AGNES' IGA

We lived two blocks from the state line,
two blocks between Illinois and Indiana.
Agnes had her store in Indiana.
Almost every day we crossed the state line,
unobstructed, unaware of any meaning.

Agnes was an old lady with a gray wig.
She was always nice to us, threw
a few extra penny candies into our bags,
not following us around the store
like other proprietors did.

It was a happy childhood memory,
but mean teen intervened.
We began to steal small things.
Agnes was pur-blind; we knew
she could not see us.

I don't remember feeling bad.
But I remember when we started
stealing empty bottles to cash in
with her after we thieved the back
of her store before her son saw us.

He called to his mom who stumbled out.
her wig askew from her hasty response, 
looked  ridiculous, plaintive call:
"Why did you do that?"

Agnes died after I moved away.
I sighed and tried not to remember
until today when an old, gray-haired lady
crossed the street ahead of me.
She looked like Agnes and I was sad.
We may try to forget, but the human heart
is a sentinel for us all. 

Originally published in Tenth Muse

LURKER

On my daily walk
in my neighborhood,
cuddled houses,
trimmed, green lawns,
saluting soldier trees,
manicured flower beds,
my dog Butter and I stroll
past a gnarled tree,
twisted, a runt,
bony fingers sky pointed,
green moss dusted
on her wrinkled bark.
Misfit body.
A witch alive in the burbs.

Originally Published in Old Red Kimono

APOLOGY TO A TREE

I thought I was so clever,
as I compared a twisted runt of a tree—
you may read that poem above—
to a gnarly witch in the burbs.

I was so proud, when I saw that older man
in his yard as I was walking my dog,
I told him of the poem, asked if he wanted a copy.

He gave me an unenthusiastic nod,
but indicated that was okay.

A few weeks went by and I did not see him.
I put the poem in his mailbox,
but did not see him at all on my later walks.

We went on a short trip
for a couple of weeks.
It was a bright, brisk Fall day
when Butter and I passed his house again.
I decided to knock on his door.

But as we moved close to his house,
I stopped and gasped.
Was I lost? No, no tree!
The witch has been cut down and I was sad.

When we walk by there now,
confronting  the stark memory,
I mumble an apology to the dirt-covered hole.
Was it my poem that killed the tree?

Originally Published in Old Red Kimono

EVENTUALLY…

Antimacassar—Crocheted doilies placed on sofa arm rests to
prevent men from smearing mustache wax and hair oil.

 When I first lifted my beautiful bride
across the doorstep to bless the luck we did not need,
I thought of her pretty knee
as it held her garter I filched off 
and threw toward a gaggle of hopefuls.

 I did not think, why would I,
of the knee replacement in our 70's
we endured, she with pain,
me with patience.

 Tonight we walked our dog,
as my wife caned her way around 
one long block for the first time,
a triumph of sorts. 

 "We've got to change that light bulb,” she said.
“Yes,”I agreed, “and put the lid on the seed can;
the squirrels are spreading them all over the garage.”

 In the past, couples sat on their once plush,
arm-worn sofa chairs, waiting out dusk.  
She said:” Arnold, please straighten the antimacassar.”
“Okay, Agnes, is that smooth enough?”
She nodded once, after a silence. 

Originally published in The Point Press

DRUSILLA

 What parent would name children after Anastasia and Drusilla,
Cinderella’s evil step-sisters in that iconic tale?
Anastasia was a poor choice I think, Grand Duchess quality,
too much dignity for a mean girl. But Drusilla, the perfect cad.

I looked up silly girl names and there were many,
some who actually had those monikers to my dismay--
Green and Autumn Harvest, hippie names 
honored Nature more than daughters,
(God--the original name of China Kantner),
Bluebell, the cheap ice cream, Desdemona and Ophelia,
thanks mom for the name of one strangled one, one suicide.
Bambi, I knew a young lady named that but it was not dear to her.

 Oh, young parents, be so careful when you peruse those books of names.
Add ie to see how it sounds before you decide. Nearly wrecked me.
Vernie--always misspelled on medicine bottles as if I were a girl. 

 Even a  cute nickname may hurt a tender heart.
Remember your own silly terms of endearment,
embarrassing if ever made public--Coochie, Honey Pot or Schmoopy--
you know exactly what I mean--so think before you leap. 
A whim of yours could be a social disaster for your child—
mocked in school, shunned on the playground.

 But Drusilla stands--a perfect name for her wickedness.
So bad it made silly Cinderella into a well-loved name, 
which, I suspect, no one ever named a child, 
but not as bad as Bippity Boppity Boo.

Originally published in The Point Press

BOXING BLUES

I.

Men have always bashed each other
and now women pummel
each other to the ground.
Points given for winning a round,
by knocking the opponent out
so they can't get up for ten seconds,
or beating them so badly a ref
decides they can't compete. 

Those were the Friday Night Fights
when I was a kid and, like most kids,
I loved what my Father loved.
Dad, my uncle and aunt
were hunched before our small
black and white TV. 
Watched the Pabst Blue Ribbon
sponsored fights between
young men, who wanted to escape
their ghettos, bashed
in the faces and brains
of those of the same background, 
hope to attain the Golden Gloves.

My brother and I
picked out our favorites
and cheered and booed. 
The blood was black on white
and black on black
which you couldn’t really see. 

II:

As I grew older, I learned boxing 
was the exploitation of poor young men,
mostly of color, but a lot of white boys
from tough backgrounds too.

Boxing was a way to glory
most did not attain— financially alluring,
dangerous and brutal—
some killed in the ring 
or brain-damaged for life. 

My best friend Marcus and I
argued because he loved boxing
and was a huge fan of a young Cuban boxer.
The poor countries also sent their youth
to a type of Hunger Games.

He defended the sport
till one day he called me up 
because his champion had been
so badly beaten he died in the ring
in what was just another amateur match.
Marcus never watched a boxing match again.

III:

Short-story writer Thom Jones
saved his own life by boxing.  
His dad was a pro fighter, 
who taught him what many call sport,
because it makes so much money
and draws rabid crowds,
unlike dog or rooster fights 
hidden in the backwoods 
of poor nations who still
send their boxers our way. 

Drafted for the Vietnam War, 
Jones had a final match and was beaten
so badly he about died, but it cancelled
his draft notice and prompted the stories.
The story that made him famous
featured his best friend,
who did not box but died in the battle
where Thom would have been killed that day,
the whole unit wiped out. 

Men and women still box.
Fans still cheer, no matter.
Different eras, same results. 

Originally published in The Tenth Muse

RETIRED GARDENER

Massive sunflowers grow in our park.
My wife only able to mince her limited steps.
No wind. The flowers never nod.
She, a flower only nods once now.

Originally published in The Tenth Muse 

SOUL

We must have one,
everyone says so.
To be souless
one of the worst
condemnations.

A soul cannot be seen,
inside a body that is seen,
body feels pleasure and pain,
the soul just absorbs.

Where does the soul go?
I think it waits for renewal
occupies non-space
because there are too many
and waits, waits

until the artistry of God
paints a new body on it,
the colors of incorruptible flesh.

Originally published in Cantos Magazine

A WHITE POET REFLECTS

I am an older white man who writes poems
about myriad topics—about my first plane trip,
a harrowing flight to see my mother,
a poem about the Beatles,
one about book buying idolatry,
another whimsical one about the moon.

This white man went to an inaugural
celebration of a new Black poet laureate.
He listened to her beautiful lyricism.
She wrote of her life, her people, her history:

racial childhood experiences, fear for black children,
school trauma, civil disobedience, gun violence, water fountains,
police encounters, Black beauty, sexuality, lynchings, sit-ins,
inequality, language, Tulsa, etc. etc. etc., across centuries.

I marveled at her wonderful poetry.
But a strange question sneaked in.
Was she trapped by her history?
Did that almost totally define her subjects?
Two young black poets followed,
spoke only of their Black lives.

These Black poets wrote mostly of oppression
from slavery through Jim Crow,
Civil Rights, Black Lives Matter,
the exigencies of their current lives
and how every speck of those lives
was affected by their history and culture.

It was not only for now—the history
of Black poetry is rife with
the pain, the courage, the longings,
the faith, the ever battle.
Ever a choice?

How much freedom do Black poets
have to write of Nature, silliness,
an exciting vacation,
the ill-treatment of animals.

Oh, I know Black poets write on many subjects,
but I’ve never heard that variety at these readings.
None of the poems read that night reflected
on anything but race. In my own poems,
I understood the dimensions of freedom
and what it truly means. I understood
the depths of white privilege.

Originally published in Valiant Scribe

PUPPET TALK

How I feel about these times. Anon.
I move my feet 
I dance and dance,
up and down, up and down,
cannot stop. 
The cares of the world
marionette me
all around and around
up and down, up and down.
I cannot exit.
The curtains never close.
Characters appear 
and disappear.
They whisper, 
point, direct,
shout, push. 
Who is the stage master?
Who is the Stromboli?
Will they ever reveal
who they are and why
did they do this?
Pity me, poor fool—
dancing, dancing
up and down 
and all around. 

Originally published in Cactifur Magazine

CIRCUMSTANCES

“It is far easier to make war, than peace.”— Georges Clemenceau

may well determine history,
far more real than the best laid plans of men.
In 1914 the Archduke and Duchess of Austro-Hungary
traveled to make peace in a dangerous area.
On the return the driver had the wrong map.
Trapped them in an alley where a nobody 
caught and Glocked them and WW I
blew up, killing ten million in four years.

Five years later, three white men,
Wilson, US, 
Clemenceau, France,
Lloyd George. Britain
had the hubris to remap the world
as if they were gods.

Created Yugoslavia which fell apart
in genocidal violence
Carved out Iraq and
we know how that turned out.

A cloud cover saved Kokura, Japan.
Too hard to see, “Fat Boy”
destroyed over 50,00 in
second choice Nagasaki
in less than five minutes.

Rejected the freedom petition 
of a waiter in France, 
Ho Chi Minh of Viet Nam
and killed 4 million Vietnamese,
57,000 American GI’s.
The best laid plans of mice too
are often ruled by circumstances. 

Originally published in Blood And Honey

INCOMPETENCE

In 1943, disillusioned German officers
planned to assassinate Hitler.

History hangs on skill or incompetence.
Disgruntled Nazi officers
plotted to gift der Führer
with a bomb in a whiskey package,
but the mis-wired detonator
on the plane didn’t go off.

An unnamed man did not do it right.
He must have been chosen
for his competence.
A dud bomb meant certain
death for the gifters.

When they arrested the doomed officers,
the failed bomber was among them.
Terrible grief in the prison
prior to the hangings.

I am sure he was very careful
and tried his best.
We can only guess if the lives
of millions of humans
may have been saved.

Originally published in Blood And Honey

LAWN HISTORY

What is more American than a lawn?
Maybe even a fetish for some.
Dad, like everyone, had a push mower. 
He said it would make his boys into men faster.
Insisted we go door to door for jobs,
$5 a cut and throw in free edging.
A way to learn business and earn cash.

We were small and frail,
the push mower nearly crippled us,
and the edger handle blistered our hands.
You don't talk back to your dad.
We blistered and grunted.

Moved to a thoroughbred farm.
Overjoyed that Dad rented a big mower.
Lawn-free through my teen, college,
and hippie/radical years.
Only landlords needed mowers. 

Got married, built a house,
contractor sold the black dirt,
left hard clay behind. 
My pregnant wife and I laid straw
to protect the grass seed,
but the wind blew and a bee stung my mate,
who cried all the way to the emergency room.

Sod and neighbors saved us—
at least in the front—
the back raised itself.

I cut for years with my old gas mower,
until it got so hard to pull that damn rope.
Easy peasy with an electric for a while
till short breath slowed me down—
right into cardio world—
three stents and no more cutting

I look at my lawn this morning.
The neighbor boy cuts it well.
Needs after school cash and no pain.
Some say no more cutting anyway.
Let it grow for the bees and good insects,
Some cities let you now.

Is there grass to cut in Heaven?
Eden watered itself.
Will the grass recycle then on its own,
no grass cutting as part of no suffering.
Won't know till I get there. 
And maybe mowing will be fun again, 
the clean air of paradise blessing that chore.

 Originally published in Macrame Journal

HIPPIES VS THE BANK

There was a time, indeed there was a time,
when hippies, despite ragged jeans,
torn tie-dyes, no bras, long hair
or hair under gals' pits and on their legs,
beads the vivid colors of parrots, 
sandals and dirty feet, weed Heaven, 
psychedelic dreams--had power.

We had created co-op businesses,
ways of sustaining our culture.
A record store, SOUNDZ, an art co-op, ART START,
METAMORPHOSIS, our veggie restaurant, 
a clothing store, THIMBLE AND THREADS, 
our food co-op, EARTHWORKS.
Trucked fresh food down from the big city,
brought (YOU’D BETTER BE READY)
granola to life, by our Jesus freaks, 
(everything was alternative), even an alternative
tropical fish store, OCTOPUSES’ GARDEN,
our own print shop, HOTT OFF, 
run by Crazy Frank to get our news out,
GOOD VIBES, a competitive electronics store, etc.

We spent—our parents had money
and we could scrounge with the best. 
But we did not have an alternative bank.
That big grey monstrosity still smirked
over our tiny business hovels,
as we stored our cash in their coffers.

But the fat cats got too fat,
dollars from the poor weren't wanted.
The poor shopped at our stores.
The bank stopped taking their stamps.
We could not serve our neighbors.

I was there for the showdown,
the fight at not OK Corral,
the suits vs the rags.

Our burgeoning little community 
had more than a million in the vaults.
"Either accept food stamps again
or we walk." How faces change,
how smirks disappear. 
Our rights, restored. 
America was alright again
in one tiny way. 

Originally published in Corvus Review

OLD MAN AND THE SEA

Our nation begins to attack fishing boats,
supposed drug dealers, fentanyl.
But these are fishermen, one old man
and his sons blown up. 
Venezuela sues us for murder.

 Suppose, a long time ago, an old man
was fishing from his skiff,
angling for one last marlin
one last big fish to validate his life,
to give himself something to do
as his time was waning.

 He caught a monster, 
talked to his fish, rued 
that he hooked the marlin.
Sympathized—so much regret, regret.
Thought of letting his trophy loose.

Then the plane flew overhead,
Instantly, this Hemingway was dead,
Not a drug dealer, just
an old man on his sea. 

Originally published in Ultramarine

LEARNING THE ROPES

When I was a special education teacher,
my foreman neighbor gave me a laborer’s job
building a local nuclear power plant.
Construction was a misnomer for me—
a grunt at best, I swept, carried boards,
picked up papers, mainly water cups .
Small in stature, I only carried one board at a time,
until the foreman shamed me into more.

The water coolers were oases.
Whenever possible, the men took a break,
shuffled over to a cooler, drew the water slowly,
sipped as if it were rare wine, threw all cups on the ground,
squashed them with a boot, ambled back
to their work station until their thirst
made them turtles again.

Praying for lunch-time to arrive—
a great sandwich and ice tea
from my loving wife, supportive
because a young marriage needed the paycheck.
Mostly I sat alone on a spot shaded
by a plank I had seen the others prop up
for a modicum of heat relief.

No work ethic, but a get-out-of-work ethic,
“You’re moving too fast,” spat several times at me.
Picking up paper that looked important,
a manta ray of a man, hovered and shouted
“Keep your goddamn hands off that iron worker’s paper.”

One of the few Black guys on the crew, an older man,
had a mop handle with a nail punched in the end,
which he used to slowly spear
the water cups thrown on the ground.
Naive, that first week, desperate
to fit in,  I made one of my own.
Proudly could not wait to show
the paper cup warrior I could assist him.
He smiled nicely and said:
“Them’s cups are mine, my job.
Had it for years, made it up myself.
About to retire so I am the only one allowed.”

Every Friday, the paycheck Lotto.
A grizzled vet spent the whole morning,
collected sawbucks to enter “paycheck poker”
where arbitrary numbers on the checks
cost you a bit or won you a ton of cash and honor.
Fridays were the easiest day.
Nobody worked and all speculated
about what they would do with their winnings.
It was the height of camaraderie.

I just listened, amazed that most said
they would buy the best whore,
as I  had already heard them diss
their crabby old ladies they were
glad they could still fuck.

.I made the mistake of telling them
I taught Sex Education to a mixed group.
It got me the only positive attention ever
as they peppered me with questions
about what I taught. Did I teach young girls
about orgasms, boys about gays?
Myriad other probes about a world
that was prurient and hilarious to them.

August ended and I left to teach,
glad to be away from the heat,
sweat, and frequent derision.
Fascinated by that alternative Hell.
Glad I made good money.

That Fall I heard the main building had burned down.
Ran into one  of the workers in a bar.
“Was arson,” he insisted,
"Definitely arson.  For the insurance."

Originally published in Bronze Bird

O, MACRINA

In Roman times when the church was fledgling,
babies were abandoned along the Appian Way.
While their keening parents kneeled,
soldiers pushed  them down drains by the hundreds,
mainly girls and the deformed and weak
until the church saw and responded.

In those days, the church lurched between helping the poor
or erecting church buildings and monuments.
It was not the brothers Gregory and Basil
who swept up these helpless infants.
It was their sister Macrina.

Praise you for your denial of a privileged life.
Praise you for attending famines
to rescue the poor when flesh hung like cobwebs,
for saving those girls and marshaling an army
of church mothers to do the same,
bring them home to raise.   

Now we treat immigrants like those road babies,
may we respond to Macrina's example. She  knew 
that Mary had raised a poor baby who was rejected
because he was not conceived the way he was supposed to be.

Originally published in Feed The Holy

VESPER

An angel decided to rescue an angel.
Evil humans capture angels,
neglect them and treat them cruelly—
so we have shelters for rescue.

Floated to a loving home, 
a little white cloud of a dog, 
named Vesper, as holy as an
evening prayer, a daily
answer for the angels
who found each other.

Originally published in Feed The Holy

TOTO BINGLEBONG

Have you ever wanted to die before your dog? Or just had the thought?
My sweet dog Butter is racing me in that direction.

The idea of losing her, of coming into the house not seeing those eyes
can be maddening, makes you try to erase your mind for a bit.

Recently, I saw a snippet in a magazine about our radical protest of the Vietnam war,
my mind’s eye saw him back then, a cock-a-poo, black mop, his shaggy self bounding, bouncing.

 Toto was a product of a bad break-up. The heart I crushed couldn’t  keep him around.
He was mostly hers, but became mine and on into the next girlfriend.

One afternoon he was hit by a car. No money for a vet but we took him anyway.
Vet said surgery, but it was touch and go. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

 8 am, 9 am, no call, the worst fears ruled. I called. “Oh, he’s just fine.” 
“Why didn’t you call me!“ I yelled, joy muting my anger.

 The second girlfriend and I split. The War raged on. Alone with Toto,
I even took him to a protest. Teargas in his little eyes.

 Yes, I was a young jerk who loved that dog, but could not take care of him well.
Or maybe I wanted to forget. An old lady who hoarded dogs in her trailer took him. 

I can’t put my hands over my mind. I still see that good-bye look.
So when Butter looks at me,  sometimes I see Toto Binglebong.

Originally published in Sybil Journal

AGNES

Terrified at my eighth grade graduation.
hands clammy, legs wobbly
walking down the center aisle
up to the stage, not sure I would make it.

Board stiff, first suit, first tie, black shoes.
Lined up by height, I was not shortest,
but I had to walk behind shorter Agnes.

She had some disease, had passed out
in class. Teacher said epilepsy,
a word we didn’t want to hear
after we saw here shaking on the floor.
But Agnes wanted to do the grad walk.
They picked me to be her guardian.
“You walk behind her and catch her.”

Down the aisle now, eyes glued
to Agnes’ back, her black hair
streaked with gray even at thirteen.

I was stiff as a rod.
One wag mocked me.
“Look at Frankenstein!”

My face turned from pale to red.
Watch, watch Agnes’ back.
Always watch someone else’s back.

Up short stairs, headed for the stage.
Agnes a slight trip. “Oh,God.”
She never fell. Teachers thanked me
for my bravery. Agnes graduated—
died at home the next week

Sometimes I see her
in my dreams.
She never falls.

Originally published in Tap Into Poetry