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Conscientious Enrico Fermi. It took him years
to develop the bomb. Hunt and peck, experiment,
fail, experiment. In 1934, he used tin foil
to wrap his uranium sample. It failed.
The world would have to wait to detonate, destroy.
Had he wrapped it in a different material,
Hitler might have dropped the bomb.
But Fermi made a mistake. Too bad, Hiroshima.
Originally published in Mad Swirl Magazine
NOTES: Job 1: 18-19: Early in the Book, Job is a wealthy, happy man with a wonderful family and is a faithful believer in God. However, various events destroy everything he has, including all of his children, but not his wife, who tells him to “Curse God and die.”
Job 42: 12-17: At the end of the Book, all his wealth is returned as well as a new family with ten children, including three daughters.
Tirzah, I see you before the storm
happy, dancing wild.
Family joy, laughter,
the best wine, until the wind
hit, blew all of our family away,
except your mother and me,
the cork never back in the bottle.
Where are you now?
Only the Voice in the Wind can tell me.
My faith says we will meet again
whenever God chooses.
Tirzah, I miss you and
your brothers and sisters,
lost in the terror of the storm.
The pain has never left.
A dull ache is a different pain.
I am a bit restored now.
Even your mother loves me again.
She is not so sure about God,
but has stopped telling me
to curse Him and is glad I am alive.
Glad too for my new children,
especially the girls,
the apples of your mother’s eye
as they should be.
I want to introduce you
to those beautiful, young girls—
Jemimah, the shepherdess,
Keziah, the weaver,
Keren-Happuch of the lyre.
The eyes of the world and the eyes
of a parent do not see the same.
Appearance is but a fragment
of the beauty love shows when
your children dance before you.
I do not think this letter will get to you.
How would I even send it?
Maybe put it out on the rock
in front of our tent.
Hope the Wind blows it your way.
Yet writing it felt good.
I picked you because you were the one,
my oldest daughter Tirzah,
who always snuggled up to me,
never an embarrassed child,
just loving and trusting.
Better finish this letter now
or my tears will blot the page.
Until we see each other again
when the Wind blows,
Your Loving Father, Job
Originally published in Sybil Journal
A revision of Elizabeth Jennings' poem--(1926-2001)
They will not go. The leaves insist on staying.
Just six weeks ago, too strong for the wind.
Almost as if they could stay forever,
leaf into brighter green.
What if leaves stayed despite the storms,
if branches bent but held?
Today, kissed by the sun,
the leaves are warm.
I touch one with my hand
though winter is nigh,
the unfallen
quickens my heart.
When will the branches go stark bare?
Will the beauty of leaves really end?
Originally published in Fine Lines
Inspired by Merle Haggard and his prison partner—
Jimmy “Rabbit” Kendrick
For thirteen years, no one
escaped from San Quentin.
Rabbit and Haggard
hatched a plan.
Hide in a huge desk
to be shipped to San Fran.
Not courageous like Henry Brown,
shipped out of slavery in a box.
Criminals who earned
the place they landed.
Merle croaked out songs
on the guitar the warden gifted.
Rabbit just a robber,
one of too many.
Rabbit: No; don’t do it Merle.
You got a life.
Escape the only life I got.
Merle listened, stayed.
Rabbit escaped.
But Rabbit killed a cop,
died while Merle watched.
If you love Merle,
thank Rabbit.
Originally published in Rat's Ass Review
Our leaders sword fight with nuclear bombs,
sling arrows laden with bio poison.
We have progressed to lethal injections
from stone axes. The pendulum
swings in one direction,
higher and higher till all dead.
Some dress well, reside in mansions,
scoot around in fancy cars, dine gourmet,
wine themselves, but infantile,
wah wah, greedy babies still in caves.
Originally published by Scud Magazine
You are gone, my brew,
along with whistling at waitresses
by dungareed men
in their favorite bar.
Gone with the others--
Falstaff, Pete's Wicked Ale,
Brown Derby, Red, White and Blue,
to name a few.
But you were my favorite,
braced me through teen years.
I snuck you behind the barn,
when you were not allowed.
As the jingle went:
The premium beer,
at a popular price,
enjoy the best!
I drank you with delight
before you failed me
one hot Florida night,
on that Ft. Lauderdale beach.
Drunk as skunks
and broke as punks,
we staggered into
the store's garish lights.
But not blinded enough,
able to count our change,
gather the $1.30
to buy you Mabel.
Hug your sweaty sides,
as we began to quaff
by the rusty garbage can
on that starlit beach.
Blech! I will never forget.
You tasted like gas.
I retched and coughed
Threw the six pack into the can.
Now older, richer and wiser,
I sip my fancy brews,
remember you as the girl
I left behind so long ago.
Oh, Mabel, such a different time,
an America now gone,
cheap beer the boon and doggle
of all those thirsty men.
Originally published in Scud Magazine
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
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
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
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
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
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
Snow in Eden?
Cold, freezing ice?
Unlikely as sin.
When Earth restored,
will snow be warm
wrap us in a comforter?
Originally published in Ariel Chart
The flower had never
been touched before,
shining sunward.
Gentle fingers
stroked the stem.
Smiling face
breathed perfume.
She yanked hard,
roots and all
for her beloved Mother.
Originally published in Ariel Chart
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
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
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
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
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
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