Once I heard about an incessant talker who never stopped spewing words until someone told him that we all have a word quota and that he had nearly used his up and that frightened him and he immediately went into a deep silence until he was lying on his death bed and that same woman, now decrepit, told him that it wasn’t true and, on hearing this from her, rose up on one feeble elbow, glared at her and whispered—Good-bye—with as much venom as he could muster and died right into her smile.

Originally published in The Drabble


Old, retired now. 
One errand today—extra-large eggs
at the Co-op. 

It is cold outside. 
My car is warm. 
I have a full tank of gas. 

Sometimes, driving, 
I see black wings
flapping between
bare winter branches.

Originally published in Right Hand Pointing


Grandmothers, now gone.
One moneyed, one poor.
Both rich in granddaughter.
One gifted a Grandmother-of-Pearl ring,
the other a practical lip balm tin
among other small items.

The daughter turns from the mirror to her mother. 
“I wear the ring all the time.
I use the lip balm once a year, 
on her birthday. 
I hope she knows I want it to last forever.”

Originally published in The Vehicle


Today they called for a moment of silence.
After violence, a moment of silence.
No one ever killed in a moment of silence.
No bombings or shots in a moment of silence.
Hold a moment of silence
For the rest of time. 

Originally published in Gyroscope Review 


I only remember two names from First Grade. No other kids, not even my teacher. I even forgot the name of my second grade teacher who told my Mom I was a genius. Third grade was sharp-tongued Mrs. Schrum. No one could ever forget Schrum because her dad owned the local pickle factory, the largest employer in our small area.

I do remember Don Fancher, the class bully, and Bonnie Bowie, the dark-haired class belle who was my first girlfriend, standing in for Margret O’ Brien and Shirley Temple.

How curious it is that children often, at an early age, begin to act out what they will become.  In high school, Fancher would roam the boys’ locker room like a prowling lion, threatening with his elastic belt to snap the naked rear of any boy who would not give him pocket change. Bonnie was a petite beauty who perhaps predicted the diminutive young lady who became my wife years later, a brunette at the beginning and a brunette for life.

Don, Bonnie and I were standing at the swing sets at recess. Once I had spouted off I was not afraid of spiders. Why I bragged about bravery toward arachnids I will never know. Perhaps it was to impress Bonnie as so many tried to do because she was the princess of the class. And she really seemed to like me, once pecking me on the cheek without warning. Don saw this and fumed as he was an awkward boy, ungainly, gruff and insecure like many nascent bullies.

He had heard of my bragging so one bright Spring day he approached Bonnie and me  by the swings, holding a stick, not to threaten me this time, but to transport a fierce looking black and yellow crawler with the harmless name of Garden Spider that terrified us all whenever we saw its sometimes throbbing web.

“Fein,” he barked at me. “Heard you’re not afraid of spiders!”
My breath fled. I remember the quizzical look on Bonnie’s face, her black button eyes gleaming, wanting to see what the bully was up to for he had challenged me in various ways whenever Bonnie was present, trying, like Bluto, to steal Olive away.

At the end of the stick was a huge black and yellow Garden Spider. It probably wasn’t that big but it seemed like a tarantula to me as even decades later I can transport myself back to that scene.

“Yeah, why?,” I snapped back, pushing my courage ahead of my abject fear, for I was deathly afraid of spiders.

“Yeah, why?,” instantly understanding what he had in mind.

“Okay, Fein, I heard you say you were not afraid of spiders. So let’s see. Let my buddy here crawl down your arm if you’re not afraid.”

To be tested at six years old! My entire reputation, a word I barely understood, flashed before me. Refuse and Bonnie would never look at me the same, the bully squashing me like the bug I was as I was indeed the smallest kid in the class, other than Bonnie, both of us the opposite of Big Don.

I had no choice. I stuck out my arm and Fancher nudged the spider on to the top of it. It just sat there a bit, checking out its new scene, no way in a hurry, unable to hear my pounding heart.

Every other part of my being froze, but I tried to look brave. My eyes focused on the top of the swings. I never looked at Don or Bonnie. The recess crowd collapsed around us.

Finally, eight black legs, the yellow shining in the sun, sprinted (hooray!) down my arm to my wrist where I quickly flicked the spider off.  A couple of girls screamed.

It felt great to be a hero, to stand tall before Bonnie, to forecast years later that I would be the one who strode into the principal’s office in high school with the courage to turn in Fancher for his bullying in gym class, which caused him to be suspended from school.

Bonnie moved away.  I am sure she does not remember the spider or me, nor does Don. Whatever heroism I demonstrated in life—no more or less a hero than most of us who navigate our average lives—I will remember the black and gold monster that liberated me.

Originally published in The Write Place At The Write Time

Autumn Dread

Autumn the mask of death
I hate those riotous colors

defaces the green leaf
struggles to peek through

shows its disfigured face
knows it will soon be gone

celebrates that dark rainbow
yellow orange red brown

wraps its arcs around
pretends to be summer

an unexpected rainstorm
at the picnic of our lives

blows fiercely into
the icy fingers of winter

grips the season’s throat
doesn’t let go until

every bit of green and sun
warmth choked out

Summer a limp body
our arms can’t hold

Demeter weeps
glares into the distance

Hades steals her daughter again

Published in Spank The Carp

Primary Colors

If you got it right, 
your children are primary colors, 
blue, red, yellow, mine.

You don’t color
the sun blue,
the ocean red,
blood yellow.
That goads, nettles Nature,
angers that Mother. 

They leave and come home, leave and come home.
Blue joys. 
Red hurts.
Yellow needs.
Blue hurts.
Red needs. 
Yellow joys.
Blue needs.
Red joys.
Yellow hurts. 

You set up the canvas before you.
You paint the sun yellow,
the ocean blue,
blood red. 
As you age,

Published in Imbibe Urbana

Blowing Straws

At Walgreen’s soda fountain
when Mom worked there,
so much fun!
In a booth, 
we ripped open the paper,
slid it down the straw,
just past half-way,
how far was key.
Accordioned the paper, 
blew hard,
sent the missile into
our laughing faces,
my brother and me.
Mom taught us
like a little kid.
What other Mom somersaulted?
Barefoot belle.  
Mom blew hard
giggled, laughed,
her Lana Turner eyes flashing.
Direct hit to the nose!
Before the divorce
sometimes Dad showed up. 
No! No blowing! No!

Published in Imbibe Urbana

Mrs. S______

Why would I not include her last name in the title? She can’t be on this Earth anymore, as I am tipping toward 80 and Mrs. S_____ had to be in her thirties when I was the star and the goat in our 8th grade history class. I really have no idea how old she was because kids at that age think everyone who has a job is an old person.

Mrs. S_____ was a student’s terror. Through all of seventh grade, when the subject of teachers came up, which it did back then when there wasn’t social media to inhibit conversation, when kids talked to each other and the lunchroom was the Internet, every student agreed on one prayer: Please don’t let me get Mrs. S_____ next year!

But I did and, even though I expressed the obligatory woe is me to everyone who asked, secretly I liked the challenge and challenge it was. She was formidable. She expected you to actually read the material and do your homework. No student in his right mind would ever consider cutting corners. Because Mrs. S_____ did what every student dreaded: She called on you! And she did not just call on you. She expected you to have the right answer or, more importantly, show that you had engaged the material. If you had not, she would know and her tongue became acid that would sizzle your ego smaller than an eighth grader could ever imagine. No kid wanted be unable to answer and pleading ignorance was like saying you didn’t know how to tie your shoes.

I can’t remember much about what we studied,—probably just the standard American history text— but I do remember that I liked her class though I am sure I complained volubly about how bad it was, how mean she was, so I could stay in good standing with my peers. Later, I was to become a history major in college and teach social studies much of my teaching life. How much did Mrs. S_____ influence that? Who knows? But I know she certainly kindled my life long fascination with history.

Despite all the learning that I did and the knowledge that she considered me one of her better students as manifested by her positive remarks on my papers and tests, two incidents stand out that had nothing to do with history and why, after over sixty years, I decided to write about Mrs. S_____.

The first was when I was thrown out of class. Was it because I failed to answer correctly or, on one particular day, wasn’t prepared? No, that never happened. This formidable teacher didn’t throw you out of class if you did not respond the way she expected. That would have been a blessing. No, instead, her tongue became a knife, eviscerating whatever soul an eighth grader possessed. “Do you want to flunk out of high school?” “Do your parents want you to work on a garbage truck (boys) or in a beauty parlor?” (girls) were a couple of the challenges she threw at culprits because, back then, teachers could get away with saying just about anything and it was virtually sacrosanct. Students had no rights and were lucky to be allowed to breathe in certain situations. And, for parents, if the teacher said it, it was the law even though most of the kids in our blue-collar area would never go to college and a lot would wind up on trucks or fixing people’s hair.

No, one day she asked for suggestions for class colors and, somewhat of a class clown in every other class I had, that jack-in-the-box jumped out of me and I ventured “Black and Blue”, which caused a big laugh from the class and a quick and stern: “Mr. F_____, you may go to the office.”

But I know she liked me, this big-bosomed woman, who was like a mother hen because she really did care about her students and their future and loved history with a passion. And, truth be told, when she had a student, frankly like me, in whom she saw some real potential, saw that they actually might go to college, actually did love history, she was even harder on you, but, also made you her pet in a lot of small ways. One demonstration of that was the most embarrassing event in all my time with Mrs. S_____ , perhaps in all the time I have spent on the Earth.

How many teachers do we have over the years? And how many from back then do we even recall? Not many. Think back yourself. How many?

This is mainly why I remembered Mrs. S_____ after all these years. Not because of the academic gauntlet she put me through and not because she threw me out of class for my quip. No, I most recall Mrs. S_____ because she danced with me.

In that world so long ago, the powers that be used gym class for a variety of things, not just sports. There was some mild sex education, but somehow we got instructed in that without that three-letter word being used much. And I remember too—it seems so strange now—doing a class garden in the Spring. But, mainly, I remember when we were introduced to ballroom dancing, which perhaps is more of a death sentence than public speaking.

And who should be the one doing the instructing? None other than Mrs. S_____.  I will never know why she was the one to introduce us to the one activity none of us wanted to learn. I cannot recall if we had P.E. teachers back then or if various teachers were just assigned occasionally to do that duty as part of their job. But, for whatever reason, Mrs. S_____ was picked, or, I suspect, decided to teach us the Foxtrot as an intro to ballroom dancing, something she assured our frightened faces, we would be very glad to have learned when we were a bit older, having no idea that Chubby Checker and rock and roll would wipe out that era in a short while.

We gathered in the gym, sitting in chairs around the room, the girls in half the chairs on one side and the boys on the other. Mrs. S_____ was in the middle. She was not a dancer type at all. She was not lithe and agile, but a large woman who one would never think would be the one assigned to teach ballroom dancing.

None of that mattered as we tried to sink through the back of our chairs while Mrs. S_____ first verbally explained the Foxtrot technique and then, without a partner, encircled her arms around an imaginary dancer and demonstrated the steps several times in front of our terrified eyes.

We all knew what was coming. Our friends who has graduated last year had told us: “She is going to pick one of you to show how to do the steps—and it won’t be a girl!”

Some poor boy would be the victim of her lesson.

You guessed it. I did not have a chance. I was kind of the class clown, was one of her better students, and was quite small and easy to drag around the dance floor and be held imprisoned in her large bosom while she stopped occasionally to explain each step. While I hung with her large arm around my neck, she began to move, dragging me more than dancing as we proceeded, sometimes, I do remember, leaving the ground as she twirled me around.

I do not know how long the lesson lasted. Eternity can last for a very short time. I am sure no another student made a peep. There were no smirks or titters as she cavorted with me. Not a single other student wanted to be noticed in case she decided to switch from me to someone else. She did not.

I cannot remember the depth of my humiliation. All I know is that I must have swallowed my soul, but, in reflecting back on this unforgettable scene, I can distinctly recall one curious thing. It was not the dance or being squeezed or having a red face or looking into the saucer-sized eyes of my horrified classmates that is stark for me. It was how Mrs. S_____ smelled. She smelled like pepper.

And that was my main struggle back then in that old gym. As Mrs. S_____ pressed me to her bosom, she smelled of pepper, though it is hard to believe that any perfume would smell like that. Maybe it was her sweat revealing that she used a lot of that spice. But those are just guesses now and who would even know or care? All I do know is that my main struggle in that archetypal humiliation was to keep myself from sneezing. I did not sneeze, but just allowed myself to be a dutiful rag doll or puppet or whatever you want to call me as she jerked and twirled my slight frame around the floor.

I do not remember the aftermath. I surely must have gotten some sympathy from my relieved class mates who were so glad I had been the guinea pig and not them. I know there were other ballroom classes with Mrs. S_____ and certainly other students were chosen to demonstrate and I know, because I would have remembered for sure, I was not chosen again.

And I can remember why I recalled it so graphically over sixty years later, for, in old age, the past exists far more past in our minds than future as we tend to look backwards, whether we like it or not and avoid, as much as possible, thinking about the scary future.

I was at the dinner table with my four-year old grandson and he picked up the pepper shaker, sniffed it, and sneezed into his food. Like a specter off his plate, the memory of Mrs. S______ rose up and the rest is history.

Published in Spillwords Press


I suspect no one knows
I am the poet laureate
of my street. 
I declare myself him,
but—who knows!, 
might there be a budding
Frost or Williams or Kooser
on my same block?
( I would never think of one block over.)
Should I call a competition?
Go door to door?
Perhaps put a scroll of poems
in each mailbox, declaring...
Ah, I fear,
an aesthetic instinct,
the time is probably not ripe.
When it is, I will strike. 
I have no fear
just as I have no rhymes,
free verse my thoroughfare.

Published in 500 Miles Magazine

Natural Selection

Walking home from school,
one bright, sunny, Spring day,
I saw a worm and bird struggle.
That robin had every right to that worm,
to pull and tug
that wet, pink, elongated body
for her children.
But I didn’t have to like it.
My lunchbox flew,
away flew the robin
without the worm.
I was much younger then.

Published in The Literary Nest

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. 

(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


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


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