CASTOR OIL

We waited, shaking,
newspapers under the chairs
we sat on in case we vomited
as the Grand Poobah--
our Father--
approached with a tablespoon,
filled to the brim
with the smelly oil,
aimed for our terrified gullets.

It was the cure of our generation.
Should any child manifest
the slightest stomach ill,
down came the dark, brown bottle
with the yellow label,
maybe skull bones on it,
given without hesitation,
the cure for all gastronomic pain.

My brother and I
faced each other,
began to spit on the floor,
pleaded with our Dad
we were too sick
to imbibe the ghastly brew,
like drinking Quaker Oil
we cried.


To no avail,
avail did not exist.
But the cries elicited some mercy.
Mixed into orange juice
or orange soda.
"Drink it down fast boys.
It will heal you quicker,
not taste so bad.”

It took me years to drink
a Big Orange, quaff
the golden elixir of Florida,
suck on a Navel.

Even after castor oil
proved worthless,
the mere mention
causes a shudder
in my soul.

Originally Published in Terror House Magazine

MILLSTONES

"Why worry about a speck in your brother’s eye when you have a plank in your own?
- Matthew 7:3

What if beside the plank in your eye
your brother had a millstone
not just a speck?

Old men shove young bodies
under the wheels of war.
Oil pipes thrust into
the body of Nature.
Ogres sell children
for fucks.
Those are millstones,
not specks,
specks, venial—gossip, white lies, petty theft,
minor acts,
to rent our daily webs,
an irritant you can rub away
like a fly in your eye.

I can forgive my enemy
but I can't forget what he did.
Let’s fling those millstones
far out to sea
hang them round the necks of the evil ones
destroy no more.

Originally published in Terror House Magazine

MEDIC

When I was nine, babysitter Elsie
flipped on Medic right before bedtime,
excited to have someone watch it with her,
snack on homemade cookies and milk.

The show features a nine-year-old boy,
whisked in from an ambulance,
pale, even on black and white TV,
afflicted by a weird disease
that sounds like a pagan God
from Sunday School.
He dies on this program,
his mother sobs at the end.

Sit stiff as a gurney,
don’t eat Elsie’s cookies.
Ask what killed that boy.
"Oh, leukemia. No cure.
Not many get it,
but don’t worry, most don’t.
But ya never know.

Daily created good deeds
so I could fall asleep after I prayed:
“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
if I should die of leukemia
before I wake, I pray the Lord
my soul to take, ” until I got old enough,
realized it was just a TV show.
Relaxed until cousin Jane died from the disease.

I never let my young children
watch medical shows
until they were old enough
to switch the channel themselves.

Originally published in Terror House Magazine

I STILL HAVE A DREAM

It comes as a stark reminder in a text snapshot,
My infant grandson, sprawled smiling on the stone block in D.C.:
I HAVE A DREAM,
The great King’s legacy.
When I was born, there was no articulated dream.
Only the dream in the hearts of those who could not speak it.
The arrogant looks, beatings, shootings, lynchings.
My parents, unawares, could not dream.
Now, my son, the father of my grand boy, can dream.
He placed his wriggly son on that sun-drenched stone today.
Yes, Dr. King, my grandson may well walk hand and hand with your great grand- daughter.
Not for everyone yet.
But I still have a dream.

Originally published in Social Justice Poetry

BILLY THE KID IN HEAVEN

“The Kid is here,”
said Peter to Paul:
“A poor boy, never had a chance.
His life--chance.
Don’t you remember ours, Paul?
Your road to Damascus.
Me, the cock crowing, three times.”

Catherine, his mother,
moved to Wichita, hell town.
Raised Henry, battled TB,
died in New Mexico.
Her scalawag husband
fled to New Mexico
for gold and gamble.

Alone, Henry, fifteen,
stole butter to sell for food.
The Sherriff let him go.
Clothes to cover himself
from a Chinese laundry.
Land lady sent him to jail.
Escaped, one of many.

Couldn’t find a job,
fell into crime, rustling.
Pat Garrett arrested Billy,
escaped again.
Garrett chased him down,
shot him in the back.

People said—fine looking a young man
you ever met, winning smile,
good dancer, ladies’ man.

“Yes, he qualifies,” said Peter.
“He had a hard life.
I’ll be proud to know him.
Paul, put him in the line
with the forgiven
who never had a chance.”

Originally published by Lothlorien Journal

FOOLISH

TO BAUDELAIRE: Hypocritish reader— my fellow— my brother!

As a fifth grader I read a story
about the wind, sun, and traveler,
a battle for his will and heart.

The Wind boasted:
I can make him remove his coat.
The Sun laughed. The Wind blew hard.
The traveler wrapped his coat tighter.
The Wind sagged in the clouds,
red-faced and gasping.
The Sun smiled and smiled,
hotter and hotter.
The traveler removed his coat
and went on his merry way.
At ten years old, I asked the teacher:
Why did the wind think that would work?
She shrugged.

To think I can threaten others to change!

Looked into my heart. Do I do the same?
Does my bragging, my worldview
so consume me that I blow hard
like the foolish Wind?
Like the arrogant wolf, do I huff and puff,
try to knock the brick house down
only to plunge deep
into the boiling kettle of delusion?

Oh yes, dear reader
(thank you Baudelaire)
we do.

Originally published by Lothlorien Journal

BLUE ROCK

Once when the world was new,
too pristine for coin, nothing minted,
people gathered shells, stones,
bartered for necessities.

Flash forward to yesterday,
millions of years later.
We have money now,
love of it the root of all evil.

A little girl found a blue rock.
She thought it was pretty.
She rolled it around in her hand,
pretended it was a jewel,
a truly valuable jewel.

Came the sound of an ice cream truck.
Ding a ling, bring your money
and buy your joy.

The little girl proffered the blue rock.
She had no money.
The owner smiled down.

He became a small boy in his heart.

She wanted a cone.

He gave her a sundae.

She gave him the blue rock.

He offered it back.

Originally published Lothlorien Journal

RESPITE

What moment of pleasure
can surpass the joy
of a shower after the lawn cut.

At the moment the water
rinses the sweat,
who can want anything better?

Yet we know pleasure
follows closely who we are
at any one time in our life?

If famished, a sizzling steak
or crispy tofu would delight.

In bed as an old man,
snuggling with an old lady
versus a young buck with his doe.

The joy of a healthy child born
versus the tearful college goodbye.

A first house for a young wife
versus a homeless woman
driven to the street.

Blossoms for a stunning bride
versus flowers on a casket.

Pleasure is all
moment and circumstance
so blast the water and soak
in the joy of life.

Originally published by Lothlorien Journal

I’M DEAD NOW

It’s time for a little reflection.
He did not mean to shoot me.
He was just shooting
because he had a gun.
The bullet did not know
where it was going.
It did not have its own mind.
It was aimed or not,
but it hit something
and went my way.
I’m dead now
so my reflections
don’t mean much.

Originally published by Lothlorien Journal

THE GENERATIONAL PAST TIME

An old man, arms crossed,
watches his grandson in Farm League,
remembers thousands of hours
on district ball fields across his life,
Major League, Little League, Colt League
games with his sons,
his daughter’s softball,
years of coaching them
and other childrens'
beaming faces, crying (there is)—
slides, homeruns, doubles.
steals, triples, strikeouts,
singles, walks, shutouts.

Today, thirty years later,
he watches a grandson
on the same field
he coached his son
to a city championship,
an indelible memory
like the trophy
collecting dust in his office
until his son carries
it to his own home one day.

Watches his grandson,
no curve ball here,
a heater straight to the heart.

Originally published in Euphemism Magazine

VINTAGE

Old friends
sup on carry-out,
seldom cook any more,
uncork stories,
each a different vintage.

Alison, a dry wit.
Arthur, red with ire.
Rita, too sweet.
Rudy, a tart heart.

But they have drunk
enough love
to return again,
with a bottle of memories,
good till the end.

Originally Published in Euphemism Magazine

PARADOX

Cutting the lawn,
a bright Spring day.
Stepped into some fresh dog dookie.
Soft and squishy,
smell wafting into my cursing nostrils.
Got a stick, poor stick,
cleaned off the shoe.
Donned other old ones.
Revved up the engine,
odor rising from the roar.
Ran over a broken stalk of lilacs,
stink of bloom.
I cut on.

Originally Published in Euphemism Magazine

HARD CANDY

Life is like a delicious piece
of hard candy
popped in your mouth
and sucked and sucked
until it becomes smaller and smaller
as your teeth crack the last thin piece
and you swallow it at the end.

Originally Published on Mad Swirl

OLD FRIENDS AT THE BEACH

Roaring blue ocean,
the waves in and out
like God breathing.
Red toenails, green seaweed,
sea gulls, white caps lap white sand,
life guards, flapping warning flags,
while we who live in winter play
as the waves nip our joyful toes.
Hotels, like pyramids, staring at us,
always gazing, never changing.
Does the ocean look back at us too?
Are ocean shores in Heaven?
Do they mark the time we have left,
eternal, endless waves?

Originally Published on Fine Lines Magazine

FORTY-SEVEN AUTUMNS

ago our old Volvo trekked
toward the North Woods
for our honeymoon.

I lost the car keys,
delayed our passion,
left the salami and cheese gift
from your parents
at that gas station,
forgot the take-out ribs
at that fancy restaurant.

Holding hands still,
working through
the differences no marriage
can foresee.

Thanks for your forbearance
as we made it through
the ruts of our years
just as that Volvo
bounced through the ruts
in the road to the rustic cabin,
where you, dear wife,
slid cold feet out of bed
that first morning
to light the pot-bellied stove.

Originally published on Rat's Ass Review

MORE! MORE!

Once was a girl who slid on the ice
as if the ice were frozen wind.
Pink-cheeked and laughing
her plaid scarf wildly flapping,
whenever her shoes reached
sidewalk end, she would cry:
“More! More!”
as if the ice were Life.

Originally published on Rat's Ass Review

DECISION

Oh, the heroic pilgrims!,
who chose the Mayflower
when the Speedwell floundered,
off to a new world despite the danger.

Half the saints died that first winter,
but no one chose to return to England.
Instead they set shod feet on Plymouth,
believed God stormed them North,
believed God bequeathed the new land,
to have dominion over and flourish.

But other humans tilled the land,
hunted the pristine forests,
fished the teeming waters.

Given a choice to cooperate in peace,
our ancestors chose
the railroads over the buffalo,
the natives getting in the way.

Sent passenger cars to the herds,
shooting helpless creatures
from open windows,
leaving bodies to rot,
using nothing of value
as the natives preserved all.

Rail-crossed the nation.

Now we dignify our first people
by damning racist mascots,
keep natives the poorest among us.

Our cars cross those tracks—
dirt and iron—
on the way to prosperity.

Originally published in Poesis Magazine

BIRDSONG

I woke up this morning
when the birds sang.
The tweet and the trill,
the peep peep, the usual chirps.
God’s alarm clock.

But this one morning,
grating songs,
raucous sounds,
needling sharp notes,
obnoxious squacks
like never before.

Ran to the window,
squinted down the sun,
alert for the danger,
the disturbance
that would turn melody
into ear-covering noise,
an atonal avian symphony.

But there was no danger.
The birds had abandoned
their sweet songs—
annoying, threatening, cacophonous—
Keats’ nightmare, not nightingale.
The noise would have driven
the couple stark out of Eden.

The wren’s warble, a red-breasted song.
A caw is melodious,
even the bluejay’s screech
can be beautiful.

Oh, never take for granted
delightful bird song.

Originally published in Poesis Magazine

DEATH SPEAKS TO YOU

Sorry to intrude into your young world.
You may ignore me.
I am not sure why I am telling you this,
but Death does begin to speak to you
at a certain age,
probably different for everyone.
I am near 80, she, he, it—
Death has no persona
except what we invent—
mine a scythe wielding crone
with a hideous grin—
just starts to remind,
whispers in my ear
not all the time,
just at a dark corner,
at a crosswalk, 
at the top of the stairs,
any time of day or night
in dreams, daymares,
before the morning pills,
before I snap on
the electric blanket.

Death says
a bone pain here,
an ache there, 
what you did,
what you didn’t do,
a slight fever,
a newspaper article,
Facebook stab,
TV bray,
a small limp,
a sudden fall,
whispers, whispers,
perhaps nags. 
I suspect Death
will not stop
or go away
until we do.

Originally published in Stick Figure Magazine

LOVE FROM BOTH SIDES

She said: You don’t dream about someone
who died you don’t care about.

My daughter called me crying
from her apartment in LA,
sobbing because she dreamed
I had died at 80
that being a possibility,
but I feel quite healthy
and don’t see that bucket
swinging before me yet.

She said we laughed a lot.
We went to Dairy Queen
where I ordered a hamburger
but, walking down a hill,
I dropped it and it rolled
until we were rolling
on the ground with laughter.

Her brothers wouldn’t
talk about it in the dream.
That made her mad
and woke her up.
So she called me
and was laugh/sobbing
to hear my voice
and see my reassuring smile.
Glad I was alive.

So was I.
Glad to have this much love
as we were actually
talking on that other side
and I jabbered a lot,
which made it seem more real
because I do spout off
and that made me feel good
about this love from both sides.

Originally published in Rhodora Magazine