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

By Dianne Moritz

I could write the saddest poem.
War, terror, famine, bone-chilling
Cold seeping in through the cracks.

I see the saddest poem: words spilling
From your mouth, smooth as lies,
Those empty promises never kept.

Yes, I could write the saddest poem,
But for this - one lone bloom
Brightens the barren winter bush.

By Dianne Moritz

I could write the saddest poem.
War, terror, famine, bone-chilling
Cold seeping in through the cracks.

I see the saddest poem: words spilling
From your mouth, smooth as lies,
Those empty promises never kept.

Yes, I could write the saddest poem,
But for this - one lone bloom
Brightens the barren winter bush.

Cowboys and Indians
by Dianne Moritz

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

DEER CROSSING
by Dianne Moritz

Driving along Deerfield,
north to North Haven,
headlights catch glints
of a deer's eyes. He stops.
Leaps of freedom freeze
there in the brush.

On a return trip home,
one brown carcass lies
graveled on the shoulder,
****** head bent back,
mouth open, calling
warnings to the woods.

(for Mark Strand)

Salsa drips down my chin.
There is no gluttony like mine.
I have been eating Mexican.

The waiter does not believe what he sees.
His eyes are happy,
and he walks with one hand tucked in his vest.

The margaritas are finished.
The room is warm.
My date is walking from the bathroom now.

His mouth smiles,
His brown eyes blaze like jalapenos.
The friendly waiter begins to clear the plates and speaks.
He wants a generous tip.
When I get to my feet and hand him money,
he nods.

I am a new woman.
I say, “Gracias!” and I laugh.
I walk blissfully into the cool night.

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.

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

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.

JUST ANOTHER NIGHT OF COUNTRY DANCING                                                                
by Dianne Moritz

They come dressed like real dudes:
faded levis, tooled leather boots, silver
concha belts, hair slicked back under
cowboy hats, raring to Boot Scootin’ Boogie.

They sashay over, heels clacking on the wax
tongue-n-groove, offer out a callused hand,
swing you through the rowdy crowd, singing “Achy,
Breaky Heart,” confident they’ll soon break yours.

They lock you in a fierce embrace, glance down,
ask: So how’ve you been?, all the while checking
out the competition, lazy and loose with *****.
Shuffling left, instead of right, they stumble,

stomp your toes, clumsy with the latest dance
craze, then twirl you under their sweaty armpits,
sultry  air around heavy with  greasy smells:
French fries, onions, barbecue, burgers, beer.

They yammer on about themselves, casually blowing
lion-breath into your smiling face, as you plot your escape
to coincide with the guitar’s last twang, secretly
praying a tall, handsome stranger two-steps into view.

LETTING GO
by Dianne Moritz

Do you spit out words
as you might a bite of bruised apple?
Do you say: Today my dog died?  
Do you tell how you watched the light
fade from her soulful eyes,
nothing left but bones and soft fur?
Should you mention you cried out,
wanting to **** the messenger?  
Oh, how this longing hurts, sometimes
believing, hoping she will amble back
home, tail thumping, cold nose pressed
against your lonely hand....

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.

Mother’s Weeping Willow
by Dianne Moritz

Mother carefully snipped
a small, green cutting
from a friend’s lush yard,
set it to root in an old jam jar
on our kitchen window sill.

Us kids were intrigued,
as fragile shoots spouted,
buds of leaves unfurled,
like baby fists, opening
to streaming sunlight.

Sometime later, Mother
carried an elfin sapling
outside to our backyard,
placed it in the warm,
rich, fertile Iowa soil.

We watched in wonder,
watered & tended the tiny
tree, doubtful it would
survive the scorching
summers, harsh winters.

But we learned that Old
Mother Nature is shrewd,
and by summer’s end
our tree grew four feet,
as tall as me, and thrived.

How we loved that willow!
We’d hide beneath its boughs,
to read, nap, and daydream,
a safe haven, our spot
to plot our next adventure.

Mother’s Weeping Willow
is gone now, chopped down
for firewood; yet, it remains,
in memory, a testament to
life’s transient beauty….

HAPPY EARTH DAY!

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.