LIFE RAIN

Every storm runs out of rain.
                    —Maya Angelou

Into each rain some life must fall.
I made that up. How about that?
Maybe someone else said it?
Lots of people say the opposite.
Rain falls into our lives.
Yeah, we know that.

When it is raining hard, pours
like the picture on the salt box,
white rain on a blue background,
we do watch the rain fall hard.

Do we watch the life fall too?
Do we close up our umbrella
and let the good things shine in?

Start right now. Pick up your life
and hold it in your hands,
turn it over so you can look at all sides.

We do see the rain, lightning,
hear the thunder roar.
We always see the storms.

But sometimes on a nice day,
we don’t see the sun.
It’s just too nice outside to notice,
as we take it for granted.

Open up your arms wide
when the rain stops pounding,
let the good sun
bathe you in its light.

Don’t be afraid of the rain—
ever.

Originally published in Piker Press

CABARET RE-VISITED

On the TV news, I watch the faces
of people wearing red hats.
When their hero appears,
they stand at the bar,
raise their beer glasses 
in praise. The bartender shrugs,
carefully tops the foam.

The scene reminds me 
of the iconic movie Cabaret,
when American brat Liza Minnelli
charmed the audience,
Joel Grey mastered his Liebchen
and mocked the Jewish gorilla.

Nazis terrorized Jews,
killed Frau Landauer’s pet dog,
left the bloody corpse,
rang the doorbell,
ran away like 
a crude Halloween trick.

As Count Maximilian hustled
Sally in the beer garden, a blond,
blue-eyed Hitler youth rose up,
sang a chilling patriotic song.
O, Fatherland, Fatherland inspired
broken, poor and angry

Germans to stand, join
the rousing tune,
plant their hopes firmly
like a flag for der Fuhrer.

The Nazis viciously beat voters
at polls, their uniformed soldiers appear
in eerily greater numbers
filling the final bar scene.

Today, our own frustrated
rise to salute a different tyrant,
recover their pride,
hoping, once again,
to be saved.

O, FATHERLAND, FATHERLAND
MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Originally published in The Bezine

IF NOTHING IS DONE

Can a human be a drop in the bucket of history,
a tiny ping in a vast cistern, but jump in anyway?

In WW II, Witold Pileki, officer 
in the Polish Underground,
hounded his commanders to allow
him to join Polish Jews sent to Auschwitz,
suspected something dreadful in that camp, 
left his wife and two small children.

Arm-inked #4859, he discovered the atrocities.
For three years, smuggled reports
in dirty laundry to the outside,
every basket a chance for capture.
He knew what the prison guards did to spies.

His reports: gas chambers, ovens 
to the Polish Underground.
Sent those atrocities to Americans and British.
No one believed.
No one would do such things!

We have a history of things done,
not a history of things not done.
How many would have been saved
if someone had listened?

Waited, arranged escapes for prisoners,
but nothing done. Frustrated,
faked typhus and escaped himself.
Spied against Russia till the Reds killed him.

We call so many heroes—tycoons, doctors,
baseball players, astronauts.
Is Witold still a hero
if nothing is done?

Originally published in The Bezine

DISNEY IN NIGERIA

No Disneyland in Nigeria.

Cannot be.
Disneyland is fun in the sun.
So much fun.
Nigeria:

Missing children.
Missing lives.
Missing history.

I wish Nigeria were just a ride.

Originally published in Mad Swirl Magazine

FATHERS-IN-LAWS

You don’t get to choose
who your kids marry,
choose your in-laws.
We fathers-in-law meet periodically.

Pete is a give-the-shirt-off-your-back guy,
the father of my son’s precious wife,
which is why we know each other.

Retired,
he was a truck driver and still spots in some.
Retired,
I was an English teacher and still sub some.

We meet for coffee,
sometimes dinner,
talk of what we can.
We both like cheeseburgers.
Pete recently lost his wife to smoking.
My wife quit at twenty.

Pete fought in Vietnam,
won't give details.
I was a leader of the anti-war demonstrations
in the 60s.
Gun control
is anathema to him:
Guns Save Lives.
I cite the number of mass shootings
like nowhere else in the world.

Once, Pete lost a job to an African-American.
He rails against Affirmative Action.
He is rabid about the Wall:
Immigrants are dangerous for our country.
I think this nation’s greatness
rests in its open arms.

We both love sports,
but root for different teams.
My team usually beats his team.
We laugh about that a lot.

Our local university sported
a Native American mascot,
which I think is racist.
Pete thinks it’s a shame
the school dumped it.
I asked him to read a book about it,
but he doesn't read books.
He never had a chance to go to college.
My Father made me.

He is a conservative Christian;
He would call me a liberal.
Pete thinks America went downhill
when prayer was thrown out of schools.
I say you can't force people to pray
what they don't believe.

We both love our families
and our grandsons.
He has a great daughter,
a heralded therapist.
My son is a professor
at a major university.
Pete also has a wayward daughter
who will never straighten out.
I had a sister like that.
He listens to my advice,
even though we both know it’s hopeless.

Sometimes Pete pays the bill and sometimes I do.
We always shake hands,
vow to do it again,
look each other in the eyes
with cautious respect,
a kind of friendship in America.

It's what we’ve got these days.

Originally published in Piker Press

GRATEFUL FOR GENES

Raking up the damn infernal,
eternal leaves and grass
every year without fail
they fall on my heart, brain and breath,
can't even burn the dang things no more
so I do it to make my wife happy
wonder if I will still rake if she goes first
but, sweating and swearing,
now realize at 80 how many
I knew are under the ground
with the colored leaves on top,
red blood, yellow phlegm,
orange juice physic, purple splotches,
wonder if they can hear
the raking and the bitching,
or know how grateful I am
I can still do it at all,
don’t have to hire
a neighbor boy yet.

Originally published in Uppagus Magazine

TWISTED SISTER

Hey, sis, who I cried
so hard not to hate,
got the short end of too many sticks
broken by the men in the family
married a Jewish boy
flunked out of college together
his mom broke up the marriage
three abortions, failed
to tell dad who died of a sudden
heart attack, causing your massive guilt
dyed beautiful strawberry blond hair
until it looked like a broken bale
creative early childhood teacher
thrown away with addictions
two jobs—  first a dress store,
no paycheck, ran a bill up for garb
last job a telephone sales lady
fired for rampant body odor
married again, best pea soup on Earth
ravioli to think you were Italian
drank him out of the house
into an alimony shackle
hatred and denial his only luggage
moved near your brothers
lied faster than constant
emphysema-hacking breaths,
spiders and snakes spewed
from lips like the bad sister
in the fairy tale. No words of love
or pearls of wisdom versed
like the kind, good sister
angry and demanded care
for every immediate need
ran out of money, never
able to untwist pills, died
in permanent nursing home,
funeral more glad than sad.

Originally published in Cajun Mutt Press

MY WIFE IS ALWAYS SINGING

As if she were a bird in disguise.
she looks like the woman I married,
maybe a different kind of a bird now—
not a blue bird but a partridge—
older now, feathers graying
she still sings much of the day.

It was song that won my heart
when she played her guitar
and I first noticed her beauty,
her smile and her voice.
She usually sings in our kitchen now,
but songs all around the house
day and night, personal vespers
burst out with all the lyrics.

Saying she is a bit absent-minded
which indeed is true, a family chuckle,
she impeccably remembers all the lyrics
of those songs to me, our children, and God
which spring forth like bird rituals.

Now in old age, she still sings,
even as we read side by side.

I expect she will sing at her own funeral
before she nests and warbles forever.

Originally published in Green Silk Journal

HEAVENLY REFLECTIONS

I don't know if flowers go to Heaven.

Will poisonous Calla Lilies,
Irises, Tulips, Morning Glories,
grow in Heaven's Garden
beside Roses, Violets,
Zinnias and Sunflowers?

Which flowers will
shine their faces
towards the sun?

Does it matter
what they were?

Originally published in Piker Press

GHOST SHOOTER

Today, sitting in my bar,
I read about the Parkland shooting,
student desks tombstones.
I turn around, glance at the entrance,
a gunman, like a spectre, blasts in,
the room swims in blood, more shots blast off,
people scream, dive behind tables, fall to the floor.

I close my eyes, shake inside,
until my head clears, the vision retreats.
No ghost, no shooter.

In my long lifetime, I’ve felt safe,
unlike Hickok, never felt my back
couldn’t be turned from the door,
at sedate art galleries, myriad churches,
wild rock venues, raucous football games,
staid libraries, all my schools.

I slowly sip my drink,
peek around, the jukebox blares,
tinkling glasses and laughter.

Maybe somewhere else
that night, not a ghost.

Originally published in Piker Press

REVOLUTION

Yeah, Dad, damnit, why did you have to die so early,
just another way of abandoning me my shrink said
and you were really good at that, screwing me up.
You were so busy building your empire, papered
with bills and dames, you didn’t take much notice.

Yours, a hard life, had to drop out of school as a soph,
work crap jobs to support your scoundrel parents.
But you got straight A’s till then, were really bright,
could have been a college academic like me.

A loan from your addicted mother,
rich from taverns and race horses,
propelled you to a personal war on poverty.
toward cash and fillies galore, despite your background wives.

We didn’t talk much except sports;
you more an announcer than a father.
But now, looking back, I remember you read a lot,
big impressive books, you told me about sometimes.

Then one day you found I was reading way below my ability.
The Hammer came down. You were good at Hammer.
Brought home a fat paperback—Les Miserables by some French dude,
Victor Hugo, thrust at me and pronounced sentence:
“Every night after dinner, you read this for an hour.
Otherwise no phone calls with your friends. None.”

I would have argued if I were not afraid of you.
Took the tome in hand and slinked into my bitterness.
Then, my little war—“You can’t tell me to read this damn book!”
Sat in the bathroom after dinner, vent open to hide my smoking,
glared at that yellow paperback as if it were to blame—
cursed it, cursed you, cursed Hugo—but boredom won.

Picked it up finally, crushed by no choice, opened and read.
Like a curtain rising, Jean Valjean, Fantine, Cossette, Javert,
captured my mind and sent me into my revolution.
I could not put it down. I carried it everywhere, even got into trouble
in class for reading it instead of the assigned dullness.

Propelled me to be a literature major, get my Ph.D, teach Les Miz
and the wide wide world of books to others— Heart of Darkness,
Huckleberry Finn, Ivan Illyich, Catcher In The Rye—a library now.
Enthralled students were enticed, not forced to join those adventures
by a father who abandoned them but changed their lives.
 
You are long gone like Hugo, but both of you are still alive for me.
Sometimes you don’t know who someone is till you look back.

Originally Published in Poesis Magazine

HETTY AND DINAH

To Mary Ann Evans
Author of Adam Bede

Praise to you, Mary Ann Evans,
shame you had to call
yourself George,
Adam or Seth a better name?
No, a better name—
Mary Ann Evans.

Brilliant author, mirrored
the human race in those ladies,
born of different seeds,
Dinah, chosen by Heaven,
Hetty of the shallow heart,
infected with envy, covet.

You understood the world,
the way it allows natures
to bend or shine,
as if the naked Empress
rules the human race.

Originally Published in Poesis Magazine

FIDELITY

Psalm 27:20:
Death and Destruction are never satisfied,
and neither are the eyes of man.

Danger here, danger there,
danger everywhere
there are roving eyes.

Keep your eyes on hers.
Do not risk a glance.
Do not take a chance.
Do not watch the dance.
Keep your eyes on hers.

Keep your eyes on his.
Do not risk a glance.
Do not take a chance.
Do not watch the dance.
Keep your eyes on his.

Danger here, danger there,
danger everywhere
there are roving eyes.

Originally published in Poesis Magazine

WHAT DOES WATER HEAR?

Falls in sprinkles or violent storms,
runs in rivulets, streams, settles in ponds--
live or stagnant—rivers, seas, oceans--
does water listen?

What does it hear?

Parched cry of the ground.
Oasis prayer.
Rocks beg for smooth
erosion to eternity.
Human plea for quench.
Animals gulp, slurp.
Children splash in hose fun.
Smack of children’s water balloons.
Drip drip of the waiting faucet.
Flush we want and don’t want to hear.
Sound of waves on the shore’s lap,
breaks fiercely on the rocks.
Roar of falls, white water.
Whoosh of a whale’s spout.
Gentle showers on the evening garden.
Water exclaims into wine.
Sipping a cup of cold water saves a soul.

Water, water everywhere,
less and less to drink.

Listen with the water.

Originally Published in Spank The Carp

TO THE LADIES OF ILL REPUTE

There is no city like New Orleans.
Prisoners, bondservants, slaves
sent into swamps and hurricanes.
They threatened revolt
till France sent ninety
ladies of ill repute,
tended by Ursuline nuns
as marriage brokers,
calmed the city down,
thrust it into the pulsing
spicy stew it is now–
with Mardi Gras, cathedrals,
gators, ghost tours,
beignets, gumbo,
streetcar named Desire,
magnolias, Spanish Moss,
Willie Mae’s chicken,
Bananas Foster, turtle soup,
one-of-a-kind Dixie jazz,
Zydeco and Voodoo dreams.
Thanks To the ladies of ill repute—
I take my hat off.

Originally published in Mad Swirl

INVISIBLE MOTHER

I remember my mother disappeared slowly.
Once, a bit before she died, whispered that to me.
I hardly noticed, like the sweet poem she wrote,
lies, face down, in the back of my drawer. 

She sat silent at our loud-talking dinner table,
dominated by our sons, loquacious mother- in-law.
Now I understand as we become more ghostly,
move slowly into the background of our childrens’ lives,
when visits happen less frequently now,
as if we were furniture, present but never much used.

 Sometimes I see my children sitting around the table
laughing and joking, my wife and I passed on. 
No one notices as if we never existed. 

Once in a while I say hello to my mom’s picture
as I pass her in the hallway. Hello, I smile.
Thanks for inspiring this confessional  poem.

Originally published in Cactifur Magazine

THANKS TO THE PULSING NEWS

Every day spurting red
over our world.
Is it blood? 

It is blood.
If I did not see the blood
I would chew red meat,
quaff red wine,
don purple, gilded robes,
clothed in luxurious privilege. 

But News--you put the blood in my eye,
stir my blood to rage,
red on red. 

I will fight to the death,
mop up the blood of injustice,
never whitewash like Sawyer connived,
no trading of pocket doodads
for false hopes and panaceas,
nothing clever in what I do,
just grit and spit. 

News do not leave me alone
or let me forget--the blood.

Originally published in Cactifur Magazine

LURKER

On my daily walk
in my neighborhood,
cuddled houses,
trimmed, green lawns,
saluting soldier trees,
manicured flower beds,
my dog and I stroll
past a gnarled tree,
twisted, a runt,
bony fingers sky pointed, 
green moss dusted
on her wrinkled bark.
Misfit body.
A witch alive
in the burbs.

Originally published in Paper Crow

EYES LOCK

He said his wife wept
as they walked down the aisle
lined by beds at the Children’s Home
in Ethiopia, there to adopt.
Row after row of smiling or tearful faces.
Her eyes locked on those of a small child.
She turned to him and gushed:
“This is our daughter!” 

When my wife and I drove to Indiana
for a dog rescue, row after row
of cages with pleading eyes,
she said their eyes locked
and Butter became our precious pet.

Where would adoptees
end up if eyes had not locked?

 I say a prayer for the children
and the dogs who did not
lock eyes. 

Originally published in Rat's Ass Review

NEVER FRIENDS

Back in the Day, a hot redhead,
Pill—jumped us right into bed,
a first date kiss was a first date fuck.
Sex at first sight, first night screw.
Never friends, moaned and screamed
more than walked and talked.
Passionate for a few weeks,
then moved on until the next one
spied our libido—bang bang.
Years later we connected on Facebook,
exchanged our lives on email.

She said this:

“I finally got married,
to a really hot Middle Eastern man,
as passionate as it ever was,
but 17 years later, a nasty divorce,
don’t even speak to each other
except about our confused children.”

Never friends.

 In old age, now, try to fathom,
try to look back through
the wrong end of a telescope,
make everything smaller,
more clear, it dawns on me. 

Sex is wild fun. Friendship binds
and if we had to do it over again,
how about a dinner date,
walk and talk, a picnic, walk and talk,
in a bit, hold hands, together
some movies, popcorn,
an arm around the chair back,
in a bit, a peck on the cheek,
read some poetry together, a hug,
in a bit, lips, love your garden,
always walking and talking,
that stupid old courtship thing,
becoming friends, maybe
who knows, not both divorced,
sitting lonely, cities apart.

Originally published on Trash To Treasures