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

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

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.'"

I held her in my arms
And kissed her tenderly
I knew our love would last
Throughout eternity

She was the sweetest girl
So lovely, fair and fun
I blessed the day we met
I knew she was the one

And then she fell asleep
This angel I adored
A smile graced her face
As she began to snore

The sound would wake a dead man
So eerie was her roar
I could only ponder
"Where is the exit door?"

I thought she was so special
This girl was mine for keeps
But that could only happen
If she never fell asleep

It was our final date that night
I said "farewell" with poise
I'll never forget my one true love
...Or that unbelievable noise

at summer's end, she is in the
fabled city of light, drifting in
a romantic evening of soft breezes,
streets majestically lined with trees,
the brilliant and luminous eiffel tower

she is thinking of those she turned
against, people she had once trusted,
admired, adored, loved - and then spurned -
her mother, husband, sister, brother,
friends, each one falling away like
those endless bouquets presented to
her at state visits...bright, beautiful
flowers, their petals dropping, dreamlike,
from her arms, falling like little pieces
of flesh floating lazily to the ground

she faces the tunnel now, fearful that she
might disappear in the cavern of lights,
the glistening mercedes, almost airborne,
moves at a furious speed, she ends up
trapped in the car, slammed against a
wall, she does not even know, in this
moment of profound loss, that she has
no voice to speak, to call out, to plead,
her eyes fluttering wildly at the lights
glaring at her in the tunnel

his eyes follow words sentences
paragraphs his mind seeks order
balance as each printed mark is
examined and a battalion of red
pencil marks pursue the perfect
page his deep blue godlike eyes
peer beyond glass seeking sense
syntax eyes that will not blink
in this selfless solitary quest

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

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

She plays the victim so often,
her small shaky voice
seems as tiny as she is,
those beautiful dark
   Russian eyes pleading
like rippling pools of fear...

And now she is here -
in this dark water -
no camera to record her fear,
no sound engineer
to capture her cries...
just a curious moon
spreading no light
as her slim form slips
almost imperceptibly
beneath the surface.

I wait in the cold current,
then surge forward,
grabbing her.

She's so fragile,
doll-like almost.
I can barely make out
her perfect features
in this troubled seascape.

I hold her firmly,
her face just above the wave.
We struggle in the darkness,
no ship's light,
no miracle lifeboat,
no compass, no guide...

I hold her tightly,
our breathing labored.
I hear her whispered prayers
like soft billowing epiphanies
carrying us
quietly   gently    safely
back to shore.

trim the fat
o weaver of words
lessen the intake
of ponderous verbs
squeeze excess out
of every line
shorten the stanza
cut back on rhyme
get to the point
don't aim for the epic
when a quatrain will do
avoid the septic
give us an ode
that's short on length
nothing so long
it saps our strength
in an age of fast food
and instant replay
and speed dating too
i'd just like to say
we're ready now
for a genre that's new
so fasten your seat belt
here's its debut:
the skinny poem's
a fresh kind of verse
low-calorie fat-free
the verse that is terse

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

Cloud Nine is average
A three out of ten
Kind of gray and *****
Not at all into Zen

Cloud Ten is all fluffy
And full of fun
If you want a good time
Ten's the One
It's so much nicer
Lots of pinks and blues
With angels like ballerinas
Twirling in tutus

But forget about Nine
It's Dullsville in space
Check out Cloud Ten
It's a happening place

what happens when you're a child
and your mother sits silent
in a room
staring at you
her mind dwelling
in some secret
unreachable place

even your name escapes her
                     _

what happens when
your father vanishes
in a haze of smoke
a sea of drink

a toppled monarch
in the kingdom
of your youth
      _

and what happens
when your heart breaks

the universe tilts
stars blink and fade
your heart shatters
like a miniature army
of glass soldiers...
broken, scattered everywhere
a  thousand    armless     heroes

We know that snow and ice
And wind and sleet and hail
Will make us all uptight
Make us despair and wail

Let's face it: The roads are scary
                      Filled with sudden risks
                      When Mother Nature digs into
                      Her nasty bag of tricks

And weather experts only
Make us tense and fidget
With forecasts of wind chills
In dreaded single digits

We say: No more shoveling snow
              No more arctic winds
              No more cars that cough and stall
              No more tires that spin

We'll wait for warmer days
The days when bluebirds sing
We'll wait for winter's end
And bless the birth of spring

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.

Your nimble fingers
secrete the stray
merchandise at Main
Street's Almighty
Dollar Store -
a place brimming with
inanimate objects made in
Japan and China,
transported into your bulky
winter coat's four
outside pockets

Hide that pack of gum,
those ballpoint pens,
mechanical pencils, tiny
spiral bound notebooks that
fit so easily

Conceal that paperback best seller
you were looking through earlier,
the one titled "Where is God?"
in bold red type superimposed
against a threatening gray sky

Grab that bracelet for your wife,
that string of pearls too
and don't forget a bib for the
baby, a knickknack to brighten
your mother's dingy living
room and remember to take
those black leather gloves
so perfect for the
months ahead

With your heart racing,
move toward the exit door,
walk - don't run - avoid
eye contact - that's it -
keep going, but slowly

And then, as you take a few
steps forward outside,
someone from behind roughly
grabs your shoulders

As you turn around, those
gloves fall out
of a crowded pocket,
landing on the
snowy sidewalk

The hefty security
guy retrieves the
gloves and nudges
you back into the
warmth of the store

Somewhere in the
distance, carolers
are singing "Silent Night"

Three in the morning, halfway
through my shift at a printing
plant. I'm tired as always, my
mind frazzled, my eyes bleary.
I'm creeping through the night
as I proofread technical manuals
and pharmaceutical ads and
brochures aimed at type two
diabetics. I'm on life support
here, stuck in a depressing gray
environment, a vampire on the
graveyard shift, the burial
ground of too many aging English
majors struggling to make a buck
while the rest of the world is home
asleep, dreaming in color, people
whose minds and bodies will forever
have a normal relationship with
sunlight.

As I proofread, I listen to talk radio
with its opinionated personalities,
irate callers, and nocturnal candor,
all of it making those Sinatra-like
wee small hours of the morning fly
by like a moth rushing toward
a bright burning bulb.

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

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

The surgeon changed her nose
To a perfect classic form
And people forgot the original
Until her twins were born.

Surgeons can reconstruct your features,
Turn Plain Janes into beauty queens,
But surgery stops mighty short
In fixing those tiny genes.

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.

Her mournful eyes fixed
on some distant invisible point

In all her life
she rarely opened her arms to anyone
rarely returned affection
her heart an icy chamber
stoic, closed

Half the time she was penned up in isolation
trapped in an asylum
a life cruelly altered by thorazine
and shock treatments
her soundtrack a choir of madwomen
their voices running riot
in a snake pit

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.

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.

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.

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!

Once a year
my sister visits the grave
of Montgomery Clift

She travels one hundred miles
to kneel in a Brooklyn cemetery
and weep before his
   modest headstone

I marvel at her romanticism
aimed at this mangled wreck
of an actor
this helpless mess of a man
pumped up with drugs
and rough ***
a haunted matinee idol
cavorting on the cusp
of madness

On her way home
she stares out
a bus window

She remembers his tremulous voice
and brooding eyes
his sullen features
overwhelming the giant screen

Soon she will fall asleep
dreaming of him holding her
in his anxious fragile arms
while the gray streets of Brooklyn
rush by

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

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.

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

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?

When warriors sleep
they dream of peace
of perfect skies
and quiet seas

But when awake
they hear the call
and face the fight
and stand so tall

They fear not war
or words of hate
they know that strife
can make them great

And one who never
turned from the heat
who spoke his mind
endured defeat

Now rests in death
an honored man
who served us well
who took a stand

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

Waking from a crash of glass
Sweat pouring...hands attending
In this bright room where whispers pass
I slowly feel myself descending
You thought that only words could break me
But glass, metal, time, rain
Mingled in one reckless moment
Left me scarred, seared with pain
Somewhere in my shattered mind
Where illusion can only take me now
Scenery changed just like our lives
No one will note my final bow
You thought that only words could break me
Racing from your angry glance
Bizarre, the slow lid's eerie closing
White bulb swaying on a final dance

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!

Take me through glorious hoops and mazes
Mysterious, magical, wondrous places
Then join me in a whimsical flight
And let me bask in morning's light

Voices are telling me not to jump
They're loud, demanding
Crying out, beseeching me
"STOP!" they yell.  "STOP!"

A small voice inside me whispers "jump"

I'm afraid but I step forward
Swaying in the rough wind
The urgent sound of an alarm clock
Shrieks next to me -
The sound rushing through my room
Like a runaway train

My dog leaps up barking, licks my face
I sit up soaked in sweat
Disheveled, confused, shaking

A witness once again
To my own resurrection

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!

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

I'm the face on a Norman Rockwell cover
and a nameless soldier honored
in a single noble tomb

You see me -
a fearful face in a
sea of fearful faces,
a part of those huddled masses
yearning to breathe free.
Armed with dreams and apprehensions,
I wave to the majestic lady in the harbor,
her torch warming my hopeful heart.

You stand with me
in the stillness of Arlington,
a grieving parent
clutching a folded flag,
remembering my fallen child.

And you listen to the sounds I love -
the music of a marching band
on the Fourth of July,
a rhapsody by Gershwin,
the soul of Bourbon Street jazz,
the roar of rock.

You know me.

From sea to shining sea,
I am America.
You are America.
God shed His grace on thee.