There’s no good men out there, Mamma says,
then yammers on ‘bout my dear Daddy who left us
for ***** and other women.  Never even phoned
once in those twenty-odd years before he dropped
dead of cirrhosis in a ****** downtown hotel.

There’s no good men out there.  Big Daddy
beat Gramma. Knocked a tooth out once, called
her “Dumb Swede,” ‘fore he ran off with a girl
of seventeen.  Then Andy who lied, spent Gram’s
job money.  Third one was a crotchety, mean drunk.  

There’s no good men out there.  Great Uncle Harvey-
never the same after the war.  Nothing but a dirt poor
farmer.  Strayed down to the gin mill most nights.  No
indoor plumbing, all those long winter nights racing out
to the old outhouse, dodging piles of chicken ****.

There’s no good men out there.  Sister used her long

string of them as good example:  potheads, speeders,

one musician, and that Mamma’s boy vet who hears

choppers overhead and needs five Jim Beam’s
for “medicinal purposes” ‘fore he can sleep nights.

There’s no good men out there.  Doctor made me recall
a few jokers of my own: G. who hated working, oh yeah,
and Rob with his 6 DUIs.  Surfer dude, Joe, high on fiberglass,
that well-heeled tight ***.  When Doc called my latest
nothing but an animated *****, I laughed so hard I ‘bout cried.

There’s no good men out there.  Seems like every gal I know
says there’s no good men out there, anywhere.  Maggie’s John
screws any babe who gives him a second glance.  Sue says her
Frankie might as well be mute. every man alive's a dumb ****.

But hey, all’s I need is one.

IT’S COME TO THIS                                                                                              
by Dianne Moritz

Once
she sipped daiquiris
by the pool
high above Hollywood
gazing down at the vista.
Eucalyptus
shade cooled
her soft, tanned skin
as she kissed his lips
under the California sun.
There
he made promises
to love her forever
and ever and ever
until the twelfth of never.
Today
she lives in the east
writing... remembering
dreams of long ago
when now was all
everything she wanted to know.

58,000
plus names carved in black granite
we must remember

Cowboys and Indians
by Dianne Moritz

We ambushed enemies,
killed and maimed,
releasing aggression
in childhood games.

INSTRUCTIONS TO A CAMERA*
By Dianne Moritz

Find good light,
perfect angles.
Blur your focus,
soften scars,
furrows of frowns,
deep crow’s feet.
Catch a dazzling
twinkle of mischief
in sunlit eyes, bright
smile on pouty lips.
Pause a moment.
Ready…
set...
click your shutter.

Published in “Today’s Little Ditty” May 23, 2019

Driving down Flying Point
Road today, I thought
of you and me winding
up Mount Tamalpais,
dust coating our happy lips.
I’d drape my thin arms
over your hard shoulders
and rush ahead moments:
nestling in pine shade,
deep joy echoing there.

GAMES OF HOPSCOTCH

In the days of innocence and Eisenhower,
most girls would play their games of hopscotch.
Jay-walking to a vacant lot across the street,
we’d kick away debris and bits of broken glass,
              
              scratch out our game-boards
              on rough cement with pieces
              of chalk snitched from school.

Like kangaroos, we’d hop, hop, hop, jump, hop
turn around, till sweat dripped down our rosy cheeks,
and our lips craved ice-cold cherry Cokes, grape
popsicles from Sweeny’s drugstore down the block.
              
               We’d skip off laughing, hand
               in hand, stepping over wide
               cracks, sparing our mothers’ backs.

               Just yesterday, I read the news:
               DOPE DEALERS BUSTED
               on my old street corner.  Bullets
               popped, brains and blood
               littered the black-top war zone.

               Now, trails of paint, white as lines
               of pure *******, mark the place
               dead bodies fell...down, down, down,
               all meandering toward the spot
               we girls once played our games
               of hopscotch...high on life.