ONION MEMORIES

 My brother and I travelled to see our property,
our only inheritance. That land was the one thing
our wicked stepmother could not finagle.

 We go there ritually every summer
to look it over, see about repairs
as if we were truly businessmen,
not the artists we became.
We need to sign a new lease every five years,
protect the annual stipend for our children.

 It is now a tire repair business,
was a Standard Oil before
the tavern we lived in during our childhood
was torn down after Dad's heart attack.

 As we walk around the old building inspecting,
we look at the down-turned shopping center
behind the property, half empty now, and recall
when it was just onion fields as far as you can see,
and remember the almost naked and dirty
Mexican children who roamed all summer,
stacked the onions, coming by at dusk to play.

 I remember a young girl with no top on
though she was old enough for one,
her buds arousing me and my curiosity
about why her parents would allow that. 

 Our mother said they were farm workers,
forced to pick onions every year for a pittance
because they were so poor—cheap labor.

When I looked out on the dilapidated shopping mall, 
I realize they are either dead or perhaps
their children are immigrants many reject,
like the onions that rotted in the racks,
thrown away, wasted, so machines
pick and stack them now. 

Originally published in Lucky Lizard

BOSOM BUDDY

My seven-year-old grandson
is his own best friend.
Has many school buddies
but plays for hours
with his creative self—
art work, Star Wars structures,
films movies on his IPad,
imitates Michael Jackson dances—
never afraid to be alone.

In my childhood, I rode imaginary horses.
Smoky, my invisible steed,
wherever he would gallop.
Then, my green and white Schwinn—
named Los Cappacaros from a Western
about some cool bandits—
took me into my teens.

Imagination
as a  childhood playmate,
such a fine gift.

Originally published on Borderless Poetry

CATARACTS

As a generation ages,
the word cataracts enters
our elderly lexicon,
begin to use a word
we thought were waterfalls,
not the teardrops of dilation.
Kind of scary,
a knife in your eyes.
But dimness propels us
to visit a surgeon.

Those who have gone
before say: No problem,
Easy peasy, No fears.

As I sit in the office,
trying out the assurances,
my mind wanders to Uncle Pete,
who terrified me when I was a kid.
Thick ivory-colored, horn-like
protuberances covering
both eyes, a monster’s smile.

Family said Pete was blind.
He only sat and tapped his cane
for need of things or company.
I felt sorry for him, vowed
I would never be blind.

In the office, cataracts
pop into my head.
Pete had cataracts!
No surgery for him,
Just eternal darkness.

No longer afraid,
I was just plain grateful.
Smile when the nurse
calls my name.

Originally published in Stripes Magazine

BEE-LESS

On my patio, a single bee
dances among the spritely flowers
like an ardent ballerina, flicks
my memory back to my bee life.

Grandma yowling when a bee
lodged in her house shoe, stung.
Mom delighted me reading Chandler’s
tale of Br’er Fox, stung surprised 
at the The Laughing Place when
Br’er Rabbit tricked him into bashing
a hornet’s nest and skedaddling. 
Bees at picnics, making us crouch and swat.
Swarming when I cut the grass as a teen.
Eating honey with Shirley from a comb we found.
As a hippie, honey over sugar in our decaf tea,
praised bees for their healthy sweetness.

Now this single bee is joined
by another, a tango across the petals.
I watch lazily in the hot sun,
doze off, flew away as I dreamt.
Wake up suddenly. Hadn’t seen
many bees in a while. Not nostalgia. 
Terror. 

Originally published in Loch Raven Review

HAIR

Sitting with long, white hair
in my old age, no haircuts
during the pandemic,
I reflect on my hippie years.

Standing in the bathroom
of a Florida motel with my cronies
I looked in the mirror,
a crew cut stub fronted my forehead,
a little water matted it down.

Terrible time for the barbers,
I did not cut my hair for six years,
a badge of honor, like ladies
not shaving underarms and legs.

There was a war, a terrible war,
the youth of our nation
rebelling in every area of life.
Growing your hair long
or leaving your body hair on   
was a statement of protest
against those who wanted
body counts.

It was the Age of Aquarius.
A musical celebrated
those extended follicles.
And it was cool.

Originally published in Highland Park Poetry

ALEX JONES IN HELL

He was surprised, astounded.
His body stopped shaking.
His heart slowed down with his breathing.
He could not move from the spot
just inside the door he entered.
The room was magnificent.
Plush purple carpet, the walls and furniture
matching the decor. A magnificent
stuffed buck head was mounted on one wall,
antlers bristling, a huge bass on another wall,
a black and white photograph
of the tarpon he caught on another,
one picture of a nude femme.

He moved toward a refrigerator.
The finest wines and cheeses
with an embossed note in black letters.
WILL ALWAYS BE REPLENISHED VIA YOUR REQUESTS.

A stunning, beautiful room.
The comfortable couch, a pull-out bed.
A well-appointed bathroom on one side.
Elegant robes and pajamas hanging in the large closet.
Snug slippers. Another embossed note:
TELL US WHEN YOU WANT ANYTHING WASHED/CLEANED.
He surmised he would be there for a while.

Only one thing was strange.
There were TVs on every wall
but the one with the bathroom door,
large state-of-the art screens,
one in the bathroom too.

It took him a while to mentally adjust.
He was astounded, then curious.
In a while, he shed his clothes
for some shiny, grey pajamas,
a silky, black robe, soft, slippers.

Soon he was sipping a superb port wine,
nibbling on Gruyere with fancy crackers.
After a bit, he dozed off, wondering
if he could talk to someone, ask why
he was in such an  incredible environment.
He did not know how long he slept.

Suddenly, he was startled awake.
All the TVs  blared on—
the same program on each.
A Sandy Hook documentary.
He ran to a TV to shut off the sound—
it stayed loud.

He threw his wine glass at a screen,
only the wine glass broke,
red dripping on to the carpet.
Now he knew. Continually looped.
Forever.

Originally published in Mad Swirl Magazine

DIAMONDS AND GOLD

As a naive grad student 
crawling toward my PHD
during the turbulent 60's,
I was torn  between my desire
to tell students about great writers
and communicate my distress
over the Vietnam war.

 Young and unattached,
I noticed young women like Emmeline,
in my class as they chitter-chattered 
with friends about marriage and weddings.
And about rings. 
After one class just before midterms
I focused on Emmaline's
fat engagement ring 
and queried if she knew
where that stone came from.

 A quizzical look appeared on her face:
" It came from Maxwell's Jeweler's. 
My Uncle owns it." But I persisted:
"Where did the diamond come from?
Taken aback, she said:
"I don't know. It came from where 
all diamonds come from." 

 I wanted her to know about 
South African mines, 
mostly gold and diamonds 
deep in the bowels of the earth
where these men slaved
for ten months a year,
in horrid conditions, 
paid only a pittance, released
to their families two months a year,
trapped there for life times. 

 I harangued the poor girl
about the miners and their families
and their pain and suffering,
said it was immoral
to wear blood diamonds
and tarnished gold. 
You are supporting
the mine owners, evil men
equivalent to slave owners. 

 Emmeline began to sob.
I apologized, realized
what I had triggered.

The other young ladies
threw daggers at me.
I half expected to encounter
a raging parent soon.  

Years later, when I got married,
my wife and I exchanged 
her first wedding ring
for a couple of simple gold bands 
from the jeweler's "divorce box." 

 I don't think Emmeline took
her ring back and exchanged 
it for a plain gold band. 
Instead waltzed down the aisle 
in her custom-made wedding dress.

 I am an old man now.
South Africa is far away,  
I read recently the conditions
in the mines are much more humane. 
Emmeline now old enough 
to bequeath her ring to a daughter.

Originally published in Everscribe Magazine

POPCORN REVENGE

Most children learned of Squanto, the Wampanoag native who blessed
the starving settlers, gave lessons on growing corn(put a dead fish with each seed),
which saved so many those first sparse years.    

Most children never heard of Quadequine, who first put fire to that delicacy,
called it popped, parched or rice corn, shared with his new Pilgrim friends.

The amity disappeared. Standish, Bradford, Winslow, enjoyed that fare
while roasting their neighbors and stealing their land.

Postlude to Thanksgiving, prelude to genocide, over centuries. Natives killed
by the pop, pop, pop of guns that slew the buffalo, massacred the Nations.

Popcorn, the only snack Depression people could afford,
a snack for the down and out. Now 17 billion quarts a year
feasted on by mouths of poor and privileged alike.

Doubt Quadequine drizzled butter and salt all over the corn?
But later the offspring of those settlers chose to slather it,
exploding their own fat hearts, one bad habit in our obese history.

Originally published in Everscribe Magazine

OH SUSANN!

A reflection on Jacqueline Susann

Critics say you were an awful writer,
the queen of potboilers
with your specious Valley of the Dolls,
but there is a backstory.

A failed actress with a stormy marriage,
an institutionalized son, breast cancer— 
three times became NY Times number one,
sold the most books in publishing history,
birthed a movie of immense success.

After cancer discovered,
bargained with God to bestow
another decade and you believe
He granted you twelve years
to do what you promised before you died
from that dreadful disease at 56.

To you literary snobs,
as you assess the great works of art—
Novels; Dostoevsky, Dickens, Woolfe,
Music: Bach, Beethoven, Clara Shumann, 
Art: Rembrandt, Goya, O’Keefe,
Poetry: Ovid, Shelly, Byron, Eliot—
a list as long as the imagination.

Who was the real Jacqueline?
A female writer who signed every copy
sold at every bookstore
in cities across the nation.
Wrote the name and address down
of every fan and sent them a personal thanks.
Even bought pastries to sweeten the lives
of all the unsung people behind the scenes
who labored to send those books into the world.
Jacqueline, your tragic characters
popped those uppers and downers,
the Dolls of your book
before they went
to the bottom of the Valley.

You were the real doll,
a sensitive woman
who cared about others.
Style be damned.

Oh, Susann--I cry for you.

Originally published in Off Course Magazine

SCRABBLE OR DEATH

Five old ladies, playing cards,
canasta and pinochle and spades.
One time my aunt slipped a deck
of nude cards into the game,
made my Grandmother and the ladies
titter and feign shock and disgust.
Would've thought their lives
were prim and pristine,
but we all knew better.

But that was a sidebar.
Scrabble was the main battlefield,
played for money, nickel a point.
Could get really steep.

Each got her own dictionary,
so heavy my teen self
had to carry them
in and out of the cars
to set up the match.

Every week the same results,
Grandma, Aunt, neighbor Marge,
Mrs. Balk and her daughter, Anne,
only missed if truly ill.

The inevitable always occurred,
particularly when close at the end.
One lady would play a strange word
she found in her own dictionary.
Dispute! Everyone grabbed her resource.
"It ain't in mine, Rose."
"Nor in mine," yelled  Anne.
"But it's in mine, “ cried Rose.
Back and forth.

Irreconcilable, the anger flared,
friendships and gossip on hold.
Some stomped out, even
left their tomes behind.

But an old friend would get sick,
someone they knew would die,
a pet would run away,
prices would rise,
and the old friends
would return to fight again.

"Za," my aunt would contend,
is not a word for pizza!"
"But it's in my book!”
said her mother.

A word among friends
can go either way.

Originally published in Off Course Magazine

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