Eleven years ago, I was standing in
a field surrounded by towering
trees. As on many nights before, I
was taking my dog Scotty for a walk,
and then letting him run loose for a short
time. This particular night he seemed
anxious, restless. He began to howl - a
bloodcurdling, evil bark that shattered
the stillness on that crisp autumn evening.
He seemed to be responding to something
only he could sense and then there was
an enormous floating cloud, a sort of heavy
mist that filled the atmosphere quickly.
Suddenly a spaceship with blinking green
and yellow lights materialized and landed
not so far from where we were. I lost sight
of the dog, just heard him barking wildly in
the distance. A door opened on the spaceship
and a steel gray robotic creature with one red
eye in the middle of its head stepped out. It
was brandishing a silver sword and it was
then when the entire field became engulfed
in  an overwhelming darkness.

I was in shock and started to run.
Somehow, even with all this terror
and confusion, I made it home.
Breathless, anxious, fearful, I told
my wife what I'd seen and heard.
She approached me, grabbed my
trembling locked fist, and pried it
open; Scotty's leash fell soundlessly
on the rug. Startled and sobbing,
she shrieked, "Where's Scotty?
What happened to Scotty?"

I had no answer then.

Or now.

Her name was Nanette -
        A student from France
Who wore red blouses
        And **** red pants

She wanted to check out
        The U.S. of A.
So a couple with twins
        Hired her right away

The twins had their own
        Ideas for fun
They loved Disney World
        Their place in the sun

They frolicked on rides,
        Ate hot dogs galore,
Loved parades, Mickey Mouse,
        Fireworks, and more

But Nanette's heart wasn't in it
        The job was no fun
She had no real interest
        In tending to the young

Nothing could cheer up
        This nanny from Paree
She'd rather read tabloids
        Than watch twins under three

She clearly preferred
        The company of guys
With muscles, tattoos,
        And Jello shots on the side

The guys were bad boys
        Completely entranced
By the Parisian charmer
        And her flair for romance

But the parents were upset
        With her profligate passion
They decided to dismiss her
        In a daring fashion

They took her to the
        Tower of Terror one day
And left her shrieking
        As they ran away

And that was the last time
        They ever caught sight
Of that naughty Nanette
        From the City of Light

children dream
in peaceful slumber
no monster intrudes
on their gentle breathing -
as soft    as delicate
as their first prayer

           but somewhere
           some unfathomable nightmare
           will soon spread over the landscape
           watching
           waiting
           hovering

           impatient
           for this innocent night
           to end

late morning
we're asleep
the phone rings

i hand it to her
she tells me
it's the drugstore
her prescription's ready

later i'll remember
her voice sounding
a little weary
but there's
no pain there
no urgency
yet there's something
not right
about her voice
something disembodied
something lost

a little later
when i wake up again
she's facing me
her eyes are shut

the silence is overwhelming

i say her name
there's no response

i scream her name
nothing happens

i touch her arm
she's warm
but her eyes remain closed
her hands remain still

i phone our daughter
she says call 9-1-1
9-1-1 tells me what to do
i do what they say
then rescue people show up
and take over
then they rush her
to the hospital

our daughter
who has just arrived
drives me there

we go inside
but we don't want to

we don't want to hear what we already know

her mother called her
a textbook virgo,
levelheaded, organized,
practical

and every spare moment she had
was spent writing

most of it was hopeful...
possibilities outlined neatly
on elite paper stock -
serious poems to be
submitted to editors,
poems to celebrate
special occasions,
outlines of plots
for short stories
she planned to write

her personal writings
were deeper, sadder

she wrote reams in a daily
journal about troubled
relationships, tiffs with
her husband and kids, her
competitive sister, each
comment meticulously penned
in an elegant flowing manner

but that final note she left
was the shocker,
written in a freakishly
jumpy, shaky hand,
overly loopy, jagged,
a note on cheesy motel
stationery, filled with longing,
with despair,
words spewing out of her pen,
out of control words
scrawled far from home,
the solitary writer engaged
in an emotional seizure,
facing her phantoms alone
and losing

Could we have a moratorium
On nature poetry please
A resounding snoratorium
On meadows, lakes, and trees

A halt to poems about sunsets,
Full moons, snowfalls and such
These tickle the fancy of nature buffs
But for others - not so much

A cutback on odes to roses,
Summer's glory or butterflies
Fewer tributes to all things blooming
And birds that fill the skies

Let's take a break from winter scenes
And the beauty of an ancient sea
Try one about the human race
Think of the novelty

Dear God -

Please give me
A thin body
And a bank account
That is fat.

Am I making myself clear?

Please don't mix things up
This time
Like you did last year.

I am you
And you are me
My cool twin brother
For all to see
Same eyes, same hair
Same dazzling smile
Follow my lead
Copy my style

Get out there now
Break a thousand hearts
Woo them with words
And play it smart
Shed some tears
And wipe them dry
(Sensitivity counts)
Oh, what a guy!

Have your turn
At romance and fun
Lead the pack
Enjoy your run
But always remember
Whatever they say
You'll only be
As cool as me -
It's in OUR DNA!

Some attract with charm and looks
Some appeal with their love of books
Some ****** by spending frivolously
Most will choose Door Number Three

There was a poet named Nash
Who earned buckets of cash
From rhymes funny and brash
With a dollop of panache
His work was never slapdash
Always a top-drawer smash

this black and white photograph
was taken on a winter day
in south philadelphia...
two of us standing in a small lot
i'm three - she's four
brother & sister
struggling even then to make sense of who we are
where we are

the real war that surrounds our births -
world war II - is over
yet in our small childlike way
we worry about this other conflict -
this other war that wages and rages
within the walls
of our modest home
in a project

there are no smiles on our puzzled faces
our eyes are sad and anxious and lost
as we look straight ahead at the camera...

we are holding hands
in the afternoon light

it's clear we're weary and
not eager to return
to another day
in the combat zone

filled with necessities:
a revolver
razor blades
sleeping pills
poison
a rope
a map
notepaper
pen
cell phone
car keys

all useless
without some
false bravado

it's
time
to talk
about death now
one of my favorite
topics
the wonder of it
the finality
is there more to it
or do we become only
fodder for the crematorium
or do we fade
in the big dark box
leaving behind
whatever hair we have left
and our bones
brittle as they may become
what happens when we go there
are we reunited with family
do we sit down and have a chat
about old sunday dinners
and christmas get-togethers
and how much weight
aunt barbara put on
after she divorced that rug salesman
the one with the bad toupee
and who inherited
all that fancy china
from grandmother getz
how do we look when we're dead
- pasty and pathetic -
do we sag     do we gossip
do we bowl or play tennis
so much time
nothing but time
and not a clock to be found
and what about heaven and hell
all the time in the world now
to see what everything's about
i wonder if there's music up there
i think i'll look up my neighbor mark
the one who ran off with the brassiere model
i think that he knocked her up and they moved to florida
and then he had a stroke or something and died
but being dead might not be such a bad deal
after all
so many questions
all that time
and all we really want to know for sure is
is there life
after death
at least we'd find out
wouldn't we?

It's nice to be humble -
    to be modest and fair;
Best not to crumble
    into bits of despair.

We all sometimes stumble
    and lose our way,
Caught up in a jumble,
    end up in a fray.

No need to rumble,
    no need to riot.
Don't ever grumble -
    best to stay quiet.

Avoid a tumble,
    proceed without fear.
Don't start to fumble -
    this could be your year.

And never mumble:
    speak clear and loud,
And never bumble,
    stay steady, be proud.

For forty years he wrote thousands of
obituaries at his hometown newspaper.
This selfless solitary childless widower
never dwelled on shortcomings, never
mentioned flaws. Instead his writing was
fueled by the milk of human kindness,
nourished by a wellspring of compassion.
His reputation was built on shamelessly
deifying shady politicians, duplicitous
bankers, the occasional CPA with an
affinity for loopholes. Everyone - man
or woman - no matter what personal
failings they had, was elevated to near
sainthood by the time all caskets were
lowered, all tears shed.

And then the lonely newsman faced his
own grim diagnosis, his days numbered,
death imminent as it was for all of his
subjects. When they found him alone,
disheveled and deceased, in his tiny,
cluttered walk-up apartment, they found
a little handwritten poem stuffed in his
pajama pocket:
             "I praised and eulogized
              My less than perfect neighbors.
              To my successor I simply say:
              'Kindly return the favor.'"

We are assembled here
this May evening of 2006
to celebrate our own
Leading Lady of
American Letters.

The tall, slender author,
her classic looks
so reminiscent of
ladies in an elegant
Victorian era salon,
reads one of her
earlier short stories
at the Free Library
of Philadelphia.

She speaks with such
feeling and precision,
we close our eyes
and envision her
youthful heroine's
anxiety and naivete
in that familiar setting
of an upstate
New York town.

Later, in another room
of the library,
I will meet her
too briefly at a
book signing.
She stands to greet me,
smiling so pleasantly
and asks, "What do you do?"
in the friendliest way.
I reply "I'm a
proofreader," somewhat
embarrassed at my
flimsy Dickensian
credential.

This was my own
personal brush
with greatness
and I find myself
tongue-tied with
hero worship.
She is gracious
and fragile, exquisitely
feminine and warm and
I would learn I was
not the only groupie
in the library throng
that evening -
a multitude of fans
lined up to meet
the literary icon.

Joyce Carol Oates,
as her critics
rightly rhapsodize,
is a force of nature,
a uniquely powerful
writer whose brilliance
rests not just in the
singularly American
landscapes she paints,
not just in the
idiosyncratic
characters who people
her storytelling,
but in the creation
of rich personal
moments of intimacy,
of revelation and insight;
she makes us witnesses,
eavesdroppers, to her
characters' deepest
thoughts, longings,
her voice reaches out
to us from the pages,
a voice as poignant
as a mother's in the
gloom of night,
reading to her children
just before prayers
are murmured and
sleep tiptoes in.

The path of
literary greatness
leads us to her heroes...
James Joyce, Emily Bronte,
Thoreau, Faulkner,
Flaubert, Hemingway;
like each one of these
celebrated wordsmiths,
she is an iconoclast,
an original...
unique,
incomparable,
our own
quintessential
national treasure.

is short and stout
(the kids in the neighborhood
  call him "roly-poly"
  but not to his face)

he's somewhere in his late seventies
cloaked in a dark green l.l.bean hooded coat
sizes too small on him
and he's shoveling snow
when he suddenly falls down
topples really
in the gathered snow
a small heap of flesh
buried slightly
where the driveway slopes down a bit

after a short time
a few neighbors run over to the site
and turn him over
one of them checks his pulse
the crowd thickens
someone cellphones 9-1-1
and then
ever
so
slowly
the man opens his eyes
starts to smile
his head turns
to look at his nameless neighbor
across the street
a neighbor framed in a window
he's a kitchen poet in fact
who stares right back at the forlorn sight

mister roly-poly's wife
runs out of her home
in a skimpy blue housedress
her damp blonde hair wrapped in curlers
she looks very angry
yelling at him
calling him "a spectacle...
a drunken *******" to be exact

in the meantime their two labradors
who've been watching the drama
from a  bay window seat inside
charge out of the house
and the wife yells  "no! no! no!"
the man sits up for a moment
the whimpering dogs run to him
they start to lick his face
and the man tries to get up
then an ambulance
races up the street
skidding on the icy patches
the siren screeching insanely
in the frigid air
the wife keeps yelling "no! no! no!"
the dogs keep licking
and all the 9-1-1 people
rush out of the vehicle
and everything looks just like a scene
from a marx brothers feature
but no one's yelling "CUT!"

It was Nixon's last day at the White House.

He was a vulnerable man,
meandering through the halls of history,
one step forward, two steps back

Once he was
a dreamer of faraway places,
a leader with ideas and purpose,
a seeker of peace

Critics saw him differently...
an easy target for derision,
fit for caricature,
for satire

Now he prepares to leave
this temporary home,
faced with dread awakenings,
his final hours slipping by

Soon a valet will knock on his door
and there will be no more dreams left
to interrupt

We grieve as one to understand
how death could take this joyful man
who knew some days were swept with rain
and some nights filled with loss and pain
but knew the sun could light the way
and give him strength to face each day

And now at last he finds release
Sleep well my father...rest in peace

These moments...
to see the days sparkle
with the sun's brilliant glow,
to breathe the morning air
and smell the yellow rose,
to sip red wine
and laugh and sing,
to welcome love
and cherish spring...

These moments are departures -
fleeting bits of pleasure -
but each one gives us cause to smile,
to savor and to treasure.

Your locked lids look much like skin-tight veils.
(Blinks and prisms rip snapshots
  as a prince of paranoia
  fleets past your unlit eyes.)

You'd look better smoking cigarettes
or singing songs
while your brain chews fiction.

Dinner has been ready for an hour

And she waits

Her husband said he would be home on time
        but she knows the drill -

He's gone to a bar again to lose himself,
        to be in the company of others
        in the same crowded noisy place,
        drinking scotch and reciting corporate war stories

Meanwhile she thinks of the days
        when she and her husband had been
        a lighthouse for each other,
        a beacon over turbulent waters

But that was then
        and now - as darkness gathers -
        she waits again
        ...and wonders

In an unreserved room,
deep in drapes and gloom,
stood a wild-eyed deaf-mute
in a beltless cape,
his fingers speaking parts he played
in his stepsister's ****.

that's him...
squinty eyes, maybe
thirty or so,
trim, fit, hair
combed neatly,
parted just right

mister
congeniality
with a real estate
license, he's a
trifle flirty
but he seems
proud of his
pretty wife and
two kids - plus one
in the oven - the
family ensconced
in a new rancher
in the east falls
section of town

never served
on a jury before,
doesn't want to be
foreman or assistant
foreman, just wants to
absorb the experience,
to fulfill his civic
duty, to serve,
just wants to lean back
in the deliberation room
and listen and learn

on the lunch break,
he talks basketball,
coaching a swim team,
obsessing about his days
in a garage band,
some think he's a little
young to be so nostalgic
but those shifty eyes -
a faded blue like the sea
captured in an aged
watercolor - and
that fast fading smile
reveal something else,
something nameless...
malevolent maybe?
a few wonder
what he's really
all about

juror number eight
whispers to number
six that twelve's
a ringer,
the one who screws
things up, the one who
plays reasonable doubt
tricks right before your
eyes like a smooth magician,
he's the one with the chip
cemented firmly on his
shoulder, he's in this
for the sport,
the mind games,
the unfolding drama

number twelve
spells it out
for everyone:
the cops always lie,
why believe anything
they say? and don't
believe that guy with
the new york accent
who had clearly
tampered with evidence
and tried to cover it up
...and then there's the
defendant's best
friend who sold him
down the river, sold
him out right there
on the stand! don't be
sheep, don't trust
flimsy reasoning, this
whole justice system reeks
of injustice, look at
what they think of
teenagers, parading them
around in the hallways
here in the courthouse...
young kids handcuffed,
walking around in
leg chains, they're
victimized too in
their own way, what about
their rights? think about
it! i said think about it!

juror number eight had to
be restrained from choking
him right there in the
middle of deliberations,
they almost called the
guards in to break things
up, the men and women
confused, terrified

he's become the
belligerent bully
who says no while the
others say yes, the only
voice that goes against
the other eleven, but he's
not a champion, not a
noble iconoclast, not
one of the twelve
angry men,
just one angry man
against the world,
the contrarian with
a hidden agenda,
the wild card,
maverick,
odd man out

he's juror number
twelve, he lives to
explode the case,
be the juror
who hung the jury,
eleven men and women
dangling in the
town square, sunlight
streaming down,
heads swollen,
mouths agape,
eyes wide open,
the last minute
of the last act

Standing at the top of Billy Penn's hat,
I dive into the depths of two great rivers.
When I surface, the course of human events
courses through my aged veins,
and I can see, in the fleeting sun of autumn,
this procession of people and neighborhoods,
this cityscape painted with a sweeping stroke,
these diverse proud citizens who call me Philadelphia.

I am the Liberty Bell's silent message,
the stained glass grandeur of Christ Church,
the sunlit windows of Liberty Place on an April day.
I join the cheering throngs at the stadium,
their enthusiasm fills me with joyful shivers,
and I ride with weary passengers on a 5 o'clock subway,
their hands clutching newspapers in the hush of early evening.

I am the lightning genius of Benjamin Franklin
and the gracious hands of Betsy Ross threading
a pattern that will make freedom unfurl.
My voice is an outraged plea for liberty;
my mind, a fireworks of ideas
bursting from the pen of Thomas Jefferson,
and I can sense that these ideas flare and glow,
enlighten and inspire the people.

I am leaping fountains and quiet parks,
museums of culture and halls of learning,
a place of lofty dreams and stark ambitions,
colliding like campaign posters on a wind-swept parkway.

I am the people and the neighborhoods,
the pretzel vendor and the bank president,
the silver spoon child and the child who hungers.

I am public forum and barroom debate,
an investigative reporter and his angry subject,
the jury's patient search for truth,
a silent vigil outside City Hall,
and I can hear, on this humid summer night,
the voice of history's resounding approval.

I am the mother of Andy Warhol.

Right from beginning, Andy was special.
When his brothers go to school, he
stay home with me. I like to draw
picture...and so did he. We even
draw picture of each other. I like
to draw cat a lot and so did he. When
he is little boy, I leave room for one
minute and he not there when I come
back. "Where is my Andek?" I ask.
"Where he go?" and everyone is laughing.

I know early on Andy not like other boys.
He go into town with me and pick out
hat for me. One time he pick out black
felt hat and then he go home and paint
edge of hat so it has gold edge. It look
beautiful. I also like to cut tin flowers
out of fruit tin cans and soup cans too.
And Andy always help me. Just a little
boy but he take after his Mom.
He was artist even then.

Long time go by and Andy become grown
man. I visit him in New York and tell
him he need me. Then I go back to
Pittsburgh but I miss him. I pack up
and come back to New York and move in
with him.

The first apartment we live in not very
nice, filled with cats and mice and
roaches. Cats everywhere. Once I count
twenty cats and still mice all over!

I go to gallery one night for opening
of Andy's first show. When I get there I
have odd feeling. People there they look
at me like I'm different, strange. I feel this
but no one say nothing to me. I think
they say things behind my back maybe.
You know what I mean? "Andy's Old Mom
with babushka is from Old Country." I
just stay in background all the time.
I no talk to nobody but Andy. I tell
him how proud I am and to do right
thing and find his ideas in dreams.
Those are my words. But I no go to no
other show of his work. Ever!

He is still good son to me always but he
worry too much about money. When I
move here he take me to Woolworth's
for Thanksgiving Day dinner. We sit at
counter and have turkey platter with
everything. It is not bad food but Andy
look so sad because he have no money
then. I tell him not to worry. "You will
be somebody someday. You are hard worker,"
I say. "Just wait. Be patient."

Even though I complain sometime, I like
my life here. I watch I Love Lucy show
on television. And people in New York
very friendly and everyone in apartment
building polite and helpful. I go to
big church - very nice - on 15th Street
and 2nd Avenue where I see all my friends
and every day I go to A&P; to buy food.
And I like Andy's friends. They kid with
me and tease me and I laugh. They know
I love my son and am good for him always.

Andy does get angry with me sometime.
He say I nag too much. I tell him he
no dress right. I tell him right out
that I only stay with him till he find
nice girl and get married. That is my
dream. Once he get married, I tell him
I go home to Pittsburgh. He never say
nothing when I bring this up. He is
good boy but moody, very moody sometime,
not a talker like his Mom, ya?

When Sam woke up that summer morning,
he found Deborah next to him peacefully
asleep. They had been married for over
half a century. Now the couple found life
a daily struggle with inevitable health
setbacks and other issues.

Recently they spent much of their time
searching their home for a gun they bought
a few years ago; they became concerned due
to a rash of burglaries in their normally safe
community. But they could not find the
weapon anywhere.

That morning he got out of bed to see if
Deborah might be stirring. He walked
to her side of the bed and recoiled - her
face resembled a frozen mask...and when
he touched her arms, they were shockingly
cold. After a brief pause, he knew he was
too late; she had crossed over; no hope of
reviving her. And then he lifted her slightly,
tearfully embracing her, when something
metallic seemed to slip from her stiff fingers
onto the floor. It was the gun! Obviously she
had found it - but had never told him, never
said a word about it.

It may have been snug in her hand all night,
resting under her satin pillow, her finger poised
on the trigger...what would possess her to do
such a thing, he wondered. Why did she never
tell him she had found it?

Why?

Gemini's delightful.
Cancer is polite.
Leo is romantic.
Virgo's quite bright.
Libra is creative.
Scorpio, tenacious.
Sagittarius, festive.
Capricorn, vivacious.
Aquarius is witty.
Pisces, prolific.
Aries is charming.
Taurus, terrific.
----------*---------          
Taurus is quite stubborn.
Aries, a frightful *****.
Pisces, a flaming cheapskate.
Aquarius is mostly crude.
Capricorn's nasty and spiteful.
Sagittarius, shallow and weak.
Scorpio's flagrantly flighty.
Libra, annoying and meek.
Virgo's simply pompous.
Leo, clearly deranged.
Cancer, always impossible.
Gemini, downright strange.
                        

You promised me the sunlight
To brighten all my days
You promised me your special love
Your gentle, caring ways.

You promised me the moonlight
A setting for our kiss
A smile resting on my face
Enraptured in this bliss.

You vowed to give me hope and joy
And love's fulfilling grace
The sea would hold our dreams alive
Each wave would keep the pace.

Well what became of moonlight
And where's that wild sea
And what became of you, my love
And what became of me?

I only want you close to me
Your arms around me tight
I only want your gentle words
To comfort me at night.

But then those words were never true
Promises made of air
I'll run across the sand alone
Knowing you won't be there.

The empty beaches look so sad
Next to the tranquil sea
And what became of you, my love
And what became of me?

No voice is quite
like that voice...
pure and unfettered
every note polished
perfect
every lyric deeply felt
delineated

A voice that lifts
caresses
embraces

Soaring with power
stratospheric
in its reach
yet at times
surprisingly soft
yielding
delicate

A priest sent her
a letter stating he
felt the presence of
God every time he
heard her sing

An incomparable artist
she fills our universe
with glorious sounds
and infinite rapture

She is God's greatest gift
to music and the world...
her name is Barbra

Pakistan.

A moonless night in May.

Inside the compound,
everything appears to be
almost pitch black.

Night vision goggles lift
the veil of darkness.

With the goggles, everything inside...
         all the details of the home,
         become startlingly visible,
         revealing all in this surreal setting
         - suffused as it is with
           a dreamlike green hue.

And then there are the eyes
of those looking on...
     Osama Bin Laden's wives, children, couriers
     peeking out from doorways,
     huddled in rooms and hallways,
     their voices whispering in Arabic;
     those large curious eyes incredulous
     as they study these invaders
     with their goggles, their strange gear,
     their weapons drawn as they methodically
     carry out their mission.

This night so far four people have been silenced by gunfire.

The raiders are certain Bin Laden
is up ahead on the third floor.

They climb slowly up the
dangerously slick steps wet with
blood, moving with deliberation
toward their target's bedroom.

They hear suppressed shots fired
by their point man
and see a tall figure flee
back into a room.
He's been shot.
The men in pursuit enter the room and
more gunfire ensues.

A small cluster of people are also
there in the room - two women, three children -
eyewitnesses to history...

They are confused, dazed, shocked.

They see this wild man,
this phantom of our most torturous dreams,
writhing on the floor,
desperate, struggling,
about to take his final breath.

Giddiness
Feeling jumpy
Breathlessness
Rapid heartbeat
Lightheadedness
Constant daydreaming
Smiling inappropriately
Butterflies in the stomach
Feverish but in a nice way
Extreme feelings of euphoria
A springlike rise in one's temperature
Hearing singing when there's no one there
An unexpected interest in romantic poetry and schmaltzy love songs
And
Finally
A sudden urge to dance

DIAGNOSIS: You're not sick -
                         You're just in love!

You are beauty
You are light
You're our morning
And our night
And you climb into our arms
And we hold you oh so tight
And you climb into our hearts
With a love that beckons bright

You're the answer to our prayers
With a smile sweet and true
God understood our every word
That's why He sent us you

Who wrote these famous lines?  I know.
His name is Frost.  How apropos!
The poem has woods and a lake,
A farmhouse, horse, and falling snow.

There's also a harness bells' shake,
A sweep of wind and downy flake.
Though some say symbols do abound,
Frost wrote it for remembrance sake.

His rhyme scheme's difficult yet sound.
How he labored to put it down -
A work with a majestic sweep,
Simple yet so deeply profound.

The final words are very deep.
They speak of promises to keep,
And a journey that will end in sleep,
And a journey that will end in sleep.

now i am airborne

   floating

                drifting...

                                surrounded by the lightest of waves

i am reclining as my eyes search upward and
i glide ever so softly so slowly in a perfectly
light blue celestial expanse

i am suffused with hope
with fullness and love
with great faith in seeing them again
my mother    my father

i will find them at peace and
be comforted when i see them together -
with swords bent and broken and buried -
their eyes smiling...their arms open to me

no more will they be the warring force  i'd been subjected to
no more the awful couriers of malice i'd been witness to
and when i find them in heaven's home, this once
sainted child, this damaged soul who glides
toward them will forgive them...my heart
will be rich with love and goodness
transformed and transcendent
i will rush to receive their
blessed embrace

The pond's a stage
On this shining day
The sun a setting
For serene ballet

Six swans debut
With a regal drift
Float by to create
A wondrous gift

Ripples of waves
Accompany the ride
As the dancers present
A majestic glide

I like a classic movie
One with Bogie and Bacall
Kate Hepburn in her heyday
Or Errol Flynn in a brawl

A Cary Grant comedy
Irene Dunne at his side
Bette Davis raising hell
Or Frankenstein's scary bride

I think of Ingrid Bergman's smile
The sweetest nun appearing onscreen
And Mae West's sassy manner
As she lit up every scene

Spencer Tracy wowed us
Charlie Chaplin made us roar
Great stars, great stories, great times
The movies I adore

TV weather people
I find to be a pain
With their doomsday reports
Of drenching rain,
Of raging winds
And threatening skies
And temperature's
Escalating highs

Easy on the eyes
Always gabby
They give more advice
Than the current "Dear Abby"

"Keep your pets inside
During a monsoon,
Grab an umbrella
If the skies reflect gloom,
Apply sunscreen
And avoid the sun's glare -
Boots, jackets, coats, gloves...
Always be prepared!"

And forecasters' eyes light up
When a storm is due
And if there's snow
They'll remind you
To get bread and milk
And a load of rock salt
And don't forget to shovel
Your snowy sidewalk

Their do's and their don'ts
Are a pain in the ****
I advise all of them
To keep their mouths shut!

The demons of drugs, drink, and excess
Seem like malevolent strangers
Purveyors of madness and mayhem
Symbols of doom and danger

The demons that overwhelm us
The demons that we hate
Threaten us at every turn
They lurk, they taunt, they wait

We should look deeper every time
We fear the demon's flaws
For they may not be hiding from us
They may not be so strange after all

We should look within ourselves
And heed that urgent call
For the demons may be staring at us
From that mirror on our wall

Someone's staring at me
right now
here on this subway.
His eyes have not left mine.
He looks crazy and nervous,
a young guy,
a twitchy-looking young guy.
I have a feeling he's going to jump me
or rob me,
maybe shoot me
or stab me.
He's probably looking for money
for a fix.
He's going to follow me off this frigging subway car
and then he's going to slit my throat
and throw me on the tracks.
This maniac drug addict
is going to **** me
and buy some ****** or crack
or whatever these ******* scummy losers buy
to get high
and he's going to leave me on a subway track
with blood streaming out of my neck,
my mouth a pool of blood.
He's waiting for me to get off here
at the Spring Garden stop.
Well, forget it *******,
my wild-eyed doped-up piece of slime.
I won't get off here.

Wait a minute.
He just got off here
and the door closed.
I see him running up the steps
probably to catch a bus
or **** someone on the street.
Thank god he's gone.
I was sure he was going to knife me.
I had it all figured the hell out.
I even stayed in this ****-ridden
rat hole of a subway car
and now this means I have to get off
at the next stop and go over to the other side
of the station
and take another subway
back to the Spring Garden stop.
I have totally ******* up.
I talked myself out of getting off at my stop and
now I'm totally messed up.

I've got to stop thinking like this.
This paranoid crap is taking its toll.
It tricks me,
confuses me,
frightens me.
I have to be calm now,
just get ahold of myself.
I'm standing up
to get off at the next stop.

Now I'm by the door.
What's going on here?
I just noticed
two guys sitting over there
just a few seats down
on the left
and they're looking at me.
One's got a mile-long scar
on the side of his face.
These guys are trouble.
The other one just put his hand in his pocket
like he's got a gun or something.
Holy Christ!
I've got to get off.
Maybe my mind's just playing tricks on me.
I don't know what to think.
I'll just stand here by the door.
The stop's coming up.
Christ! They just got up and
they're walking toward me
and now they're standing behind me.
I can see their reflection in the door's glass.
I can almost feel one of them breathing
on the back of my neck.
I'm trapped now...nowhere to go...nowhere!
The door's opening and I step out
into the dark.

I'm a dead man.

He's honest.
He's forthright.
He makes no amends.

The only things he ever lacks
Are friends.

Suppose
my nose
proposed
to doze
and caused
a pause
in my breathing?

It certainly chose
an unfortunate pose
and one not worth
repeating.

Better a nose
stays on its toes
and helps take in the air.

The job may be boring
but it still beats plain old snoring.

peter hated the house on mckinley street
in his eight-year-old brain it was a hot mess

since his parents moved there
all he heard were complaints and yelling

his mother was always moaning about the small rooms,
the lousy closet space, the faulty plumbing, the leaky roof

and the mice

they were everywhere - in closets, in pantries, in drawers,
behind the heater, under the radiators

they were in nooks and crannies, behind the refrigerator,
in the laundry room, even in the crawl space

they were almost always in hiding, rarely seen in daytime
except when they were found dead in a trap - also a rarity

traps were set methodically, enticing hors d'oeuvres were created
laced with cheese and peanut butter but still nothing worked

his mother would religiously check the traps every morning
and every time she'd mutter "those little ******* *******!"

the sly moves of mice to avoid the guillotine snap of a mousetrap
as they nibbled around a flap of cheese amazed everyone

besides traps his parents bought sticky cheese pads where the
tiny monsters would get their heads and bodies stuck permanently

one time peter observed a black mouse lying - and dying - on
a cheese pad...he pushed a second pad over its face

"i suffocated the little ****!" he exclaimed and when he told
his parents they bought him a gift card from the lego store

but every now and then one of the lilliputian invaders would
make a live unscheduled appearance

one october when the nights began to get colder his mother saw
a gray mouse climb up a cord leading to the microwave

she almost had a heart attack right there on the spot and there
was the time his father was looking in the refrigerator and

heard a strange scratchy noise behind him - he sensed
a sudden descent; a baby mouse had scurried off a shelf and

fell into a small trash can so his father immediately picked
up the can and hurled it out the back door

ultimately the parents decided to move to a swanky apartment
house and the night before peter had his last "mouse dream"

it featured a giant white mouse's head that was the size of
a billboard so big so menacing it scared him awake

finally he fell back into a gentle state of dreamless slumber...
and when he woke up his parents were taking down pictures

he looked out his window and saw a moving van pull up and
for the first time in a long time he was happy

A poet's canvas is a blank white page
Waiting for outbursts of rapture and rage
Waiting for verse set in rhyme and meter
To set the stage, to reach the reader
To strike a chord and play a part
Engage the mind and touch the heart

Nothing makes cash more elastic
Than cards made out of plastic.

bukowski socialized with
                                             sean penn and madonna
but he did not care for
                                             the material girl with her airs,
acting like a literary
                                             poseur, name dropping, chatting
about swinburne, like
                                             some patron at a bloomsbury
salon. she even asked
                                             him if he would appear
in her raunchy *** book
                                             but he refused. bukowski
would complain to sean    
                                             about madonna's phony
behavior and sean would
                                             get furious and defensive.
bukowski just laughed it
                                             off. he valued sean as a
friend and an artist but
                                             he had no time for
madonna playing hip,
                                             he said, she's not being real.
bukowski treasured his
                                             daughter, his wife, his cats,
classical music and his
                                             muse, his way with words,
characters, situations.
                                             he was a regular guy
and a gifted poet...
                                             and everyone called him hank.