GRIEF VOICE

Nothing matched the pain
in my neighbor’s eyes
when he told me
his grandson died suddenly:
“Of an undiagnosed cause,” he said.

In my old age,
my mind nearly complete,
scribbled on and smudged,
erased and written over,
sculpted, drawn, kneaded, smeared
like a child's finger painting
makes no sense.

A child's sudden unfathomable death sparked
such dark thoughts:
It could be my grandchild.
What would I do with that time?
Never a playground again
or promised Disney trip.
No Little League dreams.
Can I ever watch baseball again?
Memories of our “couch Olympics”
when I made up silly stunts
to his wild laughter
haunt me.

I can’t remove my mind,
place it on a shelf,
put it back in place
when I think I need it.

The mind thinks what it wants,
what I don't want
with no more order
than the child smearing paint
or banging away on a piano.

My mind reeled,
trying to drown the neighbor's
grief voice when he cried out:
"No rhyme or reason.”

Originally published in The Trouvaille Review

SPILLS

Life is like water
spilled on the ground
which you can never gather up again.
You can cry over spilled milk,
but you can’t pick up
those spilled tears
and shove them back into your eyes
like a child might stuff candy
into his mouth quickly
without anyone seeing him.
Life is spills.
You can always spill your heart out
or your guts,
but you wouldn’t want to see
your bloody heart or guts
and wouldn’t
unless they draw and quarter you.
That would give you the shpilkes,
cause you to take a spill
or spill over
and spill the beans
about why we live in a world
where you can spill so much
and choose whether to cry about it.

Originally accepted by SABR magazine

DEAR WORLD CITIZEN

Bombs struck from the air today.
A number of people died,
who did not expect to die.
Their side will retaliate soon.

Some walk around now,
shop, sleep,
drink a cup of morning coffee,
pee, make love,
play with their grandchildren,
kneel in prayer,
plot a robbery,
drive a team of oxen,
spear fish in a river,
hunt, save a whale,
propose, be unfaithful,
sue someone, accept an award,
put a dog to sleep,
gift a kitten,
escape from prison,
sell everything that is not nailed down,
win a race, plunge off a cliff,
admonish, praise, retch,
stroll a zoo, repair a fence,
bury a loved one,
bury one they did not love,
act out the eight billion
different ways people do
before they suddenly die
from an unnatural cause.

Time will go by.
Strikes will stop.
Later they will strike again
somewhere.
It's what they always do.
Hope you make it.

Originally published in The Stickman Review

PATH

It had been years
since I trod
this same neighborhood path
with our dogs,
my visiting son’s dog rabbit-pulling
as we took a family walk
down memory lane.

My voice from the past
leaped into my head:
"Hurry up, Moka; come on, Lola,”
our dogs that died back to back.

“I'm in a hurry, have a meeting,”
so important back then,
impatience pulling at their leash as if dogs
could understand what caused
me to hurry them, take shortcuts,
sometimes not clean up after.

Now they are gone,
the painful, euphemistic sleeps
mixed into the memories of those walks.

We have no dog now,
unable to recover
from the most recent vet trip,
final eyes staring at us.

Memories nip and irritate
like gnats before a storm.
As my family traverses this path
that storm blasts my heart.

Originally published in The Stickman Review

MISSING

I used to have a front door,
there the last time I looked.
Life coming in and out,
grand kids, groceries,
neighbors, our dog,
over and over again.

Now it has disappeared.
I can’t find it,
No use to look.

The sun room
has a door
opens over and over
on our backyard fence,
our only connection
to the world.

When will
our front door
smile its
gap-toothed grin
let us in
and out
again?

Originally published in Silver Birch Press

A COUPLE OF STUPID THINGS

I.
JAMES BLACKSTONE:

Circa: 1905.

Bowled an almost perfect game,
except one last wooden pin
split in half and wobbled but stood.
The stupid judges refused
to allow a perfect game.
gave him a score of 299.5,
which is the only reason we
know about Mr. Blackstone
and his lucky or unlucky break
depending if you want him to go
down in history.

II.
Dr. JAMES NAISMITH:

Circa: 1891.

Went down in history
and now we pay millions
to watch his minions
speed up and down courts
to shoot a ball into a basket
to cheering crowds.

Oh yes, the stupid thing.
When you have a basket
with a net which we do today
and the ball goes in,
the ball falls through the net
and Newton is proved right again
and again and again.
But in Canada when the Dr.
invented this game to help
young men stay fit,
he used a peach basket
and after every made shot,
someone stupidly
(don't know if they had refs then)
had to climb a ladder perched
beside the basket and retrieve
the ball stuck in the bottom.
We would say now:
It disrupted the flow of the game.
It took five years, legend has it,
to figure out if they cut out
the bottom of the peach basket,
the ball would fall through.

It's all right to be stupid.
We all are at some time.
You can surely add your own
as we figure out why the world is the mess it is
or just to feel better about ourselves.

Originally published in Fleas On The Dog

COMEUPPANCE

He had been with too many women,
a jaded young man.
Then she walked into where he worked.
Sunset in his heart, blaring bleeding colors.
Flaming, forest fire hair.
Olive skin, snake smooth.
Green eyes, flashing like a temple idol,
a fox with sharp teeth.

Got her phone number
was at her house the next night.
The next night a date ending in bed,
Wild, raucous.
Asked her to marry him—She laughed.
Asked her to marry him again—She laughed.
Clothes strewn, helter-skelter.

She did not answer the phone for several days,
fuck and run as he had done,
dusk in his heart,
hunting through darkness, cut hands spread the jungle reeds.

Finally they talked.
"I too have been not wanted."

Originally published in Fleas On The Dog

HIERARCHY

At the top of the food chain,
men strive.
Amundsen raced Scott
to the South Pole.
Amundsen ate some of his dogs
to survive.
He won.
Scott said using dogs
was undignified.
He lost.
Eating dogs is undignified
even at the bottom of the world.

Originally published in Fleas On The Dog

YER OUT!

Once the best fun, baseball cards—
sacred for poor, working-class boys
before we could afford to go to a real game,
before TV.

Collected cards, a big deal and cheap.
We could stuff boxes full
all the stars along with the bench jockeys,
shuffle fantasies before our eyes,
each face our own miracle catch or towering home run.

In the winter, when snow and ice pinned us inside,
we made a game with them.
Placed the cards on the floor,
each player in his right position,
even a catcher.
Our own All-star team, changed line-ups.

We were the managers!
Teams took turns.
With our index finger, we flicked the batter card
across the wooden bedroom floor,
a dirt diamond in our minds.

Whereever it landed determined the play.
Hit another card—out!
Land clean, a hit, depended how far it flew.
A home run was atop the heating vent.
Rooted for our favorite team.
Pirates, Reds, Cubbies!
Charted the league standings.
Nine innings, whiling away winter.
Played for hours until our cuticles bled
from snapping floating heroes into the air.
Heal in a few days—Batter up!

We had no idea of value—Cokes were a nickel.
We did not know American greed
would soon make some cards—
Williams, DiMaggio, Mantle—
if we did not bend or crinkle them,
worth enough to pay for college fees.

Comic books, then girls, took over.
The cards sat in a box in the attic,
buried in an Easter basket with fake green grass,
looked more like a field than the old, brown floor.

A small attic fire incinerated them.
Childhood dreams up in smoke.

Years later, our own children collected cards:
“Mom, Dad, buy boxed sets and keep them.
They’ll be worth a ton!”
Good parents stored safely,
not in an attic,
cellophane intact
like rare books with perfect spines.

Years later, a surfeit of cards—
America knew her business.
Everyone collected and saved everything.
The market crashed.
Like a player who slid past second base—
“Yer Out”!--

Originally Published in The Literary Yard

RESCUES

Today we rescued a dog.
She is cute, lovable.
Never had a home,
never looked at by anyone
the kind man told us
who rescued Butter
from a wretched cage,
confined by hoarders.

Home now
for the first time
sniffing away loneliness—
yard to smell
nearby park
leash walks
toys to hassle
laps to snuggle
beds to flounce
more touches
in a single day than ever.

South of here,
children in cages
crammed together
not even their own,
like dogs on display
at PetSmart.

Separated from family,
crowded, inadequate
clothes
showers
food
attention
touch
love
Indefinite.

My wife and I cannot
stroll into that place
look into imploring eyes
bond
fill out paper work
take a rescue by the hand
perhaps stop at McDonald’s
on the way
home.

Originally published in The Literary Yard

STILL SPEAKING

Even after my Mother is dead,
she speaks to me.

When I was five, at a theater,
her ghost nudges me,
reminds me of a movie
about the life of Chopin,
the theme
his Opus 40, Military Polonaise.

She stories:
You were so enthralled,
refused to leave,
wanted to watch it again.
Your Grandmother and I
dragged you up the aisle,
screaming away.

Another memory rises:
Dragged from a different movie
about my first crush,
the ingenue Margaret O”Brien.

Lucky in love
with music and beauty was I.

A passionate boy.
It never left.

Originally published in The Literary Yard

OF PARROTS AND FRIENDS

After my wife’s weekly visit with her friend
who has early Alzheimer’s, she sheds quiet tears,
I listen to her speak of creeping dissolution.

On our honeymoon, I got to know who I wed,
watched her enjoy a bird show as if the various birds—
pigeons, toucans, cockatoos—could understand, appreciate.

The parrots riding trikes came last as the bells struck noon.
Before those birds finished, the audience rose and fled to their fare.
Not my wife. We stood alone and watched till the last bird was done.
She clapped and clapped as if those parrots knew, could take a bow.

Now she tells me of her friend who paints, stands or bows no more,
just lies glaze-eyed, hand-holding, when only fetal remains,
sympathy falls silent, no clapping heard,
that same heart and kindness, like the brilliant sun
that July day with the birds.

Originally published in The Literary Yard

MENGELE DROWNED

Off the coast of Argentina,
after hiding for years.
Stroked out while swimming.
Maybe the shark in his conscience
attacked his heart?

My son sent me a Twitter note
about a Nazi resort
just over a hill from Auschwitz
where the officers cavorted
with their sex kittens,
their Weibsbild every weekend.
“Have a drink.
Aren’t you cute.”

R & R from death,
child experiments,
the smoke of flesh.

Happy smiling faces,
shining through the faded photos.
Life is a playboy club.
On the weekends,
you can forget the grim work.

Heroic Nathan Hale once said:
I only regret I have but one life
to lose for my country.

Was Mengele—
Fallen Angel—
chagrined
he only had one death to give
for the terror in the
children’s eyes?

Originally published in Nine Muses

ROOM OF FORGIVENESS

Open the door.
Gingerly.
Who might be there?
It is the stuff of restless dreams.
Recall the Grimm tale
sisters who
spat vipers or
spoke jewels.
Go inside anyway.
See who is sitting on the sofa.
Stare back at the pain.
Open your mouth.
Say it.
Even if ashes fall on the floor,
Together you can sweep them up.

Originally published in Mad Swirl

FORM OF ART

A lawn could be art. Cutting it, mindless task,  
source of youthful grumbling, getting in the way of life,
too busy to care about oil and gas, weeds, dandelions, neighbors’ eyes. 
But now, in my late 70s, something I can still create, 
form art as I cut—I think it looks beautiful! 

Originally published in The Sea Letter

CLASS BEHIND GLASS


I visited the aquarium,
saw all you pretty preeners.
Angels, Tetras, Neons,
Double Reds, Corydoras,
fanning your tails
to the ohs and ahs of the gawkers.

I did not see your brothers
and sisters that wait
for the hook you will never smell,
the blue gill, perch, crappie,
bass, catfish—plebeians
of inland lakes,
who will swim carefree,
until they bite that barb
strain and pull
jump and flop
against their death.

They will never swim in a tank
with colorful grasses, fake diver bubbling,
toy stone castle,
food sprinkled in daily by soft hands,
the sweet hum of the filter,
protecting their delicate lungs.

Do those who can afford to sup
on grouper, snapper, orange roughy,
oysters, lobster, calamari,
get to adore
the prettiest, most delicate
water world debutantes?

I see my reflection in the glass.

Originally Published in Monterey Poetry Review

AUNT DEDE

is dying to no one's surprise.
88 and has been failing,
survived Parkinson's for 15.
Meaningless numbers,
just like the spate of emails
and texts about her pending demise.
There will be no gathering
at her request.
Would be no gathering anyway.
Virtually everyone who would come
have had their own funerals
or live too far away. 
The texts elicit tiny pebbles of sorrow,
barely a ripple in our ponds. 

She had a vibrant life,
a noted audiologist, 
world traveler with her doctor husband.
Then one daughter committed suicide,
another succumbed to a painful disease.
For that Aunt Dede is remembered.
Not her life—those deaths.
Oh, she was also afraid of cats. 

Hibernating away at the edge of a Wisconsin burg,
she and her husband dealt in antiques
until they turned into them.
Today no one gave more than a sad
passing nod in their texts

to her going. 

Originally published in Cactifur Magazine

SILENT NOISE

Silent night, Holy Night.

Holy, not silent,
slam of the inn door,
frightened braying,
staccato birth screams of Mary,
Joseph’s sobs of fear and joy.

Terrified shepherds,
whimpering before the army of angels,
choir of Heaven
turning the night sky,
an amphitheater of star.
Glorious, brilliant, loud!

Rachel weeping,
gnashing her teeth
over her slain children,
while Herod raged.

Magi pointing at that star
wild amazement,
in the cold, night sky,
jubilant marvel over
Who they found,
What He means.

Silent noise.

When quiet Peace was born.

Originally published in Spillwords Magazine