UNSUNG HANGING: ELIZAVETA VORONYANSKAYA

In Communist Russia, the great Solzhenitsyn
who scratched THE GULAG ARCHIPELAGO,
on toilet paper in freezing Siberia,
was released and fled to the U.S.
where his iconic condemnation
was published and exposed
the Soviet tyranny to all
until Glasnost freed him
to speak the truth in freedom.
 
But back in Russia, an unsung woman
Elizaveta V., the unsung, hanged one
had transcribed every word of horror,
but wanted to stay in her homeland,
I surmise, chose to live with family.
Did not flee when he did, but swung—
she had typed every one of his words
and helped the others preserve the work.
 
What devil conjured a rope
strung around the neck
of a condemned human,
feet kicking, body twisting,
execution for a crime.
 
Did she know she had changed history
when the KGB strung her up
from her stairwell and
broke her neck?

Originally published in Rat's Ass Review

OUR LAST DAYS

We will all have them, experience them, feel them,
unless we keel over too quickly to respond.

Renoir knew those days—felt the pain, the loss
and the grief of not creating any more.

He was an Impressionist, he and his fellows
dared to paint outside, paint in the light,
let the light bother them, fight and love the light.

And oh, what beauty—a tiny girl in a fancy dress,
the many blues reflecting the light,
gently tips her watering can.
A crowd dances in a festive garden in Paris,
light reflecting off deep blue colors.

Renoir honored his friends, his life,
Placed his wife to be and good friends
in Luncheon Of The Boating Party,
the light reflecting their laughter.

At the end of life, his last days.
rheumatoid arthritis struck,
hands, shoulders deformed,
painting impossible, a servant
bandaged his hand to a brush,
a last try, desperation. then no more.

At his request, wheeled him into the studio.
In the darkened room, the light now staring
at him through the windows,
he slowly washed his brushes,
arranged the paints he could ply no more.

Was that pathos or heroism?
We will only know if we get there.
In our own time.

Originally published in Grey Sparrow Journal

GARDEN PRAYER

"In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.”
—Margaret Atwood

My wife, a part-time, life-long gardener,
in the time left from working a necessary job,
tended our house as if it were another garden,
raised our children as if they were roses and milkweed,
nurtured our pets like Nature’s children,
loved me into being better than I might have been.

Now, in old age, she persists,
hired a younger woman to help,
still fusses around, plants pots,
pulls weeds, smiles while sweating,
sidles back on to the deck,
rests quietly in the sun,
our dog on her lap,
never quits, never will,
until she is part of the dirt
she smells like before her shower.

In Eternity, will she be able to plant Eden?
Gracious God, give her the chance.

Originally published in Young Raven's Review

MAYBE

the two just walked in the Garden
holding hands, cultivating 
fruits, vegetables, grains
frolicking with animals
lions and snakes and such
made love birthed a child
made love another child
drank fruit juice, no tobacco
no bars and smoking in Eden

Originally published in Fragmented Voices

DECISION

Go now—bite into a ripe, red apple.
Let the sweet juice run down your chin.
Smile at your mate. Proffer it to him.
Chomp and chomp again and again.
Should such innocence be tempted?
Were apples on other trees?

Originally published in Fragmented Voices

DROPPING OFF TOYS

Our first son was born, forty-eight years ago,
a deluge of plastic and cloth
poured into our home, piled up,
broke, lost and found again,
abused over the years by our privileged kids,
unlike the urchin in Baudelaire's
prose piece who enticed his
rich friend with a rat toy in a wire cage.

This week, I drove to get a prescription
for my aging body. I hastily
dropped boxes of assorted toys
at the charity Center of a local church,
convinced our seven-year-old grandson
that he needed to sort through the last batch,
keep a few precious ones and share
most of them with poor kids.

The volunteer happily lugged
the packed boxes inside
filled with toys and books,
not left outside in the bins where
rain would wash away memories.

I thanked him, started my car,
pulled around the corner,
but grief stopped me in the alley,
an unexpected sob escaped,
nostalgia for those toys and boys.

Images of dragons and trucks,
Ernie, Bert, Big Bird, and Oscar,
transformers, Star Wars figures,
scads of little people, swords and knights,
loads of action figures flew through my mind,
charity and good will no panacea.

I drove on for my meds,
tiny pills that keep me alive,
but they are not toys,
only reminders. 

Originally published in One Art Magazine

UGLY IS THE EYE

Unattractive women are seldom seen
on commercials, TV newscasts
or as sideline sports reporters
unless they try to sell products
to overweight people
or people with skin diseases.

Used to be no Black people
or even other minorities
Heaven forbid, mixed race couples
gay people, even, sky falling down,
gay people kissing.
Now the progressive advertisers
tell the wallets about money
and most open wide.

Maybe someday a young girl
shunned because of her looks,
will view a screen and see someone
she knows darn well
is no more beautiful
than she is and buck up,
decide to go for it anyway.

If beauty is in the eye
of the beholder, so is ugly.
Let’s live in the real world
—not on the screen.

Originally published in Down In The Dirt Magazine

LUBRICATING HISTORY

Liquid coursed through
mountain arteries for centuries,
lubricated the bones
of dinosaurs—Bronto-Quaker,
Saura—Sinclair, Tyrannna—Penz.

Foul, sickening to drink,
could kill you, awful smell.
What use?

Lube for wheels, catapults,
all things squeaking,
once competing with whales.

In recent history,
rapacious use, propelled us
to huge advancements
in rich countries,
petro-chemical empires.

Humans acted human,
greased the skids of history.

We privileged, oil beneficiaries—
friends world-wide, grand vacations,
money to earn as fast as we burn.

Poor Earth: No one asked you
whether to use the ooze.
Drill on, drill deep,
lubricate history to our perdition.

The wheels on the bus
go round and round,
jets zoom, boats motor,
tanks roll, cars speed,
fast enough to crash.

Originally published in Down In The Dirt Magazine

MODERN DAY GLADIATORS: A MODEST PROPOSAL

Hey fans, I’m sick of these barnburners.
heart-attack endings, last shot nightmares,
even if your team wins, blood pressure rises,
hearts palpitate, way too much stress.
All you have to look forward to is the next game.
Two hours of agony till the last second shot.
Enough.

Let’s do it like the gladiators of old,
mano a mano, David and Goliath,
some whole wars decided that way.
Each selected the best warriors.
The winners vanquished the others’ army.
Everyone went home to his family
after one side buried their dead guy.
The fight didn’t take that long, maybe a whole day,
even into the night, or the speed
it takes for a stone to hit a forehead.

We could do that in basketball,
maybe other sports too.
Line up the teams, each gets the ball to score
until one does and one doesn’t.

Then many more games, short stress,
the whole tourney in a few days.
Go get a beer with your buddies
and cry or cheer till the next short joust.

Originally published in Cactifur Magazine

DEATH ROW

We’re all on Death Row,
but we are free to do
what we want.

I’ve never been on death row
and don’t expect to be
or have to contemplate
my pending death, fantasize
how I would feel on my last day,
worry about stays of execution,
contemplate the nauseous
last special meal they glorify.

Just an average man,
not likely to hurt anyone
more than any other guy,
but realize we are all
on death row the minute
we are born, no jail cell,
no crimes, just life
for as long as we live it.

Eventually, we are sitting
on that row, waiting
for our demise after
being free for so long,
with no bars, travel anywhere,
get married, have kids,
love, hate, do good,
avoid evil, appear
to be free, even though
we know there will be
a last meal, perhaps ENSURE,
so we have a choice to live
like we are in prison or not
the only row for us
our garden, which
we can still plant while
the walls are closing in.

Originally published in Fresh Words

THANKSGIVING CAUTIONARY

The turkey tries to duck this holiday,
sadly does not succeed.
Maybe he should ham it up,
but, no beefs allowed,
nothing fishy of course,
not get too squirrely, chicken out
or play possum,
but lie down
as gently as a lamb
and hope the axe falls
rabbitly
so he can feed all the kids
and the old geese-ers,
wish that Chinese
is not just for Christmas,
that vegan becomes the law.

Originally published in JAKE magazine.

AT THE MEMORIAL OF ANOTHER'S CHILD

My Jewish mother-in-law called them
God Forbids.  For her, a lot of them.
For her, only one really mattered.

Cancer struck the man at 35,
wife and two young daughters bereft.
A Buddhist, environmentalist, admired doctor.
I have been at memorials of lesser men.

The gathering held in a Quaker House,
filled with aging intellectuals,
who bowed their heads because silence
becomes the easiest way to avoid a god
who bittered them. For them, this man's
immortality lives in soil and air and trees.

Stories and memories shared,
a beautiful letter from one sister
while other siblings did not speak.

Silly anecdotes briefly undercut the gloom,
fall from a tree, a mountain bike crash,
unhurt in both, his teen mania to sell
special cutlery to all his parents’ friends.
Many who still had them chortled.

Both daughters spoke, the eleven-year-old
who fell in love with the mic, laughed/sobbed
stories you could barely hear.

Just like anyone who projects
their own service at funerals,
every parent in the room fought
the deepest shadow of their fears.
 
The thought struck me—could I do this?
Watch a  memory video of my own child?
Of course, I would attend,
but like Cordelia rigid
facing her stern father,
I could not shove
my heart into my mouth.

Originally published in Wishbone Words

OTHER ANGELS

Most need help in old age,
bent and bending,
clogged hearts, ever aches,
lungs fight for breath,
diseases winning.

Not like that for some of us —
healthier, some infirmities, but mobile,
deep breaths, pumping hearts.
nothing really serious.
Good for helping,
good for being there,
good for straightening the bends,
consoling, hugging, listening,
knowing at some point it will be us
needing the kind eyes, firm hand,
a lift, a strained ear, soft words.

Doug’s mother made it to 106.
Miss Daisy was still driving herself
at 102, going to all family fun.
Her husband passed at 86,
struggled the last few years.
She was his angel.

Be glad we are not aging
at the same pace—
else no angels standing by.

Originally Published on Wishbone Words

WHEN THE FIRST LEAF FELL

When there were first trees,
we know they leafed,
still leaf and leave.

When that first leaf fell,
a universal sigh rose,
an Earth-shattering groan;
trees threw their branches up in horror.

Despite its beautiful colors,
green face painted with orange and brown
when the first leaf twisted and wafted down,
did the trees feel what was coming,
know the cycle of seasons began,
death trailing birth forever?

Originally published on Wishbone Words

HISTORY FOILED

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

JOB TO HIS DAUGHTER

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 BEECH TREE

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

RABBIT

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

OUTRAGEOUS FORTUNE

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

ODE TO MABEL'S BLACK LABEL

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