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

MARCH MELTS

As I look out my window
at the falling, drifting snow,
some vestigial ice,
I know no matter
how fierce the wind blows
how loud the Lion—
March melts

When the King of Beasts cuffs
aside Cupid’s winter arrows of love
roars that Janus month into being
ignorant of the lamb he will lie near
when fully blown—
March melts.

When fierce storms pretend
Spring is just a young man's fancy
or the stuff of poems 
and winter covers the ground
as if a death blanket
Earth wrapped in forever—
March melts.

In Spring the buds
turn over in their beds
shut out the storm noise
cuddle with the Lamb
believe that—
March melts.

Fish stir beneath the tumult 
I string my poles
ice fishing in the rear mirror
blue sparkling lakes ahead—
March melts.

Originally published in Poets' Espresso Review

TO BOB KEARNEY

We were 16 and you drove
your dad's car, an old ’57 Chevy,
loaded our gang in,
up and down and around
our small town streets--waving
at girls crowded around
the Zesto Ice Cream Emporium,
where those summer beauties,
laughed and smiled, waved,
and sometimes gave us the finger.

A few decades ago, my wife and I
saw the Great Gatsby movie,
a sad and moving story
about Fitzgerald's wife.
Daisy was escaping, but had to stop
at a gas station where the Texaco man
sprinted out with a rag and filled it up
and the camera panned on
a gas tank reading: 29 cents.

The edge-of-their-seats audience
broke into hoots and guffaws,
as gas was over a dollar then
none of us knowing, like Scott,
and Zelda, that the price would shoot
sky high and higher and higher.

But one night, which I still
chuckle about Bob, your car
showed empty, empty, empty,

Tired of not enough smiles, winks,
and too many middle fingers,
you lurched the old car
into the Texaco, scraped
together 11 cents from our jeans,
and put in what we could.

Just enough to get us home
so that your Dad would
let us use the car next week,
leaving those young ladies,
waiting, waiting for our numerous
drive throughs and bys.
Hoping our meager coins,
which only gave the tank two fingers
would bring us around again.

Originally published in Down In The Dirt Magazine

GUMSHOE LIT

A view of Micky Spillane and my Dad

My Dad quit high school as a sophomore.
The Depression impoverished his family.
He was an A student, told a story
about how he found a wallet with $5 in it.
Despite what a boon it was,
returned it and got praise for reward.

Despite his incomplete education,
Dad devoured books and loved them.
When I was a teen, he insisted
I read Hugo’s Les Miserables
over my angst and protest.
I became a literature professor.

But among the book stacks
beside his bed, crouched Spillane.
After my dad died, I picked up
I, the Jury, one of a flurry of novels 
this tough-as-nails author’s
detective creation, the executing dick
Mike Hammer, reveled in. A perfect name 
for the way that gumshoe and my Dad
approached their hard-boiled lives. 

Sadly, later, when I found about my Dad’s
adultery and business chicanery, 
I wondered if the pull of Spillane
had turned that wallet-returning,
noble young man into a scalawag.

When Mickey said he didn't 
give a damn about critics’ opinions 
because more people ate
salted peanuts than caviar
and that none of his characters
drank cognac or sported mustaches
because he couldn't spell the words,
or that he didn't have fans but
a lot of customers because 
that should be the goal of writers,
I understood my father better and wept. 

Originally published on Rat's Ass Review

MERCY

If an active God exists,
“Forgive them for they know
not what they are doing,”
the greatest line ever spoken.
But if no God, those words
like BBs shot against
an iron-forged sky,
and the world ends
not with a trumpet,
but with a ping ping ping
and no mercy.

Originally published in Mad Swirl Magazine

DANIEL AND HIS ENEMIES

Scripture Reference: Daniel 3: 13-26 (NIV)

God shut the ravenous lions’ mouths.
Daniel slept, a sleep of faith.
Not so the King’s advisors.
The King stood over the den,
his brain fetid with confusion.

(Had he not seen the fourth man dancing
in the furnace flames,
seen those Israeli boys
unsinged, not a hair…)

He should have known that the lions’ jaws would
never rip and tear the man of vegetables and dreams.
Anger filled the King. He did not have to speak.
Shot his eyes at the guards. Without a word, they seized
those who said Daniel would not worship the King.
Threw the advisors and their wives and children to the jaws.
Daniel wept.

Originally published in Grey Sparrow Journal

WENDELL BERRY SAID

In his poem, How To Be A Poet,
Wendell Berry tells me to sit down and be quiet.
Let my mind breathe.
He lists everything I might bring--
affection, inspiration, patience,
growing older—and says we should doubt
any reader who likes our work.

 Write without air-conditioning.
Communicate slowly--there are only
sacred places, nothing unsacred,
but some desecrated places.  

I found it on a poetry site I read daily.
Am I the only one who read this Berry poem?
Perhaps if I were sick, I would have missed it.
Perhaps no one else in the world read it. 

How many of the eight billion people on Earth
read his intriguing poem today about how to wave
a magic wand and bring verse out of your head
or dross as the day may be?

 I will consider his words as I write
a poem today or tomorrow
strutting and fretting my hour upon the page
that perhaps no one will ever read 
or a few outside my family 
or some retired guy whiling
the time he has left,
honoring what was penned
so long ago.  

 Originally published in Penman Review

ONION MEMORIES

 My brother and I travelled to see our property,
our only inheritance. That land was the one thing
our wicked stepmother could not finagle.

 We go there ritually every summer
to look it over, see about repairs
as if we were truly businessmen,
not the artists we became.
We need to sign a new lease every five years,
protect the annual stipend for our children.

 It is now a tire repair business,
was a Standard Oil before
the tavern we lived in during our childhood
was torn down after Dad's heart attack.

 As we walk around the old building inspecting,
we look at the down-turned shopping center
behind the property, half empty now, and recall
when it was just onion fields as far as you can see,
and remember the almost naked and dirty
Mexican children who roamed all summer,
stacked the onions, coming by at dusk to play.

 I remember a young girl with no top on
though she was old enough for one,
her buds arousing me and my curiosity
about why her parents would allow that. 

 Our mother said they were farm workers,
forced to pick onions every year for a pittance
because they were so poor—cheap labor.

When I looked out on the dilapidated shopping mall, 
I realize they are either dead or perhaps
their children are immigrants many reject,
like the onions that rotted in the racks,
thrown away, wasted, so machines
pick and stack them now. 

Originally published in Lucky Lizard

BOSOM BUDDY

My seven-year-old grandson
is his own best friend.
Has many school buddies
but plays for hours
with his creative self—
art work, Star Wars structures,
films movies on his IPad,
imitates Michael Jackson dances—
never afraid to be alone.

In my childhood, I rode imaginary horses.
Smoky, my invisible steed,
wherever he would gallop.
Then, my green and white Schwinn—
named Los Cappacaros from a Western
about some cool bandits—
took me into my teens.

Imagination
as a  childhood playmate,
such a fine gift.

Originally published on Borderless Poetry

CATARACTS

As a generation ages,
the word cataracts enters
our elderly lexicon,
begin to use a word
we thought were waterfalls,
not the teardrops of dilation.
Kind of scary,
a knife in your eyes.
But dimness propels us
to visit a surgeon.

Those who have gone
before say: No problem,
Easy peasy, No fears.

As I sit in the office,
trying out the assurances,
my mind wanders to Uncle Pete,
who terrified me when I was a kid.
Thick ivory-colored, horn-like
protuberances covering
both eyes, a monster’s smile.

Family said Pete was blind.
He only sat and tapped his cane
for need of things or company.
I felt sorry for him, vowed
I would never be blind.

In the office, cataracts
pop into my head.
Pete had cataracts!
No surgery for him,
Just eternal darkness.

No longer afraid,
I was just plain grateful.
Smile when the nurse
calls my name.

Originally published in Stripes Magazine

BEE-LESS

On my patio, a single bee
dances among the spritely flowers
like an ardent ballerina, flicks
my memory back to my bee life.

Grandma yowling when a bee
lodged in her house shoe, stung.
Mom delighted me reading Chandler’s
tale of Br’er Fox, stung surprised 
at the The Laughing Place when
Br’er Rabbit tricked him into bashing
a hornet’s nest and skedaddling. 
Bees at picnics, making us crouch and swat.
Swarming when I cut the grass as a teen.
Eating honey with Shirley from a comb we found.
As a hippie, honey over sugar in our decaf tea,
praised bees for their healthy sweetness.

Now this single bee is joined
by another, a tango across the petals.
I watch lazily in the hot sun,
doze off, flew away as I dreamt.
Wake up suddenly. Hadn’t seen
many bees in a while. Not nostalgia. 
Terror. 

Originally published in Loch Raven Review

HAIR

Sitting with long, white hair
in my old age, no haircuts
during the pandemic,
I reflect on my hippie years.

Standing in the bathroom
of a Florida motel with my cronies
I looked in the mirror,
a crew cut stub fronted my forehead,
a little water matted it down.

Terrible time for the barbers,
I did not cut my hair for six years,
a badge of honor, like ladies
not shaving underarms and legs.

There was a war, a terrible war,
the youth of our nation
rebelling in every area of life.
Growing your hair long
or leaving your body hair on   
was a statement of protest
against those who wanted
body counts.

It was the Age of Aquarius.
A musical celebrated
those extended follicles.
And it was cool.

Originally published in Highland Park Poetry

ALEX JONES IN HELL

He was surprised, astounded.
His body stopped shaking.
His heart slowed down with his breathing.
He could not move from the spot
just inside the door he entered.
The room was magnificent.
Plush purple carpet, the walls and furniture
matching the decor. A magnificent
stuffed buck head was mounted on one wall,
antlers bristling, a huge bass on another wall,
a black and white photograph
of the tarpon he caught on another,
one picture of a nude femme.

He moved toward a refrigerator.
The finest wines and cheeses
with an embossed note in black letters.
WILL ALWAYS BE REPLENISHED VIA YOUR REQUESTS.

A stunning, beautiful room.
The comfortable couch, a pull-out bed.
A well-appointed bathroom on one side.
Elegant robes and pajamas hanging in the large closet.
Snug slippers. Another embossed note:
TELL US WHEN YOU WANT ANYTHING WASHED/CLEANED.
He surmised he would be there for a while.

Only one thing was strange.
There were TVs on every wall
but the one with the bathroom door,
large state-of-the art screens,
one in the bathroom too.

It took him a while to mentally adjust.
He was astounded, then curious.
In a while, he shed his clothes
for some shiny, grey pajamas,
a silky, black robe, soft, slippers.

Soon he was sipping a superb port wine,
nibbling on Gruyere with fancy crackers.
After a bit, he dozed off, wondering
if he could talk to someone, ask why
he was in such an  incredible environment.
He did not know how long he slept.

Suddenly, he was startled awake.
All the TVs  blared on—
the same program on each.
A Sandy Hook documentary.
He ran to a TV to shut off the sound—
it stayed loud.

He threw his wine glass at a screen,
only the wine glass broke,
red dripping on to the carpet.
Now he knew. Continually looped.
Forever.

Originally published in Mad Swirl Magazine

DIAMONDS AND GOLD

As a naive grad student 
crawling toward my PHD
during the turbulent 60's,
I was torn  between my desire
to tell students about great writers
and communicate my distress
over the Vietnam war.

 Young and unattached,
I noticed young women like Emmeline,
in my class as they chitter-chattered 
with friends about marriage and weddings.
And about rings. 
After one class just before midterms
I focused on Emmaline's
fat engagement ring 
and queried if she knew
where that stone came from.

 A quizzical look appeared on her face:
" It came from Maxwell's Jeweler's. 
My Uncle owns it." But I persisted:
"Where did the diamond come from?
Taken aback, she said:
"I don't know. It came from where 
all diamonds come from." 

 I wanted her to know about 
South African mines, 
mostly gold and diamonds 
deep in the bowels of the earth
where these men slaved
for ten months a year,
in horrid conditions, 
paid only a pittance, released
to their families two months a year,
trapped there for life times. 

 I harangued the poor girl
about the miners and their families
and their pain and suffering,
said it was immoral
to wear blood diamonds
and tarnished gold. 
You are supporting
the mine owners, evil men
equivalent to slave owners. 

 Emmeline began to sob.
I apologized, realized
what I had triggered.

The other young ladies
threw daggers at me.
I half expected to encounter
a raging parent soon.  

Years later, when I got married,
my wife and I exchanged 
her first wedding ring
for a couple of simple gold bands 
from the jeweler's "divorce box." 

 I don't think Emmeline took
her ring back and exchanged 
it for a plain gold band. 
Instead waltzed down the aisle 
in her custom-made wedding dress.

 I am an old man now.
South Africa is far away,  
I read recently the conditions
in the mines are much more humane. 
Emmeline now old enough 
to bequeath her ring to a daughter.

Originally published in Everscribe Magazine

POPCORN REVENGE

Most children learned of Squanto, the Wampanoag native who blessed
the starving settlers, gave lessons on growing corn(put a dead fish with each seed),
which saved so many those first sparse years.    

Most children never heard of Quadequine, who first put fire to that delicacy,
called it popped, parched or rice corn, shared with his new Pilgrim friends.

The amity disappeared. Standish, Bradford, Winslow, enjoyed that fare
while roasting their neighbors and stealing their land.

Postlude to Thanksgiving, prelude to genocide, over centuries. Natives killed
by the pop, pop, pop of guns that slew the buffalo, massacred the Nations.

Popcorn, the only snack Depression people could afford,
a snack for the down and out. Now 17 billion quarts a year
feasted on by mouths of poor and privileged alike.

Doubt Quadequine drizzled butter and salt all over the corn?
But later the offspring of those settlers chose to slather it,
exploding their own fat hearts, one bad habit in our obese history.

Originally published in Everscribe Magazine

OH SUSANN!

A reflection on Jacqueline Susann

Critics say you were an awful writer,
the queen of potboilers
with your specious Valley of the Dolls,
but there is a backstory.

A failed actress with a stormy marriage,
an institutionalized son, breast cancer— 
three times became NY Times number one,
sold the most books in publishing history,
birthed a movie of immense success.

After cancer discovered,
bargained with God to bestow
another decade and you believe
He granted you twelve years
to do what you promised before you died
from that dreadful disease at 56.

To you literary snobs,
as you assess the great works of art—
Novels; Dostoevsky, Dickens, Woolf,
Music: Bach, Beethoven, Clara Schumann, 
Art: Rembrandt, Goya, O’Keefe,
Poetry: Ovid, Shelley, Byron, Eliot—
a list as long as the imagination.

Who was the real Jacqueline?
A female writer who signed every copy
sold at every bookstore
in cities across the nation.
Wrote the name and address down
of every fan and sent them a personal thanks.
Even bought pastries to sweeten the lives
of all the unsung people behind the scenes
who labored to send those books into the world.
Jacqueline, your tragic characters
popped those uppers and downers,
the Dolls of your book
before they went
to the bottom of the Valley.

You were the real doll,
a sensitive woman
who cared about others.
Style be damned.

Oh, Susann--I cry for you.

Originally published in Off Course Magazine

SCRABBLE OR DEATH

Five old ladies, playing cards,
canasta and pinochle and spades.
One time my aunt slipped a deck
of nude cards into the game,
made my Grandmother and the ladies
titter and feign shock and disgust.
Would've thought their lives
were prim and pristine,
but we all knew better.

But that was a sidebar.
Scrabble was the main battlefield,
played for money, nickel a point.
Could get really steep.

Each got her own dictionary,
so heavy my teen self
had to carry them
in and out of the cars
to set up the match.

Every week the same results,
Grandma, Aunt, neighbor Marge,
Mrs. Balk and her daughter, Anne,
only missed if truly ill.

The inevitable always occurred,
particularly when close at the end.
One lady would play a strange word
she found in her own dictionary.
Dispute! Everyone grabbed her resource.
"It ain't in mine, Rose."
"Nor in mine," yelled  Anne.
"But it's in mine, “ cried Rose.
Back and forth.

Irreconcilable, the anger flared,
friendships and gossip on hold.
Some stomped out, even
left their tomes behind.

But an old friend would get sick,
someone they knew would die,
a pet would run away,
prices would rise,
and the old friends
would return to fight again.

"Za," my aunt would contend,
is not a word for pizza!"
"But it's in my book!”
said her mother.

A word among friends
can go either way.

Originally published in Off Course Magazine

UNSUNG HANGING: ELIZAVETA VORONYANSKAYA

In Communist Russia, the great Solzhenitsyn
who scratched THE GULAG ARCHIPELAGO,
on toilet paper in freezing Siberia,
was released and fled to the U.S.
where his iconic condemnation
was published and exposed
the Soviet tyranny to all
until Glasnost freed him
to speak the truth in freedom.
 
But back in Russia, an unsung woman
Elizaveta V., the unsung, hanged one
had transcribed every word of horror,
but wanted to stay in her homeland,
I surmise, chose to live with family.
Did not flee when he did, but swung—
she had typed every one of his words
and helped the others preserve the work.
 
What devil conjured a rope
strung around the neck
of a condemned human,
feet kicking, body twisting,
execution for a crime.
 
Did she know she had changed history
when the KGB strung her up
from her stairwell and
broke her neck?

Originally published in Rat's Ass Review