I went to the squantum faire.
A handsome lad was there.
He admired my raven hair
And seemed to really care
So I began to share
More than I’d ever dare

He seemed like someone rare
My excitement hard to bear
We made a fulsome pair
Alas he was just a snare.

Today I sit and glare
And sometimes even swear
That I’d been made a mare
And Motley’s clothes must wear.
ljm

Forty year old rose bush in the garden
Pink bud called “Queen Elizabeth”
Tightly furled at ten A.M. - no trace of gold
I know lurks at the heart of all the petals.

Strolling by at one P.M.
The first soft petal has made its move
And the one beside is pondering
How soon it needs to break away.

Four P.M. and the outer petals
Form a blushing halo around the bud
And there begins to be perfume
That hot house roses never have.

Eight PM. and the Queen parades
In all her pink and golden glory
Fully flared to mark her presence
And delight my eyes as I pass by.
ljm

The grass is usually green
The sky is always blue
That’s irrefutable they say.
But then sometimes
The grass turns brown
And the sky is black
With storm clouds.

Deep inside we always know
The grass returns to green.
The sky will soon be blue again.
Identical to Married love
That tends to wax and wane
With the passing of the years
While the basis stays the same.
                         ljm

After all these years you ask if I still love you.
Are you afraid my heart will walk away?
Do you fear my mind seeks other pleasures?
Why would you doubt what should be evident.

My love for you is very indissoluble.  
It cannot end. It will not go away.
There is no way to break it. It will not wear out.
It will never fade in sunlight.  It is strong.
It will not shrink if washed in tears. It’s durable.

Passing time cannot erode the feelings that we share
Nor dim the memories we’ve made in sadness and in joy
Take comfort in these simple words: We’re gonna be all right.
There’s nothing that can damage us. We’re totally secure.
So put your doubts into my hands and let me mold them
Into something that will reassure you always.
            ljm

WHERE  ARE  YOU,  DAVID  HEWITT?

WE  MISS  YOUR  SENSITIVE  VIEW­  OF  THE  WORLD

AND  YOUR  ROLLICKING  SENSE  OF  HUMOR.

WHERE­  DID  YOU  GO?

                             please come back

please

                       come

                                                back

     ­                                                                 ­                                       ljm

I’m so sorry, Mrs. Ames.
You saw potential in me that
I didn’t know I had
And found the means to free me
From the cage of my upbringing
And launch me towards
The chance of greatness.  

I apologize, because I could not
Break the shackles of my Mother’s ire.
I set my goal to prove her wrong,
Searching in too many alleys,
Looking for a brighter light.

I know I let you down, Mrs. Ames;
I had a chance to climb a step or two-
But that ended up as not enough
And sideways seemed a better bet.

I was permanently wrong.
I live among the ruins I created,
Grieving for the hearts I  wounded,
Knowing I have no more time
To try to make things right
                 ljm

The drums of doom are echoing
Across the barren hillsides.
  Heavy carts on wheels of hatred
   Loaded high with steaming tubs of vitriol
    And the ugly trolls who brewed it,
     Are rolling down the twisted roads,
      Toward a city newly named Perdition,
       There to dance the Sarabande
        While flocks of screaming Peregrines
         Circle through the storm black clouds
          And all the shutters are nailed tight
           Against the wind that that rattles doors
            And augurs the millennium.
ljm

Do you all know how old I am?
If I tell you, will you run away?
Will you say that I am way too young
Or far too old and gray?

I see myself as middle aged
Some would tell me that’s a lie.
They’d tell me that the truth of age
Is really in the viewer’s eye.

I think it is a state of mind.
I’ve been around a while.
I’m not so young but I’m not old-
I say that with a smile.

I know a lot of useful things.
I know a lot of places.
I know how to make things work
And fill the empty spaces.

I can labor like a mule,
Or act like I’m the Queen.
I can charm the upper-crust
Or those who’s hands aren’t clean.

None of this depends on age,
It all depends on skill;
So don’t ask me how old I am-
I’m not over the hill.
                 ljm

Broken Biro on the street
(That’s an English ball point pen.)
Crushed by cars’ uncaring wheels
It’s ink a useless smear.

What words could that ink
Have produced on sheets
Of clean white paper
Guided by a poet’s hand.

Visions of fantastic lands
That beckon with their beauty.
Invitations to explore
Another way of thinking.

Broken Biro on the street
Was it thrown out on purpose-
Obsoleted by a phone
That puts its words into the clouds.
             ljm

One two three
Look at silly me
Try with all my might
Never get it right.
         ljm

Pretty girls get listened to
Fat old ladies are ignored

A lovely face will unlock doors
A homely face will find them closed

A shapely figure’s always noticed
A shapeless one’s invisible.

This is the way society works
Not even pretending to be fair

How do I know about these rules
I have lived by them - Three out of six.
ljm

Too sad to cry
Too weary to care
Too worn-out to try again

Too stubborn to quit
Too stupid to fall
To give up and call it a day

Too needy to give
Too loath to receive
Too desolate to have any hope

Too angry to smile
Too bashful to sing
Too depleted to ever recover

Too hungry for notice
Too often passed over
Too much like the papered wall

Too late to the party
Too far back in line for the prizes
Too early to be forced to leave.
                      ljm

A thousand tailors stitching in the darkness
Cutting grotesque patterns from the whole cloth
And fitting them to phantom saviors
Who are fat or thin depending on the day

They use colored threads and wishful thinking
That tends to break at awkward moments
Leaving a garment tenuously sturdy
Until the moment when it’s not

As waterproof as cotton candy
As close fitting as an id
As cost effective as a wedding
As colorful as oil on water.

The garments must all be delivered-
A shiny new one every sunset.
Tailors strive to meet their quotas
Such urgent need for what they make.

They must replace the fraying tatters
Spattered with the grime of loathing
captured from the filthy air
And the footprints etched in mud.

They must fill closets ever empty
Though FedEx comes by every night.
It’s Cinderella’s slipper syndrome
When the clock hands stand up straight.

Tailors with their bleeding fingers
Have no idea what they make
And who will wear it for what purpose.
That’s why they labor in the dark.
ljm

The Clock Eater loves the taste of fine time
Sauteed in juicy New York minutes and served
With seconds spiced with instants and moments.
He’s a founding member of the Clean Plate Club.

The Clock Eater does not wear a watch.
To him there is only this moment in time,
Like a freshly baked roll it’s aromatic
Impatiently waiting to be devoured.

The clock eater has an evil, hungry soul
And he hides in unexpected corners
Waiting for a precious leisure moment
To stuff into into his greedy face.

The Clock eater doesn’t often share
The banquet that is on his plate,
Perhaps a nibble now and then
To ease the other diner’s wait.
ljm

The weight of my anger grows too heavy to carry
I search for a place to at last lay it down
But there’s a steep wall  on my left, a sheer drop on my right
And those coming behind me behind me are pushing me on

My disappointment is as tall as a mountain
Big stone at the bottom I’m too weak to push up
I’ve worn out a groove on the road to the summit
And life carved a path for it on the way down

I once loved an SF writer named Harlan
His anger made mine seem like a mere whine
How I envied his command of the language
The words of his hatred set fire to the pages

His anger was TNT in a small package
The fuse so short it couldn’t be seen
The world around him resembled a matchbook
And Society always offered a light.

But that was a journey I took long ago
He strode into sunlight - I slipped into shadow
He never taught me to make bonfires of language
And I so wish I’d stayed til that lesson was learned.
ljm

I have a hideous secret
That I can never tell
It’s heavier than bundled lead
And I can’t put it down

It hides the sunrise in heavy clouds
Makes rainbows disappear
Makes me walk in muddy shoes
Across the spotless floors

It eats at me like hungry fleas
It’s hard to hide the welts
The music has gone out of tune
And poetry won’t scan

It stands before me like a bull
And I am dressed in red
It rumbles like a logging train
And I’m tied to the tracks

It rides me like a cowboy
Like I’m some broken horse
It digs its spurs into my side
And pulls the bit up hard

No Galahad will rescue me
I’m strictly on my own
I have to hoist it up each day
And stagger on alone

I’m crippled by the effort of
Protecting such a lie
That I can’t tell a single soul
Until the day I die.
                        ljm

Why search the world for a microphone
When there is nothing left to say
And no one left who wants to hear it?

    ljm

I knocked on the mansion door of life                                
And was told the servants entrance
Was downstairs, around the back.
And please vacate this entrance.
ljm

(BLT challenge: song titles from one singer)

This is the story of THE STRANGEST ROMANCE I ever encountered.
It didn’t involve me because I was then TOO YOUNG TO GO STEADY. I  hadn’t even purchased my FIRST FORMAL GOWN yet.  MOST PEOPLE GET MARRIED, under the ALLEGHENY MOON in this part of the country, but this couple said no to that. I kept telling them to GO ON WITH THE WEDDING, but they insisted it would be ANOTHER TIME, ANOTHER PLACE.  I then suggested OLD CAPE COD, but they said THE WALL has ears, and if anyone found out they were eloping, it would be GOODBYE CHARLIE. I told them to TRUST IN ME and I wasn’t FIBBIN’ when I said it.  They said: REPEAT AFTER ME: “I’LL  REMEMBER TODAY and keep your secret. I swear this on a CROSS OF GOLD”
Swearing on a gold cross made my heart go PIDDLY PATTER PATTER and I now felt like WITH MY EYES WIDE OPEN I’M DREAMING.  They told me to HUSH, HUSH SWEET CHARLOTTE, and to GO ON HOME.  
I had my Walk-man on, so I trudged home with THE SOUND OF MUSIC in my ears, but the walk seemed like TWO THOUSAND, TWO HUNDRED, TWENTY THREE MILES, and as I thought about their rejection of me,  I WISH I’D NEVER BEEN BORN.  Being brushed aside like that left me with A BROKEN HEART AND A PILLOW FILLED WITH TEARS.
EVERY TIME I think about that day, I want to throw MAMA FROM THE TRAIN for not letting me even go to their wedding when it finally happened.  I had kept their secret and told no one.  I’m proud of me.
                              ljm

All my paths are serpentines
That lead around in circles.
My destination is so far
I cannot see it in the haze
That eddies in my vision.

I planted hollyhocks and marigolds
In the garden of my dreams.
I had no way to water them;
They withered in the Summer sun.

I haven’t any more to lose.
I’ve given everything I have.
There’s nothing left but hopelessness
And waiting for the final end.
ljm

I swim a sea that has no shore or bottom
The North Star hides behind a cloudy sky
The winds increase with every passing moment.
The waves, once flat, are looming very high.

A jellyfish has stung me on the ankle.
My side is knotted in a painful cramp.
My arms are growing numb with endless flailing
And the clockwork of my mind has gotten damp.

Before the rust locks down all hope of thinking
I must tread salty water for a span;
Stop contemplating how I dumbly got here,
Somehow devise a working rescue plan.

Can hope be found amidst the desolation
Of knowing all the errors that I’ve made:
Believing I somehow could walk on water
It didn’t matter how my game was played.

Though I had several copies of the rule book
I never found the time to sit and read,
So I jumped in, expecting native cunning
To lift me to the top, where I would lead

Those lacking my superior perception
To places they had only dreamed about.
I’d be hailed and lauded as a savior-
Instead I only heard the fearful shout

Of those who swim behind me in an ocean
That shows no sign of coming to a beach-
That certainly will pull us down and drown us
As angry yells become a frightened screech.

The sea I swim that has no shore or bottom
Is really just my ego in disguise-
So big it blocked my vision and my hearing
Til only now, at last, I’ve heard the cries

Of hopes too waterlogged to keep on floating
Of soggy dreams that never can come true- more
Of efforts wasted training in a puddle-
Of agonizing clarity of view.

At last I’ve come to recognize this ocean.
I know what’s on the nonexistent shore.
It’s swim or sink so I keep stroking forward
Although there is no reason any more.

And though my strength is quickly disappearing,
There’s really nothing that I haven’t tried.
So I just flounder onward in my struggle
To somehow make it to the other side.

Knowing there is no one there to greet me-
Knowing there is nothing there at all-
Knowing that no miracle will save me-
No one will ever see the tears that fall

In vain attempt to expiate my folly;
To pay atonement for the things I’ve lost.
To somehow make my life not end up wasted-
To gain some value from it’s painful cost.

So left arm, right arm, kick, kick, kick.
I gain an inch and just as often lose one
The sea I swim that has no shore or bottom
Will take me with the rising of the sun.
ljm

SURVEY

They took a survey of the world
To see how it was doing
The end result was horrible-
It’s gone to wrack and ruin.

Nobody stops if you fall down
Unless you’re dressed up nice.
There is no help for homeless folk-
Respect comes at a price.

Rudeness is the latest trend.
Coarse language is the norm.
All signs of courtesy are gone
As life has changed its form.

We seek a way to monetize
Each ordinary thing.
If I lend hand to you
Cash registers must ring.

The bullets fly so fast and far
We don’t try to keep track,
Whether it’s a hundred kids
Or one shot in the back.

The old wild west has come again.
The cowboys now are cops.
They’ve beaten up so many guys
You wonder if it ever stops.

The kids are smoking Bubble Gum
If they’re not smoking crack.
The age for drinking starts at ten
And we can’t give their childhoods back.

What can we do if we can’t hide,
And have to face the fact
That we have truly ****** the world
And there can be no going back.

We’ll have to live with what we’ve done
And who we have become
If we could make a tiny change
It might not be so glum.

But that will never come to be
And I just sit and seethe
While waiting for that coming day
When there’s no air to breathe.
           ljm

A world where everyone waits their turn
And takes no more than their share
Does that make me a communist-
Call me that if you dare.
                   ljm

Being ***** is not a sin.
Staying ***** is.

In trepidation pain and angst
With three hitch-hikers on my back
All making progress difficult
And pushing writing off the track

With orders firmly in my mind
I pick up pen and go to work
I scribble letters on a page
Exactly like some office clerk.

I’ve monumental things to say
But they must only be in rhyme
That’s not my style....so i’ll just say
It will not happen at this time

So I will be the lesson dunce
Atop a stool in pointed cap
Because I couldn’t rhyme this once
And only turned in total crap
ljm

Whispers that morph into screeches
Disturb the strands that tenuously hold
The ragged edges of reality aloft
In storms of self recrimination and regret.

Slender stalks of rationality bend down
Beneath the weight of foolishness
Grown fat and heavy in indulgence
That is justified by cobwebs of desire.

The music in the background plays
On bagpipes and a penny-whistle band
While the conductor tries to turn them in
To violins and harpsichords, and fails.

A river jumps it’s muddy banks
And floods the playing field with muck
As strands and stalks give up their load
And it all falls to nothingness.
ljm

All alone on Christmas day
Oh, Boo Hoo, poor me
By myself in the mess I’ve made
Shed a tear for me

Wandering the empty halls
Who will bring me tea
Someone working without pay
On this Christmas day.

Wife and kid are far away
Having a wonderful time
I’m left here, lower lip stuck out
Determined to have my way.

I’ll stamp my foot and kick the wall
They must all bend to my will
Don’t say I’m wrong if you want your job
I'll kick you off the Hill.

All by myself - where are my gifts
Under the red Christmas tree?
Oh no, there are ten of them
Under which one could it be?

My pity comes in self-made waves
That I should be alone
And suffer for demands I’ve made
For things that can’t be done.

Oh Boo Hoo, feel bad for me
I’m sulking on T V.
I’ve ruined my day and you must pay
That’s how it’s going to be

I can’t admit that they are right
For that means I am wrong
And wrong is not a thing  I do
I’ve said that all along

So martyr-me will sulk and pout
And make the people pay
The price for leaving Donald Trump
Alone on Christmas Day.
                      ljm

The Good son died, a victim of fate.
The Other cashed in and created a state
That cost their father who loved them dearly
Everything….or just about nearly.
ljm

Five O’clock in the morning
And I’ve been crying for two hours
There is no ever after
The locked door has no key
The sun will rise to darkness
And I’m where I belong

I bought the knife that stabs me
Spent every dime I had
It looked so pretty in the case
I thought that I could cut a swath
Through all the strings that bound me
And at last be free to fly

It didn’t work that way
It cut the ties to all I love
And left me just the ragged edges
So now the fabric fades and frays
And will not make a parachute
To save me as I fall.
ljm

The darkness comes in gentle waves
Like a mournful sea at ebb tide.
It comes in wisps like smokey sighs
Wafting from a deserted fire.

The darkness seeps into the spirit
Like a leaking, unattended faucet.
It arrives in plain brown wrapping
Tied with twisted, knotted string.

The darkness sings a plaintive tune
That echos in the vastness.
It weaves a heavy coverlet
That blankets any hope of light.

The darkness didn’t have to be
Why ever did I let it in
ljm

Things aren’t where I put them anymore.
I so carefully write down where they belong
And place them neatly in their spot
But when I later reach for them
The spot is gone and so are they.

I stand embarrassed at the desk-
The meeting is next week and not today.
But this morning when I read my notes
It just said One O’clock and don’t be late.
I made an extra trip to get there.

How could I have missed the date.
If I had canceled as I’d planned,
They would have told me not today
And saved me driving across town
To end up crying in the car.

A and B are not connecting lately-
The thoughts that ought to follow on
Stay self contained and singular.
They never meet across the void
To form cohesion and make sense.

My best view is aftersight.
I see too late had I done this
It would have saved me doing that.
Double trips become the norm.
My cheek is sore from slapping it.

The little errors multiply
Until they form an oversite
And grow to a catastrophe
That coping cannot remedy
And there’s no way around it.

The dictionary lists all words
In alphabetic order.
My mental warehouse stacks them up
Behind a bunch of useless facts  
In places I can’t find them.

The names of places and old friends
Are locked up in the topmost cupboards
And everyone will have to wait
Until I climb a sturdy stool
And search around to find them.

One by one these glitches have no meaning.
Two-by-two, it’s just a stressful week
But three or four and every day
Portends a black fog rolling in
And I’m searching for a place to hide.
ljm

Desolation
All the should-haves stacked like prison walls
Make it impossible to see the sky
What was big is now too small and
Cannot hold the folly on it’s way to bury us.
Crippled by the scorch, it won’t be possible
To rearrange ourselves out of this crisis.

Desperation
Incapable of letting go the few nice things
That beautified our former lives,
We know the tide is rising and we will sink
Beneath the weight of all the detritus we clutch,
Paying triple for the privilege of watching
As we drown in bad decisions and remorse.

Depression
Midnight tears that vanish in the arid air,
Stifled sobs that can’t repair the breach
Or heal the wounded vision of tomorrow
That inches ever closer, in the waking hours
Once designated as the time for sleep
Now put to dreary use as time for weeping.

Denigration
Too pale for the blazing sun but briefly,
We cower in the no less burning shade
And guard the meagre treasures of our lifetime,
Heaped in unmarked cartons in the corner
Where they wait for designation to the dump
Or hauled off piecemeal to a resale place

Denouement
We could have seen that this would happen
And lanced the hoarder’s boil before it broke.
It would have been so less expensive
In the pocketbook and in the soul
But here we sit at midnight crying
As catastrophe knocks on the door.
                                        ljm

A low-flying squadron of Mourning Doves
Swooped over the neighbor’s ten-foot wall
And strafed me with their grace and beauty
                                            ljm

I’m told real poems always rhyme-
Anything else is drivel.
If we abide by that stern rule
Then real music can only be opera.

Real dance can only be ballet
And real paintings photographic.
Why is there so much latitude
In all the other art forms

And no acceptance for blank verse,
Even with fantastic formats,
Even if it makes you cry...
If there is no rhyme, it’s junk.

Everyone who does not rhyme
Quite probably can do it,
But they can write blank verse sublime
If you only leave them to it.
ljm

Standing atop the pile of ****
The’ve heaped on me for years,
I am not buried in it. Even
The soles of my warrier boots are clean.

My righteous coating still holds fast
And everything they throw at me
Richchets to land as notes
On their St. Peter score card.
       ljm

Playing near the giant
I thought it fun to pirouette
        And seem to stumble,
Hands thrown out
And thus be captured.

Oh the shrieks and moans
Til I decided it was time
To be set free, and tried
         To twist out of that grasp
That never once relented.
ljm

None of this will really matter
Building castles on the tide line
Lacing up the running shoes
Going through the motions of a life
Knowing it won’t mean a thing
In the final tally of the universe

Scratching marks on paper
Too stiff for use as **** wipes
And unwanted in any other place
Killing trees in order to not die alone
Wrapped in grief and
Sitting 3 feet from despair

The reach is just a bit too short
To push the final button.
       ljm

When words are often things to stumble on
And fly when touched to far away dark caverns
There is no witches broom to sweep
The sentence fragments into something sane.
                        ljm

DOWNPOUR

The rains came down in
The darkness before dawn.
Great thundering waterfalls
That beat tattoos on metal roofs
And sailed the gutter leaves like boats
In some fantastic competition
To make it to the storm drain first.

In this parched and arid state
It waked up sleepers with a start
Who rushed to roll up windows in the car.
And sent the teenaged paper boy
Rushing after plastic bags.
In thirty minutes it was gone
And you would never know it rained.

So thirsty is Nevada soil
That deluge never is enough.
The Monsoon didn’t come this year,
The floods all happened somewhere else,
And rocky landscape withers in the torrid sun
Trying to recall the **** feel
Of moisture seeping through its stones

And every drop is Holy Water.
ljm

The toilet roll is narrowed by at least an inch
The kleenex box is shorter too.
The tuna can is lighter by an ounce
And applesauce has followed suit.

They take some costly spices out-
Call it improved and new.
The fancy wrapper doesn’t hide
That this is only one big *****.

They want to keep the prices low
At least that’s what they say
It’s all to pad their bottom line
And we’re the ones to pay.

A stylist says that less is more-
That may be true with art
But when it comes to merchandise
It stabs you in the heart.

Nothing lasts past warranty-
It’s obsolete next week
There is no point repairing it
The bottom will still leak.

The Doctor has no time for you
His patient list is endless
Insurance pays him less and less
That’s why for tests he sends us.

We all complain and grumble on
But yet we pay their prices
We need to get a rumble on
And cut their scams in slices.

We need to knock upon their door
And bang upon their table
We need to stomp upon their floor
As hard as we are able.

Then maybe can size once again
Will fit the recipe
And we can live with things that fit
No matter what the fee.
ljm

My mother would have loved this house.
All she ever wanted was a fireplace -
And I have one that’s never held a fire.

She lived in what the rich would call a hovel.
It was clean but it was old and worn.
I have two stories and a chandelier.

She would have liked my upstairs guest room
And the elegant stairway leading there.
She would have reveled in the sun-filled aerie.

Would that I could give it all to her right now,
But she never lived to see this house,
To leave her essence in the air and walls.

She died without a fireplace of her own.
Because of that, I’ll never light the one included
In this house that far exceeds what I deserve.
                                ljm

I want my words back, Lord -
The ones you’ve locked
Up in the furthest corners
Of my wounded mind.

The ones I have to search
For endless seconds to discover
Hiding in the brambles and the fog
That renders me an imbecile.

I need to have my language back.
There are visions I must paint
In vocabulary’s medium
On the canvas of my life.

Please give me back my words again
I can’t go on while this bereft,
Not knowing what to call a flower
That I planted years ago.

So on my knees beseeching you
Unlock the vault that hides my words
And let me be who I once was
So I can find my way back home.
ljm

Pick-up sticks and ashes
All that’s left behind
When hurricanes and forrest fire
Have done their deadly work.

Broken people searching  through
The rubble that is left
Of happy hours in former lives,
Hoping to find a keepsake

Something that will tie them to
The place they used to live
And give them strength to persevere
And somehow build a life again.
ljm

Gaping, sponge-filled well of need
Proboscis longer than eternity
You’ve ****** the plumpness from my soul
And left a wrinkled, withered husk
Yet still you cry you’re thirsty.
                         ljm

Hollow days and painful nights
In the itching sweat of illness.
Photos of another life
In sunlit fields of memory
Are glued to scrapbook pages
And the book locked in the cupboard.
Broken teacup on the floor
Dropped or thrown - who knows.
The Ferris Wheel no longer turns
And the Hurdy Gurdy has gone silent.
Effort does not pay the rent
That ratchets ever upward.
Blood and tears are valueless
And the race is almost over.
         ljm