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It’s time for a little reflection.
He did not mean to shoot me.
He was just shooting
because he had a gun.
The bullet did not know
where it was going.
It did not have its own mind.
It was aimed or not,
but it hit something
and went my way.
I’m dead now
so my reflections
don’t mean much.
Originally published by Lothlorien Journal
An old man, arms crossed,
watches his grandson in Farm League,
remembers thousands of hours
on district ball fields across his life,
Major League, Little League, Colt League
games with his sons,
his daughter’s softball,
years of coaching them
and other childrens'
beaming faces, crying (there is)—
slides, homeruns, doubles.
steals, triples, strikeouts,
singles, walks, shutouts.
Today, thirty years later,
he watches a grandson
on the same field
he coached his son
to a city championship,
an indelible memory
like the trophy
collecting dust in his office
until his son carries
it to his own home one day.
Watches his grandson,
no curve ball here,
a heater straight to the heart.
Originally published in Euphemism Magazine
Old friends
sup on carry-out,
seldom cook any more,
uncork stories,
each a different vintage.
Alison, a dry wit.
Arthur, red with ire.
Rita, too sweet.
Rudy, a tart heart.
But they have drunk
enough love
to return again,
with a bottle of memories,
good till the end.
Originally Published in Euphemism Magazine
Cutting the lawn,
a bright Spring day.
Stepped into some fresh dog dookie.
Soft and squishy,
smell wafting into my cursing nostrils.
Got a stick, poor stick,
cleaned off the shoe.
Donned other old ones.
Revved up the engine,
odor rising from the roar.
Ran over a broken stalk of lilacs,
stink of bloom.
I cut on.
Originally Published in Euphemism Magazine
Life is like a delicious piece
of hard candy
popped in your mouth
and sucked and sucked
until it becomes smaller and smaller
as your teeth crack the last thin piece
and you swallow it at the end.
Originally Published on Mad Swirl
Roaring blue ocean,
the waves in and out
like God breathing.
Red toenails, green seaweed,
sea gulls, white caps lap white sand,
life guards, flapping warning flags,
while we who live in winter play
as the waves nip our joyful toes.
Hotels, like pyramids, staring at us,
always gazing, never changing.
Does the ocean look back at us too?
Are ocean shores in Heaven?
Do they mark the time we have left,
eternal, endless waves?
Originally Published on Fine Lines Magazine
ago our old Volvo trekked
toward the North Woods
for our honeymoon.
I lost the car keys,
delayed our passion,
left the salami and cheese gift
from your parents
at that gas station,
forgot the take-out ribs
at that fancy restaurant.
Holding hands still,
working through
the differences no marriage
can foresee.
Thanks for your forbearance
as we made it through
the ruts of our years
just as that Volvo
bounced through the ruts
in the road to the rustic cabin,
where you, dear wife,
slid cold feet out of bed
that first morning
to light the pot-bellied stove.
Originally published on Rat's Ass Review
Once was a girl who slid on the ice
as if the ice were frozen wind.
Pink-cheeked and laughing
her plaid scarf wildly flapping,
whenever her shoes reached
sidewalk end, she would cry:
“More! More!”
as if the ice were Life.
Originally published on Rat's Ass Review
Oh, the heroic pilgrims!,
who chose the Mayflower
when the Speedwell floundered,
off to a new world despite the danger.
Half the saints died that first winter,
but no one chose to return to England.
Instead they set shod feet on Plymouth,
believed God stormed them North,
believed God bequeathed the new land,
to have dominion over and flourish.
But other humans tilled the land,
hunted the pristine forests,
fished the teeming waters.
Given a choice to cooperate in peace,
our ancestors chose
the railroads over the buffalo,
the natives getting in the way.
Sent passenger cars to the herds,
shooting helpless creatures
from open windows,
leaving bodies to rot,
using nothing of value
as the natives preserved all.
Rail-crossed the nation.
Now we dignify our first people
by damning racist mascots,
keep natives the poorest among us.
Our cars cross those tracks—
dirt and iron—
on the way to prosperity.
Originally published in Poesis Magazine
I woke up this morning
when the birds sang.
The tweet and the trill,
the peep peep, the usual chirps.
God’s alarm clock.
But this one morning,
grating songs,
raucous sounds,
needling sharp notes,
obnoxious squacks
like never before.
Ran to the window,
squinted down the sun,
alert for the danger,
the disturbance
that would turn melody
into ear-covering noise,
an atonal avian symphony.
But there was no danger.
The birds had abandoned
their sweet songs—
annoying, threatening, cacophonous—
Keats’ nightmare, not nightingale.
The noise would have driven
the couple stark out of Eden.
The wren’s warble, a red-breasted song.
A caw is melodious,
even the bluejay’s screech
can be beautiful.
Oh, never take for granted
delightful bird song.
Originally published in Poesis Magazine
Sorry to intrude into your young world.
You may ignore me.
I am not sure why I am telling you this,
but Death does begin to speak to you
at a certain age,
probably different for everyone.
I am near 80, she, he, it—
Death has no persona
except what we invent—
mine a scythe wielding crone
with a hideous grin—
just starts to remind,
whispers in my ear
not all the time,
just at a dark corner,
at a crosswalk,
at the top of the stairs,
any time of day or night
in dreams, daymares,
before the morning pills,
before I snap on
the electric blanket.
Death says
a bone pain here,
an ache there,
what you did,
what you didn’t do,
a slight fever,
a newspaper article,
Facebook stab,
TV bray,
a small limp,
a sudden fall,
whispers, whispers,
perhaps nags.
I suspect Death
will not stop
or go away
until we do.
Originally published in Stick Figure Magazine
She said: You don’t dream about someone
who died you don’t care about.
My daughter called me crying
from her apartment in LA,
sobbing because she dreamed
I had died at 80
that being a possibility,
but I feel quite healthy
and don’t see that bucket
swinging before me yet.
She said we laughed a lot.
We went to Dairy Queen
where I ordered a hamburger
but, walking down a hill,
I dropped it and it rolled
until we were rolling
on the ground with laughter.
Her brothers wouldn’t
talk about it in the dream.
That made her mad
and woke her up.
So she called me
and was laugh/sobbing
to hear my voice
and see my reassuring smile.
Glad I was alive.
So was I.
Glad to have this much love
as we were actually
talking on that other side
and I jabbered a lot,
which made it seem more real
because I do spout off
and that made me feel good
about this love from both sides.
Originally published in Rhodora Magazine
On the day our son and daughter
depart from a visit,
return to their far away homes,
we could not fathom
any of our children
who slipped into this vast world
from their Mother home
would go away when they could.
One stayed, two left.
You feel exactly what I mean.
We swam through their youth
like sharks—guided, protected,
expected a lifetime close
like the farm families of yore.
But we were city,
where the sirens most live
who called them away.
Love abounds
even in the comings and goings
always returning, always leaving
until their home is only where they live.
Originally published in Rhodora Magazine
They crawl inside my mind
those little children shot
by the most recent madman.
They multiply in my thoughts,
try to escape,
horror on their faces,
fall asleep when I don’t think of them
as I move through my day.
They wake me from my daymare
as the pantry door opens,
at the turning on the stairs,
as I wash my face
see their eyes blink back
from the glass darkly.
They stare back, live there
until the next ones
dislodge, hutch in.
Rabbit scream.
Originally published in Rhodora Magazine
You know how princes become frogs?
Our daughter became a dog.
In bed, this morning, side by side,
The huge black puppy in our life.
Petting her hunger for affection,
Licking our bedclothes like confection.
I think of our daughter far away
Spreading her wings to win her day.
Leaving behind her family to sing.
Leaving the dog to fetch and bring.
A dog can become a daughter,
And we can become her parents.
Though it cannot hug the same,
Nor have her eyes and smile,
Or make our birthdays shine.
But a dog can be sublime.
Barking her way into our hearts,
Barking away the pain of parting.
Originally published in Sanctuary Magazine
Silky ballroom dancers, my folks also loved the jitterbug.
I took to that jive and won contests, gyrated my way through my teens
into girls’ hearts and arms, straight through American Bandstand,
college, and a job teaching my art to all-girls PE classes.
Also taught the heavyweight wrestling champion from our school
who bear-hugged me in gratitude because he was able to dance
with his sweetie at Homecoming, well worth the twenty-five cents an hour
I charged him to practice at the mirror with his dorm room doorknob.
I was a star, the Cab Calloway of my small Midwestern college,
until along came Chubby and my life got suddenly Twisted,
forced to practice with a towel and swing my butt back and forth—
the magic of the jitterbug gone, a wallflower dance master now.
No one touched each other anymore.
No hand holding, no cool twirls or Ricky Nelson slides.
You could twist with yourself. You could twist with a group.
No one needed to teach you if towel swivels convinced the mirror.
Dull anonymity. Damn you, Checker!
Originally published in Down In The Dirt Magazine
Ray was totally blind,
wheelchair-bound, eager to please,
happy for companionship.
I thought I was just a grad volunteer,
there to read, do my bit for humanity,
but Ray shared his poems and prose with me,
proud smile, craved approval for his work.
The misspellings overwhelmed,
grammar—bad on bad.
Plotless rambles. Unfree verse.
Ray talked incessantly.
He often had a cold,
snot hung from his nose,
sickened my stomach.
I could not praise.
I could not look at him.
Mumbled: 'Interesting.'
Given my literary standards,
his chronic congestion,
I just disappeared.
Ignored his calls,
cries on the machine:
Where are you?
Youth can be a bonfire
of good intentions.
Guilt decades later
embered a cold heart.
What if Ray instead had been
Renee, a red-headed beauty
who wrote stirring poems,
smile gentle as a dove?
So I fell in love,
married her, had three children
who grew up to help the world,
allowed us to see the beauty of life.
But he was Ray
and I left.
Originally published in Down In The Dirt Magazine
did you know that Jewish boy
raised by Hebrew Christians
in Germany over a century ago
saw Jesus as a socialist
wrote that little book
cried for all the workers
to break their chains and unite
throw the fat cats
Mary called out in the Magnificat
under the table
so that the wretched of the Earth
sit at a table
as long as the world
sup and sup
but when a pandemic
crushes the world
we see the fat cats
still at the table
the workers cleave beef loins shovel dirt
spoon-feed patients punch cash registers
crawl in attics wheel gurneys
die under the table
as Marx turns over in his grave
wonders if we are going to get it
before that Communist Jesus
comes down takes
His own to the Place
where the cats can’t roam
Originally published in Sledgehammer Magazine
This poem is irrelevant for young people
until the doctor says:
“At your age you need one of these
for a lifetime regimen,
every few years until…”
Snow White’s Step-Mother
must have invented
that first evil prep potion
you had to drink for hours,
which almost killed me
and made me swear off
lemonade for six months.
I was so sick I told the doctor
I would gamble against colon cancer
rather than drink that stuff again.
But they changed it to something
drinkable only by comparison,
the rest of the process not the stuff of poems.
I went in for mine this morning,
greeted by the same smiling face of the man
I see once every five years
as we go through this together,
he for the thousandth time,
me, starting at fifty, only for the sixth,
hoping for only polyps,
which are benign–hooray–once again.
When he pulls me out of sleep
to share the good news,
I mumble how many years until the next;
he smiles: Five.
But that will make me 82!
Is there a statute of limitations,
an age where old age and death
wait grinning heartily: “Why bother?”
And each time I say:
”I’m sure glad this is over.
Don’t ever want to do it again!”
But at 77, 82 in five years, I do.
I really do.
Originally published in Spilling Cocoa
Where does a heart go
when it cries out?
Does the heart hunt
for what makes it weep,
cry so hard it leaves home?
Search for a lost
spouse, child, pet,
roam the empty world
try to find what
will never be again.
Is finding nothing
the only solace
that can stop the tears
and bring us home?
At home, the rooms
look the same
but a stark absence
sits in every corner,
immovable until time
makes it disappear.
Originally published in Mad Swirl