Lead me away
From the harsh face of war
From loss and despair
And all I abhor

Let me rise up
And give Earth a nod
And take a final step
To touch the face of God

There is no adventure in him.

He knows only that there are trees.
He does not see lumber camps
or feel the strength of men
in black checkered shirts.
He cannot touch their red leather skins
or smell their hot whiskey breaths.
He does not see logs on the river.

I have tried to speak to him of Indian canoes
and rafts on the Mississippi.
I have tried to share leaf scents
and wood-burning fires
when everything is cold outside.

But he is content to just find shade
by the northeast window.

There is no adventure in him.

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.

It blows, and suddenly the pavements are filled
With men and women going everywhere,
But none are going anywhere.

Women in pretty dresses are not going to dances.
Yesterday was long ago,
When tomorrow set shimmery curls in their hair
And summer slipped a diamond on their fingers.

Men in soiled denims are not going on safaris.
Yesterday was long ago,
When adventure held the scent of salt-air
And their names were on the roll-call of ambition.

The whistle is a smokescreen,
And somewhere, on the other side,
Lies the "Open Sesame" of youth.

I hope that I shall never see
An awful dreaded irksome flea,

A flea that feasts on helpless pets
And makes them scratch and moan and fret,

A flea that frolics on a lawn
Plotting mischief from dusk till dawn,

A cruel wingless menacing foe
Whose only joy is spreading woe.

I wish that one day I would see
A fleeting fleeing of the flea;

Trillions of them blissful at play
In a galaxy far far away.

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...

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.

I honestly don't understand
Your riches or your fame
The entire frenzy seems to me
Entirely insane

Your voice sounds ancient and dismal
And drones on with bitter feelings
Truth be told it's not at all
What one might call appealing

I'm not a devoted follower
Who thinks you're simply grand
I think you'd do much better
With a different career plan

Avoid recording studios
Or noisy concert halls
Stay home and count your money
And forget about applause

I know you would tell me
In your snippy classless way
To shut the **** up
And quietly go away

To which I will repeat
My title's earnest cry:
No more "Hello" Adele
It's time to say "Goodbye"

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

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.

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

Now we wait
for the whisper in the universe
the voice to transcend all other sounds

We hush to hear the message
Someone will speak to us
Someone's voice will embrace us
in our darkest night of despair

Time has ceased
All creatures of the earth are still
The birds are sleeping
The fish are at rest
All seas are calm, undisturbed
All warriors have replaced their weapons
with prayers and thoughts of peace
The glittering components
of all the celestial galaxies
are in perfect alignment
All of the people in the world
have gathered
hopeful, longing
lingering on the edge of possibility
anxious to find
the majesty of forgiveness
the mystery of our purpose
the meaning of our lives

Everything in place
Everyone waiting for
the whisper
in the universe

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!

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

Every now and then
everything seems to stop

you pause
look around
survey
and then it's as if
you go away
all of a sudden
vanish
into a state of suspension
your physical self
released
your mind    body    soul
sways
you drift
into some safe sprawling space
where nothing really
touches you
there are no borders
no boundaries
nothing audible   nothing visible
except a strong comforting light
sweeping you into its
   expanding warmth
no fear   no anguish
as you bathe in this vast radiance
this glimpse into oneself
this singular moment
of infinite grace

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.

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.

Withdrawing to an empty room
I shut out light
and breathe arrhythmically

Childlike I warm myself
with dark vibrant blankets
as I fall deeper and deeper
into a dream
within a dream

A madwoman's fingertips
skim down the side of my head,
an old man's remains
are lowered
into sacred ground,
darkness smothers
a snowman mourning
in the blue night
of winter

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.

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?

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?

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

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

Dear Poet:

Your poetry
throbs
amuses
delights
irritates
stimulates
sometimes incites

Mystifies
startles
unnerves
and excites

Perfectly lofty
exquisitely right
dynamic
thrilling
burning bright
brilliant
heartwarming
whimsy in flight

Provocative
magical
forever true
magnificent
moving
engaging too

So now I'll close my letter
with a plea:

Keep writing.
Take care.

Sincerely,

Me

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

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

mix the numbers up
fill the lottery card out
give the girl five bucks
grab that slip of paper
clutch that sliver of hope

now you hold the possibility
in your veiny freckled hand

god knows it could be
a passport to riches
a path to paradise
a ticket to eden

or is it more than money's lure
this scrap of computerized pulp

it should flare like a strip of lightning
this invitation to rapture
this portal to freedom
this license to dream

My new computer's quite the gift
And one I truly covet -
With all the latest features
Who could help but love it?

I surf the net at breakneck speed
As if I'm in a race
There is no end to what I'll do
Launched in cyberspace

My new computer's quite the joy
I savor dusk till dawn
Now all I need to find is
The switch that turns it on!

Lately I've forgotten names
of friends I've known for years,
and sadnesses creep over me
with an unquiet suddenness
I cannot explain.
Some brief anguish slants
across my sunburned face
and all I welcome now
are days of endless rain.

A letter came for me
   the other day,
yet I can't bring myself
   to open it.
No fear accompanies
   my reluctance -
just a reel of cryptic film
running through my mind
of things gone wrong,
loved ones lost,
times misspent.

All I have now are memories
of fleeting smiles
and frightened eyes,
of unsure lips
whispering quiet lies.

So I find myself lying still
on a floor,
waiting for a ceiling to drop
and make me move once more.

less
is best

my sister
emily had
leukemia
but was in
remission

we wanted
to let her
know how
special she
was so we
sent away to
a mail order
place in
new hampshire
where - for
forty-five
dollars - they
sell you
title to a
star in the
sky and you
name the star
after someone
and they
send you a
celestial map
that is all
blueprint blue
with spidery
white lines
compass points
big red dots

we checked
the map out
and found the
designated
location of
what we named
the emily star
situated at the
intersection of
m and twelve -
m/twelve on
the celestial
map - a star in
a cluster of
stars in the
sword handle
of perseus the
brochure said

one freezing cold
night we all saw
the emily star
blinking like
the only light
on a tiny
christmas tree
but we could
see it clear
enough no need
for a telescope
or anything and
we cheered and
prayed and talked
about god and
love and life

then two weeks
ago right after
emily got real
sick again
we looked up
and noticed that
the emily star
was gone and
my son looked
up at emily's
window...
it had the
lightest
glow coming
from her
bedside lamp
so we just
looked at one
another and
went inside
and i quietly
walked up the
stairs and
entered her room

is here
shivering in the wings
of pop culture

There's no death in it
no sadness
no Dickensian heartache

There's no old man
searching for God's approval
no young man
hungry for the
jazz of life

I'm only ready now for sleep anyway
sleep that beckons
on some hazy horizon
My eyes shutting out light
My breathing labored
My fingers too weary
to hold a pen

I hear my muse urging me
to surrender to the
lure of slumber

She's telling me
this is not my last poem
and sings me to sleep
on this soulless April night

i'm sure she's a terrorist

she drives a stick shift

and wears sensible shoes

and everything she does
arouses my suspicion

she's up there now
in her cluttered apartment
yapping about her congressman
and the debt ceiling

i hear her every sunday
yelling at her tv set
giving attitude to
all those panelists
on the political programs

and someone told me she
sneaks off to the mall
in plaid sneakers
and has four computers
and hides her cats
in shoe boxes
whenever the property manager
comes around

and she always has a smile
for the property manager

i'm on to her and
i have a plan
that involves deadbolt locks
surveillance video
and a bugging device

she's up there now going on
about the governor

give me a break

at least he isn't driving
a stick shift

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?

It could be the duchess
Or maybe the CEO
Or the media mogul
Who almost stole the show

Consider the brash *******
(He does look kind of shifty)
Then again there is the gambler
(Everyone calls him "Swifty")

Check out the carefree diplomat
With that fake smile but no charm
And then there's the airhead heiress
With tattoos adorning her arms

My money's on the senator
Always running, always winning
His wife seems kind of suspect too
With her endless mindless grinning

And then there is the debutante
Who flirted with the football star
And don't forget the pro golfer
Who spent so much time at the bar

But after all that guessing
Throughout the suspenseful show
Turns out the butler did it
...As if I didn't know!

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

i come from nowhere
being far from never
floating in a mazeless void
toward a nameless ever
and if you come across me there
wave an invisible hand
and watch my disappearing form
in this silent airless land
and make certain you remember
if you mindlessly recall
who and what and where i came from
and how i took my fall
through infinite skies of empty
past petty vacant stares
a journey with no purpose
a journey to nowhere

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

Voices are telling me not to jump
My hands hold on to the ledge
The voices are loud, demanding
Some are crying out, beseeching me
Some are familiar, others not at all
"STOP!" they yell with inevitable urgency

I close my eyes to contemplate my fall
The shocked expressions of people
taken aback by the sight of someone
descending in a flash
as they happen to look out their windows

I'm afraid to let go now
The thought of striking a pavement
feet first (or any other way)
is a deciding factor
I just can't do this.  It's too messy

It takes what feels like forever
for most of these people to haul me up to
the balcony - two cops help me to a sofa

Maybe tomorrow I think

Where did all these people come from I wonder

Maybe not tomorrow.  Another day then

When no one is looking

Maybe I'll just go off to a motel room
somewhere in the suburbs.  Fortify myself
with something strong and bitter
swallow a shaky handful of pills
to blur my yellow streak

But no crowds next time

God my hands hurt like hell

No high-rise drama

No Dorothy Parker babble in my brain
telling me I might as well live

And no fuss

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.

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

He remembers the tightrope
in ring one
A chant dulls his ears
and he falls, dreaming
A madwoman's icy fingertips
skim down the side of his head
Shrieks explode
inside his throat
Childlike, he warms himself
with brown, vibrant blankets
He can almost feel the tightrope
tugging under his feet
The memory jars him
His hand leaps endlessly
through a somersault
sky, hand to head, hand to
chest, then to thigh, while
blood spots the dirt floor

Like dying sheep, he bleats
The moans are lonely
ghastly, ricocheting off
the cold walls of his brain
remembering again the
stiff cord pressing
against his trembling frame
the taut stretch
distracting him
He stops and sees himself
carrying an aged man
to a snowy grave
He turns to watch the knife-thrower
turn the knife around
while a liquored mob shouts
Jostled, he sees memories
scatter everywhere

Withdrawing to an empty room
he craves the lack of light
the falling sensation overwhelming
the dreams collapsing around him
like an ancient ruin

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

You're waiting for me
somewhere on a pier
silent in the mist
fog surrounding you
your hands trembling -
how I miss that tremble -
your fingers moving nervously
feverishly
like knitting needles
flashing in the wind
so palpable so wondrous
and you're waiting for me

I think of you always
and will miss you forever
whatever swept you away
that brusque winter morning
has departed long ago
we never said good-bye
or held hands
or kissed
there were no final gestures

Weeks later
in a sleepless moment
I thought I saw you
standing near me
looking serious and bewildered
but I know my mind
   was playing tricks on me
now I can only hope
you hear these words
hear the ache in my voice
the longing that is ceaseless
the words rolling ever so slowly
toward you
waiting there
on that nameless mystical pier

She lives without chandeliers.

Once she searched for these
and balconies
and window boxes
brimming with zinnias.
She thought reality
was a veil you lifted
where dreams were found
alive and squealing.

She lives half her days
in theaters now
safe from a careless light
playing tricks with
her cheap makeup
and thrift store dress.

She's safe there
away from her room
where love visits her
once a week
expecting no chandeliers.

Love showed up unannounced
Startled me in a dream
Did it come to take me away?
What was its noble scheme?

Love sort of mystified me then
Stopped short and sped away
What message was in its eyes?
What words did it fail to say?

Perhaps it came to taunt me
To challenge me once more
To share myself, my feelings
To allow my heart to soar

To watch me try once again
Before the hour got too late
To give me one more chance for love
To change my lonesome fate

Explosions of grief won't greet her death
Great men won't be summoned to speak
Bands of mourners won't wail at her passing
These gestures she will not seek

Just mingle the day with music and madness
Make the day one drooped in frost
Children must carry her down winding roads
Clarinets must moan her loss

Then at an hour no one knows
A man must visit her grave
He'll kneel and touch her tombstone
And smile a mysterious way

He'll be dressed head to toe in somber black
Conveying his grief gallantly
Just let him place one pink rose at the site
And rejoice in his memories

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 took her to the vet that morning
for the last time

i remember it was raining
and the lady at the vet's office
was sweet and caring
with a pleasant voice
and a kind heart

it was still only morning
still raining
when i drove home

i parked the car
and walked toward the house
knowing that my wonderful dog -
my beautiful "rose" -
would not suffer anymore
and that for the first time
in her fourteen years on this earth
she would not be there
waiting for me

my hand shook
as i held the key
to unlock the door
and the key fell on the step

and on the other side of the door
no one would be waiting
nothing would be there

nothing
but that awful silence

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