Carnival

No one told me you could get paid for fun.
No one told me 11 year-old-boys could get exploited.
No one told me the 19 silver dollars the old lady boss paid me
was a rip off for the three twelve hour shifts I worked.
I just knew it was all right to not care about those things
to bark from sunup till dark,
exult in the glory of the neighborhood carnival.
A shy boy, an alter ego
flew out of my mouth
as I transformed to a carnie,
this diminutive kid loudly accosting
passersby to play, take a shot,
hurl a baseball at the Kewpie dolls,
knock down their ugly faces like the boogie men
who didn’t exist in my room any more.
The old woman who hired me paid the silver dollars,
kept in a rainbow striped sock.
It slept in my drawer for years
until I had a son and deposited them in his name.
Maybe one day he will live
my carnival magic.

Published in Silver Birch Press

The One Thing

The one thing
my Mother-in-Law said:
“The one thing you really got
Son-in-Law,
the one thing you REALLY got
is you don’t complain about what we cook.
You don’t care what
we put in front of you.”
I took that one thing,
the thing I got
and whipped it into
a fifty year marriage.

Published in Rat's Ass Review

C-U haiku

No mourn in morning.

Night flinging its thick black cape

o'er an eyeless moon.

Published in The News Gazette

C-U haiku

King of a parked car

waits for help by the side of

an insincere road.

Published in The News Gazette

Ceres

My only daughter left, spirited away
by what it matters not.

Ceres my soul mate now.

I command
neither Spring nor Winter,
crops sprouting, 
crops dying.
I can only weep
like that goddess
and understand why
lethal ice and screaming snow      
were the least she could do
to birth revenge.

I will wait,
Daughter,
a visit blossoming, 
dying on the vine,
cycles without end.

Published in Verse Wrights

Old Horse Barn

Twenty-six daily mucked stalls
for a bevy of broken down thoroughbreds
still hoping for the dreams their thin legs rest on.

A water trough, a feed box,
old hoses that crack in winter,
harbinger of flies in summer,
clouds of DDT.

A teen ripped from my city
neighborhood, home, friends, school
by my gambling father.

Isolated now, listening to Hambone,
an older black farmhand,
stroking one of his thirty-nine cats,
stroking my pain.  

He urged me not to run away.

Published in Verse Wrights

A Selfish Wish

I attended the funeral of a friend yesterday.
“Too young, too young-- He was just fifty-one.”
buzzed voices like provoked bees,
a stick thrust into the respectful line,
the hive of sorry; the large crowd.

“At what age will I go?”

Hopefully, only a few will attend mine, 
many years from now.  

A plain room with steel chairs,
a foggy light, a few drooping flowers,
a guest book with a few scrawled names,
a lone fly buzzing the dim.
 
Because I had lived so long,
most friends had passed,
hardly anyone there.

A woman conducted.
I could see the sad masks
of my aging children.

A strange pleasure rose in me.
I felt grateful to be so alone.

Published in Verse Wrights

NO ONE LOOKS AT OLD MEN

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 on, 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 even when it is almost full.

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

I don't come here on Sundays
because it's closed.

Originally published in Sledgehammer Magazine

Divine Poker

Oh God— lay down Your hand,
show Your cards!
We have been here so long,
the game must be over.
Lay down Your hand on this worn, 
green felt Earth.
Why do You wear a visor, 
never count Your chips? 
We have had beauty for snacks,
pain for drinks all these many nights,
sitting in our dim world,
hats tilted down,
cigars, cigarettes
polluting our room.
What do You have?
A straight, a flush, 
a full house
even four of a kind
or just a skinny pair?
Maybe You have nothing
or are bluffing? 
What chance do we have!
Show us Your hand.
It is about Time.

Published in Verse Wrights

Carrion Thoughts

Outside an autumn Festival, stopped on a back, dirt road.
I slipped out of my car, finger touched lips to hush my family.

Aimed my awkward camcorder, big as the buzzard
perched in the naked tree, wings expanded,
ugly and beautiful, ominous as a storm.

Look! my kids exulted.

The driver behind, another kind of buzzard,
didn’t care.

His horn blared.

Magnificence vanished, flew into a sun-sharp sky.

Carrion thoughts.

Published in Verse Wrights

The Not Lying Down

A ravenous, drunken lion who threw everything
against those three sheets of the wind
that never stops blowing
coupled with a lamb gentler than the one
nursing March into April.

the cars coupling in the freight yard,
clanging metal on metal

bound lamb bleat sacrifice
tethered to a stake

Their offspring, three brothers in a restaurant
strain to hear each others’ disintegrating voices. 

Talk of fishing in retirement waters, 
and fish, like their children, that got away,
like the God of their youth.

Stalking their table, they do not talk of the lion
who quit lying with the lamb.

Published in Verse Wrights

THOMAS CARLYLE’S MAID: ON ACCIDENTALLY BURNING HIS FRENCH REVOLUTION MANUSCRIPT

Carlyle’s maid at her first job
far from the rutty hut of childhood. 
“Mum, I’m peacock proud.”
Mum’s eyes flashed the color of new coins. 
“Do your best is all.”

In a room bigger than her whole life
this maid, anxious to please,
stared into the roaring fire. 
Dreaming through every article in the room:
the gilded clock, 
a portrait of the brocaded matriarch, 
old painted vases with new flowers,
fancy teapots of every design,
a wall of books, beautiful
dark arms circling the room. 

“I cannot have, but I can touch,
touch and clean and straighten and re-set
and move and move back
and preen these pretty things.
O, a mess of papers.
That cannot be!
Into the fire with thee.”

“Dear Thomas, I never knew you.
You wrote about a revolution of the poor. 
Then sacked your maid.
At least you did not
chop off her head!”

Originally Published in Sledgehammer Magazine

Learning to Steal

A small boy squats beside a road
watches Father, Aunt, Uncle,
powerful then.

A rickety truck rolls by slowly,
the pile of bright red tomatoes jostling each other
to see which could stay on.

The Depression-laden adults
salt-shakers in hand, crouch low
as the truck struggles past, leap on the truck bed,
ride down the road, hidden from the driver by the fruit.

Silently, salting and stuffing tomatoes in their mouths,
until they are distant specks to the little boy,
before they jump off, return, sauntering toward him,
the blood of theft running down
free and laughing chins.

Published in Spill Words

Music on the Road

When you’re driving long distances,
the company of music on the road
keeps you awake, like an old friend, 
who keeps talking late at night,
sound
like strong coffee.

After miles,
it becomes
tinny static.

Your mind craves quiet, 
cloud soft on moon mist
sky vision
tree or star story
peace.

Then your mind breaks back in,
cracking old memories,
like rotten eggs,
raucous
shrill.
Turn the radio back on!

Published in 1947 Journal

Patriotic Fervor - 1960's

Standing against the despicable Viet Nam War, lie-based, faking Bay of Tonkin, promoting Ky, (Madame Ky, monks BBQ themselves, ha ha) and Thieu, killing thousands of our soldiers (I went to college, not my best high school buddy, a son and one on the way, didn't make it, helicopter exploding…), millions of gooks, er ... Cong ... er ... citizens of a poor Asian country, Agent Orange backfired, destroying arable land, napalm and guava bomb maiming children, Me Lai, Lie,Lie, fomenting mass protest (at last!), lame saying not against the soldiers, but NOT against the soldiers - toke up - because they were caught in a larger version of the charge of the Light Brigade, call it the Heavy Brigade PTSD, a protestor myself, protected by school and middle-class status, marcher, speaker, breaker of windows on campus to counter-act blanket bombing, we were so ineffectual but Nixon lost sleep because of us and did we shorten the war at all like we thought?, and a Moratorium of millions but peace don’t stand a chance free-lovED stoned flower children so Bring the War home Weathermen and King and Cassius had the guts but we only gave a nod to Civil Rights cause we are kids of the ruling class and loving Cuba, we went there instead of vacation, and strikes at schools, like we shut down graduation at Columbia, man! and celebrities for and against and then most of the chicken-shit Congress who had been for the war until their constituents took to the streets but Hatfield knew, then Vietnamization ruse and bombs for Christmas presents from the Tricky one and, ignoble end, Vietnamese jumping off our ships and planes as we retreated in the first loss in U.S. history to stop Communism:   NOTHING.

                        I was there for this then:

                        Two college seniors,
                        descending into the Hell of knowledge
                        down dark stairs
                        to find their draft status.
                        Joshing each other
                        long time good friends
                        covering nerves about the
                        RESULTS.
                        Your birthday got a chance
                        to determine your life again.
                        Low number - go.
                        High number - stay.
                        As direct as that.
                        I was behind them on the stairs,
                        heard their nervous joking,
                        turned the corner
                        to peek at the
                        BIG BOARD.
                        You got it!
                        One low, one high.
                        Unnatural scene.
                        Sometimes you don't know how to act.
                        Joy has to hide itself from sorrow.
                        One could not celebrate before the others' pain.

                        Survivor guilt.
                        My number was low; BUT
                        it was my 26th birthday.
                        In a few days
                        I was safe.

Published in Vietnam War Poetry

Escalator

I saw her on the other side of the escalator
as if I saw her on the other side of life.
She was going up; I was going down.
We were once neighbors, close women friends,
but like the revolving doors
that spin so many lives through our days
we drifted apart and disappeared
into the crowd.

Every Friday a family pizza night
Laughter and beer,
through soccer and all the school years.
Across our unfenced yard,
we shared husband intimacies,
bonding barbs about our crazy neighbor.
Did she really have an axe behind her door
before her house burned down?
I said if there were a God, He would be right-handed;
she said there wasn’t one, but if there were
She would throw her bolts southpaw.
Once on a bike ride, she flipped over her handlebars
and broke her leg.
I nursed her back to health
helping her forgive me for
narrowly winning PTA prez.
She got me back
becoming the Girl Scout
Mom of the Year.
We laughed a lot.
The one year we were really close
our families tried to go on vacation to Florida
but she was afraid of sand fleas.
We never went.

I don’t remember why we pulled apart
was it even before you moved away?
Was it a fight our sons once had?
Did we drift after Jane’s prom
when she ruined the dress lent her?

Now, passing on the escalator,
a slight wave,
a cracked smile,
as if one of us had stuttered.

Published in Former People

Blush

Blush is a color,
flesh deepened red.
Eve loved Adam unclothed
before they both bit,
before the first animal skins.
Then she saw him naked,
an apple blush.
The blush became terror
when the voice of God called out.

We were at O’Johnny’s Cafe
innocent after an eighth grade dance,
fifty cents for a burger and a coke.
Intention brushed fingers.
Can’t remember her name
see her face, eyes, hair,
can still feel her blush,
like a first date sunset.

How many blushes
have we seen,
blushing when our humanity exposed
shame down the centuries,
no return to innocence?

Back to Eden.
Did Eve’s passion heighten after her blush?

Published in The Write Launch

Sailing the Ship

I was never drawn to the sea,
no Moby Dick in me.
A Midwestern heart,
flat as a field,
married, children.
My house a ship,
our small yard a little sea.
My wife steers our vessel
sailing through the various seasons.
She is the captain of the ship
commands all the decks,
swabs, scullery,
the children
who flee to her in storms,
the income tax,
the broken toilet,
whatever breaches over the bow.
I cut the lawn,
keep the waves at even keel,
the lifeboat mine
to explore for whales
and bring home hardtack,
stop at various harbors
to trade and shoot the breeze
over mugs of ale and other fare. 

Over the years, it does not seem fair.
The glory comes to me,
accolades for my exploits
on the hardy main of country roads,
barnacled old town.
Seldom a mention of the ship,
expected to be there,
always docked or launched,
always an open gangplank
for kids, friends, and neighbors.
The ship is ever sailing,
plowing on through
the cornfields of our life.
And never moves,
never moves.

Published in The Write Launch

Hitchhiking

Back in the Day,
the 60’s counter-culture
when we ripped the heads off
every idol of our parents
and love was all you need,
we hitchhiked all over America,
just stuck out a thumb.
We didn’t need cars,
couldn’t afford them.
America was our sedan.
We all had thumbs and smiles.
The country was ours. 

We had no fear.
Life was a safe road.
Until, one day, Renee
stuck out her innocent thumb
to get a ride
as she did every day
to go to class. 

That rainy afternoon,
she ran into our communal house,
burst through the open door,
panting, shaking, standing in the corner
tears of fear streaming down her cheeks.

“He took a wrong turn,
went into the woods;
I cried and begged.
He pulled a knife:”
‘Do only one thing,’ he said.
“I did and gagged and did and did.” 

The river of roads crossing America
sank to murky swamps,
some of the drivers snakes.
The end of America as we saw it
through the tinted glasses of the Revolution
that never happened.
We fled to the suburbs,
built our own two-car garages.

Published in The Write Launch

In a Short While

A sudden storm blew our backyard askew,

our oldest daughter called about her broken heart,

an inheritance check came from my dead Father, 

we chose to vacation on a beach,

our friend’s spouse died jogging,

our youngest daughter said yes in Belize. 

And just today, 
stirring songs of worship on Sunday morning,
our grandson’s pet lizard died.

He cried a lot.
We bought a rat.

Published in Serving House Journal