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and I am the china.
I know you
ground-pawing beef,
always thinking
you can win
by throwing your weight around,
snuffling your ugly head
back and forth
back and forth,
drooling
until you charge,
break innocence
into a zillion pieces.
can’t get you out the door,
can’t stop your attack,
can’t save the precious,
too much ever
to sweep up.
Guess I better never
let you in.
Originally published in Five Fleas
An older woman now
remembers
Jerome
“Hubba” (because you were)
Norcross
Special Forces Vietnam;
the children
we never had,
the Christmases,
vacations, petty spats;
what you might have become
But didn’t….
I think I am glad they mounted
the green memorial sign
noting your sacrifice.
Reminds me to talk to you
every day when I drive to work.
Originally published in Down In The Dirt
Particularly memorable were his words to a young woman whose deep interest in a hospitalised soldier led her to press the question: “Where were you wounded?” The infantryman, who had been shot through the testicles, repeatedly deflected her inquiry with the answer: “At Antietam.” After she asked the president to assist her, Lincoln talked privately with the soldier and then took the young woman’s hands in his own, explaining: “My dear girl, the ball that hit him, would have missed you.”
An august occasion—
the Cabinet tense
like Civil War soldiers
hidden behind trees
waiting for a life or death volley.
But Lincoln did not
spread out the scroll
of the Emancipation Proclamation
as the room expected.
Instead, that oak-tree, strong man
took a news article from his pocket
and began to read Artemus Ward,
a humor writer from Cleveland
who made Lincoln laugh
though slavery was not funny at all.
He knew it and steely-eyed
stared down the grimaces and grunts
in that room and this bumpkin president
read an article he found funny
about a hayseed performer bashing
in the head of a Judas figurine
at a carnival show.
Lincoln, notorious for telling jokes,
laughed first and told
the disapproving eyes
if he did not laugh
before he pronounced,
he would die
and that they needed
the same medicine
as much as he did.
Then he ended slavery
in the rebel states,
which was no laughing matter.
Originally published in Blue Pepper Magazine
Among all the lasts in our lives—
last book read, last argument, opinion,
flower plucked, song heard, poem recited,
last pain, last tear, last smile,
child hugged, spouse kissed, the last
our eyes see—is our last breath.
After, for most, years and years,
the inevitable, usually a gasp,
releases and all we have left
is a lifeless, breathless body
for our loved ones to mourn.
But for those who love Jesus,
an incredible promise,
a new body, no pain,
or contention, but hugs,
and kisses and hallelujahs
as that new body
sucks in that first breath
as Adam did so long ago,
he and Eve using their
breaths to disobey and bring
the last breaths to all,
so now we can only trust
and wait for the glorious second
when our breath will never
be interrupted again—but Praise.
Originally published by Calla Press
Mind: Quit speaking to me!
You are rattling on the way you always prattle
and have done so since I was a child
and in old age still talk incessantly.
You have thought good things and given me good ideas.
You have even helped me write some poems and songs,
suggested I say kind things, but also mean words.
I have meditated to rid myself of your chatter, but you are good
at intruding whenever you want, breaking in like a noisy child.
The world keeps happening, leaping or slugging forward,
throwing new sticks on the fire of my brain
that spark it into a blazing bonfire.
Even when I sleep you are loud and raucous.
Dreams have dialogue and you have no trouble
speaking up and sometimes dream words are worse.
In them, you have no filters, say what the hell you want
which you can’t say when we are awake.
Stuff my dreams with people I forgot
or don’t like or love from all times and ages,
even people and things that never existed,
then wake me up and laugh at me as I slowly rise to reality,
unless you just disappear and leave me with wadded bedcovers.
I have not been able to stop you all of my days.
I’m not going to speculate about what you will do
if there is an afterlife. The idea of sharing, speculating,
pontificating, philosophizing for all eternity is more
like a hellish punishment than a heavenly reward.
Maybe then, instead, you will have an angelic
way of finally, truly being quiet, granting peace.
Originally Published In Fleas On The Dog
I confess I skim over that lottery
every day when I read the paper,
hoping not to recognize
anyone I know but
once in a while someone
I remember peers up at me.
I am shocked but should not be
as I am 80 now so I know
the final stretch I am on
is not very long
and that few get to 90
and even fewer to the century.
Sometimes I look at the final number.
If very young, I feel awful and lucky.
In their 70’s, I feel weird, whistle.
But I mostly look at the 80’s.
If the age is early like 82 I frown,
if 88, when Mom died, I feel
a slight release, an intake
of good breath and if I see
anyone in the 90’s I rejoice
and hope and pray I am one of them
who still drives a car at 99,
even dances at weddings and has breath
to blow out most of the candles.
How great to be in that rare company
so when we nonagenarians
have a Memorial hardly
anyone will be left to attend.
But that is a selfish wish,
my fellow octogenarians.
I suspect you have had it too.
Originally Published in Fleas On The Dog
Hey, I saw a photo of us
when we were young and beautiful
like the magic world
that found us lying on the bed
during our first acid trip
rainbow colors
mixed with soundz
side-splitting laughter.
First you said the Hamms’ bear
from the Sky Blue commercial
was in your socks—
almost howled them off.
Tried to recall the words
to Hickory Dickory Dock
and got it wrong—
did the mouse run up or down—
we laughed ourselves to sleep.
Those were the Days my friend
we thought they’d never end
But cats came on the scene
cut the pills for profit,
drove us hippies
out of our synaesthetic dreams.
Soon our hitchhiking minds
only took bad trips
and poof the magic.
Originally Published in Rat's Ass Review
I could not sleep that night.
I was in a room
With hundreds of vases
Of various shapes and sizes,
Labyrinthine designs,
Hues to defy rainbows.
Commanded to compose verses
To inscribe on every one,
Like straw into gold.
I slaved feverishly all night.
Hundreds of lines,
Thousands of words.
I cannot remember a single one!
Am I a poet
Or was it a dream?
Originally published in Medusa's Kitchen
Fellow glorious fools:
We have no sense of Time
but this I hope—
in the Time of Waiting
will be no Time.
We will wait after death.
I pray for a marvelous sleep
till we wake.
What is Time now?
Waiting when we don’t know,
embracing the drum roll of anticipation
—both joy and pain.
Waiting for the birth, the doctor’s call,
the death, the good or bad news
every minute before we pass on.
Hope for a quiet peace
not knowing for a Time—
eternity leading to all eternity—
until the Time comes
when we will know
and Time no longer matters.
Originally published in Medusa's Kitchen
My foot kicked a random can
on the sidewalk.
My old mind filled it with gravel
and threw me back to my neighborhood alley
and my 11 year old self.
Stacked the cans, knocked them down,
ran back to our team with hilarity.
Kick The Can for hours
into the fading dusk because TV
and video games did not exist.
Shot hoops,
cold or shine,
on our garage driveway court
till all hours.
Played Wiffle ball
at the American Legion
gravel field,
more important than
the Majors.
Hid atop
the garage roof
to shoot BB guns
at passing cars,
the irate drivers
unable to find
our hidden selves.
Is that world really gone?
Originally published in Medusa's Kitchen
I will be cremated, instead of buried
in a pine box. Just plain less hassle.
My ashes will lay in a small box,
resting on the mantle of one of my children,
who will sadly go to the funeral home
to pick it up and notice the surprising heaviness
as I did when I picked up my Mother’s,
feel squeamish when running their fingers
through the first time, like sifting shells on a beach.
My children will scatter those ashes
at the places I asked—
the Little League field we won city,
Wrigley Field, the food bank I started,
the lake we fished on, our garden—
as many places as they will.
Staying in that box is one outcome.
The other whether a future
for me, beyond the ashes,
beyond that small, decorated box,
say a resurrection, or a reincarnation
or an absorption by the Oversoul
or something I don’t know about,
something more, something other,
something eternal, an afterlife.
If I am so privileged
to muse on my deathbed
instead of just dropping over
like my parents did,
will it just be a box of ashes
or a paradisiacal future?
Before I lie on that bed,
if I even get the chance,
I figure I better think now.
Originally published on Medusa's Kitchen
Each spring, food a daily struggle,
our mother snatched scads of dandelions,
shook off the dirt, cut away yellow
Rapunzel heads, washed the abundance,
cooked them down. Bacon on lucky days.
We ate whatever was put before us,
never turned up our dirty noses
at the stringy greens, often on our plates.
“They’re healthy,” she’d plead,
“good for you growing boys.”
Years later, she’d tell us
not to mention the greens,
embarrassed by our blessings.
I did anyway,
got an aghast rib poke,
a wry smile from her.
“Can’t eat them anymore,”
she’d retort: “Pesticides.”
Originally published in Silent Spark
I see so many in power
allow the gun murders
to continue unabated, who lie,
argue it is just metallic hearts
not the forged metal of weapons
that cause the Noah’s Ark of tears
to flood the world and change nothing.
If these cruel humans
were dragged before crowds,
who can’t dance with their children,
heal what can never be healed,
not ever by thoughts and prayers,
repair what cannot be restored,
the genocide of family memories,
the terror of children who lie
in bed thinking they might be next,
I would be cheering,
celebrating the demise
of those who would not listen,
would not change, glorying in a future
where their guns did not exist,
guns into plowshares or, more modern,
melted into computers to learn
by the children still left, guns exhibited
in The Museum Of Human Mistakes.
Published originally in Grey Sparrow Journal
At every turn,
my mind will confront
my negative emotions—
fear, anxiety, jealousy—
who are like a bossy Aunt
who moved in
after she blew her life
and had to live with me,
nowhere else to go.
It won’t do any good
for my mind to stand firm
with crossed arms
and a withering glare,
and say things like:
“Get it together,
Use your head,
Wait to see what happens,
Chill,”
or try to reason
with her
because she will
weep and scream
and declare
the worst could happen.
“Your dog might tear her leg again.”
“It most likely is cancer.”
“Your company could move overseas.”
“Probably your wife cheated.”
No matter how much your mind
tells her to pipe down,
she never will.
That bossy Aunt digs in, persists,
bound and determined
to make my life
as bad as it can be
Originally published in Mad Swirl
In grad school behind a wall
of books, sealed into the words
of Poe, Stevens, Hemingway
Faulkner, Salinger, Albee.
Dominoes fall
and Goliath lies,
claims a David
from Viet Nam
dared sling a torpedo
at one of our ships.
We attack Communism
and those fierce, small,
black-clad people
as if our economy
depended on it.
In love with Lydia, a young nurse,
fingers as gentle
on my body and soul
as her patient hands on the dying.
That was our life.
I dropped out of school,
buried my love of books,
chose a love of marching.
Lydia nursed us through protests
to foment a revolution
that had no more chance
than our nation could keep
from shooting missiles
at foreign lands.
Once again the world is at war,
this time another Goliath
against another David,
its own brother
as Russia attacks Ukraine.
The bombs fall and people flee
just as they did so long ago.
This is our life again.
Originally published in The Bezine
At twelve I was aware of the world.
News flash during Ramar Of The Jungle:
Joseph Stalin dead of a heart attack.
I jumped up and yelled through
my house as if the Devil
himself had finally been slain.
When he had a traitor executed,
the whole family was killed
like Achan’s tribe at Jericho.
Terrorizing the population,
sent his soldiers into big cities,
to murder a few thousand innocents.
Slew over half of his advisors.
Would throw parties, shoot
those not drunk enough.
Chased down Trotsky in Mexico.
Axed Leon, his comrade
who dared to oppose him.
Loved flowers but at the end
nightly commanded his gardeners
to decapitate every blossom
and replace the flowers the next day
for another pogrom of his garden.
Absolute power over more people
than anyone in history, estimates
of over 20 million slaughtered.
Why obeisance to the One,
allow One to dominate us,
allow One to kill so many,
allow One to hoard the wealth,
bend the knee to One,
kiss the ring of One?
Now his soul-less mate
Putin, replicating fear and complicity—
purges, poison, propaganda—
arises as the One.
Tyrants line the bloodstained
corridor of history.
Against all odds, heroes
defy the powerful,
battle against the One.
Originally published in The Bezine
In our apartment building,
when I was a child,
old Mrs. Greta Shultz horrified me.
We lived by an airport,
every whining sound of jets
sent that creaky lady
scuttling under the kitchen table,
duck and cover every time,
air sucked in, moans--
for her an American Luftwaffe,
Slaughterhouse Dresden memories--
her mind recoiling
at the screaming sounds
from her younger girl day/nightmares.
Despite heart-felt pleas,
Greta was safe under the table.
After years of marriage,
we rescued a dog.
She had been caged
for months in cold wire.
We gave her our warm and safe home.
But when my wife ever went out,
Butter would mewl by the door,
shiver and shake
till the door opened,
de-plane on my wife's lap.
No coaxing mattered.
You can’t unlearn old tricks.
Originally published in The Bezine
Playing life well
is hitting good pitches,
laying off bad ones.
Cover Urbana in Poetry
Death be proud!
Be very proud!
There is no one like you.
No one opposes you.
You are uninvited to every
Single human endeavor.
You are never welcome,
Always there. No one
Ignores you. No king rules over you,
The king of every being.
On stage whenever you choose,
There is no script, no proper time.
With so many disguises,
The master of a billion faces,
Who can stand up to you?
Who will not lie before you?
You have all of history.
One makes you tremble.
Only One defeated you.
You know Him well.
The day will come
When you see Him.
He will humble you, de-claw you
Rip the laurels off your head.
O, proud Death, will you beg
For the mercy you gave no one?
It is not in your nature.
He told you
He would return. You chose
To ignore Him.
Then He will be there,
Knock at your door,
A vial of life in
His Right hand;
His finger pointing
Toward the gaping Abyss.
Your pride will drain
Like the color
Of the pale shrouds
You wrought.
I want to be there
Watching your demise,
Watch you crumble in fear,
Weeping, gnashing teeth,
Hands limp as they carry you out.
Death be proud now
Now is all you possess!
Originally published in Agape Review
She’s like Mother Teresa,
he like Saint Francis.
But those angels
appeared a long time ago
and I’m telling you
this was a couple
from the Chicago suburbs
who came to our university
to study Psychology
and discovered something
was wrong with humans
so they found Jesus
Who agreed with them.
They wore used clothes
and lived as paupers
in a small apartment
among those who
they sought to serve.
Giving of themselves,
offering a “hand up.”
Accompanying their neighbors
in a fight for fair treatment
when sewage backed up
into their homes
and struggled for justice
for hungry children.
No children of their own.
Figured out that the Church
at large was only giving a pittance
to lift up people in poverty
as Scripture commands
and wrote a book
to tell the world about it.
Went nowhere and spent nothing
except going to McDonald’s
on Fridays for a weekly treat.
Didn’t save for a funeral
and we don’t know
what will happen to their ministry
when they die soon
because they are old now
and sometimes their faces
seem transfigured.
My wife and I are middle class
teachers from Chicago
who live in a small house.
Once our sewer backed up
and we hired a local company to fix it,
were frugal and gave to the poor,
volunteered at that old house,
tithed to the church,
let our cars go from new to old,
went on a few nice vacations,
out to nice restaurants some,
bought new clothes
when we needed them,
raised our kids to be successful
and are old ourselves now
with paid for cremations
and money for our kids to inherit.
Originally Published in Agape Review