NUMBERS

My daughter struggles with a Statistics class,
complains about probabilities,
sends shudders of memories through me.

In old age now, I don't do numbers,
only see the ball scores,
know the higher number means a win.
Praise to James Van Tassel for the calculator. 

In eighth grade, the math teacher,
nicknamed Rajah,
huge in voice and demand,  
threatened to call my father
because I didn't pay attention.
Tried to tell him I didn't get it.

What mathematical de Sade
invented Algebra?
Saved by Mr. Piazza
the wrestling coach, a D minus
kept me on the team.

And Mr. Olson for Geometry,
Euclid rhymes with putrid.
He assigned everyone a personal theorem.
So, when he called on me, I always got it right. 
Vertical angles are always equal.

In college, took a general Math requirement,
had to pass to stay in school,
had a crush on the tutor, 
tried hard to please beautiful Ms. Christiansen,
No one in the world has gotten a
D minus, minus—except me.

On the LSAT for grad school,
the Math exam stumped me 
after six problems, ending with a question
about Napoleon's Bones math concept,
equilateral nightmare.
Fifteen minutes in, I put my head down.
The proctor asked: "Are you sick, young man?”

Learned helplessness, they call it,
born with that malady.
I am not proud.
How can you be proud of what you didn't want to be?

But I got smart, married
a woman who could measure things,
took the measure of me. 
I made it through life without numbers.
Can you beat those odds?

Originally published in The Daily Drunk Humor Magazine

BLOWING STRAWS

At Walgreen’s soda fountain
when Mom worked there,
so much fun!
In a booth, 
we ripped open the paper,
slid it down the straw,
just past half-way,
how far was key.
Accordioned the paper, 
blew hard,
sent the missile into
our laughing faces,
my brother and me.
Mom taught us
like a little kid.
What other Mom somersaulted?
Barefoot belle.  
Mom blew hard
giggled, laughed,
her Lana Turner eyes flashing.
Direct hit to the nose!
Before the divorce
sometimes Dad showed up. 
No! No blowing! No!

Originally published in Eskimo Pie

LAST WORDS

A young man crept down the urine-pained hallway,
                                         visiting a stroke-wrecked grandmother in an old folk’s home.
                            Went into the room of the once vital woman
                            who could no longer speak, only move her eyes,
blink yes or no when questioned.

 Outside Grandmother’s room, from the main room,
a sound, a sound he did not want to hear,
                                 repeated over and over, indecipherable
from a white-haired woman—thin as paper,
                                  rolling her wheelchair around as if she were dancing with an invisible partner,
                                  the sound, the sound, like the rasp of a sick crow,
                                  two words, repeated, repeated,
ears straining to understand the frantic crone’s plea.                                

As if turned into a harpy, she would start 
and not stop, never stop, like a bed pan sloshed across nerves,
                                   like tripping over a stringy mop,
the caw would never cease, 
                                   making him want to scream as he ran out into the hallway,
                                   driven mad as if Poe’s raven lit on the doorjamb once more.

‘Nurse, Nurse, what is she saying?’

“Forgive me; she is saying: Forgive me. That’s all she ever says.”

‘For what! Forgive me for what!’ 

“We don’t know. She says that every day.  Forgive me. Forgive me. Drives us crazy.
                 The more she says those two words, the more she swirls her chair around,
                           sometimes in a frenzy. She was once a famous ballerina.
That’s all we know.”

Years later, he forgot the ballerina, after his grandmother died.
                               In his own nursing home, pulling a comforter over his gray head, 
                                      from the ever cold, he remembered,
understood.

Originally published in Eskimo Pie

JUST A TREE

“It’s just a tree, Grammy.” 

Our five-year-old grandson 
comforts my wife
as we watch 
orange-helmeted, goggled workmen
cut down her cherished maple,
wracked by the heartless storm.  

Tears fall, branches wave
as if calling for help.
Tree falls, crushes memories,
parents knelt before the sapling
planted when their son was born,
hope the tree they planted
for their daughter
will live longer.

Originally published in Eskimo Pie

REVOLUTIONARY IDEA

It's gotten bad enough 
this blue vs red embroilment. 

Missada, Jerseyork, 
Rhodemont, Virgwest 

heats up more every day,
nick the red and blue veins,  

Florkota, Tennorgia,
Massaz, Oreiana 

like the First People blood brothers
instead of killing, 

Loutana, Nebconsin,
Texaine, Callilina 

mix the states up,
re-locate the angst. 

Delatah, Missigan,
Idaowa, Whyken

Relate to new neighbors?
Do things differently? 

Alasio, Alaton,
Oklasota, Penntana 

Put down your guns,
replace stars with olive branches.

Hawaico, Arkanrado,
Connonois, Marysas

Do it now.
Please.

Originally published in Eskimo Pie

NATIONAL PAST TIME

I.

My Little League team sucked,
made the Bad News Bears look good.
We fired our coach who was a drunk,
hired a poet to replace him,
He knew nothing about the game.
But he wrote limericks
about each position:

There once was a pitcher with no luck
still known for his excellent pluck.
He threw such a curve
which never did swerve
and then he just passed on the buck.

There once was a shortstop named Slykes
who also was known for his gripes.
He swung and missed
and all the fans hissed
when he said he needed four strikes.

We never won any games,
but our pitcher and shortstop
joined the debating team and did well.

II.

There once was a bloke named Trump
whose antics caused many to flump.
He thought all were his slaves,
sent many to their graves,
wanting to dump his rump.

There once was a country
attacked by a terrible disease.
Everyone said we needed to stay home,
isolate safely until the virus ran its course.
We had elected a businessman.
His medical experience was going to the doctor.
But he said he knew about business.
He told everyone to get out there.
Get off the bench and onto the field.
Play Ball!
A lot of people thought he was crazy
and stayed home.
But a lot of people put on their uniforms
and began to throw the ball around again
and died.

Originally published in Poetry and Covid

A SUBTLE TRIBULATION

If you have pored over Revelation,
nothing subtle there.
Destruction on every level,
unprecedented pain and suffering.
The one world government begats
the great world war begats
inflation and famine begats
a mighty earthquake, hide under rocks
begats a third of trees and grass burns up
begats blood rains down begats
a mountain of sulphur falls in the sea
begats the Star Wormwood,
bitters the sea
begats a diminished sun, moon, stars,
brings ever darkness begats
scorpions and locusts cause men
to plead for death begats
the Vial Judgments,
as God destroys all human systems,
ends Babylon in agony.

Maybe instead of a cataclysm,
a spectacular, big bang disaster,
the Tribulation is now,
happening before my very eyes,
day by night?

Daily I see the cracks,
shootings, bombings,
violence everywhere,
environmental fires,
collapsing ice bergs,
nuclear warheads bristling,
pandemics raging against the bit,
refugees aswarm
as nation warring against nation
becomes every nation,
kings more insane,
the rich so far above
the unseen poor,
a mist at the foot
of their mountain strongholds.

For myself, a privileged one,
a first world denizen,
so much good still:
An unruffled life:
Family vacations,
celebrate birthdays,
root for my teams,
my wife plants her garden,
new marriages, new babies.
I get up in the morning,
brush my teeth,
sleep tired.
So much good.

I go though my daily life,
not knowing what to do,
cluck my tongue more and more
as the news accosts me,
like the Marathon runner
daily falling exhausted at my feet,
as he reports event after event.
Toffler warned us
Media unleashed would
overwhelm us,
an impending sense of doom,
a feeling the other shoe
of the world will drop.

The evil increases.
During Covid.
I can feel it
as the Tribulation
drips, drips,
a rivulet, a stream,
a river, an ocean,
tsunami without end,
man clawing at himself
in abject fear,
clutching at what
will not hold still.

Originally published in Poetry and Covid

HEEBIE JEEBIES

Twelve years old,
enthralled by Jan August’s Misirlou,
I listen to the 78 record on my phonograph.
My heart soars with the strings.

I notice a stack of 45’s
with bright, colored centers
my Father brought home from his tavern,
donated by the jukebox man.

I never heard of Little Richard,
put on the white and gold label.

I got the heebie jeebies ’cause I love you so

My heart beats faster,
feet dance.

Next weekend, a teen party.
Over the loudspeaker—

Tutti Frutti, oh rootie

Little Richard again.

At home, the 78’s,
Patti Page, Rosemary Clooney,
Johnnie Ray, Frankie Laine,
lay scattered on the floor.
Instead the record player spins
Rock Around the Clock,
Rock N’ Roll Is Here To Stay,
Maybellene, Blueberry Hill.

Violins got heebie jeebied.
78’s collected dust.

Little Richard—
piercing wail, pounding piano,
towering pompadour, raunch and religion—
with Chuck Berry, Fats Domino
broke the sound barrier
for the rest of my life.

Originally published in Terror House Magazine

SPIN THE BOTTLE

They weren’t the three
Macbeth witches—
Diana, Nancy, and Donna,
but they were scary as Hell
when we gathered
in Diana’s basement
afternoons during middle-school.

We played with our hormones
as kids have done since man
invented bottles.
Round and round and round—
prayed and wished it would
point to someone who would kiss you,
not point to someone who
would scrunch up her face
and say, “No Way.”

The deal was go behind
the big furnace in Diana’s basement
so you could do it or not.
No one would know
while the others waited
in the next room,
breathless for their fate.

I spun Diana first,
rangy and tall as a stork,
towered over my scrawny self.
That was easy.
We made a deal
behind the furnace,
pretend to kiss and lie,
like lots of others.

Then Nancy,
who had a big nose—
they called her Nosalich—
children cruel always.
We kissed and did not tell,
glad for no rejection.

Finally, Donna.
She said no to me,
the true witch of the three.
She was the sexpot.
Everyone knew she had done
more than kiss.
Later a baby out of wedlock
when you could still say that.

Wonder if teens in basements now
still spin their futures
behind the furnace of their hearts?

Originally published in Terror House Magazine

THE DATE FAIRY

An eight year marriage argument.
Mean and ugly words
spatter like kitchen grease.

Wiggling diaper baby
hangs off her side,
seven year old snot nose
sobs in the corner.

His stolid arms
locked in silence,
angry belly protrudes
low over his belt.

The Date Fairy appears.
No wings or wand.
A sad smile on her face,
a mirror in her hand.

The couple stops raging,
the children hush.

The Fairy holds up the mirror
so all can see.
A light flashes.
The couple is at a table
in a coffee shop.
They have just met.

Coo like pigeons,
they talk and talk.
No words heard
in the mirror,
just smiles, love.
He takes her hand.
She squeezes back.

Mad love that night,
married in a year.
Out popped the snot nose,
soon the hanging diaper,
monster bills and Mother-in-Law,
nasty psoriasis,
a mutt found their door,
he didn’t want it, she did.
Their words from soft to hard.

The mirror repeats,
stops at the hand squeeze.
The Date Fairy vanishes.

Originally published in Terror House Magazine

MR. AND MRS. DEATH

He’s hanging around adding again.
She squats, paring her bright red nails.
A famine is her garden.
He vacations in war zones.
They prefer the elderly and sick.
Children, a delicacy for both.
There’s no stopping them.
They existed before taxes.
Guess I’ll just have to go with him
since my brave wife took her hand first.

Originally published in Ariel Chart

VIRUS MORNING

When the sunlight becomes my alarm clock, which I have not used for years after it replaced our dead dog and cat who had turned me into the punctual person I am seen to be, after a very short while I forget our town has transcended Shirley Jackson’s village, become the world-wide lottery it is now, I wake up.   When my daughter and her boyfriend are stuck in Los Angeles, my middle son barely escaped from Mexico to Illinois, my oldest son’s specialty—on line education— becomes the only thing between family isolation and solitary confinement, I wake up.   Spring was supposed to spring yesterday, but Winter refused to leave and the Cubs were to open the season next Saturday but might not ever play this year since my Dad threw me a baseball at three and took me to Wrigley as if it were Mecca till lung cancer...   Last week was the birthday of the ex-girlfriend I was to marry until, waiting tables in college, I accidentally dumped lemonade on my future wife until breast cancer...   Caught between a dreamless night and the creak of my bones as I dress, after a short while, a very short while, I wake up.

Originally published on Mike Maggio's Covid Poetry Site.

MRS. DERMENT

I am 82 today.
While I cut the lawn,
I remember Mrs. Derment,
my first college landlady
when she was 82.

Walking past those Greek houses,
down those old streets,
fresh-minded new grad student,
I saw her first with her back turned 
in an old granny dress,
puffing a push lawn mower,
slight rust on the edge of the blades,
up the ridge of her yard.

She rented me a single room,
board elsewhere
and, new to that town,
became a friend. 
I watched Bonzana with her,
her wording for that cowboy classic.

Once stumbling back to my room
on a Sunday evening, 
a term paper weighing down my head,
she said:
"Young man, (her name for me)
there's this group called the Beatles
on the Ed Sullivan show. Want to watch it with me?"
'No, I replied, I have too much to do,'
robbing myself of an iconic experience
to plumb the depths of Pope's Rape Of The Lock.

I am still fortunate to be able  
to cut my lawn with a power mower
and don't know how Mrs. Derment
did with just the old blades.
She died at 89.
I neglected  to see her that last year.
I think she is happy though.
Surely there is grass in Heaven.

Originally published in Blue Pepper Magazine

PERCEPTION

Poor Marie.
From your balcony
you didn’t really shout
at the waving, hungry
pitch forks, staves:
“Let them eat cake!.”
did you?

You were not that stupid
to open your privilege
to those starving peasants?
You did not scream
those haughty words, did you?

But they said you did,
orchestrated orgies in Versailles,
slept with your son,
pilfered millions for your native Austria.

Sent you to the horrid guillotine,
more humane than drawing and quartering
frantic horses ripping the dying,
gutted body asunder.

Dignity on the way to that blade,
dressed in widow white,
ignored the jeering crowds,
ignored the assigned priest
perched beside you as the tumbril
rolled its hour toward your death,
unlike the carriage provided your husband.

Dickens celebrated Madame DeFarge,
knitting as the crowd remembered
her dead child, trampled
by the aristocrat’s carriage
mixing her son’s blood
with the wine she sold the rich.
DeFarge howled when you tripped
over the executioner’s shoe.

When the bloodthirsty peasants
screamed for your head, cheered
when those beautiful eyes glazed dead,
body pitched into a pauper’s grave,
face later a Tussaud wax mask,
the cake was not what mattered,
was it, poor Marie?

Originally published in Down In The Dirt Magazine

BEAUTIFUL BABY GRAND

Faded fluorescent sparkles
painted on during your bar days,
when smoky musicians tickled
to the delight of drunken glee.

We rescued you back then
when they were about to raze
my father’s tavern.
Warned of your demise,
we hippies raced up the highway,
just in time.

We brought you back
to that old-timey church
to entertain the Lord.

Later, loaned you to that bar
where a famous jazz artist
demanded a grand, but they screwed up.
Rolled you down the street
on your wheels, returned you to the church,
like an out-of-tune hymn.

Short on cash in our young marriage,
we sold you to a farmer.

Where are you now?
We’re so sorry.
Are you tuned, still being played?
Do others’ grandchildren bang away?
Or, do you, beautiful baby grand,
sit in a barn somewhere,
biding time?

Originally Published in Down In The Dirt Magazine

MAD RAVINGS

Suppose someone
began to recite the name of every
man, woman, and child
killed in war?

The soldiers who killed each other.
Civilians slain in their homes,
washing clothes by the river,
planting or harvesting crops,
living factory lives,
alive in millions of ways
before weapons spoke louder.

If that person speaks out loud
the name of every victim,
we might be absolved,
go back to the beginning,
have another chance to do it right:
all centuries without war,
the human imagination freed,
able to dream beyond reality.

In my ravings, what if that person
were you or me, our voice shaking,
droning the names towards eternity.

Originally published in The Corvus Review

GRIEF VOICE

Nothing matched the pain
in my neighbor’s eyes
when he told me
his grandson died suddenly:
“Of an undiagnosed cause,” he said.

In my old age,
my mind nearly complete,
scribbled on and smudged,
erased and written over,
sculpted, drawn, kneaded, smeared
like a child's finger painting
makes no sense.

A child's sudden unfathomable death sparked
such dark thoughts:
It could be my grandchild.
What would I do with that time?
Never a playground again
or promised Disney trip.
No Little League dreams.
Can I ever watch baseball again?
Memories of our “couch Olympics”
when I made up silly stunts
to his wild laughter
haunt me.

I can’t remove my mind,
place it on a shelf,
put it back in place
when I think I need it.

The mind thinks what it wants,
what I don't want
with no more order
than the child smearing paint
or banging away on a piano.

My mind reeled,
trying to drown the neighbor's
grief voice when he cried out:
"No rhyme or reason.”

Originally published in The Trouvaille Review

CREATION

When He breathed
the breath of life into Adam
we did not know
Contagion.

Originally published in Quatrain Fish

SPILLS

Life is like water
spilled on the ground
which you can never gather up again.
You can cry over spilled milk,
but you can’t pick up
those spilled tears
and shove them back into your eyes
like a child might stuff candy
into his mouth quickly
without anyone seeing him.
Life is spills.
You can always spill your heart out
or your guts,
but you wouldn’t want to see
your bloody heart or guts
and wouldn’t
unless they draw and quarter you.
That would give you the shpilkes,
cause you to take a spill
or spill over
and spill the beans
about why we live in a world
where you can spill so much
and choose whether to cry about it.

Originally accepted by SABR magazine

DEAR WORLD CITIZEN

Bombs struck from the air today.
A number of people died,
who did not expect to die.
Their side will retaliate soon.

Some walk around now,
shop, sleep,
drink a cup of morning coffee,
pee, make love,
play with their grandchildren,
kneel in prayer,
plot a robbery,
drive a team of oxen,
spear fish in a river,
hunt, save a whale,
propose, be unfaithful,
sue someone, accept an award,
put a dog to sleep,
gift a kitten,
escape from prison,
sell everything that is not nailed down,
win a race, plunge off a cliff,
admonish, praise, retch,
stroll a zoo, repair a fence,
bury a loved one,
bury one they did not love,
act out the eight billion
different ways people do
before they suddenly die
from an unnatural cause.

Time will go by.
Strikes will stop.
Later they will strike again
somewhere.
It's what they always do.
Hope you make it.

Originally published in The Stickman Review