Monkey won't let go
with hand around unseen fruit
in *** tied to post
monkey is forever trapped
against his self interest

Standing in the dewy grass
I hope and pray that they will pass
But they may not
'stead come to stay

I know not
If I die this day

The Redcoats come a thousand strong
their battle line is wide and long
What's ordained
I can not say

I know not
If I die this day

We stand apart but look across
to the other line and toss
a look of nervousness
then pray

I know not
If I die this day

Commanders yell, Commanders bark
their orders all along the park
but then a shot rings out and in
the confusion, it begins

Standing 'cross an open field
neither of our lines will yield
one line of blue
the other gray

I know not
if I die this day

Often seems we've fought in vain
and 'long the march have caused much pain
I've left good comrades
along the way

I know not
If I die this day

My brother serves 'neath Mile's Flag
I serve beneath a diff'rent rag
and if I **** him
what's to say

I know not
If we'll die this day

Commanders bark, Commanders yell
and call us to the gates of hell
then all at once morn's silence splits
as men are shredded, torn to bits

My craft rocks gently through the sea
and towards the beach on which I'll be
to face a wall
and see Death play

I do think
I may die this day

"Keep your heads down" Sergeants call
as on us squalls of lead rain fall
some will succumb
and fall away

I do think
I may die this day

As we close on norman sand
to bear the brunt of Swastic hand
around me tough men
kneel and pray

I think that
I may die this day

Commanders shout, Commanders scream
and seconds turn to awful dream
then a bump and ramp unfolds
for many luck no longer holds

Desert sand fills hair and ears
It seems I've been at this for years
It's over now fore
Death holds sway

I know that
I will die this day

The day was normal as it could
we took precautions as we should
but life's one
IED away

I know that
I will die this day

Soon I'll be with others who
have given up their own lives too
for keeping our
home country's way

I know that
I will die this day

And through these fading eyes of mine
I see generations who've crossed that line
and as colors
fade to gray

I know that
I will die this day

All I feel are grains of sand
that arid winds wash 'cross my hands
what happens next
who's to say

I know now that
I die this day.

My pudding cup won't stand up
It can't support the weight of the spoon

When it's full of pudding it holds it up just fine
but when the delicious ballast is removed
and the spoon placed back in the cup
it tips over
like a small sailing boat
in the hands of an inexperienced crew

It's like the designer of the pudding cup
couldn't conceive of a time
when a spoon would be in the cup
without pudding

So the cup is clutched in hand
then emptied
and discarded like a husk
never to meet table again

and the spoon?
tossed in the sink with a wine glass
and an emptied bowl
until recently full of hot creamy clam chowder
and crunchy oyster crackers

still cradling it's spoon mind you

My pants had a hole in the pocket where I carry my keys
and

after a week of picking them up after they had slid down my leg to my right shoe

and another week of carrying them in my left pocket with my phone and glasses transferred to my right
they are too big to fit through the hole
I decided to sew the hole closed

To do this I bought a "sewing kit" at the supermarket
It contained thread, needles, a tape measure printed on tracing paper
that little wire loopy thing that helps you thread the needle
and a pair of ridiculous scissors.

The label "scissors" carries with it certain expectations
Cutting of course
and finger holes that actually fit your fingers

It's like when you order a hot dog
you expect a tube of meat in a longish bun
not a wilted salad between two stale rice cakes

The issue was that these "scissors"
met neither of those expectations
that one has when picking up scissors

They seemed to be stamped out of a new alloy
of aluminum foil
and mylar balloon

The "blades" didn't actually meet
and the holes for fingers
would present an obstacle for any escaping green pea

I did use them and finally
after some sawing
cut the thread

I was going to complain
but thought of who had probably made them
this pair of ridiculous scissors
and pictured

the child or man or woman
in a sweaty factory somewhere
probably hungry

They might work long hours
for meager wages
and

I sit in a comfortable life
and complain about ridiculous scissors

Calculating Route
Continue on current road
Continue on current road
Left turn in 1 point 5 miles
Left turn in 1 mile
Left turn in point 5 miles
Left turn
......
Calculating Route
When possible, make a legal u-turn

After two days of negative numbers
twenty two degrees
feels like spring

Christmas
is the christian holiday commemorating the birth of jesus christ in bethlehem
is a digital camera
is coming
is a digital camera
is a digital camera
is for giving
is a digital camera
is a digital camera
is a digital camera
is a time of love
is a digital camera
is a digital camera
is a digital camera
is a digital camera
is sharing
is a digital camera
is more than candle
is a digital camera
is a digital camera
is a digital camera
is broken

A tall man shakes hands with a shorter man.
No big deal.

But it is a big deal.
Years ago the shorter man bloodied the tall man's nose
when they were younger
after the shorter man had rebelled against his father
whom the tall man liked
because the father was his friend and
despite the terrible things the father did to his family
the tall man liked him
because the father did things for him.

When the shorter man rebelled and threw the father from his home
the tall man, much younger then, tried to throw the short man out
and return the house to his father
but when the tall man burst through the door full of youthful indignation,
the short man bloodied his nose, turned him around and threw him back out the door.

For over fifty years they lived next door to each other never speaking
but now
at the funeral of a mutual friend
they meet face to face
hands are joined
and a smile is exchanged.

A very big deal indeed.

I've always thought that there should be
A change in personality
At that time of year when the holidays come 'round.

There is a change that I observe
In parking lots as people swerve
Around each other to get a spot they've found

They swear, they scream they go insane
In cars with kids they yell out names
names that'd make a life-long sailor blush

their faces red, they pound the wheel
with two arms flailing and fist of steel
shopping in a frantic blur and rush

Then done they speed out in the night
causing other drivers to pause with fright
going home to dinner with family and friends

They all sit down and raise a glass
asking peace and harmony to last
and beg for prosperity that never ends

please bless these folks who have no clue
or think a smidge of what they do
and take your shopping trips defensively

For they know not that when they bluster
it's all the self control we can muster
not to laugh so hard at them we can not see.

Summer's webs remain behind.

They are tucked between an air conditioner
who is leaving for vacation on a shelf in the laundry room downstairs
and the window frame that faces a lonely winter
tucked out of view on a short wall staring at the pond next door
which has been emptied by this Autumn's drought.

And like that old mottled and greyed lace dress I saw hanging limply in a thrift shop once,
they speak of livelier times.

I tried
I really did
For the second time
I signed up
I logged in
I looked at the syllabus
I clicked "play" on the videos
and I watched

I watched as a group of students
and the teacher they admired tremendously
began talking about poetry
talking and talking
about each word
each and every god  ****** word
"what does it mean?"
"why did she use this word?"
Et cetera
Et cetera
Blah blah blah

and although I wanted to finish the course
this time
I could feel moments of my life
moments put to better use
hugging my wife
talking to a child at college
writing poetry
or
finishing that dragon head puppet that calls from my work table

being ****** away

I saw a grown-up tonight for the first time.

I had seen her before

Seen her born
after three days of trying
and wrapped
in a warm blanket with just her little face
poking out.

Seen the elation in her face
when she realized she had walked
from her mother
to me
for the first time without her toy shopping cart
in front of her
for support

Seen her first day nursery school
of kindergarten
of new schools in a new town
of High School
of College

Seen her stoically sitting in  my mother's chair
in the living room of the house where I had grown up
saying goodbye
to her grandmother
for one last time

Seen her arrive home with a learner's permit
then with a driver's license
and later
leave the driveway
in grandma's green Subaru
her's now.

Seen her grow for 18 years
but tonight
sitting across the table
at a packed restaurant with lousy parking
in Ithaca New York
I saw and heard a grown-up
for the first time
and with that
the little girl
with the toy shopping cart
was gone.

In a basement office
the thunderstorm is felt
not seen

If a man offers you water
without demand of recompense
and you are thirsty
do you look at the color of his skin?
do you ask what his politics are?
how he leans on an issue?
Or do you drink
full and deep?

Is it best
for your thoughts to become words
but pass from heart to mouth
instead of head to mouth
where the path runs
through brambled dark places
strung with webs
sticky from the pitch
of trepidation and uncertainty

Those yelling "FREEDOM"
So they can stay with the crowd
Are not truly free.

The Man was a man of a color they were afraid of
so they hated him already.
When he offered his hand so that they could walk together
down a new path, they chose another hand.
A hand from behind
from a dark path covered in the sharp thorns
of intolerance
of hate and fear
of lies and misleadings.
So they rejected the hand of The Man
and turning their backs on him
strode proudly into the dark
where their clothes and skin were torn
and cut.

Still The Man offered his hand
and a way out of the darkness
of the lies and intolerance
of the hate and misleading
of the fear...
But the hands from the dark kept a firm grip
and the voices of the blackness
called out to them and played upon their fears
of the new
of the different
of those who were not the same as them
and they kept walking backwards
into the dark.
....
....
....
finally...
when they had reached the deepest darkest bottom
and their clothing had been rendered from their bodies
and their skin was shredded and bleeding
and they had nothing left
they realized...

and they turned to look for The Man
but they couldn't see him
for they were in too deep
and had turned from him
when they had had the chance...
the chance to walk together with the rest of us
into the brightest of forwards.

There is perfection in the perfectly sauteed shrimp,
pink and plump and juicy.
Marinade clinging to the gentle curve of its back...
specks of lime zest and tarragon...
slide slowly down the sides,
a hint of tequila,
of honey
curls their way from pan...
to proboscis
and I smile.
Then...
gently with tongs...
turn them over....
...
...

Wrist knows first as warm sauce slides past, then mouth confirms, great barbecue.

Morning yawns and stretches across aged mountains.
It rolls over, pulling its blanket of mist over their shoulders
and wearily, yet steadily, opens it eyes.
It sighs with a breath that trembles the leaves on oaks and birches
and whispers its way through the countless needles of pines.
It wakens the birds who give song to its breath and announce the new day
to weary hikers, canoeists, climbers and shoppers
still nestled in their beds
still weary from yesterday's
adventures.

Two clay vases sit by my fireplace
recently discovered in their post move-in places
and relocated there.

One is small,
easily fitting into the palm,
and is covered with smokey brown lines
left by hair, lost during chemo,
placed on the vase while still hot from the kiln.

The other, large
filled with artificial roses
where once real ones burst from it's rim
and watched as people sat in wooden rows
remembering.

Both remind me of a lost one
someone who is no longer around
and yet, through fired pottery
is.

It's Friday,
and I used to look forward to this day...
when I was in school...
when I was at one or two of my non-retail jobs...
while I am at my current job.

Friday used to be the start of a break,
in the routine,
in the tasks at hand left behind until Monday.
we'll talk about her later

We bought a house recently
and after 20 years of rentals,
it is now our responsibility to
keep things up...
looking ship shape...
like someone who actually cares
lives here.

So now Friday no longer's the respite from the daily grind
but the start
of weekend work.

Tiny beaked alarms mark hawk's return to the steamy marsh for the night

As I sit here, at the dining room table and stare over decaf coffee at the screen on my Mac
my eyes are drawn, once and awhile, to the picture sitting on the buffet in the butler's pantry.
Before we continue you should know that "butler's pantry" in this case
means the "third bedroom" that we saw in the listing on Realtor dot com before we bought the house and that,
in the usual real estate-ese, is an optimistic label at best.

But I was talking about the picture.

The picture sits, slightly askew, in a carved wooden bowl given to us by my wife's boss
as a housewarming present.
It, the bowl I mean,  came with salad tongs or forks,
depending on what it is that you call them,
made of water buffalo horn.
They sit in the bowl too and,
although she'd never admit it,  
I know that the thought of serving salad with water buffalo horn salad forks...
lets just say.....
doesn't appeal to my wife.

Right, the picture....

It sits in on the buffet,
in the carved wooden bowl,
next to another wood bowl.
This one full of carved wood fruits and vegetables,
which evidently, includes sugar cane.
When my wife's dad moved from his house to an assisted living facility
the kids, my wife, her brother and sister, took turns going down to help him move.
My wife was the last and dad insisted that
someone
"had" to take the fruit.

But, the picture....

It, and the wooden bowls full of fruit and unused salad forks,
are surrounded by both faux and real glassware
and placemats
which all sit perched
on the top of the buffet as precariously as refugees
and all of their belongings
on the deck and roof of an overloaded fishing boat
chugging from their homeland
to some place that is hopefully better.

The picture...

It was painted by my father-in-law and,
of all the others we have in the house,
is one of my favorites.
It sits on the buffet, askew in the carved wooden bowl with the horn salad forks,
amid polycarbonate and glass drink ware,
and placemats,
unframed for some reason.
All of his other works came framed
but this is one he did not...
and did I mention that it is one of my favorites?

I like his choices of frames on all of the other pictures we have,
but this is just canvas, stretched over a frame,
sitting in that carved African wooden bowl
with those salad forks made from water buffalo horn
on the buffet next to the other wood bowl full of wooden fruits and vegetables,
and wooden sugar cane,
in the butler's pantry.

I think of mom often.
Like when I read anything by Jack London
or Ernest Thompson Seton.

Her memory swirls around me when I see a dead opossum by the roadside
it reminds me of the one we had as kids.
Yes, we had an opossum.
It wasn't a pet as much as it was a wounded soldier,
convalescing in a field hospital close to the front and cared for by Florence Nightingale,
except the field hospital was our carport under a suspended Old Towne wood canoe,
the battle, with a Ford or Chevrolet, on the main road near our house in Connecticut.
Florence was Mom.

She peeks at me around corners in the kitchen when I make fish,
or soup,
because I hated fish as a child.
She made us eat it because it was healthy and the blocks of frozen Turbot were cheap
and she was a single mom at forty two with three hungry mouths to feed.
She tried to make me think it was exotic because it came from Iceland.
I thought Turbot was Icelandic for "more bones in your mouth than you ever thought possible".
Mom was, however, an accomplished homemade souper.

She's by my side as I explain wild things
to other little wild things which hang on my every word.
Words put into my head which make it seem,
to the under four foot set,
that I know everything.
Knowledge put there by her in our yard,
by the lakes of New York, the mountains of West Virginia or deserts of California.
She is in every frog that jumps, whippoorwill that calls or each stalk of Jewel ****,
which is a cure for poison ivy by the way,
that grows near a stream in the woods.

But then today
as my daughter opened the overhead sunglass holder in her car for the first time,
the Subaru she inherited from Mom over a year ago,
and Grandma's sunglasses fell out,
there were no thoughts of lessons learned
or knowledge imparted.
Today,
I just thought of her.

It's just not a poem
said an old friend of mine
It can't be a poem
because there's no rhyme*
I tried to explain
sometimes there's a rhyme
or some kind of form
but more often there's not.

When I think about the Forth of July,
and I am right now because
a. it is the Fourth of July and
b. I am writing a poem that purports to be about the Fourth of July,
I struggle with it's icon, the one thing or picture or symbol that hangs over the day
like the patio umbrella I should have purchased
when I had the chance
for the deck out back where the temperature in the sun is over 100 degrees.

Sure, most of my bible-thumping, self-proclaimed patriot friends would say
The Flag.
The American Flag or Amurikin Flag...
actually the flag of the United States of America, because even though we seem to think that we are the only Americans,
we're not.

Some would say Fireworks.
In fact John Adams himself even said fireworks was an apt celebration for the Fourth.
I like fireworks...
Now that my daughter is old enough to sit through them without our needing to hurriedly pack up and run screaming from the field after the first launch.

I have one symbol for The Fourth.
Potato Salad
Yes, potato salad...actually non-specific potato salad.
It doesn't have to be a fancy recipe...like
German potato salad, which my mom made a great version of by the way,
or creamy potato salad,
or the Egg Potato Salad from the store here in town.
Just Potato Salad because the humble potato salad reminds us that
together is better than individual.
Mixed and sitting together over time brings harmony,
brings out the best in the combination,
the best of each individual.
Working together in the same bowl
is better than holding ourselves apart
in different little round-walled porcelain or glass fortresses
cut off from the rest
wondering why the potatoes have a bigger bowl,
who invited the cilantro,
or what the hell the bacon is doing here in the first place.

The persecutor feels
persecuted
because the persecuted
speak out

It seems to me that the smaller the monument
the more likely it is to survive
over time
to be passed over by water
or vandals
but with brevity comes the issue of remembrance

Over my father and mother
and dog Chipper
lie several rocks
just rocks without any label or ornamentation

Which begs the question
is a monument a monument if it bears no explanation
and the monument's creators have passed
and with them the knowledge of why it was placed?

I don't know if it's good or not
Numbers are all about context

Yesterday I passed 20,000 reads
in just under a year here at HelloPoetry
but is that good?
I don't know
I have no context

My most popular poem has over five hundred reads
My least, twenty seven
My first was about my daughter
The one that took me over twenty thousand was too

I guess I should just be happy
but that also requires context

I had to run to the store today at lunchtime
we were out of paper plates
we had a party last night
and didn't want to have to do dishes again

While there and while moving quite quickly
although in the shape I am in, "quickly" is being very kind to myself

I came across a man
In a blue blazer
with yellow shorts and
knee-high yellow socks
in beige shoes

My first thought was
I need to get paper plates
my father-in-law is waiting for his lunch
he's eighty nine and flew over the Pacific
during WWII in a PBY Catalina
one of the most beautiful flying boats ever created
pulling pilots out of the water
who had come up short in a dogfight
or of fuel
I needed to get paper plates

This isn't Bermuda old chap
or a cricket match in Rhoorkee
the british invented great campaign chairs there
this is Connecticut but then

I realized that I knew the man
I had worked with him in a previous life
in a long dead company
that burst before the internet bubble did
He was a former British Sergeant Major
and as such took his colonial British very seriously
that attitude fascinates me
his office I recalled, looked like a colonial governor's office in India

So I said hi
and we talked for a bit
and wished each other well
and said good bye
as I needed to get paper plates
my father-in-law was waiting for his lunch

Now that you're done
you're not
not really
actually you've not even started

Oh sure
you're done with the free part of your schooling
and with childhood
but take it from me, you can make childhood a skill to build a career on
but life as a big person
and I don't mean fat
is just starting
like in the movie Silverado
when Scott Glenn opens the door to his shack on a mountain
and sees the world before him
except you don't have to have a gunfight to get out
like he did
but that was just a movie and we are talking about your life
still that is a favorite movie of mine
So yes
your life is just beginning
and as much as it will hurt me when you go away and live it
I knew this day would come
that you would go
that our lives would forever be different
and mostly separate
I'm taking for granted that you'll be home for Thanksgiving and Christmas
just stay in touch
throw in an awful joke about the civil war and giraffes once in awhile for good measure
and after the "that was an awful joke" comments have faded

think of me
and smile

Oh

and don't forget to call your mom once in awhile or I''l hear about it.

Does a creek rock know
that it has been transported
from there to a distant here
then covered with paint
stationed to guard garden mulch
lest it escape to the lawn?

In a sunny spot resides a new bench.
It would be a perfect place to sit among the flowers
with children sitting at your feet
teaching them all that you know
about animals
about the great outdoors
from a time when they were experienced in person
not on the Discovery Channel
not on TV

You could read a book to them there too
like Wild Animals I Have Known
by Ernest Thompson Seaton
the naturalist.

You could sit quietly in the sunshine
and nurse an unfortunate animal back to health
like a Gecko
or turtle
or opossum

You could just sit
your Dunkin Doughnuts iced coffee in your hand
and take it all in
or let it all out
your choice.

But you never will do any of these things
on this bench in the sunny spot
among the plants
and flowers
and smooth river rocks painted in your honor
by the children to whom you are missed
because the bench is dedicated
with your name on it
in memory of you.

"plop" and tiny rings tell of a startled frog, small pond plants at wave's whim

Her work done, mom drags her shell back to pond, the crowd giving her wide berth

On Father's Day
I remember Dad
His practical jokes
His anger
His love
His temper
His laugh
His frustration at life
His creativity
and now
at 53
11 years older than he ever was
I understand

Before my morning eyes have opened
a chorus of birdsongs tells me
that after days of wet
the sun has pushed away the night
and finally replaced the wind and rain

It seemed a good idea at the time
the wide beam
protected by a wall on one side
another intersecting beam on the other
and composite decking above
a perfect place build a nest
to raise young
but now that the chill of spring
has given way to the warmth of summer....
many large feet beat the deck above
and slide furniture around
in a never ending thunderstorm.
Second thoughts perhaps?

Twenty is a number of perspective
To a kindergartner it is old
not "really old" like thirty
but still old.
To a man in his nineties
it might seem young, a long-ago-young
a time through which many of his friends,
Americans abroad,
didn't make it through.
Twenty dollars is a lot to a man
in an old coat
sitting on a bench in DuPont Circle
being handed a bag from CVS
containing a toothbrush
some soap and
new socks.
To a woman standing in line
at a Starbucks
glancing out the window to admire
her new Range Rover....
Twenty dollars is nothing
pocket change
she'll spend it here in this line
over the course of the day.
And what of me?
Of my perspective?
Twenty is measured in years
Hard ones
Not quite as hard ones (face it, it's never easy)
Years filled with laughter and watery eyes
Of jubilation and anguish
But years through which I can not imagine another path that I could have taken
to get here
to this point
this moment
with you.

Tangled in thick grass the young dragonfly, freed by a gentle gloved hand.

On the tree, dead Poison Ivy leaves reveal a vine that was missed

Morning sun catches slick legs, toes outstretched, frozen in warmth near surface

Post deluge, slick hoppers lay suspended, savoring fresh water

I used to read to you
in voices
as an actor would
the actor
and father that I was
in front of a child
and today
I read with you
both in voices
as two actors would
the actors
the father and daughter
that we are
infront of many children
full circle

"They may not bloom year one" she said yet, planted in a new yard they do.

Soon we will be apart
not for good
but still apart

That I will miss you
is a given

but we will see each other again
on a weekend or two
over vacations
holidays

it'll be different from here on out
this will not be your home base
yours will be yours
new
not ours

but at least we'll have
facebook
text messages
cell phones

so even though we won't be together
we also won't really be
apart

Eighteen
and after years at home
with mom
and dad
life truly begins
big changes
spreading wings
leaving the nest

and in the wake of these big changes
a mom and dad
stand at an open door
proud
a little sad
and
with arms around each other
watch
smiling
with tears on their cheeks
as their child
now an adult
takes flight

Tremble little polliwog
the pond's Great Bass is nigh.
and if he should to catch you up
you certainly will die

But wait, ahead some reeds so stiff
that should you wriggle in
could be as strong as prison bars
and protect from tooth and fin.

I saw a sticker on a car coming home from work this afternoon.
One of those "international ovals" that used to indicate a foreign country
like France, Switzerland or, if you believe the TV commercials,
Detroit.

Now they stand for everything from the local swim team
to the driver's favorite species of dog
although pinning it on the driver might be unfair
probably better to say the owner.

The sticker I saw today, and it was a sticker not a magnet,
it was stuck on the window,
was OLF and it made me miss mom more than yesterday,
Mother's Day, did.

OLF stands for Our Lady of Fatima, the local Catholic Church
and it was adorning an SUV of appropriate size and sticker price for these parts.
Mom always called Fatima, Saint Olaf's because everyone around here calls it OLF
so it wasn't her fault.

Every time I, or my wife, politely corrected her she'd reply,
"I know" and then promptly call it Olaf's ten minutes later.
So today waiting for the green light on the way home
a little sadness as St. Olaf's SUV reminded me of mom.

and
I laughed.