(wrote this a few years ago but it's even more relevant today)

Let’s face it; we don’t agree.
I don’t like you, and you don’t like me.
I think you’re a fool and your facts are wrong.
You think I’m a ****** plotting for a Red Dawn.
I think you’re a bigot and big hypocrite.
You think I’m know-it-all who doesn’t know ****.
I think you’ve never read a book by a scholar.
You think I never worked hard for a dollar.
I think your pundits' attacks are ad hominems--
you think I use those big words so I can condescend.
I wish we could debate, but we’d have to stick to facts--
facts get lost when someone always has to grind their axe.
Emotions tend to undermine a rational debate--
it’s hard to listen and to learn when what you like to do is hate.

I am Ma’am.
Ma’am I am.
And if I order
green eggs and ham
at the café,
you can say,
“We don’t serve that here,
Ma’am.”

Miss, I’m not.
I am not Miss.
That appellation
is a dis.
Take a look,
and you’ll see this:
I’m 53, not 18.
I may be older than I seem,
but my days of girlhood are long gone.
And to call me “Miss” would just be wrong.
So call me “Ma’am;” it’s what I am.
You might think “Miss” is hip or flip,
but if you call me that there’ll be no tip.

The DSM likes to label
everything that it is able:
If you think your temper’s bad
or ‘cause of troubles you are sad
or you defy the moral order,
remember that it’s a disorder.

Once we had the Seven Deadlies,
but now they’re only symptom medleys.
If people would take responsibility--
learn acceptance, and humility--
they might cure what’s made them ill.
The answer’s not found in a pill.

Disaster strikes and leaves its scars;
a sympathetic ear goes far
to help someone to heal from pain.
It might be a disease
when victims find there’s no surcease
from memories, from guilt that stains.
But time and talk could heal those scars.
Taking pills goes just so far.

It’s all genetic, so they claim.
But when you look at histories
of patients sad and suicidal
some things all seem to be the same:
A loss, abuse or child neglect;
much sorrow, guilt and pain abject.
Can it just be coincidental?
And if it’s a glitch that’s only chemical
why is the healing incremental?
Why aren’t patients all soon happy
when they take their magic pill?
I believe what makes us ill
is more than random


Pharmacology’s limitations
are seldom spoken to the patients.
A quick fix is what we’re sold,
the risks and chances we’re not told.

"My Muse"

Lovely is my muse;
my senses he delights.
Flirty is my muse;
my passion he ignites.
He's the inspiration
for my odes and for my rhymes,
my sonnets and ballads,
even limericks, at times.
Sometimes my muse is lonely
and he fills my heart with pity.
He teases and eludes me;
I must chase him through the city.
At times he disappoints me--
I turn heartbreak into verses.
Heartbreak turns to anger;
I revile my muse with curses.
Someday I’ll tell my muse
of all the poems he’s inspired,
and when inspiration fails me,
my muse, well, he’ll be fired!

I want to write a poem about Palestine
but I have no words.
The nouns are drenched in blood.
The verbs are obscene
and the adjectives unspeakable.
The sentences have no end
and there is no punctuation.
I am having trouble pronouncing
my own name.

Hills glow emerald
Grass embraces winter rain
Forgets summer drought

To eat or not to eat; that is the question.
A doughnut--******, airy--I’ll consume,
adjust my diet later to make room,
or falsely reject pastries’ sweet delight
while bingeing pasta deep into the night?
Doughnut, thou art satisfying; sweetly
filling morsel, savored now discreetly—
perhaps a little midday’s sugar craving
is better solaced, hunger I’ll be staving
off,  resisting better night time craves.
‘Tis better, easier to have the faves;
by portions small on calories I’ll save
and skip on other dishes that don’t taste
as sweet and crispy, but go straight to waist.

They’re just things, they said. They can be replaced.

30-year-old handwritten letters from friends.
Photos of a place that no longer exists.
The stuffed animal that had a name.
The quilt grandma sewed for me.

You have your memories, they said.

But my possessions were the keys to my  mind’s drawers.
My old life is locked away.
I can't see it now,
through the smoke and flames.
I can't smell it,
only the  poisonous odor of melting vinyl.
I can't hear it,
just the crackling and crashing of the trees.

You’re lucky to be alive, they said.

But I'm having trouble proving I'm alive.
I have no passport, drivers license or diploma.
No utility bill,  birth certificate, or computer hard drive.
No Social Security card.

Some have it worse than you, they said.

Some always have it worse.
I didn't lose a husband, mother or child.
Just my cats. I thought they would follow me out the door
but they ran in the other direction.
I try to think of them in the forest somewhere,
climbing trees, and
not as charred bones.

But
I have the car.
I still have the car. I will drive it far
far away
from here.

White crisp field, unbroken snow,
waits for gentle imprint
of boots, or bodies making angels.
Let’s go!

Follow me, to the edge of night,
beyond the day, to grey twilight.
Beyond the rules of right and wrong.

You came with me. We walked along
a wind-blown path to a hidden cave.
It was reckless,  but not brave.

Deep we went into the dusk
where we obeyed the law of lust.
But when we’d gone a bit too far,
the way back was dim; had I crossed the bar?

The  familiar became rearranged
in our walled-off space. You were strange.
Perspective changed in these dim rooms
(where even now your shadow looms).
I could come and go, but never leave.
In *******, I saw no reprieve

Years have passed since I saw you last.
Your memory is fading fast.
But lessons linger from a lust
that nearly turned my life to dust.

I want to know
your secret corridors,
your room of masks,
your hidden box.
I want to strip your wrappings,
untie the strings,
  learn all the numbers
of your combination locks.
I want to breathe your scent,
taste your bitterness,
feel the electric
of our lips’ touch.
I want to stroke your passion
while you hold my hand.
I  want you, want you…
so much.

How did it feel when your innocence dried up and blew away on the desert wind?
When you woke from unknowing, blissful sleep
to blistering heat,
acrid smoke and shattering cries?
I bet you wished you could go back to sleep--
the sleep you fell into from a lullaby of lies.
Righteous rhetoric repeated
over and over, soothing rhythms
as you were rocked by a firm hand.
In Iraq, when you took your command
you were unprepared, your men untrained.
Can you bear to think it was in vain?
Mission unclear, you had no guide, no plan.
Now your anger boils when you see the pain
of your brothers, broken in pieces, abandoned, ignored.
And when you tell your tale, your audience is bored.
They don’t, won’t, or can’t understand
the helpless fear, frustration, confusion,
the shots you ordered, the blood trail in the sand.
No more can you believe; you’ve been cheated, betrayed
by those you trusted, followed; those who said
We know what’s best, our decisions are made.
Now you cannot go back to your childish trust.
First steps taken in a foreign land, now a man,
you face the dawn, because you must.

I will not run from you, Fear.
I will stand still and stay right here.
Your yawning chasm of the unknown
is no more than a dark corner of my mind when I’m alone.
I choose to close my eyes and recall
what I’ve faced before, and how I did not fall.
And that I’m not alone, and never will be—
for lonely souls like me are plentiful,
and friendly.

Stop. Stay.
Don’t turn away.
Hear. Don’t fear.
Don’t fold.
Look bold.
Fate will grip
iron bars.
Hold.
Find your fire;
hike down back road.
Tell your tale
with song, with soul.

Last night, I wandered in a dream;
I wandered through a house of rooms.
I looked for you; you were not there;
I looked and looked–looked everywhere.

Some people sat in a living room.
“He isn’t here; he’s dead, you see;”
they tried to tell me. But I went on,
“I just saw him; it’s not been long!

From room to room, I opened doors,
but they were empty, every one.
Could it be their words were true?
In the hall I screamed–”WHERE ARE YOU?”

I woke up–you still aren’t here.
The grim truth, I’ve tried to keep at bay.
And my guardian angel–where is he?
I need him near me; did he flee?

Then I saw that someone said:
“There was someone we once knew, who’s dead.
Your angel would not believe ‘twas true.
We saw him screaming, “WHERE ARE YOU?””

Who are you? My angel?
Or just another tortured soul.
We share so many wounds within–
not my guardian; you’re my twin.

Roy Horn always favored big cats.
He put them in all of his acts.
But then Manticore,
who thought Roy was a bore,
said “Enough” and then Roy was just snacks.

I’m beyond the reach of what you see.
I’m past the breach of decency.
I wait and pace in gloomy alleys
as we count and number up the tallys.
I’ll drop a dime on the world wide web,
as justice and compassion ebb.
I’ll shout the truth for all to hear,
but where I am—it isn’t here.
My name is scarlet, black or white;
call me when it’s time to fight.
Just give the sign, when it’s time,
I’ll put aside my game of rhyme.
Tread in shadow, stalk by night,
Tyrant falls from the assassin’s bite.

I’ve a soft spot for you;
you press my tender button.
My heart’s a big furry teddy bear
with arms wide open.
I want to ruffle up your hair--what’s left of it.
Walk over here— my lap’s for you to sit.
Wait, you’re too heavy— I forget that you’re a man.
Perhaps I'll sit on top of you—
that's a better plan.
I’ve bought you dark chocolates-- treats for my sweet boy.
You’ve brought me red wine-- when I’m drunk, I am your toy.
Playtime’s fun; we can make or break the rules--
we’ll play House; we’ll play School.
We'll play all through our nap time, until the coffee's brewed.
We'll add some sprigs of wild thyme to our diabetic food.

(another re-post from Poetfreak)

Poet, weave your words
into a tapestry of desire.
Cross the warp of loneliness
against the weft of tenderness.
Fashion fabric of sweet caress
to keep us warm, awhile.

Poet, spin your wheel;
press the verbs and nouns
into a *** for our hopes and fears,
to catch the water of our tears,
to hold the memories of the years.
Fire a vessel of your renown.

Poet, strike the iron
into a blade so sharp and true.
Forge a sentence with raging heat,
measure a meter with rhythmic beat,
take words from the dictionary, or the street--
let the smoke of pretense go up the flue!

You’re so polite
and always on time.
Your smile is bright
and lunch is on your dime.
You’re thoughtful and smart--
so intellectually inclined.
I’m rough-edged,
and sometimes offend.
I’m moody and fiery;
I don’t like to pretend.
I might jump to conclusions;
I’d rather break than bend.
But if you were in trouble,
I’d be there on the double.
If trouble fell on me,
you’d tell me plainly
that you’ve got other obligations
to your job and your relations.
So this message I will send:
This friendship must end.
I’ve got no use
for a fair weather friend.

Your left knee is arthritic,
Your spine is warping too
Your reactions aren’t so quick
And you’re often in the loo,
But we cannot help you
Your time is simply due.
It’s normal for your age.

Your skin’s become quite dry
As well as your nether parts
Your outfit isn’t fly
And you’re far more prone to farts
But it’s been written in the cards
It’s been sung by many bards
It’s normal for your age.

You tell me it’s an illness
And you want it treated fast
I’m afraid it’s your willfulness
You weren’t designed to last
The diagnosis is that your youth is in the past
We won’t treat your condition; the die’s already cast.
It’s normal for your age.

I'm under the spell of your dark eyes' gaze,
your gray shaggy hair and your feral smile.
I'd rip off your clothes with my sharp front teeth--
come to my lair, and stay awhile.
The dogs follow me, 'cause they know I'm in heat,
but it's you I want, and I'm on the prowl.
The electric current sends a siren call--
I know where you are. I can hear you HOWL.
I run in the night, through the crowded dark street.
I run to the rhythm of the pounding hearts' beat,
to the edge of the cliff, where my love and I will meet.

She only wanted to walk freely,
or gallop through a valley
and feel the wind in her hair.
To camp by a stream and eat lembas
and wild roots.  Wander here and there
with Feanor’s sons, hunt wild boar, and drink
and laugh.
She would cast away the distaff.

But freedom for a woman can be a fragile thing,
beautiful and brief as a moth’s wing.
Eol, the Dark Elf, dwelt in shadow, in Nan Elmoth.
He saw Aredhel, alone and lost, and desired her, to betroth.

She had no choice
but to seek help at a stranger’s door.
And then she had choice no more.

Captivity breaks weaker hearts.
But Aredhel was Elven, and of Finwe’s line.
She bided time. She worked her womanly arts.
She raised a son, and loved him,
and told him stories of fair Gondolin.
When chance arrived, they broke free
and fled West, to the fair city.
Eol, enraged, pursued them,
and the words of Curufin stung him.
He would have killed his only son
for his defiance, but fate denied him
this pyrrhic victory.
Maeglin lived, and watched his father
die, as he stood by, free.

Maeglin—his father’s son—desired one
who loved him not. In reckless despair, he traveled too far,
and Morgoth preyed on his shame and desire.
It was not hard to turn Maeglin traitor and liar.
But no reward had Maeglin in this life--
never did he take fair Idril to wife.

Aredhel died to save her son, not knowing
he would be the one
to bring ruin on the Elven city.
Maeglin (his father’s son) had no kindness nor pity.  
He revealed the secret path
to Morgoth (his likeness in envy and in wrath).
And in the end, all fell: Gondolin, Nargothrond
and Doriath.

Little Red was a fast runner; she sped round the track with surprising velocity. Freddi Wolf was a newcomer, with size and intensity. "What big shoulders you have," said Red. "And you’re towering over me." "Don’t worry," said Freddi; "I’m just a girl who tries hard; you  could probably beat me". "Your legs are quite hairy," said Red. "I don’t shave them with frequency." "And your voice is so deep." "No more comments! Have decency."  They both ran very fast, but Wolf took the win. He bared his white fangs when he collected his trophy. But he quickly changed his expression to a sheepish grin.

A magic spell to undo fear.
A charm to make care disappear.
An invocation against desolation.
An elixir for agitation.
Just three words I swear are true–
to repeat three times–”I love you.”

In human form, only a man.
Yet, as I stand before you, I
see a Messenger of the Divine.
Struck dumb, I am at your command.
Take your pen, and with your hand,
write your name,
then etch it into stone.
Give me this token, so, as I travel this earth, alone,
(wherever I may roam)
I will remember that you are mortal
and frail, like me.
Though you serve as Messenger
of this Divinity.

This old house is a crumblin’ down
This old house is a tumblin’ down
The paint is peeling
water drips from the ceiling
and the foundation’s sinking
into the ground.

The wiring’s faulty and the floors have a tilt.
The ground it was built on was actually silt.
The basement has rats,
the attic’s got  bats
and the neighborhood’s ruled by feral cats.

The driveway needs paving;
just who will be saving
this rotten old house at the end of the road?

I’d build a new house if only I could.
If I could do it, you know I would.
But I can’t tear it down and begin again.
It’s my home and I'm here to the end.

Changeling, sprite,
loose-limbed motion
as you fly in the night.
Rub your wings together;
create a cascade of sound
that drenches our ears
as you fall to the ground.
Gossamer beauty,
so delicate yet strong--
Fold your wings around me;
I belong in your song.

I think of you in the eve and morn,
your beautiful face and aphrodisiac form.
But can it be you that I truly love?
Or are you a mask
for one I dare not think of?
The two of you have the same dark eyes,
and gentle souls. Are you a guise
for the hidden one whom I hold more dear?
Are you a shield against that which I fear?
Be it so. You’re a comfort to me,
so that I can have my fantasy, and,
reality.

Werewolf

I’ll trek through the woods and find a wolf pack.
I’ve got a simple strategy for a quick attack.
I’ll **** their Alpha and feed them deer;
I’ll become the new Alpha and I’ll rule through fear.

I’ll lead my pack with my bow and arrow.
We’ll eat the moose’s liver and **** the bones’ marrow.
We’ll hunt together by the cold moonlight.
I’ll plot the course of the season by the stars of the night.

We'll eat the flesh of those who dare come near
in the dark frigid dawn of the early New Year.
I’ll hunt down stragglers and set their bodies burning;
it’s survival of the fittest in this wicked world’s turning.

My dogs will howl at the moon by the edge of the cliff;
they’ll be the rhythm section while I play my riff.
Don’t come near us, don’t try to follow:
Steer clear of my pack, or you’ll have no tomorrow.



The Retort

So, you’ve got some silver bullets in your automatic Glock.
I hate to give bad news, and this might be a shock:
But I’ll take your silver bullets—
I’ll wear one as a pendant.
As for the rest of you—
they’ll only find a remnant.

Mating Season

I shed my human form, to meet you in the night.
We tread into our lair, within a limestone secret cave.
No one knows the site, except the watching grey-black owl.
We circle and we nip, with loving tender bite.
I smell your musky scent and hear your throaty growl.

Alpha Alpha pair, there are only two of us.
I’m the queen and you’re my knight
(but with no shining armor bright).
Instead, a coat of grey and white.

And when our rendezvous is done
we’ll greet the others at  the cliff
and all howl in unison.

Spring and summer, they come and go.
Then it’s the hell that waits for me below.
An arm? A leg? Which part is scheduled for torture?
Fair Demeter, where are you? Are you truly my mother?
The pomegranate seeds were bitter pills.
Supposedly something that would cure my ills.
But there’s a side effect for every cure,
and I know now I cannot endure
the months-long torture of a winter in hell.
And my future fate no seer can tell.

I enjoy these brief respites.
I live now for my pleasant visits
to sunny days and strawberries;
away from my torment, the dogs and ferries.

Found among Dad's things while cleaning out his condo. He died at the end of December:

EXHORTATION TO A TROPICAL FRUIT

Go
Mango!

AT THE HEALTH SPA

Virginia slims
Virginia's limbs

THE ULTIMATE CHALLENGE

The daredevil
Dared evil.

LEBANON

Malicious
Militias

THE HOSTESS AND THE BASKETBALL PLAYER

Julia serving
Julius Erving

The elixir was mixed.
The potion had been poured.
The candles were all burning.
Over the Book of Spells, I’d pored.
I handed you the goblet--
my commandment you ignored.
I intoned the incantation--
you sat and just looked bored.
I looked into the crystal ball
and told you of your fortune.
You disagreed—but how is this?
Of the two of us there’s only one
who is the sorceress.
Why did I paint the pentagram
and summon all the spirits?
I’ll have you know I’ll still be charging
my fee for all your visits.

Locked into place.
Orwell’s boot on our face.
The human tragedy.
The human disgrace.
We slept with the enemy;
accepted his embrace.
“Aren’t things better now?”
they say; and it can’t be denied–
some things are better.
But is the difference so wide?
“Isn’t it enough, what I do for you?
Do I have to be perfect, too?”
No one is perfect. And I have gratitude.
But I’m waiting, still waiting
for one thing from you:
Admit what’s been done,
by your kind (and yes, you)
Don’t pretend to be blind.
Admit what we gave.
And what you received.
Admit what you took.
And how we weren’t believed.
When you bear this witness,
When you testify
We’ll be friends forever,
You and I.

Deliver me, with magic spell,
with gliding bow and ringing bell,
from this dark and dreary mood so fell.

The clock counts its minutes and its hours;
we obey its rhythmic, ordered powers
in the prisons of our shining towers.

The clock is but an artifice
from a tyrant’s workshop’s abyss.
Time was made for more than this.

Count not the hours, but the beat,
tap it with your dancing feet,
clap it, sing it, in the street.

A flute of bone was made before
the timecard and the clock kept score.
Our forbears knew what time was for.

I’m a lone gunslinger
with a broken trigger finger.
I’m an old firefighter
with a gas can and a lighter.
I’m a spy undercover
with a double agent lover.
I’m the blind preacher
who has Satan for a teacher.
I’m the hangman
with a noose around my neck.
I’m the ship’s cat,
sunbathing on the deck.
The apocalypse is here
and we’re all going to heck.

Don’t nobody mess with Snow White.
I’m the Queen of the ‘hood, don’t give me a fight.
I’ve got Grumpy and his Kalshnikov.
Sneezy and his crew did the bank job.
***** meets the plane coming in at JFK,
with its cargo of smack, to bag and weigh.
Sleepy got busted, he’s doing time--
but he ain’t no snitch, so we’ll all be fine.
Happy’s my honey, as long as I got money--
I feed him some coke and he keeps my mood sunny.
Bashful’s the lookout, he stands on the corner.
Doc sews them up, saves them from the coroner.
I ain’t got no evil stepmother,
and if you mess with my crew you’re a stupid *******.

In the middle of the journey of your life
you had wandered from the straight path.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
and you took both of them.
You broke on through to the other side
but came back stateside pretty often.
Being lied about, you stopped lying.
From men and women you could sometimes require
the lineaments of gratified desire.
Clouds may wander, lonely,
but you’re pretty good at finding company.

In the last pandemic,
I fell in love with a sick person.
We didn’t stay 6 feet apart.
I pressed my head on his chest
and listened to his beating heart.
We shared our limbs and our breath,
and there was only one part
of him that threatened me with death.
I miss the days when we knew
what risks we were taking.
But we still  measure love that’s true
by what we are willing
to do and to not do.

Some say the world will end in fire;
some say in rain.
I’ve seen the world end
again and again.
I’ve heard the bell toll
and the raven talk.
I’ve walked to the end of the pier
and seen the boat crashed up on the rock.
But each time I arise,
I awake to face the dawn.
Because there’s always one more job to do,
while I whistle one more song.