
which one are you 

I suppose
your name is not so important 

as what you are

as what you do
I like to watch that

red-bellied woodpeckers
feeding other red-bellied woodpeckers

white-breasted nuthatch
hopping headfirst down tree trunks,
hanging upside down on the wire
Cirque du Soleil in the backyard

nice to check off a list
nicer to see a few
see a few better
see them

hear them
so many sounds
what are they saying? 

what are they thinking?
do they think?
I think they do 

OK, much of it is

where is the food?
is that food?
I think that might be food
Yes! 

but there’s
I like this place in the sun
I like this place in the shade 

I like this other bird
I don’t like that other bird
Time to fly

what’s it like to be a bird?

aside from the mode of transport

maybe
not so different
from
what it’s like to be us 

I FORGOT MY PHONE

I forgot my phone 
dang
what if she calls?

actually
this is a bigger problem 

not just my phone

it also is
my wallet
my credit cards
my keys
my calendar
my identification 

and a couple dozen other things

I’d forget my head
If it wasn’t screwed on 

funny
but possibly true 

if they weren’t attached
if we didn’t really need them
I’m sure we’d forget our heads 

can you imagine?
the lost and found 

a bunch of bodies walk in
to look for their heads 

hey, that one looks nice
maybe I could take it
you don’t think she’ll miss it
do you? 

remember the days before the smart phone?

had to carry
a wallet, money, ID
a fat ring of keys 

one of the cell phone’s pluses?
people can find you 

one of the minuses?
people can find you 

I listened to Steve Jobs’ webcast
in January 2007
describing all that the new phone could do 

I wept
for what we gained
and what we lost

A TICKLE OF THE INFINITE

Penzias and Wilson
rocked the world in ‘64 

found the CMB—
the cosmic microwave background 

the echo of the explosion
that sent everything
into being 

that inexplicable thing
(at least to me)
The Big Bang 

they weren’t trying to find it

they got the Nobel prize

they sought something else
right at home
Milky Way 

they found a bunch of noise
squiggles
a hum 

Everywhere

turns out, exactly like
the “snow”
seen on old tube TVs 

didn’t make sense
must be a problem
a problem
with our machine 

The Holmdel Horn Antenna
a strange looking thing
folks called it
The giant ear trumpet 

a pair of pigeons
made their nest in the horn
and covered it
with “white dielectric material“ 

(I’ll have to remember that one,
next time I ask my daughters 
to clean the white dielectric material
that the birds left on the lawn furniture) 

lovebirds evicted
droppings washed down 

still

noise
squiggles
hissing 

everywhere

sometimes we find treasure
and haven’t a clue 

a sticky problem,
mold on the bread 

good scientists, they were
they kept asking why 

and found
the universe was most definitely born 

No more
Always was
Always will be

The noise
The snow
The squiggles
The hiss 

The lasting tickle
of the birth
of All

RETIREMENT

Retirement
Some love it! 

Phone rings
Not my problem! 

Now

My life begins

Take up birding
Learn Italian
Build a boat
Practice piano 

But others
They hate it 

Thought they’d love it
They don’t

When
All of a sudden
All day and all night 

Alone
In the house
With only the spouse 

A realization

An appreciation

Of what work
actually was 

A focus
A purpose
A thing to be done 

A thing to get dressed for
A place to be

And money
Who knows? 

How long will you live?

Did I really want
to contemplate my navel? 

Oh,
That was just a sabbatical.
Back to work!

HAVE YOU HAD A CAR ACCIDENT?

Have you had an accident?
injured?
Call us!  

We win big
We win often
We’re the best
Make ‘em pay! 

personal injury
lawyer billboards
oh joy 

The most frequent
sign on I-95 

drum up business
from folks
on the worst day of their lives 

there’s one of these signs
that I actually like 

a lawyer
a poet 

Keep Calm
Call Tom 

but hopefully
I’ll never visit his abode
if I can keep
my eyes on the road

THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD

The weight of the world
6× 10²¹ tons
on my 

Feet

On my Shoulders?

Standing on our heads
Blood rushes downhill 

Melanoma
Or Incidentaloma? 

The weight of the world

After decades in Medicine
Is all too familiar 

Melanoma
Or incidentaloma

We share hopes
We share fears 

And with sharing
A little
Connection 

maybe
lessen the load 

Melanoma
Or incidentaloma 

Thank God for our colleagues
Another perspective 

Someone to spell you
While shifting the pack 

Melanoma
or incidentaloma

Maybe
Only your pathologist
Knows for sure 

And then there’s that other weight
A weight from the past 

Ten thousand diagnoses rendered

While the weight of the world
Is sometimes the problem 

More often
It’s the weight of 

the to-do list

comes in
with the tide, 

a little higher
than yesterday 

Renew your license
Get new gutters
Write those letters 

Change reagents
See your own doc
Fix the car 

And always
Fifty patient reports
To write and sign 

But
The to-do list
What does it weigh? 

Less than an ounce.

Decades of to-do lists
Add up to a library 

Chock full of notepads
Bending the shelves 

But we can bear it
The lists we can carry 

The lists we can carry
With the weight of the world 

With the weight of the world
An ounce at a time

JANE HIRSCHFIELD
AND OUR CLAY

we work with
what we are given 

the red clay of grief
the black clay of stubbornness 

how can I enter this question
the clay has asked? 

Jane Hirshfield’s question
stays with me 

the red clay of grief 

the black clay of stubbornness
of mending
of not mending 

I walk the beach this morning
a very stony one here 

big rocky outcroppings,
some just pink
through and through 

but more often
black
then pink
then white

an eon of this one
an eon of that 

so layered
this churning earth 

this continent
then that 

Pangea
Gondwana  

first a mountain
then a bog 

creation

destruction

creation again

the clay was 

Equatorial.

Arctic.

then

Mine.

how do we shape it?
that was her question 

and mine

another question, too?
to address
at the wheel 

what gave us
the redness
the blackness 

but not
porcelain

my parents
my culture
my poverty
my birth 

maybe

suppose
we chose
none of it 

suppose
we chose
all of it 

how
then
would we
work it?

hands still
at the wheel

THE FOUR FORCES

electromagnetism
we think we know it 

we can
grasp it 

at least
sort of 

the push and pull of charges
attraction
repulsion 

makes the world go ‘round

TV sets and radios 
chemistry happens
lightbulbs turn on 

electromagnetism

relationship

the stuff
of our world

gravity
we certainly get that one 

the attraction
of stuff for stuff 

they say it’s the weakest

sure doesn’t seem so
when standing
at the edge of a cliff

but weak, it may be

to a paper clip,
a refrigerator magnet
pulls more than the Earth 

unlimited by distance
it adds
and adds 

until

oceans move

moons stay faithful

and we call one place home

but
gravity
the thing most intuitive
does some strange things too 

bends light
around stars 

do we understand it?
we think we do 

then
the strong force 

they say it’s the strongest 

counterintuitive

keeps things together
particles in the nucleus
stuff that’s like-charged
that should repulse

superglue of the universe

that acts at a distance
so small 

almost
inscrutable 

as incredibly small

as the universe
is large 

but we almost can get it
almost can feel it
a sort of a pull 

fidelity

but the weak force
forget it 

at least I’ll never get it,
this curious “force“ 

even some physicists
admit this too 

not
a push 

not
a pull 

transformation

one particle
becomes

another 

through this mysterious
thing 

they say
the other three forces
would be nothing  

without

this shape shifting
goddess

that lets it
all be 

the weak force
maybe
not so well named 

not weak

not even
a force 

but permission

for one thing
to become 

another

neutrons
become protons 

and a universe is born