CONVALESCENCE

My dog leaps into
a mellowing life.
Her leg buckles to surgery.
Too young to put down,
she breaks my heart,
a helpless creature,
beautiful big black
eyes, a forlorn quiz.

In my old age, I come alive
to pet and whisper
into her perked ears
why she now lives in a cage
unable to chase
her squirrel foes,
attack the garbage truck
at the back fence,
protect me from the neighbor dog.

In her convalescence
that will never make sense to her
she fills my limited lifetime
as if it will go on forever.

Originally published in Bordless Poetry

PINOCCHIO

Pinocchio’s nose began to grow.
The cat and the fox whiskered him over.
“What’cha got boy?”
He doesn’t know his nose has grown.
He thinks they want the pennies in his pocket,
the hat Gepetto made him.
Fox says: “What a great nose. How’d you do that?”
He touches his nose and scares his hand.
“I don’t know,” he stammers.
Cat says: “Tell the truth!”

Originally published in Bordless Poetry

NOBODY DIED

When the shit hits the fan:
I  total the car.
Our TV and washing machine go kaput the same week.
Our daughter gets fired from her dream job.
Our grandsons move to Montana.

How long do you have to listen to our woes?

We often say to each other,
as a way to staunch the angst:
"Nobody died. But nobody died.”

That causes us to stop our complaining,
realize that the worst tragedy did not happen to us
as our minds comb through the tangled hair of others' lives,
indeed some bodies did die.

We have friends who have lost children,
three genetic cancers and a drug overdose.
Did you ever look into the eyes of a mother who lost her child?

We are aware of the world, the terrible storms across the globe.
Biblical earthquakes and famines, the moon turns to blood.

incessant wars, nation against nation

suicide bombings, escalating mass shootings, unfathomable beheadings,

the widening poverty the rich take glee in,

the local teen selling popcorn at the football concession stand
paid with a stray bullet,

media responsibly bringing the bad news
as if it were some perpetual Marathon runner
falling exhausted before our brains every day.

We absorb. Process perpetually
but always end
with our litany of solace:
“Nobody died,”
which is true for us for now.

Originally published in Poetica Review

JEANNE AND SHIRLEY

Young girl friends of mine
before the sex claw
pinched and scratched.

Sweet Jeanne.
Afternoons  spent together on your screened-in porch,
talking for hours, dabbling in youth.
You cried when I beat you
in the Spelling Bee.
I cried because you cried.
We held hands when your Dad died.

Wild Shirley.
An imaginary horse, I chased
you around the playground.
Skipped lunch with you,
ran through fields of daffodils,
wove crowns for our heads.

Jeanne, we were teens
when I saw you working in a department store.
Your dyed hair unrecognizable,
face thick with makeup, lip gloss,
barely able to restrain the disdain
for your nerdy friend.
Turned to a phantom customer
when I greeted you.

Shirley, a cheerleader moved to another school,
embarrassed when I said hello.
Your makeup pancaked me,
friends gossiped your reputation.
Ran away as fast as you could
from your nerdy friend,
cartwheeling my heart.

Were we to find ourselves
in rockers now,
miraculously living
in the same old folks' home,
would we be friends again?

Originally published in Spindrift Magazine

UNCOMMITTED

You treat my heart like a cat treats a mouse.
Pawing,
toying,
taking your own sweet time.
Until you pounce,
kill,
leave a partly eaten heart
in some corner.
Sweet, sickly purr.
Off again for another.

Originally published in Mad Swirl

STANDING OLD ON THE BEACH

I.

My beating heart
tries to
tries to
reassure itself.

Wife stands old beside me,
children and grandchildren
flit before the wild waves
waves break the same
and different like life
children flitting, flitting
like sea birds
try to
try to
wings beat against the wind.

My mind carried back
by the stiff wind
into beach memories

II.

As a child
I ride my Father as my boogie board
then holds me on the boogie board
after he passed
just me and the boogie board

III.

Lose socks at 14
on a beach date
condominiums with family
hot dogs and
buried brothers and sisters in sand

IV.

college parties
desperate for drinks, women
dump cheap Black Label
into rusty Daytona Beach garbage can
beer tasted like oil

V.

Demonstrations at Ft. Lauderdale
long nightsticks at the riots
birthed the 60’s rebellion

VI.

Now
yellow green double red flags
the warnings of life
red tide, flesh-eating
microorganisms
fear of sharks
tropical storms

VII.

Many shores
the ocean
my wife, children
always a return
wait
wait
for my children’s promise
my ashes surf atop the waves.

Originally published in The Raconteur Review

LEGACY

Play with them now.
Someday you’ll just be a picture
on the wall
like your Father.

Originally published in Quatrain Fish

NUMBERS

My daughter struggles with a Statistics class,
complains about probabilities,
sends shudders of memories through me.

In old age now, I don't do numbers,
only see the ball scores,
know the higher number means a win.
Praise to James Van Tassel for the calculator. 

In eighth grade, the math teacher,
nicknamed Rajah,
huge in voice and demand,  
threatened to call my father
because I didn't pay attention.
Tried to tell him I didn't get it.

What mathematical de Sade
invented Algebra?
Saved by Mr. Piazza
the wrestling coach, a D minus
kept me on the team.

And Mr. Olson for Geometry,
Euclid rhymes with putrid.
He assigned everyone a personal theorem.
So, when he called on me, I always got it right. 
Vertical angles are always equal.

In college, took a general Math requirement,
had to pass to stay in school,
had a crush on the tutor, 
tried hard to please beautiful Ms. Christiansen,
No one in the world has gotten a
D minus, minus—except me.

On the LSAT for grad school,
the Math exam stumped me 
after six problems, ending with a question
about Napoleon's Bones math concept,
equilateral nightmare.
Fifteen minutes in, I put my head down.
The proctor asked: "Are you sick, young man?”

Learned helplessness, they call it,
born with that malady.
I am not proud.
How can you be proud of what you didn't want to be?

But I got smart, married
a woman who could measure things,
took the measure of me. 
I made it through life without numbers.
Can you beat those odds?

Originally published in The Daily Drunk Humor Magazine

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!

Originally published in Eskimo Pie

LAST WORDS

A young man crept down the urine-pained hallway,
                                         visiting a stroke-wrecked grandmother in an old folk’s home.
                            Went into the room of the once vital woman
                            who could no longer speak, only move her eyes,
blink yes or no when questioned.

 Outside Grandmother’s room, from the main room,
a sound, a sound he did not want to hear,
                                 repeated over and over, indecipherable
from a white-haired woman—thin as paper,
                                  rolling her wheelchair around as if she were dancing with an invisible partner,
                                  the sound, the sound, like the rasp of a sick crow,
                                  two words, repeated, repeated,
ears straining to understand the frantic crone’s plea.                                

As if turned into a harpy, she would start 
and not stop, never stop, like a bed pan sloshed across nerves,
                                   like tripping over a stringy mop,
the caw would never cease, 
                                   making him want to scream as he ran out into the hallway,
                                   driven mad as if Poe’s raven lit on the doorjamb once more.

‘Nurse, Nurse, what is she saying?’

“Forgive me; she is saying: Forgive me. That’s all she ever says.”

‘For what! Forgive me for what!’ 

“We don’t know. She says that every day.  Forgive me. Forgive me. Drives us crazy.
                 The more she says those two words, the more she swirls her chair around,
                           sometimes in a frenzy. She was once a famous ballerina.
That’s all we know.”

Years later, he forgot the ballerina, after his grandmother died.
                               In his own nursing home, pulling a comforter over his gray head, 
                                      from the ever cold, he remembered,
understood.

Originally published in Eskimo Pie

JUST A TREE

“It’s just a tree, Grammy.” 

Our five-year-old grandson 
comforts my wife
as we watch 
orange-helmeted, goggled workmen
cut down her cherished maple,
wracked by the heartless storm.  

Tears fall, branches wave
as if calling for help.
Tree falls, crushes memories,
parents knelt before the sapling
planted when their son was born,
hope the tree they planted
for their daughter
will live longer.

Originally published in Eskimo Pie

REVOLUTIONARY IDEA

It's gotten bad enough 
this blue vs red embroilment. 

Missada, Jerseyork, 
Rhodemont, Virgwest 

heats up more every day,
nick the red and blue veins,  

Florkota, Tennorgia,
Massaz, Oreiana 

like the First People blood brothers
instead of killing, 

Loutana, Nebconsin,
Texaine, Callilina 

mix the states up,
re-locate the angst. 

Delatah, Missigan,
Idaowa, Whyken

Relate to new neighbors?
Do things differently? 

Alasio, Alaton,
Oklasota, Penntana 

Put down your guns,
replace stars with olive branches.

Hawaico, Arkanrado,
Connonois, Marysas

Do it now.
Please.

Originally published in Eskimo Pie

NATIONAL PAST TIME

I.

My Little League team sucked,
made the Bad News Bears look good.
We fired our coach who was a drunk,
hired a poet to replace him,
He knew nothing about the game.
But he wrote limericks
about each position:

There once was a pitcher with no luck
still known for his excellent pluck.
He threw such a curve
which never did swerve
and then he just passed on the buck.

There once was a shortstop named Slykes
who also was known for his gripes.
He swung and missed
and all the fans hissed
when he said he needed four strikes.

We never won any games,
but our pitcher and shortstop
joined the debating team and did well.

II.

There once was a bloke named Trump
whose antics caused many to flump.
He thought all were his slaves,
sent many to their graves,
wanting to dump his rump.

There once was a country
attacked by a terrible disease.
Everyone said we needed to stay home,
isolate safely until the virus ran its course.
We had elected a businessman.
His medical experience was going to the doctor.
But he said he knew about business.
He told everyone to get out there.
Get off the bench and onto the field.
Play Ball!
A lot of people thought he was crazy
and stayed home.
But a lot of people put on their uniforms
and began to throw the ball around again
and died.

Originally published in Poetry and Covid

A SUBTLE TRIBULATION

If you have pored over Revelation,
nothing subtle there.
Destruction on every level,
unprecedented pain and suffering.
The one world government begats
the great world war begats
inflation and famine begats
a mighty earthquake, hide under rocks
begats a third of trees and grass burns up
begats blood rains down begats
a mountain of sulphur falls in the sea
begats the Star Wormwood,
bitters the sea
begats a diminished sun, moon, stars,
brings ever darkness begats
scorpions and locusts cause men
to plead for death begats
the Vial Judgments,
as God destroys all human systems,
ends Babylon in agony.

Maybe instead of a cataclysm,
a spectacular, big bang disaster,
the Tribulation is now,
happening before my very eyes,
day by night?

Daily I see the cracks,
shootings, bombings,
violence everywhere,
environmental fires,
collapsing ice bergs,
nuclear warheads bristling,
pandemics raging against the bit,
refugees aswarm
as nation warring against nation
becomes every nation,
kings more insane,
the rich so far above
the unseen poor,
a mist at the foot
of their mountain strongholds.

For myself, a privileged one,
a first world denizen,
so much good still:
An unruffled life:
Family vacations,
celebrate birthdays,
root for my teams,
my wife plants her garden,
new marriages, new babies.
I get up in the morning,
brush my teeth,
sleep tired.
So much good.

I go though my daily life,
not knowing what to do,
cluck my tongue more and more
as the news accosts me,
like the Marathon runner
daily falling exhausted at my feet,
as he reports event after event.
Toffler warned us
Media unleashed would
overwhelm us,
an impending sense of doom,
a feeling the other shoe
of the world will drop.

The evil increases.
During Covid.
I can feel it
as the Tribulation
drips, drips,
a rivulet, a stream,
a river, an ocean,
tsunami without end,
man clawing at himself
in abject fear,
clutching at what
will not hold still.

Originally published in Poetry and Covid

HEEBIE JEEBIES

Twelve years old,
enthralled by Jan August’s Misirlou,
I listen to the 78 record on my phonograph.
My heart soars with the strings.

I notice a stack of 45’s
with bright, colored centers
my Father brought home from his tavern,
donated by the jukebox man.

I never heard of Little Richard,
put on the white and gold label.

I got the heebie jeebies ’cause I love you so

My heart beats faster,
feet dance.

Next weekend, a teen party.
Over the loudspeaker—

Tutti Frutti, oh rootie

Little Richard again.

At home, the 78’s,
Patti Page, Rosemary Clooney,
Johnnie Ray, Frankie Laine,
lay scattered on the floor.
Instead the record player spins
Rock Around the Clock,
Rock N’ Roll Is Here To Stay,
Maybellene, Blueberry Hill.

Violins got heebie jeebied.
78’s collected dust.

Little Richard—
piercing wail, pounding piano,
towering pompadour, raunch and religion—
with Chuck Berry, Fats Domino
broke the sound barrier
for the rest of my life.

Originally published in Terror House Magazine

SPIN THE BOTTLE

They weren’t the three
Macbeth witches—
Diana, Nancy, and Donna,
but they were scary as Hell
when we gathered
in Diana’s basement
afternoons during middle-school.

We played with our hormones
as kids have done since man
invented bottles.
Round and round and round—
prayed and wished it would
point to someone who would kiss you,
not point to someone who
would scrunch up her face
and say, “No Way.”

The deal was go behind
the big furnace in Diana’s basement
so you could do it or not.
No one would know
while the others waited
in the next room,
breathless for their fate.

I spun Diana first,
rangy and tall as a stork,
towered over my scrawny self.
That was easy.
We made a deal
behind the furnace,
pretend to kiss and lie,
like lots of others.

Then Nancy,
who had a big nose—
they called her Nosalich—
children cruel always.
We kissed and did not tell,
glad for no rejection.

Finally, Donna.
She said no to me,
the true witch of the three.
She was the sexpot.
Everyone knew she had done
more than kiss.
Later a baby out of wedlock
when you could still say that.

Wonder if teens in basements now
still spin their futures
behind the furnace of their hearts?

Originally published in Terror House Magazine

THE DATE FAIRY

An eight year marriage argument.
Mean and ugly words
spatter like kitchen grease.

Wiggling diaper baby
hangs off her side,
seven year old snot nose
sobs in the corner.

His stolid arms
locked in silence,
angry belly protrudes
low over his belt.

The Date Fairy appears.
No wings or wand.
A sad smile on her face,
a mirror in her hand.

The couple stops raging,
the children hush.

The Fairy holds up the mirror
so all can see.
A light flashes.
The couple is at a table
in a coffee shop.
They have just met.

Coo like pigeons,
they talk and talk.
No words heard
in the mirror,
just smiles, love.
He takes her hand.
She squeezes back.

Mad love that night,
married in a year.
Out popped the snot nose,
soon the hanging diaper,
monster bills and Mother-in-Law,
nasty psoriasis,
a mutt found their door,
he didn’t want it, she did.
Their words from soft to hard.

The mirror repeats,
stops at the hand squeeze.
The Date Fairy vanishes.

Originally published in Terror House Magazine

MR. AND MRS. DEATH

He’s hanging around adding again.
She squats, paring her bright red nails.
A famine is her garden.
He vacations in war zones.
They prefer the elderly and sick.
Children, a delicacy for both.
There’s no stopping them.
They existed before taxes.
Guess I’ll just have to go with him
since my brave wife took her hand first.

Originally published in Ariel Chart

VIRUS MORNING

When the sunlight becomes my alarm clock, which I have not used for years after it replaced our dead dog and cat who had turned me into the punctual person I am seen to be, after a very short while I forget our town has transcended Shirley Jackson’s village, become the world-wide lottery it is now, I wake up.   When my daughter and her boyfriend are stuck in Los Angeles, my middle son barely escaped from Mexico to Illinois, my oldest son’s specialty—on line education— becomes the only thing between family isolation and solitary confinement, I wake up.   Spring was supposed to spring yesterday, but Winter refused to leave and the Cubs were to open the season next Saturday but might not ever play this year since my Dad threw me a baseball at three and took me to Wrigley as if it were Mecca till lung cancer...   Last week was the birthday of the ex-girlfriend I was to marry until, waiting tables in college, I accidentally dumped lemonade on my future wife until breast cancer...   Caught between a dreamless night and the creak of my bones as I dress, after a short while, a very short while, I wake up.

Originally published on Mike Maggio's Covid Poetry Site.

MRS. DERMENT

I am 82 today.
While I cut the lawn,
I remember Mrs. Derment,
my first college landlady
when she was 82.

Walking past those Greek houses,
down those old streets,
fresh-minded new grad student,
I saw her first with her back turned 
in an old granny dress,
puffing a push lawn mower,
slight rust on the edge of the blades,
up the ridge of her yard.

She rented me a single room,
board elsewhere
and, new to that town,
became a friend. 
I watched Bonzana with her,
her wording for that cowboy classic.

Once stumbling back to my room
on a Sunday evening, 
a term paper weighing down my head,
she said:
"Young man, (her name for me)
there's this group called the Beatles
on the Ed Sullivan show. Want to watch it with me?"
'No, I replied, I have too much to do,'
robbing myself of an iconic experience
to plumb the depths of Pope's Rape Of The Lock.

I am still fortunate to be able  
to cut my lawn with a power mower
and don't know how Mrs. Derment
did with just the old blades.
She died at 89.
I neglected  to see her that last year.
I think she is happy though.
Surely there is grass in Heaven.

Originally published in Blue Pepper Magazine