VITO 

A university writing teacher
when the VietNam War raged.
I taught my students about napalm, 
displayed the poster of the naked
young girl screaming down the road 
her hands flung up in pain,
the “guava” bombs made by Honeywell Corp. 
sent metal into bodies until
they changed to plastic shards
x-rays could not detect, 
taught about the lie that the North Viets
had bombed our ship at Tonkin
to convince the public of war
against a tiny black-clad nation.
The youthful student eyes
stared up at me, supped 
on these facts like little birds
so I spoke all over the campus 
dropped the seeds of protest
in all those open mouths,
except this Chicago kid, Vito,
whose Marine dad was killed
in that nasty war, decided
to take his fists and bulk
and his tough, drunken friends 
to find Un-American hippie freaks
and beat them to a pulp.
One evening they found me alone,
surrounded me, one smashed
face away from preventing me
mouthing my words of protest,
when one of my students,
Doug, a giant football player,
who hung the VietNam girl poster,
which pissed him off, on his dorm wall.
He strode up to the Marine’s kid
and said he would wipe the sidewalk
with him if he ever touched me.
I am glad I taught the Truth.

Originally published in The Font

NO ONE LOOKS AT OLD MEN, EXCEPT…

I sit in my coffee shop,
day after day,
moving the spoon
to catch the white streak
the overhead light
swirls in my cup.
Sit and watch
no watching.
Maybe I could change that?
Light up the gray faces
on the counter stools.

Next Monday, I will wear shoes
that don’t match,
maybe a tennie and a boot?
Tuesday, a pink polka dot tie,
with my Purple Heart pinned
outside my coat.
A large orange comb
in my left over hair, Wednesday.
Thursday, the rainbow bandanna
my only daughter gifted me long ago,

On the first day of the weekend,
my teeth in a glass on the table.
But that would not be nice
to the young waitress
who wears the watermelon uniform.
She doesn’t look at me
when she always smiles,
but she is very careful with my cup,
filling it even when it is almost full.

Then, Saturday, my old,
rusted service revolver.
Just set it on the table
in full view.
Would the cook notice
like he does when I sit too long?

I don’t come on Sundays
because it is closed.

But the next Monday, it changed.
Looking up from my swirls,
I spied a pert, older woman,
bold red hat,
purple polka dot dress,
twinkling blue eyes—
and Oh that smile. 

Originally Published in Lit Shark Magazine

CHARLIE CHAPLIN AND THE FALCON-HATER

Who knows what their Grandmother wants on her birthday?
My brain scrambled over what I couldn’t guess.
Our cousin helped—Charlie Chaplin movies.
I could get the film from the school library.
bring down my dorm projector for the party,
surprise her with the film of the Little Man she loved.
The Great Dictator or The Gold Rush or Modern Times?
Of course my Jewish grandmother hated Hitler.
My Step-Mother helped, kept Grandmother busy
as I hid the projector under a cloth, like a perched falcon.
Finally, came time to reveal the present as I whipped off the cloth
and all gasped—no one ever gifted a live birthday movie.
I let the film silently speak for itself.
The Little Tramp mocked Der Fuhrer.
Grandmother squealed and clapped her wrinkled hands.
I was pleased to see I had struck a chord.
But a few scenes in, Aunt Harriet Taylor,
the Falcon-Hater, jumped up, switched on the lights
and shouted: Shut that horrid man off!
The entire party glared at Aunt Harriet
who had cut up the falcon emblem off her son’s jacket,
hating his Club she thought was lower-class, Un-American,
flushed the scissored pieces down the toilet.
A Chaplin hater too her words sprang out:
He’s a Communist, hated our country,
How could you, you…anti-VietNam War hippie
spoil her birthday? And you know he was gay.
Who broke the silence? Not I said the little Red student.
With a flick of her wrist, Grandmother pointed at me to turn it on.
Harriet stomped from the room. No one turned their head.
In a few years, that awful war was over.

Originally published in Lit Shark Magazine

PAVLOVIAN PIG

She did this. A flagellation of habit.
Enjoyed eating animal flesh.
At a carnival won a ceramic kewpie pig.
Pink with a blue bow.
Sat it on her kitchen table.
Cooked a luscious pork roast.
Cut the slices thin.
Fanned out on her plate.
Moved Porky close to her.
Cut a piece of pork.
Lifted the pork to her tongue.
Patted the pig with her left hand.
Threw the roast in the garbage.
Slept well after her salad.

Originally published in Of Rust And Glass

HISTORY SISTERS

Only one civilian casualty at Gettysburg, Jennie Wade, hit by a stray bullet 
that passed through her kitchen wall and killed her while she was baking bread. July 3, 1863.

Jillian Ludwig, Belmont student in Nashville, killed while jogging in early November, 2023.

Two young women, struck down
by stray bullets.
Jennie and Jillian—
innocent sisters in death.

Jennie, a young wife baking bread.
Jillian, a music major, jogging in a park.
The same bullet across time.
A stray one from an unknown soldier got Jennie.
A stray one from a sick man got Jillian.

The unknown soldier defended a cause—
was the wayward bullet pro- or anti-slavery
when it killed Jennie, bread burnt?

Already deemed unfit to own a gun,
let off by law laxity, the assailant
was shooting at a car, when
he silenced Jillian’s music forever.  

Humans shoot for causes or not.
Uncaring Bullets. A terrible roulette.

Originally published in Of Rust And Glass

FISH IT FORWARD

Fishing with dad,  brothers, sons,   
daughter, grandsons—
a stringer of memories,
vacations at the lake, sunrise,
sunset paints the water,
reflect the brilliant colors.
Bass, crappie, perch, 
blue gills, Northern pike— 
gag at guts while
learning to clean.
Late night fish fries.
Don’t swallow the bones.
Cram down white bread if you do.
Snuggle under heavy quilts
against the northern cold. 

Now in old age,
I look at my poles—
did I need that many?
Gear in the garage corner,
no more to battle fish
who won or lost.

I think of a future boy, 
ragged T-shirt and jeans,
holey tennies, cowlick proud.
His parents found the poles
my kids donated
to the local charity store
after I passed. 

He squats on the bank 
of a local pond,
weedy and dank, 
grips the old,
but still shiny pole,
smiles as he
launches the worm.


A silvery fish
will leap skyward,
thrill that boy’s heart
as mine did when
my dad exclaimed
at my first tiny bluegill,
as my grandsons did
when we pulled in
that largemouth bass. 

We will never know each other.
I am not sure this will happen.
But it could.

Originally published in The Wise Owl

JOAN OF ARC

Did visions appear?
Saints speak to her?
Michael, Catherine, Margaret—
sent from God?
Urge a twelve year old
maiden to sacrifice herself,
boldly lead the army
of France to victory?
Pyrrhic for her,
Joan burned,
only nineteen.
Did she see angels,
the smoke of her body
waft toward Heaven?
Faith put her feet
in the fire.

Originally Published in Ariel Chart

RADICAL DAYS

A little girl drowned on a ship in 1473,
bleached bones picked clean by sharks,
cannot undigest or restore herself.
Humans have created so much—
from bombs to symphonies,
from plagues to vaccines,
but cannot overcome death,
cannot escape the grave themselves.

When did it turn for me in my radical days,
the years when I tried to save mankind? 
Turned when I figured people could not save us.
Outside interventions, only a god,
aliens seem never to find us.
Man cannot climb out of the grave.
Has to be lifted out—not by grave robbers,
but by a power beyond humans.

I ask you—who might that be?

Originally published in Ariel Chart

NO PUNCTUATION IN DREAMS

How could there be?
There is no sense in dreams,
non-sense, phantasmagorical
images float through past, present, future.
Sometimes so real you die.
Dreams can make you weep,
remember love, attack your weakest places,
recall memories daylight has forgotten.
Cannot be revised, often no recall.  
I exclaim! There is no question about this.
It is final. Period.

Originally published in Dreich Magazine

OUR INN

No donkeys, cattle, sheep or flies
in our welcoming house,
as our out-of-town children
flock home for Christmas
with sugar-plum dreams
of gifts, food, warmth.

Daughter Eliza, newly pregnant,
smiles widely as she emerges
from the train station,
her husband’s job briefly
separates them this Christmas.

Son Aaron happily unpacks the car
while daughter-in-law Kate
shoos the dogs,
car-bound for 12 hours,
away from our terrified cat.
We tried to warn her.

Teen grandson Jeremiah
throws his coat
while saying hi,
runs to turn a TV
into his video game paradise.

Louis, only three,
with his coat still on,
skitters in and dumps
a box of Legos.

Love not census
brings them home
to our manger.

No unusual stars.
No shepherds.
Wrapped presents,
no gold, frankincense, myrrh
in our suburb.  

Together we celebrate
these special days.

After the good-byes,
winter will return—
we will see the dark again—
the Christmas tree
waits to be unstrung.

We did have ample
room in our Inn.

Originally published in Dreich Magazine

DEATHBED POEMS

My first poem came in a flash,
like lightning from nowhere,
about my daughter and her dog,
then a short one on fishing.

Want to hear it?


FISHING:
On the way, we took a wrong turn.
We will catch and clean certain fish 
instead of others.


A comment on fate, humbling me now.
Bed-ridden, poems keep flying forth—
verses on ironic lives,
broken families, unsung heroes,
death and immortality. 
My children gave me a yellow pad,
I scribble on the paper, can’t hold the pen;
they let me dictate,
sit with sad, smiling faces,
copy down my words.
What will my last poem be?
Will anyone publish it?
Do I care any more?

Thanks to all the poems,
lighted on my mind 
like birds singing
in an evergreen tree,
makes dying easier.

Originally published in Dreich Magazine

LIQUOR MEMOIR


When it switched to swallowing me
innocence became liquid

sick became normal
green vomit holding my hand
 
My child noted--hardened her eyes
My wife poured out the front door
 
How long it took for me until
my life corked the bottle
 
How lucky I felt beside those who didn’t
How old age mellowed the pour of life
 
When one drink now allows
smooth sips of comfort at the end.

Originally published in Ariel Chart

I’M HERE

Because my father’s family
were pogromed out of Russia
and my mother’s family
were indentured servants from England,
settled in Little Rock, Arkansas.

Because my mother crawled north from Arkansas
to escape her alcoholic family, so naive
she took a job as a bar waitress in Gary, Indiana
before being smitten by my father.
Mom said: In Arkansas I made a wallflower shy;
No man ever looked me in the eyes like that.

Because my parents had a strange honeymoon
when an uncle played a trick and had them thrown in jail
for the first marriage night, guaranteed a different zygote.
Mom said: We thought it was a joke, out in an hour,
but the policeman didn’t free us till the morning.

Here because my mother did not discover
dad’s adultery until a few weeks after my birth,
which prompted Mom to leave town the next night.
Mom said: After you were born,
one of the barmaids brought me flowers
and told me your Dad was having an affair.
Uncle Bill and Aunt Eva took us in.

Now, our family celebrates the 75th birthday of my wife,
here because the 60’s exploded and two anti-War hippies fell in love.
We hug and sing as the sea wind blows
and drink and dance when it rains.

It could have been otherwise. It is fine
to praise chance, that small idol of probability
that birthed us all. We gaze on the blue Pacific
and wonder what happenstance may lead our grandsons
to marvel at such a scene, a precious future
in this perilous, beautiful world.

Originally published in Ariel Chart

SHOVING TOOTHPICKS INTO THE CUTICLE OF A SOUL

Who would write that line?
Someone who had a soul?
Someone who wanted to hurt his soul?
What would cause you to hurt your soul?
Do we know what souls look like?
Does a soul have hands?
Does a soul have nails with cuticles
you can shove toothpicks under?
Can the mind shove toothpicks?
Do souls scream?
What pain’s deeper?
If you have ever considered doing that,
you know.

Originally published in Mad Swirl

THE FAN HALL OF FAME

Part of baseball is being bothered
by stuff that doesn't really matter--Joe Posnanski

These old bones and eyes
rest now, slouched
on the couch, watching
my favorite baseball team,
headed for another bad year,
try to hit and pitch
above their ability.

We did win two pennants
and one World Series
over my long life.
I used to rant and rave
at the errors and strikeouts
and home runs given
more than received.

Now in my home stretch
I will see the sphere
speed and curve,
drop and slide,
driven to a shortstop,
blasted to the river
behind a stadium.

Just biding time, soon
The Fan Hall of Fame.

Originally published in Western Quarterly

DAUGHTER

You have moved far away
by the ocean.
We cannot have a cup of coffee
in our neighborhood
as we did for so many years.
But we can walk in the rain
by the sea with the wind
whipping our umbrella,
sup mussels from that irascible waitress,
drink thick, foamy Irish Coffee
and watch memories toss on the waves.

Originally published in Passion Fruit

HEY GUYS, YOUSE PROBABLY DEAD NOW

So I can’t be sued by none of youse, as you always said,
wouldn’t care much about suing except to spit the word out like a curse.
But thanks guys for what I learned about how not to live life.

Ernie Bigush used to spit a lot more than he talked
when we were a gang--the Falcons--
with tough Porky as our fierce leader. His side kicks—
Ernie B., Sharkey, Kranns, Buttface?
Where’d they wind up?

I last saw Porky working at a gas station
when my Dad filled up to take me to college.
Porky grunted goodbye noting, it seemed,
the separation between his life and mine.
 
At our senior Homecoming football game, drunk as life,
you rose up, took off your helmets,
pounded the other team’s line until the refs stopped
the offense, threw you all out of the game.

Wrecked the annual student tomato fields fight
near Hays High School, a ritual turned into wanton mayhem
when the crowd smashed that fruit on neighbors' cars.

And you guys forced young Bonic to join
in a liquor store robbery, tossing him his share
of cash and booze, even when he started crying,
squeezed between Bigush and Kranns in the back seat.

But youse went to jail and Bonic didn’t
so my good-bye to Porky from Dad's car was more
a sigh of sadness than any single fond memory I ever kept.

Originally published in Cacti Fur Magazine

PROVIDENCE

At twelve years old, divorce
put me on the plane,
a summer with my Mother,
who gave me to my Father
because he made her afraid.
I was afraid of flying too.
Even my popping ears
scared me despite
the wad of bubble gum.

Planes were small back then,
loud propellers were seen
out of the window.
Imagined them falling off,
bursting into flames,
closed my eyes,
saw WWII movie crashes.

Lifted off into the Arctic clouds,
the vast, impenetrable whiteness.

Descending.
At last! At last!
Why are we going up again?
Planes land or crash.
Gravity goes down, not up!

Descending again,
gripping the seat tightly
like every trip on a Ferris Wheel.

Safe! In Rhode Island. In Mom’s arms.
Mom exclaimed about the landing gear. 

"They were not down on the first descent.
You were saved by the radio tower."

On and on she talked
as if the landing
triumphed over my arrival.

Now, summer in Rhode Island.
Providence.

Originally published in Corvus Review