THAT STAR

Now eons in the past, 
Still shining brightly.
Not just for ancient shepherds,
Or wise men of old,
Or wicked Herod,
Or Mary and Joseph, 
Illuminating their stable nursery.
But for now
And in the future,
In the distance, 
We will see it.
Then the angels will come.
Not just to the young couple,
Or the shepherds,
Or the Magi, 
Or the evil king, 
But to all of us.
When that light is no longer
A single star,
But lightening
Splitting the sky, 
From East to West, 
When He returns.

Originally published in the Flying Dodo

FRANCES SCOTT KEY REFLECTS ON HIS STAR-SPANGLED BANNER

A Tribute to Colin Kaepernick

 Oh, say I can see by the dawn’s early light
that our nation won freedom at twilight’s last gleaming.
That we declared ourselves the land of the free
despite the millions of slaves we owned. 

Oh, say I can see as I stand so proudly,
a brave captive on this British deck
and watch the enemy bomb our fort and flag,
relentlessly pound our freedom into the ground.
I don’t notice the slaves that are swimming
desperately towards the British vessels,
don’t yet know that a thousand slaves
helped the Redcoats sack our Capitol,
hoping to escape from their American slavers
to the unknown shores of Canada,
believing that Northern freezing clime
will better suit them than our care
for the hirelings and slaves we believe    
satisfied with our Heaven-rescued land
than any place that has a king. 

Oh, say I can see the ignorance
of these people released from African tyranny,
as I opined, “a distinct and inferior race of people,
people who cannot take care of themselves “
if freed and are destined for ruin,
thus kindly I would send them back to Africa.

Oh, say, I see why I chose to lawyer
with my friend Chief Justice Roger Taney to forge
the Dred Scott decision because these ex-slaves
could not take care of themselves.

Oh, say I could not see the Civil War coming,
when my brave Southern states fought
to still enslave these threats to our privilege,
to oppress even after we lost the War,
destroy Reconstruction, fly Jim Crow,
idolize the Klan and keep waving
our Confederate flags right through
Civil Rights and killing King,
as the Party of Lincoln continues
to wave the flag and undermine every effort
to allow these centuries old, oppressed people
the freedom and dignity my anthem celebrated.

KEEP AMERICA GREAT FOREVER.

Colin took a knee.
Millions protest now.

Originally published in Trash to Treasure

BEATING HAWTHORNE TO IT

Herman Melville worked as many jobs as Colonel Sanders,
store and bank clerk, farm hand and teacher,
but none but the sea and whaling 
satisfied him into writing the popular Typee,
and other novels of the noble savage,
first rejected because the critics
said the tales couldn’t be true.

He wrote as deep as Moby Dick
when the white whale plunged, 
snatched Ahab’s leg and soul.

But fame swam off like the white beast,
flayed by British and American pundits,
sliced and stripped like a dead whale,
never to be enjoyed in his lifetime, 
his poetry and Billy Budd 
drowning in anonymity, 
Melville ended in a pauper’s death.

For thirty years, his masterpiece
lay in the shallows on a few library shelves 
until the great American scholar 
Carl Van Doren discovered his genius
and brought it to the shore of fame
where it will swim forever. 

When I get to Heaven,
I want to be the first to tell Melville
of his glory unless his best friend 
Hawthorne beats me to it. 

Originally published in Corvus Review

SANTA LIE

In Granny’s secure-as-cooking house, I wait eagerly
for the toys, too young to fret about socks,
know Santa’s red suit and white beard will soon appear
as the adults around the tree nudge expectations.

My younger brother and I don't miss Uncle Martin’s absence,
glue our eyes to the presents that seem to wiggle under the tree, 
impatient to toss their bows aside.

The buzz of small talk blasted by a hearty “Ho, Ho, Ho,“
my brother squeaks with joy like the mouse 
in The Night Before Christmas.

My squeal turns to horror when I see Santa’s beard.
SCOTCH TAPE!
“It’s Uncle Martin. He taped on his beard. 
He’s not Santa!”

My astonished father’s face turns to a scowl, turns to anger,
the piercing cries from my brother chasing Merry from the room.
 
Guilt and blame from the adults land on me—
Ruined Christmas for your little brother—
make me feel fiery coal and ashes of family addictions
before they were deposited like soot on our legacy.

Santa visited my children every year until
some kid at school said he wasn’t real
because a fat man couldn’t climb down the chimney.

We all laughed.

Originally published in Bindweed Magazine

THIEF’S REMORSE

When I was a pre-pub boy
and girls began to drive me crazy,
in eighth grade bloomed Elise,
a beautiful blonde every boy was mad about.

At Christmas we all vied to get her
a special present, outdo each other
as if that would make any difference
as we couldn’t compete against Joey,
the star basketball center, 
Elise hung off as he trudged the halls.

But I had it easy. With little allowance,
I was a petty thief snatching dime store doodads—
a rack of ballpoint pens, a set of pot holders
for Mother’s Day, multi-colored barrettes—
mostly trinkets for girls I had crushes on.

Until a lady saw me put lipstick
in my coat and said:
“If you put that back right now,
young man, I won’t turn you in.”
Like Peter Rabbit escaping McGregor,
I fled and stopped stealing for a bit.

But that was before Elise.
I had to get her something very special
to compete with the other losers.

My step-mother sighed when I asked
what was the best present for a woman.
Taboo, the perfume of the season.

Light fingers snached a big bottle
as quick as Santa’s wink
and hid it in my sock drawer
to wrap and give to my blonde fantasy.

For unknown reasons, my Father
went into my drawer and found the Taboo,
found the perfume stolen for Elise.

His eyes flared with his nostrils,
like a stallion who had been struck
“Where’d you get this expensive perfume!”

My stepmother Ruth rushed in,
an aghast look at the bottle.

I began to wail. Quick mind mine,
a combo of fear and and sugar plum thoughts
of Elise fleeing:
“Oh Dad, You spoiled the special present 
I saved up just for Ruth!” 

My Step-Mother wrapped
me up like a present, 
both apologizing over and over.

Ruth’s smile matched
the Christmas lights.

I never married Elise. 

Originally published in Bindweed Magazine

MEETING FYODOR IN HEAVEN

Though named the laureate only of my street,
I intend to converse with many artists--
a never finished bucket list,
an unending dance card.
Whom would you visit first?

Dostoyevsky, my choice.
I know I’d wait in long lines
unless appointments allowed.

Fyodor and I, so much
in common—except talent.
Like that tortured, inspired writer,
I always seek to discover
if there is divine justice in the universes,
drink my fill of spirits,
mesmerized to perdition
for letting table games
gamble life away,
though I love blackjack,
more than his roulette.

Wayward poet, heretic!
Do I mean to contend that scalawag
would be ceremoniously ushered
through the pearly gates by Peter?
Yes, Fyodor did create
the faithful Alyosha,
decry the moral paucity of Ivan,
the hedonism of Dimitri.

Am I perfect? Be fair even though
it is not our decision at all.
Twain said humans can’t judge
a frog-jumping match.

Originally published in Words And Whispers

CHICKENS AND JEANS

Colonel (wasn’t a real one) Sanders—failed.
Farm hand, steamboat conductor, fireman,
blacksmith assistant, railroad, too many to list—
fired from three of them for fighting.
Wound up in a gas station where his wife
made a finger-lickin’ chicken recipe,
which Harland pressured-cooked
into a national franchise.
Marketed it and sold it,
called the gravy of the new company—
“wall paper paste” and sued.
Lucked into riches and fame.


Leob/Levi Strauss —failed.
His tarps out east
too thin for wagon covers.
Took his canvas and skills
to the love of San Fran.
Still too thin for the grizzled prospectors,
they made fine pants,
sold like KFC chicken.
When he ordered more canvas,
his brother sent him denim instead
and Levis were born,
later bell bottoms for hippies.
Lucked into riches and fame.

Bottle the elbow grease,
keep on prospectin’,

throw on your jeans,
grab a plate, dig in
and enjoy your luck.

Originally Published in Euphemism Magazine

SPURNED YEATS

All of his days, William Yeats loved the beautiful,
red-haired actress/mystic/revolutionary Maud Gonne.

Four times he asked Maud,
her heart brimming revolution and Theosophy.
He knelt, asked for her hand, but no forever.
She to him: ”marriage, a dull affair,
will ruin your poetry."

Instead, Gonne married a fierce revolutionary—
Major John McBride—
dashing, arrogant, ignorant,
brave right through his execution
for the Easter Uprising.
With him she bore a son, Sean.

Maud campaigned, marched,
organized for her love of country.
The Red Cross became
the White Cross for Ireland.
World-eyed, she helped birth
the African National Congress.

Fired by his mother’s heart, Sean,
a founder of Amnesty International,
received the Nobel Peace Prize.

In 2011, eighteen Egyptian women
were arrested, jailed, beaten,
searched with electric cattle prods.

One example of thousands,
Amnesty intervened
for justice over and over.

Broken-hearted, William—
her persistent rebuffs
birthed requited mercy.

Originally published in Euphemism Magazine

WEST SIDE STORY II

Fifty years ago, a date with beautiful Bemudian Mary Anne,
her skin shone like Maria’s. We held hands
for the first time, watched Sharks and Jets
dance their violence. We did not know the ending.
When Tony died we stayed long after everyone left,
cried and squeezed hands till the usher shooed us out.

I don’t know where Mary Anne is now.
She married a cop, maybe his last name was Krupke?

But tonight, decades later, nothing is funny.
As my wife of 47 years and I watch the Jets and Sharks,
we know the movie was shot to convince young men
to stop killing each other, hope for a brighter future.

Now in myriad communities—drive-byes in privileged suburbs,
gang violence rituals, guns match funerals,
kids learn to die in schools, rock concert massacres,
churches kneel before bullets, non-stop unrelenting tears.

In our towns, the guns come and go—Romeos killing Romeos.

Originally published in Euphemism Magazine

TURNING THE PAGE

When it is over, war
is like a sunken ship.
The waters flow over it
till the next ship
floats till it’s sunk,
and again forgotten.

Many years from now,
future students will get
a history assignment,
read about the Russian
invasion of Ukraine in 2022.
They will yawn and feel disgruntled,
perhaps behind in their work,
put if off, then read it
while headphone music
jumps boring lines off the page,
note that Putin deployed
over 20,000 soldiers
to their deaths, an uncounted
number of civilians massacred,
turn the page quickly
as it will probably
not be on the test.

Originally Published In Mad Swirl Magazine

NOT MADE IN HEAVEN

Every single town in the world
has at least one woman
I would have married.
But we lived in our town
and I married you.

My Love.

Originally published in Five Fleas

MY WIFE AN OWL

Once a sprite blue bird,
always flying through my thoughts
and desires, in and out,
flapping her wings, singing.

But now feathers graying
at our dinner table,
when my lowering voice speaks,
she is an owl, tilting her head
and cupping her ear in my direction.

Not whooo, but why?

Originally published in Five Fleas

BULL IN A CHINA SHOP

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

SIGH-N

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

LINCOLN LAUGHED FIRST

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

INTERRUPTED BREATH

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

QUIET MIND

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

OBITUARY LOTTERY

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

FIRST ACID TRIP

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

WHEN I PUBLISHED MY FIRST POEM

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