That's What War Does

“I’m so thankful for the atom bombs.”

Who would not take a celestial rag
And wipe away every drop of blood
No matter how patriotic
And wring it out in some far away ocean
That doesn’t exist?

There once was a farm boy
Who loved the sea more than crops.
No girl in tow,
Pearl Harbor enlisted him in the Navy.

They put him on a supply boat,
Delivering materials for beach landings.
At first, nothing much happened.
Just sea storms in a light craft.

Then, in the Philippines,
A Japanese air attack.
“Lost some good men.”
Wished he had prayed with one who died. 

Assigned, finally, to attack Honshu, 
The main island. 
Truman nodded.
The bombs dropped.

Little Boy incinerated 80,000 human beings in Hiroshima in a minute.
Fat Boy incinerated 39,000 human beings in Nagasaki in a minute.
Not counting fauna. 

Understandably,
(You and I were not ordered to attack Japan,
Not asked to sacrifice our own lives).
Years later, he said in the local paper: 
“I’m so thankful for the atom bombs.”

That’s what war does.

Published in Bindweed Magazine

Genealogy

At a California beach,
the sea grabbed Grandma,
almost ended me.
Near the fierce undertow,
deathly afraid of water
(our Mother told us later),
she slipped off her shoes,
stood a few feet in the water.
Crowded beach,
hundreds of bathers,
shading their eyes from the blinding sun.
The riptide pulled,
grinned evilly under the water,
dragged her down and out,
like the wraith she was.
An Olympic swimmer
saw the disappearance,
plunged, grabbed a foot.
A moment longer
she would have slipped away,
a tale told to no one
I would ever know.

Published in Silver Birch Press

Lost Cat

One minute the cat is an irritation
under your feet, on your lap, kneading your chest,
pawing your face as the sun comes up.
The next, he is lost.
Our hearts crash.

Every emotion cries out.
Dead? But how?
Wild animal? a hawk? a car?
He is beautiful. Did someone pick him up?
We do not know. We simply do not know.
We wring our hearts like we wring our hands.

The maddening part, not knowing.
That feeling roots itself inside,
sits there like a fat, grey toad,
licking its lips beneath an awful smile.
It will not go away until he is found.
Or, it will not go away…

The search begins for as long as it takes.
We comb the neighborhood
like we comb his fur,
every yard, every cranny and nook,
calling, calling, pleading…

He is found!
Clinging high in a tree,
in our own backyard,
scared by a loose dog
too terrified even to meow.

The toad vanishes,
replaced by a weak-kneed joy.
Come sit with me.

Published in Silver Birch Press

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

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