OLD MAN AND THE SEA

Our nation begins to attack fishing boats,
supposed drug dealers, fentanyl.
But these are fishermen, one old man
and his sons blown up. 
Venezuela sues us for murder.

 Suppose, a long time ago, an old man
was fishing from his skiff,
angling for one last marlin
one last big fish to validate his life,
to give himself something to do
as his time was waning.

 He caught a monster, 
talked to his fish, rued 
that he hooked the marlin.
Sympathized—so much regret, regret.
Thought of letting his trophy loose.

Then the plane flew overhead,
Instantly, this Hemingway was dead,
Not a drug dealer, just
an old man on his sea. 

Originally published in Ultramarine

LEARNING THE ROPES

When I was a special education teacher,
my foreman neighbor gave me a laborer’s job
building a local nuclear power plant.
Construction was a misnomer for me—
a grunt at best, I swept, carried boards,
picked up papers, mainly water cups .
Small in stature, I only carried one board at a time,
until the foreman shamed me into more.

The water coolers were oases.
Whenever possible, the men took a break,
shuffled over to a cooler, drew the water slowly,
sipped as if it were rare wine, threw all cups on the ground,
squashed them with a boot, ambled back
to their work station until their thirst
made them turtles again.

Praying for lunch-time to arrive—
a great sandwich and ice tea
from my loving wife, supportive
because a young marriage needed the paycheck.
Mostly I sat alone on a spot shaded
by a plank I had seen the others prop up
for a modicum of heat relief.

No work ethic, but a get-out-of-work ethic,
“You’re moving too fast,” spat several times at me.
Picking up paper that looked important,
a manta ray of a man, hovered and shouted
“Keep your goddamn hands off that iron worker’s paper.”

One of the few Black guys on the crew, an older man,
had a mop handle with a nail punched in the end,
which he used to slowly spear
the water cups thrown on the ground.
Naive, that first week, desperate
to fit in,  I made one of my own.
Proudly could not wait to show
the paper cup warrior I could assist him.
He smiled nicely and said:
“Them’s cups are mine, my job.
Had it for years, made it up myself.
About to retire so I am the only one allowed.”

Every Friday, the paycheck Lotto.
A grizzled vet spent the whole morning,
collected sawbucks to enter “paycheck poker”
where arbitrary numbers on the checks
cost you a bit or won you a ton of cash and honor.
Fridays were the easiest day.
Nobody worked and all speculated
about what they would do with their winnings.
It was the height of camaraderie.

I just listened, amazed that most said
they would buy the best whore,
as I  had already heard them diss
their crabby old ladies they were
glad they could still fuck.

.I made the mistake of telling them
I taught Sex Education to a mixed group.
It got me the only positive attention ever
as they peppered me with questions
about what I taught. Did I teach young girls
about orgasms, boys about gays?
Myriad other probes about a world
that was prurient and hilarious to them.

August ended and I left to teach,
glad to be away from the heat,
sweat, and frequent derision.
Fascinated by that alternative Hell.
Glad I made good money.

That Fall I heard the main building had burned down.
Ran into one  of the workers in a bar.
“Was arson,” he insisted,
"Definitely arson.  For the insurance."

Originally published in Bronze Bird

O, MACRINA

In Roman times when the church was fledgling,
babies were abandoned along the Appian Way.
While their keening parents kneeled,
soldiers pushed  them down drains by the hundreds,
mainly girls and the deformed and weak
until the church saw and responded.

In those days, the church lurched between helping the poor
or erecting church buildings and monuments.
It was not the brothers Gregory and Basil
who swept up these helpless infants.
It was their sister Macrina.

Praise you for your denial of a privileged life.
Praise you for attending famines
to rescue the poor when flesh hung like cobwebs,
for saving those girls and marshaling an army
of church mothers to do the same,
bring them home to raise.   

Now we treat immigrants like those road babies,
may we respond to Macrina's example. She  knew 
that Mary had raised a poor baby who was rejected
because he was not conceived the way he was supposed to be.

Originally published in Feed The Holy

VESPER

An angel decided to rescue an angel.
Evil humans capture angels,
neglect them and treat them cruelly—
so we have shelters for rescue.

Floated to a loving home, 
a little white cloud of a dog, 
named Vesper, as holy as an
evening prayer, a daily
answer for the angels
who found each other.

Originally published in Feed The Holy

TOTO BINGLEBONG

Have you ever wanted to die before your dog? Or just had the thought?
My sweet dog Butter is racing me in that direction.

The idea of losing her, of coming into the house not seeing those eyes
can be maddening, makes you try to erase your mind for a bit.

Recently, I saw a snippet in a magazine about our radical protest of the Vietnam war,
my mind’s eye saw him back then, a cock-a-poo, black mop, his shaggy self bounding, bouncing.

 Toto was a product of a bad break-up. The heart I crushed couldn’t  keep him around.
He was mostly hers, but became mine and on into the next girlfriend.

One afternoon he was hit by a car. No money for a vet but we took him anyway.
Vet said surgery, but it was touch and go. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

 8 am, 9 am, no call, the worst fears ruled. I called. “Oh, he’s just fine.” 
“Why didn’t you call me!“ I yelled, joy muting my anger.

 The second girlfriend and I split. The War raged on. Alone with Toto,
I even took him to a protest. Teargas in his little eyes.

 Yes, I was a young jerk who loved that dog, but could not take care of him well.
Or maybe I wanted to forget. An old lady who hoarded dogs in her trailer took him. 

I can’t put my hands over my mind. I still see that good-bye look.
So when Butter looks at me,  sometimes I see Toto Binglebong.

Originally published in Sybil Journal

AGNES

Terrified at my eighth grade graduation.
hands clammy, legs wobbly
walking down the center aisle
up to the stage, not sure I would make it.

Board stiff, first suit, first tie, black shoes.
Lined up by height, I was not shortest,
but I had to walk behind shorter Agnes.

She had some disease, had passed out
in class. Teacher said epilepsy,
a word we didn’t want to hear
after we saw here shaking on the floor.
But Agnes wanted to do the grad walk.
They picked me to be her guardian.
“You walk behind her and catch her.”

Down the aisle now, eyes glued
to Agnes’ back, her black hair
streaked with gray even at thirteen.

I was stiff as a rod.
One wag mocked me.
“Look at Frankenstein!”

My face turned from pale to red.
Watch, watch Agnes’ back.
Always watch someone else’s back.

Up short stairs, headed for the stage.
Agnes a slight trip. “Oh,God.”
She never fell. Teachers thanked me
for my bravery. Agnes graduated—
died at home the next week

Sometimes I see her
in my dreams.
She never falls.

Originally published in Tap Into Poetry

TAKING A BREAK

We all need a break.
A break from working,
a break from kids,
from our partners, 
from school, from God even.
You choose your break.
But can a break, break you?

A private, bored with the play, 
took a break to down a drink.
Left Abe at intermission
unguarded for a bit.

A novice telegraph operator 
took a walk under the beautiful
black, starry sky. Missed
the frantic Titanic signal.

Take a break?
A break can wreck
the whole world. 

Originally published in Academy Of Hearts And Minds

THE OTHER SIDE OF BELL

You think you know about Alexander Graham.
Like Sherlock, he freaked out his Watson.
Mr. Bell, who may have cheated
Elisha Gray out of the patent,
financed it himself when Western Union
withdrew their $100,000 offer.

He could not know of poles strung
across the world, the abandoned crosses
now rotting along the highways,
replaced by below ground cables
where no birds roost.

He did not know of iPhones.
Or know that dinner table
conversation would disappear.

He had no idea that hotlines
would connect countries
for nuclear reasons.

He hated the ringing, even refused
to have a phone in his own home.

Maybe he figured it out when
the irritating jiggling annoyed him,
interrupted his next invention.

Originally published in Red Fern Review

MOKA

My beloved dog, sweet, gentle rescue. A joyous walk every day,
sniffing, pawing, hunting, hurrying ahead. In the Spring, I need to be cautious.
Our fawn-colored dog, a killer. Voles, squirrels, baby rabbits.
I, the vigilant human, snatch back over and over just in time.
The leash prevents massacres, fur and blood flying.
A baby bunny rabbit, tiny, hidden under the leaves.
Sniff, sniff.  In a second, one scared, black shining eye,
in Moka’s mouth, stared right at me. Grab, gulp, gone.
Nature barks.

Originally published in Red Fern Review

CLASS-CONSCIOUS TOMATOES

The rich hoard all things Earth.
In the15th century this ripe,
juicy, red delicacy turned deadly
for the upper classes.
As they dined at fancy dinners,
the privileged avoided them
like the plague.

Not so the poor. The abundant
tomatoes enriched their fare
and helped their waifs bloom.
Was this some kind of heavenly justice—
God giving a hand up
to the broken and downtrodden?

The expensive pewter dishes,
metal mixing with the tomato acid,
produced the deadly poison.

The wooden plates of the poor
were safe as they squished
the delicious into their mouths
and were thankful.

Originally published in Rat's Ass Review

HAPPY AS A MUDLARK

I've said it. You've said it.
What does it mean?
Just a bird being happy?
Aren't all birds happy?
Mudlarks, robins, bluebirds.

In 18th century England , though, 
the unhappy poor struggled, 
doomed to a life of poverty, 
desperate for the family to eat daily.

They scoured the shores
of the murky Thames River.
It was their bank, grocery store.

Combed the beaches 
for every item that might
bring a coin or two, 
lumps of coal, scraps of metal,
pieces of cargo lost in wrecks.
Anything salvaged, fair game. 

A pitiable scene, women and girls
mostly, dirty aprons filled
with smut and bother,
hoped to sell anything.

But the local reports saw
who they called mudlarks 
differently, happy and smiling 
and grateful as they 
gathered their daily wares, 
rain or shine, mud or sand. 

In Chekov's play, 
The Cherry Orchard,
a serf named Anfisa
has a small scene.
She kneels in her tiny room,
beside her straw bed,

and thanks God 
for what she has,
while her masters pule
as their estate is sold.

Anfisa was a mudlark.
How easy should it be
for us, in our privilege,
to be mudlark happy too? 

Originally published in Feed The Holy

CINDER SCAR

Before I knew about girls,
I chased Suzie down the block,
speeding after her bicycle
and her flowing hair.
Caused me to turn too sharply
into an alley, skid and crash
and still have a cinder scar,
on my elbow, decades later.

Suzie escaped that time,
but beckoned and called me
in ways I did not understand,
until one evening, perched
on my bike outside her window,
she pulled up the shade,
pulled up her t-shirt
and exposed her breastless breasts
as I gasped and stared.

I never forgot that scar. 

Originally published in Brief Wilderness

STEP-MOTHER

When her eyes peer into the mirror,
they look for fairness,
always saw her the most fair.

Beauty is in the beholder’s eye,
beneath the arched brow,
lit by jealousy.

Years passed; Snow White died.
The same carved mirror reflects gray hair.
The books around read death.
Bending to sit on the throne, back curses.

Spring outside once again,
an awakening kiss, a nightmare.
Always Winter inside now.
Fair never there.
And now it is gone. 

Originally published in Brief Wilderness 

VIOLENCE IN THE CORN

We were radical hippies, 
loving  August sweet corn
on a sunny, hot day
in a flower-painted VW van,
common transport for our tribes.
 
I was the most radical among us.
Bill, keen but mild-mannered.
Steve, who later killed himself.
Sally, sitting Native American style,
nibbling the cob as yellow as her silken hair. 
 
Why would we debate violence over pristine
sweet corn on such a lovely day? 
My political words heat up
as we opine back and forth, 
munch, wipe our chins between salvos. 
 
Bill, who died too young of cancer,
opposed any form of killing.
Steve, divided in his opinions. Sally into the corn.
I argue for revolutionary violence like the character
in Conrad’s novel, Under Western Eyes,
despite knowing a bomb blew him up.
 
Loud, popping sounds startle us.
We rush outside to find,
to our horror, a young man
lying on his porch, bleeding.
An old man waves a gun, 
meanders down the sidewalk 
as if he were out dog walking. 
 
The ambulance, siren blasting,
arrives too late. My testimony
sends the old man to prison for years.
 
I’m an octogenarian now.
With the wall of the world
fast crumbling, Bill and Steve gone,
Sally whereabouts unknown,
I know what I believe about violence.

Originally published on Monterey Poetry Review

MAKE UP SEX

Isn’t this always a part of relationships?
Probably more times than we can count.
Unless, you are a couple who never fights,
never has a serious argument—
she to tears usually, he to anger—
now we’re talking about the impossible,
like getting along perfectly
with every family member and everyone
you knew across your entire life.

Yet the good times always intervene—
a child wins a school award,
an unexpected raise, you buy a new car,
any kind of good news, or just the ache
of wanting to be together.

So wild sex is one way of healing,
through passion where hot, sweaty bodies
roil and take over the mind.
Pleasure, the goddess Lethe of Forget.

But old age changes things,
doesn’t it? The arguments and fights
do not go away, but the libido does.

So, spontaneously, he says:
“Let’s go out for Chicago dogs!”
Silently, she just gets into the car.
Kosher dogs, mustard, onions,
Kosher dills, tomatoes
celery salt, on a poppy seed bun.
Skip the hot peppers at our age.

Originally published in Cajun Mutt Press

QUESTIONS FOR GOGOL

The human obsession with purpose is merely
A distraction from the absurdity of existence—Gogol

Dear Nikolai, you inspire me.
I love the way you write,
but I can’t figure you out.
How can one so weird become
so great, show keen insight,
make us laugh through “The Nose”
and weep wrapped in Akaky’s “The Overcoat?”
What a storied life, odd from childhood.

Absconded with your mother’s mortgage,
failed as a poet, in government,
conjured stories of devils and witches,
flopped as a Medieval professor,
faked toothaches, often absent
to hide your ignorance of that Age.
Wrote the “Inspector General,”
but left for Germany because
your critics hated or loved it
for all the wrong reasons.

Wrote famous”Dead Souls,”
to lead Russia back to God.
But religion choked your soul.
Father K. intoned: “Sinful author.”
You burned a second version of “Dead Souls.”
Punished yourself. Starved yourself to death.
Exhumed–face down in your casket.

Others—cut off an ear, knelt for hours in the snow,
fatally shot in a tavern, found dead in a gutter,
forced pills down their gullet,
a dress loaded with rocks to drown,
another chose not to drown at the last minute,
spouted Fascism until thrown into an asylum,
a head thrust in an oven, a gun blasted a face.
Constant turmoil, banned, exiled too.

What price genius?

Originally published in Cajun Mutt Press

THE CIRCUS TAP

My Dad once owned five taverns,
each with a different theme,
one with all kinds of stuffed and kewpie dogs;
one with white pillars like a Southern plantation;
one a Latin theme with a large
cardboard cut-out of the famous dancer
Carmen Miranda, tall and elegant
as she danced with a bowl of fruit
on her head, intact even during her exotic twirls;
one called the Little Club with no theme
but Country and Western music
where he captivated my down-home stepmother.

The one I remember the most
is the Circus Tap. Circus scenes,
clowns, elephants, a whip-flourishing ringmaster—
pictures covering the walls, the most striking
a garish painting of a lady riding a Bengal tiger,
with her flippant hand flashing
as much come-hither as her eyes.

My favorite part at the Tap—
the Wheel of Fortune.
Centered on the back wall
of the horseshoe-shaped bar,
a barkeep spun it at intervals because
each fake red leather-covered stool
had a corresponding number on it
and if the wheel stopped on your number
you got a free drink and some backslaps.

Always packed, particularly on weekends,
some patrons waiting against the wall
for a stool to open up. They spun the wheel
every fifteen minutes, giving the customers
the chance to buy more drinks
while waiting for the miracle–
there were fifty stools–
of the Wheel choosing them.

Decades later, I drove by those streets,
a memory lane trip with my brother,
our Dad mouldering in the grave.
All the bars were torn down,
the three blocks of glittering taverns
with their gambling dens and strippers
replaced by paint-faded warehouses,
the sidewalks festooned with weeds
struggling in the cracks as I
fought back memories’ tears.

Originally published in Cajun Mutt Press

COUSIN PHEE

Beautiful, lively Cousin Phee,
could have been cast
as Daisy in Gatsby,
introduced me to women’s lib
when I was a late teen
through the life you lived.

Married to a successful lawyer,
praised him so much
to us cousins, bathed in
your smile and spunk,
I definitely had a crush on you.

The marriage crashed,
lawyer Bill Freeman made his case
for Miss North Carolina,
on the outside a version of you,
but on the inside these scalawags
split your heart in two
pushed you into
penning your woes
which is how I got libbed.

Grieved when you sent me
your memoir about the divorce,
loved your decision to fight for betrayed women.
Heart-broken when you died of breast cancer,
a flower plucked too soon.

Read your book avidly and wept,
gratified to find you changed
your name from Freeman,
to Phyllis Freewoman,
your heart stab.

Originally published in Spindrift Magazine

CLIMATE CHANGE BEFORE ITS TIME

In 1977, arctic fronts slammed into Florida.
Newscasters reported the word snow for the first time.

School children raced wildly out of class rooms
to catch and taste the flakes with their tongues.

Radios played White Christmas even though
Christmas had passed the month before.

Miami got a trace that was never recorded.
Tampa got two tenths of an inch and shut down.

It was a time of joy—except for the farm workers,
tossed out of jobs like discarded, frozen tomatoes.

The North had huge snow drifts,
complained about the high price of tomatoes.

Salads had less color. Juicy red missing.
Some tables now little food. Stomachs growled.

Decades later, summery Autumn in the North,
belies vicious hurricanes in the Sunshine State.

Originally published in Spindrift Magazine

APPOINTMENTS IN HEAVEN

We’d see people
from  human history,
alive and able to love us back.
Oh, most everyone believes
they are going there
even if they are not
sure about God.
But in our secret heart,
a shadow of doubt.
We don’t really know.

I choose to be positive,
believe Heaven is real.
Not worried about who won’t or will.
Babies who died in famine
or witches burned at the stake will—
not the robed burners.

So people get there, live forever
with all our pet friends,
no pain or death.
No regrets? That’s a hard one.
Streets of gold, harps, angels, halos.
Or a restored, Edenic Earth.
World without End.

I know what I’ll do besides
weeping joy with  everyone I love—
embrace every day,
every hero I knew about,  many I didn’t.
A lot of wonderful common folk,
a blacksmith who squelched a fire,
a fire eater who charmed a deadly snake,
a dairy maid who resisted her master,
a postman who threw himself
under a car to save a child.

I’ll set up appointments.
Was my job on Earth,
good at being an amiable gadfly.

We would meet at coffee shops
serving dark brew
picked by unoppressed humans.
All take turns serving.

Meeting family and friends.
Who else?

Already started my list.
Dostoyevsky, Dr. Salk, Mother Teresa.
Gandhi, Mandela, Father Kolb, Clara Schumann,
the Carters, Charles Dickens, C.S. Lewis,
my down-the-block neighbors.
The list would go on for eternity.

A God who made elephants
and watermelons will surely
have good things for us to do.
There are other planets to be explored,
a kaleidoscopic, expanding universe.

Maybe I will write a great poem,
perhaps you the great World novel,
a symphony an undeaf Beethoven
will marvel over.
Grow the perfect orchid.
Bees everywhere.
Build and plant.
We can even share our lists. 

Originally published in Poets' Expresso Review