We are all starting out
from some godforsaken abyss

It is will that drives us
to the venture not yet taken
to the search not yet defined

Something propels us
to surge skyward
up     up      up
breaking through the water
our hands dividing the surface
our faces welcoming the sun
the light that will not die

This false pain from a still false lance
Is mine to suffer through a frenzied dance
For beyond the pirouetting players
Lurk my silent secret slayers

In closing come come the curtain calls
Trapping me in mad applause
And even my expiring breath
Belies the backdrop's quicker death

Although the savage clock will strike
And toss me from this scene
The bravos never uttered
Will survive my dreaded dream

I tried to make me God and King
Sainted in the flesh
I find the easiest meeting begins
In shaking hands with death

the attention deficit hyperactivity disorder
poem
is a strange animal

with lines
monosyllabically
short
and then
perilously   freakishly    faulknerically
long
but not to worry

the trick is to ***** around
with the readers' heads a bit
let them wonder
   what's going on
get them used to
   obnoxious departures
   sudden jolts
      of expression
   devious detours into
     obscenity, indecency

these are the
tourette's moments
of a poet's creative life:
a move to keep those with the
attention span of an infant gnat
awake  alive  responsive

some may expect poetry
to take them down
safe  bland  routes:
         a snowfall enhanced by red robins
         perched on a rustic fence

         a lake with canoeing lovers cooing
         in a shimmering moment
          
         heartfelt elegies
         quaint quatrains
         hip haikus

but can these images
really keep you entranced?

well, can they?

it isn't like i didn't warn you
or the horse you rode in on

i see faces
wrinkled from gossip,
eyes like lightbulbs,
tongues that scribble,
malicious jawbones
gouging across a page.

Suddenly a Christmas card
comes to life on a mantel
and a splendid silken angel
with eyes the color of diamonds
smirks at a mirror
while faces without features
vanish through a fireplace
already cold and white.

It
may
happen
when your brain
gets confused and
you're out of rhyme
or don't have much time
or your heart's not in it so you
give it a try and your get up and go
gets up and says 'bye.' When inspiration
has decided to flee, don't take the flight so
personally. There's always something to give
you a lift, some magical way to steer
through life's twists. Just remember
those poets from olden days found
their inspiration missing in
a troublesome haze...
when the rhyming muse is
nowhere to be found and
words that used to flow
sink underground,
just keep the faith and
before you know it you're back
to being a full-fledged poet. Believe
in yourself and your gifts are enough to
show everyone you still have the write stuff.

I watch you sleeping there,
so pale against the stark white sheet,
your long hair, a fine light brown
spreading over the pillow's edge.

Night has arrived and peopled this plain room
with crisp shadows.
From this breeze that moves
but does not cool,
the drapes seem to be in flight,
their nondescript design unraveling
against the dark walls.

I  light a candle and the glow flickers and dances
across your lovely face.

For a moment, I'm remembering your eyes,
very blue, dark, intense,
like shimmering crude diamonds
mined from the bitter earth.

Softly you breathe,
the air rising gently
from your nostrils,
your head resting against the pillow,
your hand relaxing on your abdomen,
rising, falling, like a gentle wave.
Your other hand is at your side
and the fingers are raised, poised,
and my eyes stare gravely
at the ring you wear.
It is strangely chipped, scratched,
but even in its imperfection,
it has a certain affinity for your hand.

It will rain soon and
the sound will rouse you
and you will see me sitting here,
calm, in control,
alert as a sentry on guard and,
even if you would awaken abruptly
and see me gazing at you in silence,
you would instantly remember me
from another time,
a time marked by
troubling dreams unfolding endlessly,
dreams set in this same stifling, airless house
where we now wait together,
wait for the rain to begin,
soaking the drapes,
leaping in fury,
twisting, hiding, submitting,
surrendering to the bleak clear vision
of an open sky.

I observe you now in repose,
as if you were a photograph,
frozen, static, captured in a second,
without past or future, just you there,
leaving me here at your side,
peering at the bed, lifting my eyes,
struggling to see you in this hollow room.

With tears blinding, I rise, stumble, sob,
kiss the cold stone floor and watch you
resting there, so pale, so terribly pale,
and still, so very still,
against the stark white sheet.

Thank you for the many poems
But we're afraid they will not do
And thanks for the S A S E
So we can return them to you

Maybe you thought they were brilliant
Right up there with Whitman and Frost
But frankly they didn't move us
Except when we gave them the toss

We're sure you were not aware
You sent us such lackluster verse
But editors are only human
And your verse just made us feel worse

When we got our swimming pool
We were bamboozled by friends
Who popped up uninvited
And took over our weekends

The friends brought others with them
Strangers we didn't even know
Our popularity soared
Our circle began to grow

But were we being naive?
Were we playing the fool?
We finally learned the truth
When we drained the swimming pool

He steps out of a cab
as a jet
surrealistically
glides
slow motion-like
into the world trade center

he doesn't see it happen
he hears it happen:
          the explosive sound reverberating
          through the silvery upward space

          and then the awful silence descending
          hanging over the street
          an ominous existential moment
          in which time and memory are stilled

he begins to run...

later he hears
a second plane slam into the tower

he's surrounded by people running, shrieking,
a galloping mass of figures racing
against a strange backdrop, a tsunami of
rolling undulating smoke
pouring from the towers

there were those who knew
he had an appointment
this very morning in the towers
a morning that is now an apocalypse
a time when a massive number of people
would be confronted with a fiery demise
annihilated
dna destroyed
identity obliterated
flesh reduced to ash

this was his moment of transformation...
money could fix his destiny
a perfect time when identity could be
so easily purchased, reinvented, altered...

he would start over:
a new name, a new face, a new life -
he would run, flee, escape without regret,
without a trace,
racing ruthlessly, breathlessly
on a path
to his own resurrection...

that must be
the final
indignity
the thought
that comes
and goes
explodes
vanishes
like some
mythical
gossamer thing
that drifts in
your mind the
vision that
completely
disappears
as if some
invisible
sprite had
swiped it
from some
troublesome
cobweb
in your brain
and hustled it
away
that image
that feeling
that number
that person's
eyes  nose  mouth
that remembrance
that funny thing
you said at
some raucous
party a few
years ago
or was it
many years ago?
you can almost
hear the
laughter from
the crowd
as if you were
there again
but what was
it you said
exactly?

and what about
that old neighbor
you liked so much
the one who died
shoveling snow?
a man you knew
for twenty years
and now you can
only vaguely recall
his body sprawled
out at the end
of his driveway
now you can't
even summon
his name
what was
his name?
what was
it?

you would be
grateful now
to dredge up
the very first
time you met
your future
in-laws your
daughter's
first dance
recital your
grandson's first
soccer match
or even that
poem you
revisited
last night
before you
fell asleep
that poem
your wife shared
with you
what was
that poem
about? what was
the title?
the audacious
first line?
all the words
and clever
alliteration
all reduced to
a hazy blur
dissipating
like those
antacid
tablets that
fizzed into
a seltzery
four ounces
swirling
midway down
a plain white
dixie cup you
left
abandoned
forgotten
on the
bathroom
counter hours
ago...could
even discomfort
even pain
be erased
so quickly
so easily
so thoroughly?

This is not a poem about unrequited love
             not a poem about the changing of the seasons,
                                                    babb­ling brooks,
                                                    cloud­less skies,
                                                    Englis­h gardens in full bloom

             not a poem about setting suns, starry skies,
                                             full moons, glittering galaxies    

             not a poem about absent fathers,
                                             weepy mothers or your cranky old
                                             Aunt Clara in the attic plotting
                                             your death while her dentures soak
                                             in a Polident bath cup

             not a poem about the existence or non-existence of
                                                    a Supreme Being

             not a poem about when you abandoned your children
                                             or when your children abandoned you

             not a poem about poverty, social isolation,
                                             the Holocaust, war, the evils of
                                             capitalism, the specter of  injustice,
                                             the injustice of inequality, the
                                             inequality of injustice or any other
                                             word attached to the prefix "in"

             not a poem about ****** conquest, ****** dreams,
                                             the effects of liquor or drugs
                                             on one's libido

             not a poem that uses the f-word, the s-word, the c-word
                                                         ...or any of the other
                                                           ­ objectionable words used
                                                            ­to "front" the remaining
                                                       ­     letters of the alphabet

This
is
clearly
a
poem
about
what
is
not a poem

Was there anyone leaner
Than Anthony ******
Whose cyber texting
Grew meaner and meaner
Whose face was angular
Like the blades of a knife
Whose sole defender
Was his forlorn wife

Better he peddle
His platform and schnoz
On the sweet gentle folk
Of the land we call Oz
With no caricaturists
Or bold paparazzi
To ruin his days
Or his dwindling moxie

They preen, they brag, they cluck like hens
Favorite pastime? Schmoozing with friends

They lunch, they party, they go to the races
Wearing Versace and botoxed faces

They worship the sun, the moon, and the stars
And fill up their lives with mansions and cars

They spray tan each day to enhance their appeal
These housewives are everything...except real

I. The Assassin

    Smoke and dust
    **** oxygen
    from his puny lungs
    as he rises on an
    ancient freight elevator

    At the warehouse window,
    he assumes a darker mask,
    his bony finger
    tracing the trigger's curve,
    his beady eyes narrowing in
    on the slow moving target:
    that famous sculpted
    head of state
    so perfect
    in the plaza light

    Finally he will plummet -
    a bruised puppet
    slipping through
    a surreal night,
    a phantom of smoke and dust
    blinking in the glare
    of a Dallas lineup

II. The First Lady

    Her deep whispery voice
    unspools a reel of film:
    crowds, blinding sun,
    a promise of shade
    in the distance,
    then a sudden odd quizzical look
    on her husband's face

    She recalls that moment
    of slow motion shock:
    that serrated piece of his skull
    floating lazily
    in a blur
    toward
    her
    bright
    pink
    lap

It seems to wander in and out
As if in outer space.
It's never where I left it last.
It never stays in place.
I check each shelf and every room
And every nook and cranny,
But this is one disappearing act
That always proves uncanny
For I know I'll never find it
So I pound my fist and mutter...
I'm left bereft, alone, depressed,
Come back, O peanut butter!

I will be brief,
If I may,
In what I do,
In what I say.
Your words hurt me
More than you know.
I'm leaving now
As blankets of snow
Cover the earth
Beautifully white,
Flakes whirling fiercely
On a harsh winter night.
It's almost that time
For peace and good will,
But I am still hurt
And so I will still
Hold on to my feelings,
My anger, my doubt,
Wondering as I leave
If you'll figure out
What it means to be left,
To be tossed aside,
Forgotten, bereft -
Alone without pride.
Yes, my heart's broken,
And my loss is deep,
But now I know just what you are -
A miserable, heartless creep.

giddy
with two gin & tonics
mary jo
reluctantly
moves behind the wheel
on this lonely
humid
moonless
night

she squirms
in the unadjusted seat
squinting
at the insects zooming
in the headlights' glare

putting the car
in drive
her twenty-second ride
begins in panic
hurtling down a
dirt road
littered with ruts
her right foot straining
to reach the gas pedal

she approaches the
rickety bridge
but its flat
anonymity
makes no impression
as she proceeds
forward and
down
into the swift current
the tidal splash of
two tons of metal
unheard
unseen

unaware
the nervous senator
walks toward the cottage
wondering if mary jo
will find her way back

he suddenly remembers that
a man will soon step
on the moon
but his thoughts
are diverted
by the fragile sound
of girlish chatter
rising from the clammy darkness
like an aria
or an omen

the
thin
poem
has
a
few
solid
rules:
one
or
two
or
three
words
at­ the most
to
a
line
and
keep
the
subject
simple
don't
muddy
the
reader's
brain
with
poems
about
suicide
or
adolescence
or
the
loss
of
beauty
or
innocence
or
some
crazy
time
someone
had
at
a
drive-in
movie
a
hundred
years
ago
on
a
hot
sticky
night
with
a
godzilla-like
monster
fil­ling
the
screen
while
they
were
sprawled
out
on
the
backseat
of
an
old
chevy
(and
why
is
it
always
an
old
chevy?)

thin
poems
should
not
explore
*******
or
the
rumblings
of
gastrointes­tinal
distress
or
*******
or
descriptions
of
the
napes
of
necks
or
the
sizes
of
*******
or
the
way
certain
people
use
their
bodies
in
moments
of
intense
passion

thin
poems
should
center
on
lofty
themes
romantic
ideals
and
maybe
sometimes
even
ponder
the
existence
of
god

you
could
also­
write
a
pretty
good
thin
poem
about
a
spider
skimming
along
a
gossamer
thread
b­ut
i
think
that
one's
probably
already
been
done
to
death

less
is best

I'm waiting for the "block" to break.
My pen is filled with ink.
Nothing seems to come to mind.
I can barely think.

My rhymes have just meandered
Out the kitchen door.
Inspiration took a day off.
My life's become a bore.

The headlines don't excite me.
The president didn't call.
The queen did not invite me.
There was no mail at all.

The pope just went fishing.
Congress is on a break.
My lottery tickets have disappeared
And I can't stay awake.

I guess I'll stay in bed all day
And enjoy a lengthy nap
And maybe have a dream or two
To get me back on track.

I don't have a poem today
Or wait... I think I do...
I'll call it "I don't have a poem today."
And foist it all on you!

I wish for sleep
A restful night
No pain  no anguish
No endless plight
My breathing measured
My mind all clear
Of stress and strain
Of doubt and fear
And when dusk nears
And dims the light
I'll bless the calm
This dreamless night

After boarding a train, I always fret
if it's the one I'm supposed to get,
And at home at night, I frequently fear
the presence of a burglar near,
And when at work, I sometimes pale
at thoughts my efforts just might fail,
And when treating friends to lunch, I cannot hide
concerns that my credit card might be denied.
But the greatest fear I ever face
is the one that makes my pulse rate race -
It's the one that will not cease or desist
and that's what will be left for me to worry
    about when i've run out of things to worry
    about on my increasingly lengthy worry
    list...

In church pews I am quiet
In libraries I'm hushed
At grave sites I am silent
In theaters I am shushed
In hospital halls I whisper
The epitome of poise
But frankly what I'd welcome now
Is some pure unadulterated NOISE!

Infrequent is my heart...
is the rain...
the sullen part
of every beating fist
against my windowpane,
renouncing all my dreams, my claims,
as if the drops' joyless sound
could split ambition halfway down,
make one part stray like stray balloons,
the other mocking (mere buffoons).
The clown of hope, lost in a crowd,
paints his face orange (loud),
so garish that the image stuns
that part of me devoted to fun,
for the moppet is tossed from here to there,
raggedy moppet who fears flame's glare,
who moves silhouetted across the walls
and sneaks under doors, along dark halls
and whispers to the dead in a far-off place
and sings them to sleep with: "It's no disgrace
to fall like you fell with your hands so bony,
your eyes shut tight and your heartbeat stony!"
Little prophet with buttons for eyes:
snip out your tongue and a roomful of lies
flit in the air like flighty ghosts,
land in the butter, spread on toast.
Infrequent little cups of truth
pass by my mouth, sweeten my tooth,
infrequent as the beating part
of every man's still thirsty heart.

She was always angry when any woman
looked him over, checked him out.

Possessive and jealous, short-
tempered and mean-spirited,
she was a *****. Always poking at
him, second-guessing him, her
bold dark eyes glaring at the
least little slight. And her
tongue knew no limits. She
would dress him down right there
in front of anyone, ridiculing
him, embarrassing him, making
him an obvious target of her fury.

She would wait for him at night,
sitting by the window, her sleepy
cat nestled on her lap, an aromatic
stew or soup or casserole wafting
through the tidy city row house
they shared. He knew if he lived
there much longer he'd end up
with his hands wrapped around her
throat or maybe he'd just slip
some antifreeze in her drink or
he could just walk in and
announce that he finally found
the one true love of his life.

No ****** knives, no smoking guns,
just words aimed directly at the heart.

One snowy night years ago I was driving home
and my ancient classically beautiful ford
thunderbird spun around in a perfect
three hundred and sixty degree
direction careening but in a
slow-motion way on slick ice. I recall pleading
in a frantic prayer to keep my car free
from collision while my body was
angling crazily like a crash test
dummy veering dizzily
but I survived.

I drove home recapturing my breathing with
renewed respect for God's good grace and
my incredible brush with mortality and I
wondered about the snow that falls
settles paints prettifies and terrifies
our universe, that never lets us
forget the drift between life
and death, between fear
and serenity.

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?

How odd you look, Madame Olga
with that ridiculous turban
wrapped around your graying head
and that careless slash of red lipstick
that does nothing for you
(unless you're channeling Lucille Ball)

The truth is you're stuck here,
    Madame Olga,
in your tiny, seedy parlor
with its stained floral wallpaper and
dim lighting from a feeble lamp

Do you find your "client" vulnerable        
    today, Madame Olga,
a lonely widow waiting nervously
    for you to speak,
waiting for you to tell her about a
tall, dark, handsome stranger
coming into her life,
a man residing in an unnamed
wonderland, a savior eager to
share his vast fortune with her?

You ask her to come back tomorrow
after she cleans out her savings account
and pawns her QVC jewelry collection

It will be then when you plan to take
her money and regale her with
prayers, chants, incantations,
when you attempt to dazzle and
divert her and make her money
vanish like the proverbial rabbit
in an old-time magic show

But I have to question your fading
    psychic power, Madame Olga

You seem NOT to know intuitively
that your creation of her mythical lover
and his nonexistent wonderland is
headed for extinction once the hidden
wire she's wearing performs
its own
inimitable
trick

Abracadabra indeed!

My words will roam
like untamed cattle

searching for water
for the velvet of grass

the sun will bear down on them
ruthless and bright
ignorant of their aimless trek

with no leader
they will have to find their own way
    across the prairie of thought
their thirst quenched only by the
    clear water of ink

The waitress doesn't smile
The cabbie doesn't speak
The salesman is all business
(This hasn't been his week)
The boss is rude and angry
He drives us all to tears
The barber flails his scissors
And almost cuts my ears
This band of moaners and groaners
Is no treat for a happiness glutton
The only grin I've seen all week
Was on a "SMILE" button

she sits on a bar stool,
her legs encased in
tight gray slacks, a
wrinkled cigarette
dangling from her
full red lips

standing on her too-high
high heels, she makes sure
every eye is on her

someone makes a lewd remark

she laughs, heads out
the door, walks a few
blocks to her squalid
room where she joins her
"old man" on a shabby bed

gazing up at the ceiling,
she wonders if her baby,
only a few feet away,
will sleep through the night

her "old man" - drunk, mumbling -
reaches over to touch her

she turns away, squinting at
the faded wallpaper

suddenly the el rumbles by,
the windows shake and
her baby cries out

shuffling to the crib,
she lifts him up, holds him
close, their heartbeats caught
in some primal sync

"it's time," she whispers,
cradling him, kissing him,
stifling her tears

"it's time to feed
my hungry prince"

In this moment before birth,
I am turning,
a tiny mass of flesh/bones
struggling toward the light,
my slippery cord
    unra  v   e    l     i      n       g   ,
my head a mess of milk white fuzz
that pushes down and through,
my wrinkled eyes sealed,
arms  fingers  legs
rubbery  red  wet.

My mother's family waits outside,
a Greek chorus drinking black coffee,
relieved that the labor is over.

Someone marks the time:
one-twenty-three-a-m,
and my father, half-drunk,
plays the guitar in a nightclub
somewhere in South Philly.
He does not even know,
as his callous young fingers
interpret "Stardust,"
that his first son
has been born.

Someone gives him the news,
buys him a drink,
while my mother,
beautiful  serene  sedated,
smiling like Rita Hayworth
in a pinup picture,
cradles me with  nervous sighs.

She is tended now
by hospital people
who daydream about loved ones,
fearful and faraway,
points on a fiery map.

But I am just another baby
in an era when babies
are mass produced
like munitions.

I was conceived sometime
in the dawn of a new year,
the result of two militant lovers
    making up
while the rest of the world
lusted for the blood of boys
born twenty years before...
a war baby
who brings no peace.

This water bead in never being,
complete with confusions of cells,
of unspecial wombs,
whips in blood and phlegm,
strikes a snaking cord,
snaps taut in seconds.

Escaping this route,
shrieks explode
inside a glass room...
their sounds become
a strange comedy
of exhalation,
laughter,
occasional breakdowns...

Before long,
passion returns all this
into a water bead
drifting in a dim never being,
losing to a bright bitter is.

Shining by the sun's reflected light,
the moon's lumpy comical face
squats over rooftops,
grins at the fate
of mere earthlings

Soon footprints of men
will mark its smirk
while this one death on earth,
sealed in slack tide,
is unhinged,
rising slowly from a pond
while arias and omens resonate
in the muggy calm

When the poet dies
his grandchildren may
only know him from
memory
someone who used to
hug them
tickle them
give them fresh
dollar bills on
their birthdays
someone to tell them
what his youth was like
when he lived it

Will they read his
poems and stories
his published works
now relegated to a
box languishing
somewhere in the heat
and dust of a storage
space
just stuff in a box marked
MISCELLANEOUS
a carton among many
cartons right behind
a half dozen hefty bags
pregnant with forms,
statements, bills, things
he never quite
got around to
shredding?

Maybe he should have
composed an opera
with the singers'
voices rising like
beautiful pink angels
in a heavenly choir,
a celebration where
the audience would stand up
and shout "BRAVO!" -
a sound so triumphant
so unique
even the gods
would bow
in reverence

"Two bee oar knot two bee..."
Seams knot too bee well honed
Wen awl ewe knead four align too fail
Is won to many homophones

Our minds can barely comprehend
The courage that they find -
A "Letters to the Editor" writer
Who always speaks his mind.

His pen is brave and daring
As he takes on all his foes.
His views provoke, incite, and ****;
He keeps us on our toes.

We marvel at his candor,
This keeper of the flame;
Direct, uncompromising,
"Anonymous" is his name!

What a poor letter is q
That can't get by without its u.
While other letters get by -
Independent, strong, and free,
A q can't make it alone
Like an m or an r or a c.
I can't help but wonder
Why a q without u will not work.
Could it be what etymologists call
A qirk?

To overeat is human.
To diet is divine.
To count your every calorie
is a precious use of time.
To pass up fattening goodies
shows your admirable restraint,
a noble cause you've championed
with nary a complaint.
But who could nix banana splits
or pasta, piping hot?
Your diet is well balanced.
Your mind is surely not.

I dreamed I won three Oscars,
Four Emmys, and a Tony too.
My fireplace mantel was sagging
From the honors I accrued.

I picked up two Golden Globes,
Five Grammys plus a Pulitzer Prize.
The awards just poured in that night.
I couldn't believe my eyes.

They gave me the Nobel Peace Prize
And my very own Stanley Cup,
Then I earned a People's Choice Award
Seconds before I woke up!

The newspaper reported he was
    the kind of kid
who rode home on a crowded school bus
sitting alone
looking out a window

Silent
shy
socially awkward
he kept to himself

He appeared in a nightmare I had
after that  tragic December morning
at Sandy Hook:
I only saw him from the back
moving quickly from a car
carrying a rifle
shooting his way
through a locked glass door

Then I woke up
cold
sweaty
a knot in my stomach

I never saw his face in the nightmare
just him
moving quickly
like a phantom
in a hurry

there was a tiny girl
who lived in a shoe
she had so much footwear
she didn't know what to do:
itsy-bitsy teensy-weensy
sneakers and pumps
and microscopic oxfords
that made her heart jump

the little clogs she wore
were custom-made in france
they went well with leisurewear
like her blue capri pants

she loved her ballet slippers
(the ones that did not pinch)
and preferred stilettos with heels
a sixteenth of an inch

her favorite choice of footgear
was a gift that could not be hipper:
a resplendent miniature pair
of magical ruby slippers

and she looked quite lovely always
wearing a minuscule diamond crown
and was the belle of every ball
as she twirled in her wee princess gown

He remembers his son's young eyes,
    clear and brown as marbles,
And when laughter made the boy's face
    light up with joy.
He remembers his step, like a
    thoroughbred's, galloping
    through the dust,
And his enormous kites soaring
    into the unknown.
A boy in cowboy boots,
    exploring the jungle.
A boy enchanted with frogs
    and the graceful flight of birds.
                           *                                                                
His father tries to find him now
    in this other jungle,
    sinking into the quicksand
    of another world,
And he still remembers those eyes -
    still young, still clear
    and brown as marbles.

mom was on "password" once

i saw a rerun of the program
the other day
on the game show channel

peter lawford
kept feeding her
bad clues

he looked at her
condescendingly
but i suspect
she was too entranced
by his bushy eyebrows
and **** smile
to even notice

i didn't really like
his smirk
when she kept guessing wrong
and then
when his clue was "passion"
she giggled

he winced

i laughed out loud
sitting there
in my disheveled living room
rain pounding
on the awning
the dog asleep
on my lap
magazines piled high
at my feet
my mother's laughter
lighting the room
like a lovely luminous ghost