There's a unique "Island of Lost
Poems" somewhere in Texas, tucked
away in a corner of an office,
actually on a desk in a poetry
editor's home. They are there: the
casualties...a handful of poems,
a small avalanche of chapbook
contest entries, submissions of
varying lengths from haiku to epic.
They got lost, separated from
their envelopes, no SASEs to
identify them, no names or
addresses on them. They rest
stranded in a topsy-turvy pile,
unread, untraceable, unclaimed.
In a day or two, they will be
tossed in a blue and white
recycling basket, and then
ultimately transported to a
shredder.

A question remains about these
exiled anonymous works as they
languish on the "island."

Who sired them?

One might wonder if there could be
a poem by the next e.e. cummings
or Bukowski or Nikki Giovanni
somewhere in that nameless
shapeless hill of hope, perhaps
a work of passion and politics -
a masterpiece penned in outrage
and alienation, a brave new "HOWL"
just waiting to become the first great
poetic anthem of the twenty-first century.

there is violence
at flash points south,
a time of marches and indignation,
of martyrdom and mayhem,
a young man tearfully eulogizing:
"i am tired of funerals,
i don't want no more funerals..."
and there is a war somewhere faraway
mushrooming on
a half-buried map

a friday in november.
a motorcade proceeds
under an endless texas sky,
then gunshots are fired -
there's a fleeting glimpse of death...
shock...distress...
time leaps and lapses,
reality struggles
while the brain chews fiction,
unwilling to process,
unable to comprehend

the widow's clothes change
from blood-stained pink
to somber black

she radiates dignity,
strength, character...
gliding into history
with her veiled grief,
her purposeful stride

we bow at such majesty,
such inner grace

we are transformed

the judges liked brianna, a tiny girl
from texas with the janis joplin rasp in
her  voice...the headstrong teen had
been on the road forever to get to the
"american idol" audition site in dallas.
the judges really liked her sunny girl-
next-door looks, her honey blonde
ponytail tied with a bright yellow
ribbon, her sweet, innocent smile,
and then she went on to wow them
with her soulful rendition of "me and
bobby magee." she thanked the judges
for giving her the green light to go on
to hollywood for the next big step in
the competition. she could not believe
her good fortune and told them
everything was truly possible and
how her family and jesus had brought
her to this magical moment.

...just seconds before she was called
into the audition room, she'd been
daydreaming about the fourteen-year-
old ****** boy she deflowered in a ford
focus the weekend before. it happened
in a mall parking lot just a mile from
her home. she was trying to remember
the boy's name: justin? jason? joshua?
something with a "j" and then - just like
that - someone was summoning her
into the judging area and she quickly
forgot about the boy. she had so many
things to contemplate now. stardom
was within her reach and, besides
that, what's in a name anyway?

Picture this.

Times Square on a sultry
afternoon in late June...

A fiftyish Lady Gaga wannabe
brazenly stands in the middle
of the block, a cowgirl hat
crowning her teased blonde head,
a guitar strung around her neck.

A performance street artist who
never performs, she wears a
sheer blouse featuring sagging
(almost) naked ******* dangling
just south of municipal
    decency standards.

Her short but shapely legs poke out
    of the shortest of short shorts
this side of a Coney Island boardwalk.

The heat is so oppressive, she removes
her hat. Her hair is the color
    of straw and
she has faded blue eyes misty with
melancholy, burdened with too much
mascara, her sad expression framed
in a halo of smoke.

As she puffs on a Marlboro, a
tourist stops to ask if she'll
pose with him for a photo. She
looks a little wobbly. He hands
her a dollar and she asks, "That's
all?" She looks directly into his
eyes, her fire engine red lips
break into a weak smile and she
sputters, "It's one buck per ***."
He hands her another dollar.
His friend takes the picture.
The tourist thanks the "Lady"
and heads down the block
just in time to catch his wife
swap spit with the
Naked Cowboy.

Welcome to New York City.

Drew was an artist who knew
That self-portraits were easy to do
She posed nearer and nearer
To her studio mirror
And it was there where Drew drew Drew

Her lilting voice,
sweet and soothing,
once moved audiences
to laughter and tears.
Now, at bedtime,
she hones her celebrated art
for her daughter's enjoyment,
regaling her with stories
of wizards and talking birds,
of princesses and castles
and magical visits to a
glittering fantasyland.

She tucks her child in
and listens to her prayer,
then sleep tiptoes
into the quiet room
as the little girl
turns over gently,
all her lovely dreams
just waiting to unfold
like a glorious sunrise.

She's charming, delightful,
A playful two-year-old -
Spunky, not spiteful,
A pleasure to behold -
Winsome and perky,
Pretty as a rose -
So why, when we're in public,
Must she always pick her nose?