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Read: India, 58,000 deaths from
poison snake bites last year,
mostly rural men, women and children.
G
Read: 2,000 Afghani pregnant women
housed in tents in Germany.
GO
Read: Thousands of Haitians
crushed by earthquake and storm
flock to the border to be sent away.
GOD
Read: Millions die world-wide
from a virus that re-creates
itself with different masks.
GODO
Read: Pollution devours air, soil, water,
and spits fire across the land.
GODOT, still waiting for
Originally published on Mad Swirl
A huge hawk flew across my mind.
The accident flung every detail
aside—how much yogurt to buy—
I was writing a grocery list
when the call came—
stars thrown into a sky so black
I can’t even see the dull light
points of your life anymore.
My mind fell limp, like
watching someone drown
when I can’t swim a lick,
or plunging into a cave
with bats, moon and sun
obliterated all at once.
The hawk drags away words—
leaves nothing to say.
Originally published in Young Raven's Review
I fully intend to read all the books I’ve purchased
and complete my task on my 592nd birthday-Anon.
Tiptoeing into this poem—
I know—to cast aspersions
on book readers is heresy, traitorous.
But I have noticed book worship
become endemic, post after post
declare the more books
you have the better you are as if
books were the gold of Midas.
Yesterday some wag chirped:
“How many books should you
have at any one time?”
30. On your bedside table alone.
Ah, the great pleasure—who has not—
stormed seas and souls with Ishmael,
ridden on National Velvet,
played the fool with Quixote,
heard Ivan rail against God,
Thoreau nest in Walden,
Rachel decry silenced Spring,
been Chaucered, Shakespeared,
Whitmanned, Eliotted, Emilyied.
Frosted and Pounded,
Faulknered and Hemingwayed?
I get it! I love to read
and devour books like
a starving man feasts.
In 1974 a conference to end hunger
was conducted in Rome.
Hundreds of scholars from
all across the world, millions
of words written and spoken.
Proposed myriad solutions.
Kissinger said: “In ten years
no child will go to bed hungry.”
Illinois Governor Otto Kerner
wrote a blueprint
to improve
housing for the poor in 1968,
a national best-seller, read
by everyone with concern.
But not much changed.
People of good heart strive
to feed, heal, build.
Answers all in the books—
read and read and read,
flipping pages, burn fingers.
The world rabidly prints
more books, more books.
Hurry up—Please,
it’s time for more books.
The hands that hold books,
could do more—Please.
I say: Do not kneel before
the book idol unless
we better the world.
Originally published in Down In The Dirt Magazine
Over a few days, these happened.
A woman, accidentally bumped
as she was picking a lotto card
from a machine, caused her
to push the wrong button
and win 10 million.
The next day, a mechanic
found some paintings
in a dumpster worth a fortune.
In the Derby, a horse ran
because another scratched
the previous day, won
as the biggest longshot ever.
Now we know the key to life.
Pray, beg, scrabble about,
be superstitious—you know how—
or defy superstition. Smash
mirrors, rescue black cats,
step on the cracks break
your mother’s back.
I’m not going to tell you how—
figure it out yourself.
But get luck somehow, someway,
wine and dine that Lady
by crook or hook,
and you’ll be fine,
but avoid the Black Spot,
Billy Bones did not luck out.
Originally published by Bindweed Magazine
Drop my 79 year old younger brother off
at the local airport, small and unstable
like an old stagecoach stop,
sending him to California to join
in the celebration of his son’s 50th.
Remember my first flight
on a prop plane to visit
our divorced mom in Rhode Island,
the tower telling the pilot
to bank around again because
he forgot to drop the landing gear.
My brother won’t have to deal with that
on this memory trip to the Golden state.
But I made it and he made it.
He had a stint spying on Vietnamese
in a War he came to hate,
as I, stateside, wore my boots down
protesting that atrocity.
He became a skilled carpenter,
building monuments of furniture
in homes all over the area.
I taught special ed children,
making them special despite the ed.
Now both with fifty-year marriages,
we fish in a local lake,
root for different teams,
bond in a local poetry club,
turning our long lives into verse.
Aches and pains travel with him,
heart, iron, energy, leg problems,
but he rolls on as we always have,
fighting through the age
that ain’t for sissies.
We realize we are close to sending
each other on a final flight
from which we won’t return,
joining the angels who will make sure
the landing gear is down,
accepting our forever wings.
Originally published by Bindweed Magazine
He woke up in the dark and knew.
He already knew but now New
touched His face, moved His head
slightly to the left, opened His eyes,
a crack of dawn, a tiny crack of dawn
spiked from the tomb door, soon
footsteps, and He knew his own
would walk eternally with the others.
Originally published in Foreshadow Magazine
Is there silence anywhere?
Do we always have to actively seek quiet,
hide from the noise,
even beautiful sounds,
cacophony more powerful?
When I was a child I read a Golden Book
about Mrs. Flibberty-Jib and her husband.
City noises drove them batty so they moved to the country
for the quieter moos and chirps and that helped.
But they did not get away into total silence,
just quieter, just better.
The world is pandemonium,
the loud clang of history
deafens our hope.
The gurus of the world
demand isolation, quiet breathing,
shutting out the world, even
muting our own heartbeats.
Jesus stole away for the silence to pray.
There was a great silence in Heaven about half an hour
before the seventh seal opened. Was it truly silence?
Do we have to wait for God’s Promised Return
before Silence reigns, when God can finally sleep
because of the deep sound of peace on Earth,
and finally good will between all men, women,
children, animals and Nature?
Seems so. Wake me up gently when it comes.
Originally published in Poets Of The Promise
What better thought can a retiree
muse about close to the end of the road
than what Heaven might be like,
which I did one dreamy day.
I rested on my back patio
when the sharp scream of a siren
made my heart clutch, as I knew
something bad had happened—
fire, accident, hospital.
That blasting sound signals trouble
and I figured there’d be no sirens in Heaven
as I’d be blissfully lounging
and no wail would pierce the air.
Then I thought of those other Sirens,
women who lured men into perdition.
They won’t sing come hither songs in Heaven,
neither will men spin wiles
at innocent, young, beating hearts.
With a nodding thought about
whether motorcycles or football
would roar in Heaven, I dozed off
with time still left to dream.
Originally published in Lit Shark Magazine
For most of us, we friend our body and the feeling is mutual.
We do not notice her or him when we are well,
walking peacefully hand in hand like true companions.
But not for all. Stillborn, early death or sickness throughout life.
So far I have not been one who suffered that way.
I weep for the others, guilt peeps in on occasion.
Now, my body, I wait for the end of our friendship.
Unless an accident takes me, a car, a storm,
a shooter, a plane, what organ(s) like a Judas(es)
will betray me when one day you abandon me?
Without apologizing he or she will begin the breakup.
Too many ways to list. Why scare ourselves?
So, my body, I want to thank you for our long friendship.
I will try not to be angry or spiteful as you leave.
Originally published by Highland Park Poetry
I wish you were only white rock.
I wish they didn’t June moon spoon
gush all over you as if you were magic
could conjure love, always beautiful
full or slice.
I wouldn’t be so angry she left,
pulled away from my last kiss
in the dreadful light
of you, Moon.
Originally published in Poetry Hall
Don’t know they are weeds.
Flowers plucked
gently snipped,
not ripped, pulled hard,
flowers bouqueted,
arranged and ribboned,
not pitched on a pile.
If weeds were sentient
like women,
they might realize
things are treated
differently in this world.
Originally published in Poetry Hall
Unless you aren’t
you’re one of those
who lives a stove burner life
your stove as big
and wide as you make it
the number of burners your choice
more or less
yes, life ignites some
unusual ones you don’t want
but have to tend
frantic running
from knob to knob
adjusting, adjusting
don’t let that one boil over
make sure that one is on simmer
shut that one off!
when turn it back on?
low, medium, high flame
oh, the phone rang
your grandson crying
running and running
back and forth
turning knobs
that one boiled over
that one burned
that one perfect
until your stove tamps
goes cold and they
turn all the burners off
you’re done cookin’
Originally published in Mad Swirl Magazine
You, the wife of a handsome English prof
who made literature sing.
We, the hippies who lionized him.
We came to your porch evenings,
drank and smoked dope,
marveled at his insights,
e.e. Cummings to Shakespeare.
But I felt a weird vibe.
As the prof drank more and more,
he began to ogle the hippie chicks,
flirt with them, stare at their braless breasts,
letch at them and ignore you.
Mrs. B., an Iowa farm daughter,
your teeth turned your face ugly
compared to the nymphs
who oohed and aahed at your husband
who unabashedly played to them,
left you, mouth closed, lips protruding
rooted in your church shoes,
sipping a Coke through a straw
to prevent hand wringing,
a simple dress, revealing
an awkward body, hiding
a burgeoning figure, babies
asleep inside, unawares.
I’m just a repentant, old hippie guy
who did his own damage to women
back in the Day. Mrs. B., I’ve mused
about you in my retirement years.
Hope you fled to better off.
Originally published in Beatnik Cowboy
He was the most broken boy at the Home,
sexualized in his childhood.
He had to have someone with him
at every minute, except when he was sleeping.
He could sleep alone.
He could never be alone with a woman.
Once, when he first came and we did not believe,
a pert, blonde intern took him to the bathroom.
Going up the stairs, he smashed her against the wall,
groped her till she screamed,
only had males with him from then on.
He loved Harry Potter,
would volunteer to read about that wizard boy,
pout and act out when it was someone else's turn.
He would do no other school work,
except for the bribe I concocted,
being his main teacher and knowing
that special ed meant all reasonable tactics.
I found out he loved cheese, not to eat,
as he only picked at his cafeteria food,
never asked for cheese.
Students were rewarded with supervised
Internet time for doing their work.
Once when he did an assignment,
I asked him what he liked best.
He said cheeses. Not cheese, but cheeses.
For his reward Otto chose to view
hundreds of cheese types in the world.
Although we supervised him, we needn’t.
For that rare time of peace, he would click on
one cheese after another—Cheddar, Colby, Edam,
Emmenthal, Gouda, Parmigiana—
preferring yellow ones,
ogle the pictures and descriptions of them
as if…
fight us when his computer time was over,
sometimes hugging the machine
as if..,
He was with us for a short time,
bound for the one state facility
that attempts healing of these kids,
with little success,
abused, in his case, by both men and women,
his record read.
I have never been able to linger at the cheese case
or view pictures of voluptuous cheeses
as they appear in magazines
without remembering Otto.
I wish I were in a world
where something so delicious
like an edible sun
could heal a hurting boy,
understand why such perversity
is in our universe.
Originally Published in Piker Press
A mosquito is born, a human is born.
Both destined to die.
The mosquito does not know this.
Mosquitos will never think on it,
no concept of prevention.
The insect will just do its blood thing and die.
That is the difference between the two.
The human seldom thinks of death.
Eventually, the human accepts reality.
When he does, he doesn’t want to die.
He is against dying but realizes
it’s a futile thought, a deceptive myth,
numbs himself with myriad palliatives—
an apothecary shelf of addictions.
Why do humans, who know they will die,
devise so many ways to kill each other?
The mosquito might give you a better answer.
Originally published in Synchronized Chaos
We already know the way they do it,
squashed in cages, unable
to stand, move, spread wings
until it is their time to become
Wangs or cordon bleu or parmigiana,
make Popeye and the Colonel richer.
Even the defective tiny chicks
are gassed like baby Jews,
the yellow from the stars
cover their quivering bodies.
In a cafeteria, my student shouted:
“Yuck, throw those wings away.
They’re disgusting; I hate them.”
My daughter boiled chicken,
a fat breast and a leg quarter
for her dog, but it was too fatty,
crunched it down the disposal.
Does it matter if the chicken is eaten?
In Chicken Heaven is there a kind
of dignity if you are consumed
instead of a funeral in a garbage bin?
Originally published in Synchronized Chaos
I was five, taken into Arkansas woods,
where an old couple lived.
They were distant relatives.
They have no names, just images.
I don’t even remember the husband
or the other men who dragged her out screaming.
I was transfixed, flung into a nightmare.
She was naked, squirming, screaming:
“Don’t take me! Don’t take me there!”
Later I remember asking—Take her where?
To the hospital, no ambulances would
go that deep in the woods.
She had cancer but refused to go.
Act of mercy, her husband finally said okay.
Like a barn razing they came,
four of them grabbed her,
carried to the old black car,
screaming and screaming.
I‘d never seen a naked woman,
never used an outhouse
where I hid before I threw up
and swore I would never die.
For a long time, it was like a dream,
but Aunt Sallie gossiped
and my adult mind remembered
like finding out the monster
under the bed was real.
Originally published in Synchronized Chaos
What we named her, (of course) her,
when my brother Victor gifted this birch
forty years ago for our new house warming.
I wasn’t much into planting, but Vic
had green hands as well as thumbs
and blessed us with this sapling,
about the same height as our young daughter.
Victory grew massive as she was destined,
overspreading our yard with birds,
shade, green stalwart comfort, Fall palette.
Shielded us from the annoying sun
when grill and wine were summer.
Once our cat hid in her upper
branches overnight, making us
think he was lost, but our tree
found and harbored him.
Victory aged, went into growth retirement—
like we are now—and died,
had to come down—today.
We held hands over her stump,
reminds us our children
will one day spread our ashes.
Originally published in Spindrift Magazine
When I was a hippie/radical
just driving around, I spied a road sign:
CATFISH POND: $5
Even then I could afford the fee
so I sped home, grabbed my pole,
wended to the little lake, paid my fiver,
stuck a frantic worm on my hook
and gave my bait a chance.
Disappointment. No catfish bit,
only tiny blue gills swarmed my worm.
Just corn or bread would work
to catch the little critters, too small to keep.
Discouraged, I looked around
and noticed all of the other anglers,
heard frequent splashes,
giant, fat catfish flailing
on the shore, laced on stringers.
Even though the sign said:
LIMIT FIVE–the cats kept coming.
Confused and amazed
I asked a man, dressed in faded overalls:
“How’re you catching them;
I can’t even get a bite.”
Without answering, he lifted up
his line and pointed to his hook,
an ugly, big, green worm
writhing on the end.
“Catalpa worms,” he said.
“Want one?”
“Sure.” and he passed me
a long, fat greasy one.
One cast and I was part of the club–
a fat, sassy catfish struggling
on my line as I reeled it in.
“These worms grow on Catalpa trees.
Every May, collect and freeze ‘em,
have catfish all year,
frozen’s as good as fresh.”
His wife and two kids came over,
a smiling woman holding a net
and a barefoot boy and girl carrying a blanket,
which they flung open to reveal
scads of tiny blue gill, flopping around.
I had to ask: ”Why the little ones?,
not big enough to eat.?”
The smiles widened:
“Oh, yes we do!
Deep fry, don’t have to clean.
Eat ’em whole, better than French fries?”
The kids giggled glee.
On the way home with my one fat cat,
I mused on my radical beliefs.
our attempts to save the world,
feed the poor, and was thankful
God provided ugly worms
to these people of ingenuity.
Originally published in Duck Duck Mongoose
An African woman, raped at gunpoint,
one chance allowed her to flee,
made it to Brazil, trod 3,000 miles
to the US/Mexican border.
Pregnant now, an activist group
took her to Ohio to train
as a nurse assistant.
She left a ten year old son behind.
Group raised funds for his rescue
before he is killed or forced
to train as a child soldier.
None.
Originally published by The Bezine