sataN fell like lightning

You capitalize
the last letter of your name,
mock God’s first letter.

Lying, did you slink?
Dirt and dust for you forever.
Slither at cried: “Shame!”

Afraid in any way?
Wait in the weeds to delight
in depth of Fall?

Arrogance your name.
Hubris more than Oedipus.
Milton: “Bend the Knee.”

You tormented Job.
His trial equals mankind’s.
Failure will be yours.

Savaging at will,
an evil lion on Earth.
But your teeth shattered.

No sympathy here.
Snakes worse than spiders.
Calling you out satan.

Originally published in Agape Review

THE UN-CHOSEN

The Chosen people
un-chosen for one night.
Huddled in the dark
no fire
listened for wings
any rustle
prayed for lamb's blood
to protect them
from the Angel of Death.

Did they hear the wails
clutch their first born
in the middle of the night?

The Chosen people
un-chosen one time,
blessed.

Originally Published in Agape Review

GOD DIDN'T MAKE MONEY

Warned about the love of money,
the worst worm for the heart.

Praise to St. Augustine—
begged with the poor.

Praise to Jesus—
flogged the money changers
out of the Temple.

Praise to Zacchaeus—
climbed a Sycamore
to give his money back.

Praise to the Samaritan—
spent his silver to heal
when others wouldn’t.

Praise to tent-maker Paul—
sent gifts to the poor
Jerusalem churches.

Praise to St. Francis—
cared about creatures
more than gold.

Praise to Luther—
ridiculed Indulgences
to avoid Purgatory.

Praise to St. Damien—
lived with lepers
though he had a choice.

Praise to Wesley
loved the poor
not their tithes.

Praise to Teresa—
comforted the dying
for a dollar a day.

Praise to Jerry and Sue—
helped and supported
their poor neighbors.

Praise their hearts
full of Heaven’s Treasure.

Originally published in Agape Review

NINETEEN FORTY-FIVE

Tribute to Charles Simic

When my Father left for war,
Mother gave me a wooden Tommy-Gun.
WW II crashed to a close.  
Skeletal bodies liberated at Auschwitz.
Hoop Jr. won the Derby.

I leaped behind chairs, killed the enemy,
hoped to bring my Father home.
Audie Murphy awarded the Medal of Honor.
McArthur returned to the Philippines.
Liz stole hearts in National Velvet.

The radio our shrine,
bending our ears in hope.
Hitler married Eva,
suicide for a honeymoon.
VE Day.

My younger brother was born,
almost died in the hospital.
The US seized Iwo Jima.
Army captured college football.
Folic acid discovered in leafy greens.

News of my Dad coming home.
Dancing in the streets.
Steinbeck, Cannery Row,
Wright, Black Boy.
Lucky Strike Hit Parade.

Enola Gay and Boxcar drop the A-bombs.
VJ ends that theater.
Dad returns, kisses Mom a lot.
The Tommy-Gun left on a shelf.
Grand Rapids, first fluoridated water.

Dad and I glued to the radio.
Tigers whip Cubs in World Series,
creates celebration in 2016.
B-52 crashes into Empire State Bldg.,
forecasts 911.

We move into the middle-class,
a washing machine and Oldsmobile.
Wars continue.
I am 79 today.

Originally published in Green Silk Journal

THEOLOGY

You say there is no Heaven.
Fly with me now across the world
to a breast in one country,
as long as the people are starving.
It does not matter where.
A desiccated breast. Sere.
Clinging, an infant, boy or girl?
Doesn’t matter.
Sucking scarce milk from a drying teat,
soon to die, like its siblings, like its mother.
Doesn’t matter.
You say there is no Heaven.
You say there is no justice.
The universe just happened by accident,
just appeared, exploding into beautiful
us.

Outcomes just came out.

Fly back with me back to our country,
to a crib in the suburbs.
See my niece, dressed in pink,
a silver spoon in her mouth.
She will live to a ripe old age,
have a beau, have a baby,
maybe more for the nanny.
Boys or girls, doesn’t matter.
A plump, full breast or Silk milk.
You say: Too bad, too bad!.It’s just too bad!
That’s just the way the cookie crumbles in the milk.
I don’t think about the future, Heaven.
Doesn’t matter. I can’t think about those other babies.

Hand me a fresh diaper. Hurry, I have to go.
Meeting my hubby at the restaurant.
Hurry.

Originally published in Heart of Flesh

SATURDAY (AN EASTER POEM)

He is dead now.
He was so alive,
Buried.
We are scattered,
Huddled in fear
In various haunts.

Will we ever be fishermen again?
Peacefully plying our nets.

Didn’t we see the miracles?
Drinking the hilarious wine at Cana.

Didn’t we see the healings?
So many unblinded.
The centurion’s daughter dancing.

Didn’t we see the demons
Come screaming out?
The startled eyes of pigs and peasants.

Didn’t He forgive our sins?
Stones refusing to kill a fallen woman.
The tax collector scrambling down the sycamore.

When will they hunt and kill us?
Remember the agony of the tree.

We remember the days of Glory.
His face shining for days off the mountain.

Will we always remember,
The sound of His voice?
You feed them!   I AM…I AM…

That look He gave us
When we slept in the Garden.

Oh God, what will tomorrow be like?   
What will tomorrow bring…

Originally published in Heart of Flesh

MY LIFE IS SO MUCH THINNER THAN THICK

Like a playing card
turned sideways,
a King or Jack,
as thin as invisible,
I see myself sometimes
as the card they pull
to bring the house down,
to miss the goal,
spoil the broth,
muck the pile,
screw the pooch.

Please—
build my stack,
kick me through,
stir my pot,
rake me up,
just pet me.

Try again.
Mercy thickens.

Originally published in Mad Swirl

TRAVELS WITH MY AUNT

Aunt hauled me around
with her on her adventures

when I was young.
She was a free bird,

never had a real job,
only errands for her successful

mother and older brother, and,
my parents preoccupied with their lives,

a father busy with adultery,
a step-mother hiding in movie magazines,

left me at loose ends.
Aunt Elaine thought I was bright,

she stimulated my mind
in ways no one else did.

Always stacks of books by her bedside;
I think she read the whole library.

But pages would be turned only until a book bored her,
like the half-smoked butts she squashed, filling her ashtrays.

On the adventures in her world—
the zoo, baseball games, hole-n the wall eateries—

we visited champion bowlers who were lesbians,
she a closet one I found out years later.

Never married but verbally abused
her one boyfriend (her shield)

because he was a pro-union liberal,
snidely calling him her Comrade.

She read Marx but was a Republican
who loved Eisenhower, loathed Adlai.

Dressed like and was a beatnik
before they were named,

always wore dark sunglasses,
even inside, sported a tam,

frequented bars with peanuts on the floor,
quipping until her humor turned

the bar flies’ laughter into scorn
as her words became mocking fire,

forged by her boiling anger.
Too often I was the target of her ire.

The last time I saw her
when a young family man

who visited her only because
I felt her loneliness over the phone,

she was sloppy into a crying jag,
taking shots from a variety

of schnapps bottles, a rainbow of flavors,
getting drunker and drunker,

pounding the table over and over,
crying and moaning harder and harder

for every failure
in the world and her life.

Why did I continue to see her?
Why did I tell you her broken story?

Because I know she loved me
and, indeed, I loved her too.

Originally published in Rat's Ass Review

GROUNDHOG DAY

Forty-seven years ago, we laid my Father
in a frozen Groundhog Day plot.
It would have been fun to only care
about the folly of a rodent shadow.

Instead, we buried
his rags to riches,
life-of-the party,
addicted, family shattering
short life.

Forty-seven years later,
on the date he was buried,
I held my new grandson.
Warm, swaddling clothes
displace frozen ground.
My years now way beyond his
who never saw my wedding,
or any grandchild.

The Groundhog’s shadow is dark,
the tiny boy in my arms
brightens the day.

Little boy, little boy—
Will you see the sunlight of a long, healthy life
or the shadows of that brief buried one?

Much more than desolate winters,
may bright Springs guide your days.

Originally published in Ariel Chart

ILLI-NOISE

Early in Moby Dick,
Melville, glorifying Nantucket,
loved that faraway island,
attempted to find the opposite,
the nadir to this crown of New England,
where ships launched for whales,
where quaint sea shacks leaned,
the dark blue of the North Atlantic,
boats like shining diamonds in the sun,
wild, rugged green grass,
necklaces of fishing nets,
shores planted with lighthouses.
Melville chose to pick on Illinois.

What did Illinois do wrong?
Was it a cosmic offense
sent the glaciers,
slowly scraping
across its beauty?

Where are the seas, the mountains,
any elevation at all?
Just fields, fields, fields.
Are long, deep furrows,
corn and soybeans pretty?
Yes, beautiful sunsets,
but everywhere has sunsets.
Does it matter that nothing
blocks your eyes when you see
the blazing colors of the only
work of art in the Sucker state?

Melville scanned his world-wide mind,
harpooned Illinois
as if it were a leviathan
never to escape
his words.

Originally published in Ariel Chart

HAUNTING

Stephen King’s dad never dreamed
he would bless his child
when he stomped out the door.

King’s unfaithful dad,
did a Melville and fled to the sea,
signed on as a merchant sailor.
He never even sent a postcard,
just left a trunk of horror
and science fiction books behind,
which young Stephen discovered.

Even if Stephen’s dad had stayed true,
Halloweened him, played catch,
skied or climbed trails, bounced
him off his heart’s knee, tucked
him in at night with ghost stories,
might King have become
the guru of fright anyway?

Perhaps inspired by this wraith,
Stephen imagined his own scary stories.
Wonder if they haunted his dad
somewhere on a ghost ship?

Originally Published in A Thin Slice Of Anxiety

MISGUIDED

A pilot accidentally fired a missile,
killed ten Afghan civilians going about their lives,
seven of them children, the photograph
of the grieving mother, arms pleading with the sky,
morphs into the napalmed, screaming girl
Phan Thi Kim Phuc, now an old woman in much pain,
fleeing on a Vietnam road so long ago.

Missiles have human brains and the mind
who misfired had to know
the air they breathed was always death.

What would he tell himself?
Was he hard-hearted? Murderous?
Was he truly defending his country?

When the heart behind the trigger finger
realized who he had killed,
was there any way he could make
this tragedy more significant
than the entire long and useless war?

Could he stand to look at the aftermath of his error?
Would that scene be printed and framed
next to his family photo on the bedroom bureau?

No, that image burned in his mind.

Originally published in The Taj Mahal Review

CASTOR OIL

We waited, shaking,
newspapers under the chairs
we sat on in case we vomited
as the Grand Poobah--
our Father--
approached with a tablespoon,
filled to the brim
with the smelly oil,
aimed for our terrified gullets.

It was the cure of our generation.
Should any child manifest
the slightest stomach ill,
down came the dark, brown bottle
with the yellow label,
maybe skull bones on it,
given without hesitation,
the cure for all gastronomic pain.

My brother and I
faced each other,
began to spit on the floor,
pleaded with our Dad
we were too sick
to imbibe the ghastly brew,
like drinking Quaker Oil
we cried.


To no avail,
avail did not exist.
But the cries elicited some mercy.
Mixed into orange juice
or orange soda.
"Drink it down fast boys.
It will heal you quicker,
not taste so bad.”

It took me years to drink
a Big Orange, quaff
the golden elixir of Florida,
suck on a Navel.

Even after castor oil
proved worthless,
the mere mention
causes a shudder
in my soul.


Originally Published in Terror House Magazine

MILLSTONES

"Why worry about a speck in your brother’s eye when you have a plank in your own?
- Matthew 7:3

What if beside the plank in your eye
your brother had a millstone
not just a speck?

Old men shove young bodies
under the wheels of war.
Oil pipes thrust into
the body of Nature.
Ogres sell children
for fucks.
Those are millstones,
not specks,
specks, venial—gossip, white lies, petty theft,
minor acts,
to rent our daily webs,
an irritant you can rub away
like a fly in your eye.

I can forgive my enemy
but I can't forget what he did.
Let’s fling those millstones
far out to sea
hang them round the necks of the evil ones
destroy no more.

Originally published in Terror House Magazine

MEDIC

When I was nine, babysitter Elsie
flipped on Medic right before bedtime,
excited to have someone watch it with her,
snack on homemade cookies and milk.

The show features a nine-year-old boy,
whisked in from an ambulance,
pale, even on black and white TV,
afflicted by a weird disease
that sounds like a pagan God
from Sunday School.
He dies on this program,
his mother sobs at the end.

Sit stiff as a gurney,
don’t eat Elsie’s cookies.
Ask what killed that boy.
"Oh, leukemia. No cure.
Not many get it,
but don’t worry, most don’t.
But ya never know.

Daily created good deeds
so I could fall asleep after I prayed:
“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
if I should die of leukemia
before I wake, I pray the Lord
my soul to take, ” until I got old enough,
realized it was just a TV show.
Relaxed until cousin Jane died from the disease.

I never let my young children
watch medical shows
until they were old enough
to switch the channel themselves.

Originally published in Terror House Magazine

I STILL HAVE A DREAM

It comes as a stark reminder in a text snapshot,
My infant grandson, sprawled smiling on the stone block in D.C.:
I HAVE A DREAM,
The great King’s legacy.
When I was born, there was no articulated dream.
Only the dream in the hearts of those who could not speak it.
The arrogant looks, beatings, shootings, lynchings.
My parents, unawares, could not dream.
Now, my son, the father of my grand boy, can dream.
He placed his wriggly son on that sun-drenched stone today.
Yes, Dr. King, my grandson may well walk hand and hand with your great grand- daughter.
Not for everyone yet.
But I still have a dream.

Originally published in Social Justice Poetry

BILLY THE KID IN HEAVEN

“The Kid is here,”
said Peter to Paul:
“A poor boy, never had a chance.
His life--chance.
Don’t you remember ours, Paul?
Your road to Damascus.
Me, the cock crowing, three times.”

Catherine, his mother,
moved to Wichita, hell town.
Raised Henry, battled TB,
died in New Mexico.
Her scalawag husband
fled to New Mexico
for gold and gamble.

Alone, Henry, fifteen,
stole butter to sell for food.
The Sherriff let him go.
Clothes to cover himself
from a Chinese laundry.
Land lady sent him to jail.
Escaped, one of many.

Couldn’t find a job,
fell into crime, rustling.
Pat Garrett arrested Billy,
escaped again.
Garrett chased him down,
shot him in the back.

People said—fine looking a young man
you ever met, winning smile,
good dancer, ladies’ man.

“Yes, he qualifies,” said Peter.
“He had a hard life.
I’ll be proud to know him.
Paul, put him in the line
with the forgiven
who never had a chance.”

Originally published by Lothlorien Journal

FOOLISH

TO BAUDELAIRE: Hypocritish reader— my fellow— my brother!

As a fifth grader I read a story
about the wind, sun, and traveler,
a battle for his will and heart.

The Wind boasted:
I can make him remove his coat.
The Sun laughed. The Wind blew hard.
The traveler wrapped his coat tighter.
The Wind sagged in the clouds,
red-faced and gasping.
The Sun smiled and smiled,
hotter and hotter.
The traveler removed his coat
and went on his merry way.
At ten years old, I asked the teacher:
Why did the wind think that would work?
She shrugged.

To think I can threaten others to change!

Looked into my heart. Do I do the same?
Does my bragging, my worldview
so consume me that I blow hard
like the foolish Wind?
Like the arrogant wolf, do I huff and puff,
try to knock the brick house down
only to plunge deep
into the boiling kettle of delusion?

Oh yes, dear reader
(thank you Baudelaire)
we do.

Originally published by Lothlorien Journal

BLUE ROCK

Once when the world was new,
too pristine for coin, nothing minted,
people gathered shells, stones,
bartered for necessities.

Flash forward to yesterday,
millions of years later.
We have money now,
love of it the root of all evil.

A little girl found a blue rock.
She thought it was pretty.
She rolled it around in her hand,
pretended it was a jewel,
a truly valuable jewel.

Came the sound of an ice cream truck.
Ding a ling, bring your money
and buy your joy.


The little girl proffered the blue rock.
She had no money.
The owner smiled down.

He became a small boy in his heart.

She wanted a cone.

He gave her a sundae.

She gave him the blue rock.

He offered it back.

Originally published Lothlorien Journal

RESPITE

What moment of pleasure
can surpass the joy
of a shower after the lawn cut.

At the moment the water
rinses the sweat,
who can want anything better?

Yet we know pleasure
follows closely who we are
at any one time in our life?

If famished, a sizzling steak
or crispy tofu would delight.

In bed as an old man,
snuggling with an old lady
versus a young buck with his doe.

The joy of a healthy child born
versus the tearful college goodbye.

A first house for a young wife
versus a homeless woman
driven to the street.

Blossoms for a stunning bride
versus flowers on a casket.

Pleasure is all
moment and circumstance
so blast the water and soak
in the joy of life.

Originally published by Lothlorien Journal