GRATEFUL FOR GENES

Raking up the damn infernal,
eternal leaves and grass
every year without fail
they fall on my heart, brain and breath,
can't even burn the dang things no more
so I do it to make my wife happy
wonder if I will still rake if she goes first
but, sweating and swearing,
now realize at 80 how many
I knew are under the ground
with the colored leaves on top,
red blood, yellow phlegm,
orange juice physic, purple splotches,
wonder if they can hear
the raking and the bitching,
or know how grateful I am
I can still do it at all,
don’t have to hire
a neighbor boy yet.

Originally published in Uppagus Magazine

TWISTED SISTER

Hey, sis, who I cried
so hard not to hate,
got the short end of too many sticks
broken by the men in the family
married a Jewish boy
flunked out of college together
his mom broke up the marriage
three abortions, failed
to tell dad who died of a sudden
heart attack, causing your massive guilt
dyed beautiful strawberry blond hair
until it looked like a broken bale
creative early childhood teacher
thrown away with addictions
two jobs—  first a dress store,
no paycheck, ran a bill up for garb
last job a telephone sales lady
fired for rampant body odor
married again, best pea soup on Earth
ravioli to think you were Italian
drank him out of the house
into an alimony shackle
hatred and denial his only luggage
moved near your brothers
lied faster than constant
emphysema-hacking breaths,
spiders and snakes spewed
from lips like the bad sister
in the fairy tale. No words of love
or pearls of wisdom versed
like the kind, good sister
angry and demanded care
for every immediate need
ran out of money, never
able to untwist pills, died
in permanent nursing home,
funeral more glad than sad.

Originally published in Cajun Mutt Press

MY WIFE IS ALWAYS SINGING

As if she were a bird in disguise.
she looks like the woman I married,
maybe a different kind of a bird now—
not a blue bird but a partridge—
older now, feathers graying
she still sings much of the day.

It was song that won my heart
when she played her guitar
and I first noticed her beauty,
her smile and her voice.
She usually sings in our kitchen now,
but songs all around the house
day and night, personal vespers
burst out with all the lyrics.

Saying she is a bit absent-minded
which indeed is true, a family chuckle,
she impeccably remembers all the lyrics
of those songs to me, our children, and God
which spring forth like bird rituals.

Now in old age, she still sings,
even as we read side by side.

I expect she will sing at her own funeral
before she nests and warbles forever.

Originally published in Green Silk Journal

HEAVENLY REFLECTIONS

I don't know if flowers go to Heaven.

Will poisonous Calla Lilies,
Irises, Tulips, Morning Glories,
grow in Heaven's Garden
beside Roses, Violets,
Zinnias and Sunflowers?

Which flowers will
shine their faces
towards the sun?

Does it matter
what they were?

Originally published in Piker Press

GHOST SHOOTER

Today, sitting in my bar,
I read about the Parkland shooting,
student desks tombstones.
I turn around, glance at the entrance,
a gunman, like a spectre, blasts in,
the room swims in blood, more shots blast off,
people scream, dive behind tables, fall to the floor.

I close my eyes, shake inside,
until my head clears, the vision retreats.
No ghost, no shooter.

In my long lifetime, I’ve felt safe,
unlike Hickok, never felt my back
couldn’t be turned from the door,
at sedate art galleries, myriad churches,
wild rock venues, raucous football games,
staid libraries, all my schools.

I slowly sip my drink,
peek around, the jukebox blares,
tinkling glasses and laughter.

Maybe somewhere else
that night, not a ghost.

Originally published in Piker Press

REVOLUTION

Yeah, Dad, damnit, why did you have to die so early,
just another way of abandoning me my shrink said
and you were really good at that, screwing me up.
You were so busy building your empire, papered
with bills and dames, you didn’t take much notice.

Yours, a hard life, had to drop out of school as a soph,
work crap jobs to support your scoundrel parents.
But you got straight A’s till then, were really bright,
could have been a college academic like me.

A loan from your addicted mother,
rich from taverns and race horses,
propelled you to a personal war on poverty.
toward cash and fillies galore, despite your background wives.

We didn’t talk much except sports;
you more an announcer than a father.
But now, looking back, I remember you read a lot,
big impressive books, you told me about sometimes.

Then one day you found I was reading way below my ability.
The Hammer came down. You were good at Hammer.
Brought home a fat paperback—Les Miserables by some French dude,
Victor Hugo, thrust at me and pronounced sentence:
“Every night after dinner, you read this for an hour.
Otherwise no phone calls with your friends. None.”

I would have argued if I were not afraid of you.
Took the tome in hand and slinked into my bitterness.
Then, my little war—“You can’t tell me to read this damn book!”
Sat in the bathroom after dinner, vent open to hide my smoking,
glared at that yellow paperback as if it were to blame—
cursed it, cursed you, cursed Hugo—but boredom won.

Picked it up finally, crushed by no choice, opened and read.
Like a curtain rising, Jean Valjean, Fantine, Cossette, Javert,
captured my mind and sent me into my revolution.
I could not put it down. I carried it everywhere, even got into trouble
in class for reading it instead of the assigned dullness.

Propelled me to be a literature major, get my Ph.D, teach Les Miz
and the wide wide world of books to others— Heart of Darkness,
Huckleberry Finn, Ivan Illyich, Catcher In The Rye—a library now.
Enthralled students were enticed, not forced to join those adventures
by a father who abandoned them but changed their lives.
 
You are long gone like Hugo, but both of you are still alive for me.
Sometimes you don’t know who someone is till you look back.

Originally Published in Poesis Magazine

HETTY AND DINAH

To Mary Ann Evans
Author of Adam Bede

Praise to you, Mary Ann Evans,
shame you had to call
yourself George,
Adam or Seth a better name?
No, a better name—
Mary Ann Evans.

Brilliant author, mirrored
the human race in those ladies,
born of different seeds,
Dinah, chosen by Heaven,
Hetty of the shallow heart,
infected with envy, covet.

You understood the world,
the way it allows natures
to bend or shine,
as if the naked Empress
rules the human race.

Originally Published in Poesis Magazine

FIDELITY

Psalm 27:20:
Death and Destruction are never satisfied,
and neither are the eyes of man.

Danger here, danger there,
danger everywhere
there are roving eyes.

Keep your eyes on hers.
Do not risk a glance.
Do not take a chance.
Do not watch the dance.
Keep your eyes on hers.

Keep your eyes on his.
Do not risk a glance.
Do not take a chance.
Do not watch the dance.
Keep your eyes on his.

Danger here, danger there,
danger everywhere
there are roving eyes.

Originally published in Poesis Magazine

WHAT DOES WATER HEAR?

Falls in sprinkles or violent storms,
runs in rivulets, streams, settles in ponds--
live or stagnant—rivers, seas, oceans--
does water listen?

What does it hear?

Parched cry of the ground.
Oasis prayer.
Rocks beg for smooth
erosion to eternity.
Human plea for quench.
Animals gulp, slurp.
Children splash in hose fun.
Smack of children’s water balloons.
Drip drip of the waiting faucet.
Flush we want and don’t want to hear.
Sound of waves on the shore’s lap,
breaks fiercely on the rocks.
Roar of falls, white water.
Whoosh of a whale’s spout.
Gentle showers on the evening garden.
Water exclaims into wine.
Sipping a cup of cold water saves a soul.

Water, water everywhere,
less and less to drink.

Listen with the water.

Originally Published in Spank The Carp

TO THE LADIES OF ILL REPUTE

There is no city like New Orleans.
Prisoners, bondservants, slaves
sent into swamps and hurricanes.
They threatened revolt
till France sent ninety
ladies of ill repute,
tended by Ursuline nuns
as marriage brokers,
calmed the city down,
thrust it into the pulsing
spicy stew it is now–
with Mardi Gras, cathedrals,
gators, ghost tours,
beignets, gumbo,
streetcar named Desire,
magnolias, Spanish Moss,
Willie Mae’s chicken,
Bananas Foster, turtle soup,
one-of-a-kind Dixie jazz,
Zydeco and Voodoo dreams.
Thanks To the ladies of ill repute—
I take my hat off.

Originally published in Mad Swirl

INVISIBLE MOTHER

I remember my mother disappeared slowly.
Once, a bit before she died, whispered that to me.
I hardly noticed, like the sweet poem she wrote,
lies, face down, in the back of my drawer. 

She sat silent at our loud-talking dinner table,
dominated by our sons, loquacious mother- in-law.
Now I understand as we become more ghostly,
move slowly into the background of our childrens’ lives,
when visits happen less frequently now,
as if we were furniture, present but never much used.

 Sometimes I see my children sitting around the table
laughing and joking, my wife and I passed on. 
No one notices as if we never existed. 

Once in a while I say hello to my mom’s picture
as I pass her in the hallway. Hello, I smile.
Thanks for inspiring this confessional  poem.

Originally published in Cactifur Magazine

THANKS TO THE PULSING NEWS

Every day spurting red
over our world.
Is it blood? 

It is blood.
If I did not see the blood
I would chew red meat,
quaff red wine,
don purple, gilded robes,
clothed in luxurious privilege. 

But News--you put the blood in my eye,
stir my blood to rage,
red on red. 

I will fight to the death,
mop up the blood of injustice,
never whitewash like Sawyer connived,
no trading of pocket doodads
for false hopes and panaceas,
nothing clever in what I do,
just grit and spit. 

News do not leave me alone
or let me forget--the blood.

Originally published in Cactifur Magazine

LURKER

On my daily walk
in my neighborhood,
cuddled houses,
trimmed, green lawns,
saluting soldier trees,
manicured flower beds,
my dog and I stroll
past a gnarled tree,
twisted, a runt,
bony fingers sky pointed, 
green moss dusted
on her wrinkled bark.
Misfit body.
A witch alive
in the burbs.

Originally published in Paper Crow

EYES LOCK

He said his wife wept
as they walked down the aisle
lined by beds at the Children’s Home
in Ethiopia, there to adopt.
Row after row of smiling or tearful faces.
Her eyes locked on those of a small child.
She turned to him and gushed:
“This is our daughter!” 

When my wife and I drove to Indiana
for a dog rescue, row after row
of cages with pleading eyes,
she said their eyes locked
and Butter became our precious pet.

Where would adoptees
end up if eyes had not locked?

 I say a prayer for the children
and the dogs who did not
lock eyes. 

Originally published in Rat's Ass Review

NEVER FRIENDS

Back in the Day, a hot redhead,
Pill—jumped us right into bed,
a first date kiss was a first date fuck.
Sex at first sight, first night screw.
Never friends, moaned and screamed
more than walked and talked.
Passionate for a few weeks,
then moved on until the next one
spied our libido—bang bang.
Years later we connected on Facebook,
exchanged our lives on email.

She said this:

“I finally got married,
to a really hot Middle Eastern man,
as passionate as it ever was,
but 17 years later, a nasty divorce,
don’t even speak to each other
except about our confused children.”

Never friends.

 In old age, now, try to fathom,
try to look back through
the wrong end of a telescope,
make everything smaller,
more clear, it dawns on me. 

Sex is wild fun. Friendship binds
and if we had to do it over again,
how about a dinner date,
walk and talk, a picnic, walk and talk,
in a bit, hold hands, together
some movies, popcorn,
an arm around the chair back,
in a bit, a peck on the cheek,
read some poetry together, a hug,
in a bit, lips, love your garden,
always walking and talking,
that stupid old courtship thing,
becoming friends, maybe
who knows, not both divorced,
sitting lonely, cities apart.

Originally published on Trash To Treasures

THAT STAR

Now eons in the past, 
Still shining brightly.
Not just for ancient shepherds,
Or wise men of old,
Or wicked Herod,
Or Mary and Joseph, 
Illuminating their stable nursery.
But for now
And in the future,
In the distance, 
We will see it.
Then the angels will come.
Not just to the young couple,
Or the shepherds,
Or the Magi, 
Or the evil king, 
But to all of us.
When that light is no longer
A single star,
But lightening
Splitting the sky, 
From East to West, 
When He returns.

Originally published in the Flying Dodo

FRANCES SCOTT KEY REFLECTS ON HIS STAR-SPANGLED BANNER

A Tribute to Colin Kaepernick

 Oh, say I can see by the dawn’s early light
that our nation won freedom at twilight’s last gleaming.
That we declared ourselves the land of the free
despite the millions of slaves we owned. 

Oh, say I can see as I stand so proudly,
a brave captive on this British deck
and watch the enemy bomb our fort and flag,
relentlessly pound our freedom into the ground.
I don’t notice the slaves that are swimming
desperately towards the British vessels,
don’t yet know that a thousand slaves
helped the Redcoats sack our Capitol,
hoping to escape from their American slavers
to the unknown shores of Canada,
believing that Northern freezing clime
will better suit them than our care
for the hirelings and slaves we believe    
satisfied with our Heaven-rescued land
than any place that has a king. 

Oh, say I can see the ignorance
of these people released from African tyranny,
as I opined, “a distinct and inferior race of people,
people who cannot take care of themselves “
if freed and are destined for ruin,
thus kindly I would send them back to Africa.

Oh, say, I see why I chose to lawyer
with my friend Chief Justice Roger Taney to forge
the Dred Scott decision because these ex-slaves
could not take care of themselves.

Oh, say I could not see the Civil War coming,
when my brave Southern states fought
to still enslave these threats to our privilege,
to oppress even after we lost the War,
destroy Reconstruction, fly Jim Crow,
idolize the Klan and keep waving
our Confederate flags right through
Civil Rights and killing King,
as the Party of Lincoln continues
to wave the flag and undermine every effort
to allow these centuries old, oppressed people
the freedom and dignity my anthem celebrated.

KEEP AMERICA GREAT FOREVER.

Colin took a knee.
Millions protest now.

Originally published in Trash to Treasure

BEATING HAWTHORNE TO IT

Herman Melville worked as many jobs as Colonel Sanders,
store and bank clerk, farm hand and teacher,
but none but the sea and whaling 
satisfied him into writing the popular Typee,
and other novels of the noble savage,
first rejected because the critics
said the tales couldn’t be true.

He wrote as deep as Moby Dick
when the white whale plunged, 
snatched Ahab’s leg and soul.

But fame swam off like the white beast,
flayed by British and American pundits,
sliced and stripped like a dead whale,
never to be enjoyed in his lifetime, 
his poetry and Billy Budd 
drowning in anonymity, 
Melville ended in a pauper’s death.

For thirty years, his masterpiece
lay in the shallows on a few library shelves 
until the great American scholar 
Carl Van Doren discovered his genius
and brought it to the shore of fame
where it will swim forever. 

When I get to Heaven,
I want to be the first to tell Melville
of his glory unless his best friend 
Hawthorne beats me to it. 

Originally published in Corvus Review

SANTA LIE

In Granny’s secure-as-cooking house, I wait eagerly
for the toys, too young to fret about socks,
know Santa’s red suit and white beard will soon appear
as the adults around the tree nudge expectations.

My younger brother and I don't miss Uncle Martin’s absence,
glue our eyes to the presents that seem to wiggle under the tree, 
impatient to toss their bows aside.

The buzz of small talk blasted by a hearty “Ho, Ho, Ho,“
my brother squeaks with joy like the mouse 
in The Night Before Christmas.

My squeal turns to horror when I see Santa’s beard.
SCOTCH TAPE!
“It’s Uncle Martin. He taped on his beard. 
He’s not Santa!”

My astonished father’s face turns to a scowl, turns to anger,
the piercing cries from my brother chasing Merry from the room.
 
Guilt and blame from the adults land on me—
Ruined Christmas for your little brother—
make me feel fiery coal and ashes of family addictions
before they were deposited like soot on our legacy.

Santa visited my children every year until
some kid at school said he wasn’t real
because a fat man couldn’t climb down the chimney.

We all laughed.

Originally published in Bindweed Magazine

THIEF’S REMORSE

When I was a pre-pub boy
and girls began to drive me crazy,
in eighth grade bloomed Elise,
a beautiful blonde every boy was mad about.

At Christmas we all vied to get her
a special present, outdo each other
as if that would make any difference
as we couldn’t compete against Joey,
the star basketball center, 
Elise hung off as he trudged the halls.

But I had it easy. With little allowance,
I was a petty thief snatching dime store doodads—
a rack of ballpoint pens, a set of pot holders
for Mother’s Day, multi-colored barrettes—
mostly trinkets for girls I had crushes on.

Until a lady saw me put lipstick
in my coat and said:
“If you put that back right now,
young man, I won’t turn you in.”
Like Peter Rabbit escaping McGregor,
I fled and stopped stealing for a bit.

But that was before Elise.
I had to get her something very special
to compete with the other losers.

My step-mother sighed when I asked
what was the best present for a woman.
Taboo, the perfume of the season.

Light fingers snached a big bottle
as quick as Santa’s wink
and hid it in my sock drawer
to wrap and give to my blonde fantasy.

For unknown reasons, my Father
went into my drawer and found the Taboo,
found the perfume stolen for Elise.

His eyes flared with his nostrils,
like a stallion who had been struck
“Where’d you get this expensive perfume!”

My stepmother Ruth rushed in,
an aghast look at the bottle.

I began to wail. Quick mind mine,
a combo of fear and and sugar plum thoughts
of Elise fleeing:
“Oh Dad, You spoiled the special present 
I saved up just for Ruth!” 

My Step-Mother wrapped
me up like a present, 
both apologizing over and over.

Ruth’s smile matched
the Christmas lights.

I never married Elise. 

Originally published in Bindweed Magazine