JEZEBEL

On vacation at a Florida animal park,
our unfaithful father jumped
by a Spider monkey, instant love,
aptly named Jezebel, ripped
the pocket of his shirt, snatched
an expensive Cuban cigar,
smitten, he bought her, flew home
to his current wife and kids.

But a gift can be a burden,
cage cleaning, monkeys
rival pigs for stink,
watch her wild destruction,
shreds the kitchen curtains,
rips the blouse off my girlfriend,
who ran screaming from the house.
On accident, I slam
Jezebel’s fingers in a door,
blame comes home in a rage.

Then New Year’s Eve,
escape to a frozen roof,
a midnight fireman climbs
a precarious ladder, alone,
our mother melts, cries for mercy.
Dad spirits Jezebel to Florida,
where she is warm and safe,
and the hoarder of non-wives,
can stay a while.

Originally Published in Monterey Poetry Review

GENEALOGY

I

We could so easily not exist,
the one in a million sperm
penetrating one
of the countless eggs
defining our DNA.
We know little of our history.
What happened
in Neanderthal days,
the Middle Ages, myriad wars,
plagues, fires, crashes?
Sometimes we know of
close encounters of a nearer time,
family stories, tales of
what might have been.

My grandmother,
engaged to a German boy
she met at an Arkansas college.
One night on the new-fangled phone,
being wooed, a gun blast,
shattered the night air,
causing an unforgettable
silence on the other end
of that messenger of death.
The backwoods insanity
of unrequited love caused
a would-be grandfather,
a spurned beau to gun down
that foreign lover,
caused my grandmother
to droop like a plucked flower,
cause me to never be born,
never to tell anyone
of that dark night
in that Arkansas Hell.

II

Years later, at a California beach,
the sea grabbed that same grandmother,
almost ended me again.
Near the fierce undertow, deathly afraid of water
(our Mother told us later),
she slipped off her shoes,
stood a few feet from the shore.
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,
her wraith-like body sank.
An Olympic swimmer saw the disappearance,
plunged, grabbed a foot. A moment
longer she would have slipped away.
Again, a tale I would never tell.

Originally Published in Monterey Poetry Review

PORK CHOP HILL


This Korean War battle has always haunted me.
Originally named Hill 255, a stupid, demeaning title
replaced because that hill
was shaped like a pork chop,
almost comic relief to the brutality,
so much horror and sacrifice.

I’ve never wanted to be a soldier.
Thank God (Who does not take sides).
I missed all the many wars in my long life,
realized how easily it could have been otherwise.
Glad my two sons dodged it,
not by intention but happenstance.
Just born lucky. History can be that way.

I have no business writing this poem
unless it is all right to hate war
and not think that any words about
how horrible it is stinks of the unpatriotic
like fetid bodies inside the bags.

Trudge up Pork Chop Hill.
I was never there,
but I read about it over and over,
an obsession for no reason I know,
maybe some kind of historical survivor’s guilt?

Now I can see it, smell it,
the muck, the monsoon rains,
washing away the blood again and again
as the trapped men battled back and forth,
the longest battle of the war,
to take it and lose it and re-take it,
for “no strategic or tactical reason”
said the report.

This Korean War battle has always haunted me.
A 980 foot high pork chop,
a butcher’s cut,
helpless men,
defining life, defining death
for so many
tragic men
we will never know.
No glory here.
No glory at all.


Originally published in Fevers Of The Mind

BREAD OF MERCY

When Bishop Myriel blessed Jean Valjean,
gave him the silver candlesticks
of liberty, equality, fraternity,
it was the single loaf of bread
which cost nineteen years
in a wretched prison,
Valjean stealing it for his sister
and her seven starving children,
moved the Bishop’s heart.

In France, the poor gnawed coarse
black bread, mixed with sawdust and bark
while the rich ate soft white bread,
and it was fancy cake that tumbled
the arrogant, pretty head of Marie.

Once, I discovered a law in Paris
allowed any indigent soul
to take a loaf of bread without penalty,
a tribute to Valjean and the Miserables.

Stark contrast to our country where our leader
tries to end school lunches and food stamps
as he devours the cake of greed and corruption.

Do we need another Hugo to pen this misery,
inspired by a man he saw dragged
away without ceremony for one stolen loaf?
We’ve not learned in three centuries
to bake mercy into the staff of life.

Originally published by Young Raven's Review

WHOSE FAULT?

I don’t care if that donkey
spoke to Balaam or not.
Let the scribes and scholars
bray over that.

On a mission,
tempted by Balak’s riches,
Balaam blessed the Israelites
instead of cursed.

My issue is beating the donkey.
Because the poor creature balked
when he saw the Angel,
which Balaam did not see,
the prophet, in a rage,
pummeled his poor donkey—
three times—
with a whip, stick and fists
each time the donkey cowered
before the fearsome Angel.

The donkey,
his loyal beast of burden,
had never disobeyed her master,
asked why he beat her.

Balaam apologized
when they were back at the stable:
“I am sorry.
I did not see the Angel you saw
my good friend.
You did and suffered.
Why I did not see it
is in the Lord's hands.
No fault of mine.”

The donkey could no longer speak.
She would have said:
“Never beat me.
Avoid the sorrow later.”

The donkey forgave her Master
and served faithfully,
died at a ripe old age.
Neither saw an angel again.
There were no more beatings.

But on that road, Balaam cursed
instead of blessed.

Given no guidance,
his humanity chose.

Originally published in Communicator's League

THE VASE

In my old chair, I scan the room,
see objects seldom noticed when I was younger.

A white vase shaped like a woman’s head high on a shelf,
given to me by my mother
to pass to my only daughter when I die.

My father, an adulterous husband,
brought the vase to the hospital.
Mom discovered one of his lovers gifted the vase.

Surprised she did not smash it,
transformed into a beautiful gift.

Sitting for a time that afternoon,
my mind conjures the future.

My daughter, tears in her eyes,
tiptoes up, grasps the alabaster face,
clutches it to her bosom.

Originally published in Communicator's League

CUP RUNNETH OVER

In ancient Israel
the holy men
collected tears
in a special cup,
every time they laughed,
mostly when they cried.

As life struck their hearts
and the tears flowed,
they would catch them
in their holy cup
until it runneth over
and in those hard times
with some merriment
the cup runneth over
so that the blessings from God
were not why they said:
My cup runneth over
but because
they had human hearts full
of sorrow and compassion
and sometimes great joy,
an offering,
blessings for who they were
and not for what they expected
and only some,
hopefully very few,
had neither a cup
nor many blessings.
Amen.

Originally published in Communicator's League

NOT FAIR

Like a stealth missile from an unexpected source,
bad news decimates life.
My friend's youngest daughter:
Perhaps the darkest word in language: Cancer.

In her early 30's,
a young lady with a helping heart,
always doing for others,
while tyrants consume
gourmet food
good people
every day,
strut their wealth
for the world to marvel
or despise.
Psalmic dimensions here—
David cries out why the wicked
thrive.

Life is not fair, we cry out.

But sometimes the weather’s fair,
we go to a fair,
pay a fare to relish fare,
which sometimes is very good
and sometimes fair.
And life can be truly fair
or just fair
for others, sometimes us.

Is there any comfort there?

Originally published in Communicator's League

GRANDMOTHER ROSE: A LIFE BY ANY OTHER NAME

I stuck out my thumb,
hitched a ride to your suburb
one May day for no reason
I could fathom.

Just hadn't seen you,
you of the chicken soup,
matzo balls, borscht,
chicken a la King over mashed potatoes,
best damn thin pancakes I ever ate,
applesauce and sour cream.
Jewish scion of our family,
all holidays at your house.

Guess I had nothing to do.
A committed campus radical,
no anti-war demonstrations that day.
Stuck out my thumb,
surprised your afternoon.

Didn't go well.
You knew my politics,
pleaded with me to stop.
"You are so naive. Don't you
know the Communist Party
is behind your activities,
pays for everything!”

Grandma, the Communist Party
is like an old horse
no one wants to ride any more.
The War is terrible.
It must be stopped.

We never agreed.
Tension sat in the room
like a bad diagnosis.
But I am sure we hugged
before I thrust my thumb towards campus.

A couple of weeks later,
when you died in the waiting room—
“Because they did not get to her in time,”
my Aunt screamed to me over the phone.

Grandmother Rose—
how did you remember me?

Originally published in Communicator's League

TOLKIEN DIED

Even immortal men are mortal,
a bleeding ulcer and chest infection at 81,
nothing magical, nothing fantastic.

Tolkien did not die when he should have.
Reluctant to serve in WW I,
married, languished in Britain,
family-badgered, socially scorned,
enlisted as a signals officer,
shipped to France.

On the verge
of the Battle of the Somme,
lice ignited raging trench fever.
The prescribed ointment
maddened the lice,
sent him to a British hospital.

His entire battalion
destroyed at the Somme.
Lice saved the Rings.

Originally published in Spank The Carp

FORGIVENESS

My grandsons drag their tent
across the back yard,
uncover an Eden of garter snakes
roiling, scared,
slithering for safety,
one snatched by my oldest grandson,
grasped and petted
before it wriggled away,
the Curse forgiven.

When I was six,
in front of my house,
an adult garter snake
rose and hissed at me.

Terrified, I screamed
for our Great Dane.
Rowdy roared around the house,
snapped up the innocent snake,
shook it to death
while I sobbed and cheered.

For years, I told that story,
fondly remembering my dog.
Now, when I see my grandson
love and release his snake,
it is my snake
for which I feel.

Originally published in Beyond These Shores

WHAT WE CAN'T DO

What if one woman and I
were left on the Earth
to propagate the human race?
What if we couldn’t invent anything—
from a battery to a rocket,
cure smallpox?

Adam and Eve didn’t bother
with math or technology,
the ground watered itself,
luscious fruit to pluck,
the Four Rivers pure,
animals best friends.

When they left the Garden,
they needed it all,
progressed into civilization,
the last few hundred years,
bombs, machine guns, tanks,
trains, automobiles planes,
skyrocketing technology,
computers, the Internet, I-Phones,
from agrarian to urban,
plowing to the moon.

I couldn’t create any of these things—
a failed birdhouse in shop class—
my dear wife hardly better.
I write poems,
read on the poetry circuit.
She’s a garden artist.
We can’t develop a circuit for anything
or a chip,
would never have thought of atoms,
become our hero Salk.
Glad there have been billions
to invent these marvels.

Without the weapons though,
please, without the weapons,
but, it seems, those come with the territory.

Originally published in The Green Silk Journal

NEW FOR OLD

Pull down the old statues,
battle celebrations
glorifying war.

Melt them down,
make statutes
of protestors instead.

Flowers in her hair
above her smiling, defiant face,
flourishing a peace sign.

His head bandaged by a police baton,
fist thrust in the air
in solidarity with the people.

Forge these fresh molds
of youthful courage,
park them on the empty slabs.

Originally published in VietNam War Poetry

SEASONS

You can’t slip and fall on sunshine
which reveals my prejudice
against Old Man Winter
who I would trip when
he wasn’t looking
cause him to fall
and break his ankle
like my boss did
on that black ice
at the airport
which he couldn’t see
because of the sun glare.
Oh shoot.
You have to be careful
every season.

Originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind

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