If you danced from midnight
to six A.M. who would understand?

The runaway boy
who chucks it all
to live on the Boston Common
on speed and saltines,
******* in the duck pond,
rapping with the street priest,
trading talk like blows,
another missing person,
would understand.

The paralytic's wife
who takes her love to town,
sitting on the bar stool,
downing stingers and peanuts,
singing "That ole Ace down in the hole,"
would understand.

The passengers
from Boston to Paris
watching the movie with dawn
coming up like statues of honey,
having partaken of champagne and steak
while the world turned like a toy globe,
those murderers of the nightgown
would understand.

The amnesiac
who tunes into a new neighborhood,
having misplaced the past,
having thrown out someone else's
credit cards and monogrammed watch,
would understand.

The drunken poet
(a genius by daylight)
who places long-distance calls
at three A.M. and then lets you sit
holding the phone while he vomits
(he calls it "The Night of the Long Knives")
getting his kicks out of the death call,
would understand.

The insomniac
listening to his heart
thumping like a June bug,
listening on his transistor
to Long John Nebel arguing from New York,
lying on his bed like a stone table,
would understand.

The night nurse
with her eyes slit like Venetian blinds,
she of the tubes and the plasma,
listening to the heart monitor,
the death cricket bleeping,
she who calls you "we"
and keeps vigil like a ballistic missile,
would understand.

Once
this king had twelve daughters,
each more beautiful than the other.
They slept together, bed by bed
in a kind of girls' dormitory.
At night the king locked and bolted the door
. How could they possibly escape?
Yet each morning their shoes
were danced to pieces.
Each was as worn as an old jockstrap.
The king sent out a proclamation
that anyone who could discover
where the princesses did their dancing
could take his pick of the litter.
However there was a catch.
If he failed, he would pay with his life.
Well, so it goes.

Many princes tried,
each sitting outside the dormitory,
the door ajar so he could observe
what enchantment came over the shoes.
But each time the twelve dancing princesses
gave the snoopy man a Mickey Finn
and so he was beheaded.
****! Like a basketball.

It so happened that a poor soldier
heard about these strange goings on
and decided to give it a try.
On his way to the castle
he met an old old woman.
Age, for a change, was of some use.
She wasn't stuffed in a nursing home.
She told him not to drink a drop of wine
and gave him a cloak that would make
him invisible when the right time came.
And thus he sat outside the dorm.
The oldest princess brought him some wine
but he fastened a sponge beneath his chin,
looking the opposite of Andy Gump.

The sponge soaked up the wine,
and thus he stayed awake.
He feigned sleep however
and the princesses sprang out of their beds
and fussed around like a Miss America Contest.
Then the eldest went to her bed
and knocked upon it and it sank into the earth.
They descended down the opening
one after the other. They crafty soldier
put on his invisisble cloak and followed.
Yikes, said the youngest daughter,
something just stepped on my dress.
But the oldest thought it just a nail.

Next stood an avenue of trees,
each leaf make of sterling silver.
The soldier took a leaf for proof.
The youngest heard the branch break
and said, Oof! Who goes there?
But the oldest said, Those are
the royal trumpets playing triumphantly.
The next trees were made of diamonds.
He took one that flickered like Tinkerbell
and the youngest said: Wait up! He is here!
But the oldest said: Trumpets, my dear.

Next they came to a lake where lay
twelve boats with twelve enchanted princes
waiting to row them to the underground castle.
The soldier sat in the youngest's boat
and the boat was as heavy as if an icebox
had been added but the prince did not suspect.

Next came the ball where the shoes did duty.
The princesses danced like taxi girls at Roseland
as if those tickets would run right out.
They were painted in kisses with their secret hair
and though the soldier drank from their cups
they drank down their youth with nary a thought.

Cruets of champagne and cups full of rubies.
They danced until morning and the sun came up
naked and angry and so they returned
by the same strange route. The soldier
went forward through the dormitory and into
his waiting chair to feign his druggy sleep.
That morning the soldier, his eyes fiery
like blood in a wound, his purpose brutal
as if facing a battle, hurried with his answer
as if to the Sphinx. The shoes! The shoes!
The soldier told. He brought forth
the silver leaf, the diamond the size of a plum.

He had won. The dancing shoes would dance
no more. The princesses were torn from
their night life like a baby from its pacifier.
Because he was old he picked the eldest.
At the wedding the princesses averted their eyes
and sagged like old sweatshirts.
Now the runaways would run no more and never
again would their hair be tangled into diamonds,
never again their shoes worn down to a laugh,
never the bed falling down into purgatory
to let them climb in after
with their Lucifer kicking.

A bee with innards spilling
A lost tabby,
A blimp caught up in trees,
Tintern Abbey.

The gravestone of a lover,
A drowning ship,
An NHS delivery of
Fortisip.

A girl with alopecia and
Fungail nails,
A one legged pigeon,
Exploding whales.

Ivy choked churches,
Merlot tongues,
Parrots plucking feathers,
Marlboro lungs.

Girls locked up in attics,
*** toys.
Boys punching girls
And punching boys.

Babies crowning
Fussed about like kings.
Darlings,
You shall see such pretty things.

my grandfather from liverpool
and my father too
sat in the kitchen
and discussed nothing  new

tired from a long day on the busses
he fell into a trouble slumber in
his arm chair
he thrashed and fussed

we his family would quietly gather
cries of protest and stifled incredulity
cut the warm air
the great grandfather ticked..

(before television
or we listened to arther askey)
he was a proud man
with right of way..

he told the boss to f himself
if he were n´t a gentleman..
what he would make of this
world today..

so,he went through his day
and we tried not to laugh
the man who earned his wage
tired of this *******

i guffawed and he woke
he fixed us with his pale
beautiful eyes..
and later the next morning

in  the lovely little back
garden
in the hushed roar
he said we would be friends..

The devil beats his wife in Louisiana
Hot wet rain
Pounds on the glassy window
And you, my friend
You sit
Brunette and brutal
Heart pounding like hot rain
Who though metal could be so heavy
Who thought guns weren’t all that hard to find
Who thought you were twisted and planning and deep
I didn’t


Slipping little things into speech
I said it was hot
You said you legs were melting into the pavement
Bones brittle and burning
I fussed about the math exam
You said about the teacher
We should just **** her
And I thought:
That’s just dark humor
I can appreciate Aronofsky and black sarcasm


Now you stand up
I sit a wall apart
Drumming my pen
Tap tap tap tap tap
The rain comes down
Tap tap tap tap tap
A gun goes off
Tap tap tap tap tap
I cannot move
My feet have melted into the floor


Your head is a grenade
And I held the pin
Between my teeth
Like an apricot pit
I didn’t speak
I said nothing
Kept you trapped
****** and dangerous
Condemned to this world that fit you so ill


Bang bang
And the locks are feeble
The kids are quiet
Anticipation
Funny how nothing but mass ******
Could zip their ******* mouths
Like a start gun
The panic begins


You paint the walls red
Wounded scared kids run chaos to the door
And you
You are the eye in a hurricane
A cataract in the Nile
You are still
And my feet are cemented
To the ******* ground
And hold my eye contact
And hold it


I want to say this pretty
I want to give you some glorious macabre
I want to make you gruesome poetry
But I cannot
And you blow your ******* brains out
And my feet stay cemented
Until the police come to clean up
The mess you made


The television says you’re a monster
Papers argue teenage corruption
I don’t know
I don’t know
I don’t know
As I stand
White shoes toeing the lip
Contemplating the traffic below me
And the life you shattered and left

Pastor Nate Yarborough knew since early on that he wanted to be a clergyman. He grew up in a Christian home and believed in God as long as he could remember. He dreamed of being a minister someday and becoming the pastor of  his own church. At only thirty-one-years-old, his dream came true. He was young, yet head pastor at Hope Christian Church and had a medium sized congregation that was thriving. To add to his dream-come-true, he had a beautiful wife, Veronica, and darling three-and-a half-year-old daughter, Michaela.

Jesus was the center of his life, but Veronica was the one who kept him grounded. Michaela was just the light of his world, a special blessing in his life. She was a happy baby who was just a typical daddy’s girl. When her father came home from his job she would squeal with delight and go running to him, at first as a wobbly toddler and then to a quick, little girl who would sprint to the door.  

“Daddy’s home!” she would announce in a big voice.

Nate would swoop up Michaela up in his arms as he planted gentle kisses upon her little cheek. “Michaela, my sunshine girl!” he would shout. “There’s my little beauty!” He definitely wanted more children, but he was thankful and felt so blessed to have her be his very first.      

“That is how we should with our heavenly father”, Veronica told Nate, in admiration of those two in action, “and not run from him in fear.”

Yet one day Michaela was having seizures and became quite ill. She transformed from a bubbly child to one who fussed and cried and didn’t want to play very much.  Her worried parents took her to the doctor, and she was put through a battery of tests. The church was praying for little Michaela, but the diagnosis was grim and shocking. She had a brain tumor. Her parent’s worst fears had been confirmed. Her tumor was malignant and it was inoperable.

Veronica would open up the outpouring of cards and letters of well wishes from parishioners. So many people were praying for the family. Veronica had hope even as her husband was growing distant as his little girl became sicker and sicker. In spite of treatment, in spite of prayers, little Michaela succumbed to her sickness. Her bright, little spirit was forever gone from their home.

“We will have more children”, Veronica assured her husband through her tears. “We will get through this—together. With God’s help, we’ll get through this!”  

Nate didn’t respond. Veronica felt him stiffen in his lackluster embrace. She stiffened, too, for she knew that wasn't of Nate's character, and she could tell by his face that he wasn’t buying any of it.  

His sermons now became shorter, far less engaging. They weren’t full of encouraging stories or inspirational words of faith, of challenging the defeated to never give up, and imploring everyone to always turn to the Lord—in bad times as well as the good.  

People in the church rallied behind Pastor Nate and his wife. They offered meals during the time that Michaela was laid out in the funeral home and finally laid to rest. They offered more prayers, encouraging words, and hugs for the couple to make it through this rough storm in their lives. A pastor friend of Nate conducted the funeral but Nate hardly heard a word. Veronica grew worried.

There were many in the congregation who grew concerned, too. They still were supportive, but now the elders and deacons had no choice but to gather at a meeting and figure out what to do. Nate’s leadership role was falling apart. His life, no doubt,  was falling apart.

“Why does God punish some on this earth who are innocent?” he asked one time at the pulpit.  “There are no answers when your heart is torn out from you, when you serve God with all you have, and He does this to you. Why? Perhaps, there is no such being as God. Perhaps, it is wishful thinking and we have all been duped…I’ve thought about it and I’ve searched the Scriptures, yet I get nothing there . I think the atheists aren’t so out of bounds, after all.”

Sitting a few rows back, Veronica looked nervously around. She heard some of the gasps in the crowd, heard many whispers, and saw the shocked faces. She laid her head in her hands and was too scared out of her mind to even pray.

“We are sorry, Veronica”, one of the elders told her one day. “We tried to reason with your husband. We care about you both, but this cannot go on. We asked Pastor Nate to get seek out some help—to step down temporarily—but he didn’t even flinch. He says he’s never coming back. He just doesn’t believe anymore. And he just doesn’t care. ”

Veronica tried to get Nate to go to counseling with her. She needed it, too, and he wasn’t helping her any. This church was his dream, and sure his daughter had tragically died, but he needed to hold it together—for their sake. To crumble on her was too much on top of losing her daughter. He just couldn’t do this!

She could handle her grief far better if they could remain a team. But he didn’t want to talk, wouldn’t listen to anyone, and now how were they going to make ends meet without his role as pastor? Nate fell into a severe depression, and Veronica felt helpless to do anything about it.

After a few months of trying to get through to him, her faith grew dim. How could this happen to them? To save herself from going down with him, she decided she had to walk away. She didn’t want to, but she had made up her mind to move back in with her parents.

“It’s for the best, for now”, she told him. “It doesn’t have to be permanent.”

Nate sat there, staring at the blank TV. “Do what you want”, he replied.

One of the parishioners, Craig DeArmond, decided to pay him a visit. His mother, Marge, always admired Nate’s sermons. She was a big supporter of his, and wept when she heard of the news of his daughter's death. It was evident to her that his faith took a huge dip—actually a crash landing—and his world that revolved around his belief lay in shambles.

Craig was saddened by how quiet the place was, how unkempt and uninviting it appeared. He’s been to the house before, a once pleasant place to be.  Now, it was bleak and joyless. “Will you talk to my mother?” Craig asked him. “She’s sad since my dad passed away a week after last Christmas, you know. Forty-eight years of marriage has been much of her life . My mom could use some counseling.”

Nate looked at him without much emotion. “Let her talk to the current pastor. She doesn’t need me.”

Craig said, “But she looks up to you, and it might do you some good, too.”

Nate scoffed at that. “Look, I’m not in the faith business anymore. There’s no way I can be of comfort.” He dismissed Craig with his hand and said, “She goes to me or she goes to a fortune teller—tell her she’ll get about the same results, either way.”

Craig stood up over Nate, hoping Nate would look up at him. He wouldn’t, so Craig was about to walk away but turned around and replied, “God forgive me, for I want to make this clear. Listen to me, Nathan Yale! You are one selfish *******!”

Nate suddenly shot a look at him. “A what?” he demanded.

“You heard me”, Craig said, his arms crossed. “I know you are a man of God—or at least you used to be.  He grew more bold, was on a roll and said, “Look, you are pushing everyone away! People who love and care about you have lost you! Your wife, for crying out loud, is a wreck! I know you’re in pain, but—”

“What do you know of my pain?” Nate shot back. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Perhaps, he had been crying or even drinking.

“I don’t know!” Craig shouted. “But what do you know of faith?”

Nathan didn’t know what to say, for he was never prepared for this. Craig continued, “My mother lost both of her parents by the age of thirteen. She grew up in an alcoholic home, so she watched her parents slowly drink away their lives. She had no choice but to live with her aunt while her other siblings were spread out to stay with other relatives.”

Craig had Nathan’s full attention now. He took advantage of this and pulled up a chair and sat right in front of him, saying, “Her aunt’s husband—her so-called uncle—wouldn’t stop pawing at her and trying to put his hand up her blouse. She had no lock on her bedroom door and so this guy would sneak in--and guess what? He ***** her! At first, it was shocking! The second time, it was Hell. The third time it was worse! The forth time….should I go on?”

“Oh, God, why?” Nate said, tears in his eyes at the thought.

“Yes, he ***** her”, Craig repeated, “until one day she was pregnant and her aunt was demanding how she ended up this way , calling her a **** and shaming her. Mom finally blurted out that it was her uncle who got forced himself on her, and the aunt didn’t believe her.”

Nate was fully engaged. “What happened to your poor mother?” he asked, trying to keep his mouth from quivering.

“She was kicked out on the streets... nothing but the clothes on her back. With nowhere to go, she went to a friend’s house. The stress was so bad on her that she miscarried the baby, laying on the floor in agony. So the authorities placed her in a home for girls and never did she have to live in that house again…but the scars are still there--ugly, deep scars!”

So Craig left Nate’s house, but Nate had joined him in the car. Craig told his mother what he had revealed to Nate—without her permission—but he felt he had to do it. She agreed it was the right thing to do.

Nate gave Marge a huge hug during his visit. She was such a motherly figure, and he admired her for what she went through. “How on earth did you survive?” he asked her.

“Like you”, she confessed. “I was so angry with God. I hated Him, just hated Him. But when I was living in the home for girls, I met a girl who had huge faith. It was sickening to me, at first. I thought to myself, ‘How can you have such faith when you’ve ended up in here?’ And she didn’t know what happened to me, for I was too scared to tell anyone back then.”

“But you have great faith now”, Nate stated. “Better than even I ever had, I’m ashamed to say. I’ve seen your faith in action! ”

Marge put her hand to his cheek. “I fought for every bit of it”, she said. “I didn’t want to believe in God, but their was a nagging presence that wouldn't go away!”

Nate smiled. “I love the way you put it, Marge”, he said.

“Well, I had that friend who talked about Jesus, and then I went to rent out a room of a woman who took in boarders. She had a strong faith, and she took me to church. I’ve never been to church in my life, and I just wanted to get her off my back for asking! But my heart slowly softened, for I never thought that I’d ever believe in God…and didn’t want to…ever!”

“Neither did I…after loosing Michaela”, Nate said. “I loved her so much." He began to cry and put his face in his hands.

Marge put her arm around him and said, “But I found out that I really needed God. I needed to forgive a lot of people—my mother and father, my aunt and uncle—especially myself because I felt so hateful all the time.”

Nate sobbed, “I feel hateful, too—and guilty. I don’t know if I’ll ever have faith again. It scares me to feel that way.”

Marge held him in her arms like he was her little child. “Oh, but you haven’t really lost it, Pastor. You see, I didn’t want to believe in God, either, because I felt He was against me. If God existed…well, than how come my parents were alcoholics? How come my uncle ***** me? How come I got pregnant and the baby died? Ended up by myself? How come…how come? I think we all can ask our share of questions in this world.”

“They are valid questions”, he admitted, tears still streaming down his face. “Frankly, many problems pale in comparison.”

Marge couldn't have disagreed more. "No, Nate..,pain is pain. Yours is just as valid as anyone else's.  It just is just when it is an excuse to be bitter that is dangerous.  And I used that as a reason for being bitter!” she said. “But the bitterness was killing me. Slowly, I was dying.”

"But you made it through. You're quite alive, Marge, quite alive... and quite amazing."

They lingered in conversation, for they both needed this to take place. After it was over, Nate went home, feeling like a dam of walled up emotions had been finally released. It was certainly a start. He called Veronica up and he managed to say, “Veronica…please forgive me. Let’s start again…our lives together…” before his voice broke and the tears poured out again.

“Of course”, she responded, her voice trembling. “I already have forgiven you because I’ve been waiting and praying for this moment to come.”

1.
Mother, my Mary Gray,
once resident of Gloucester
and Essex County,
a photostat of your will
arrived in the mail today.
This is the division of money.
I am one third
of your daughters counting my bounty
or I am a queen alone
in the parlor still,
eating the bread and honey.
It is Good Friday.
Black birds pick at my window sill.
Your coat in my closet,
your bright stones on my hand,
the gaudy fur animals
I do not know how to use,
settle on me like a debt.
A week ago, while the hard March gales
beat on your house,
we sorted your things: obstacles
of letters, family silver,
eyeglasses and shoes.
Like some unseasoned Christmas, its scales
rigged and reset,
I bundled out gifts I did not choose.
Now the houts of The Cross
rewind. In Boston, the devout
work their cold knees
toward that sweet martyrdom
that Christ planned. My timely loss
is too customary to note; and yet
I planned to suffer
and I cannot. It does not please
my yankee bones to watch
where the dying is done
in its usly hours. Black birds peck
at my window glass
and Easter will take its ragged son.
The clutter of worship
that you taught me, Mary Gray,
is old. I imitate
a memory of belief
that I do not own. I trip
on your death and jesus, my stranger
floats up over
my Christian home, wearing his straight
thorn tree. I have cast my lot
and am one third thief
of you. Time, that rearranger
of estates, equips
me with your garments, but not with grief.

2.
This winter when
cancer began its ugliness
I grieved with you each day
for three months
and found you in your private nook
of the medicinal palace
for New England Women
and never once
forgot how long it took.
I read to you
from The New Yorker, ate suppers
you wouldn't eat, fussed
with your flowers,
joked with your nurses, as if I
were the balm among lepers,
as if I could undo
a life in hours
if I never said goodbye.
But you turned old,
all your fifty-eight years sliding
like masks from your skull;
and at the end
I packed your nightgowns in suitcases,
paid the nurses, came riding
home as if I'd been told
I could pretend
people live in places.

3.
Since then I have pretended ease,
loved with the trickeries of need, but not enough
to shed my daughterhood
or sweeten him as a man.
I drink the five o' clock martinis
and poke at this dry page like a rough
goat. Fool! I fumble my lost childhood
for a mother and lounge in sad stuff
with love to catch and catch as catch can.
And Christ still waits. I have tried
to exorcise the memory of each event
and remain still, a mixed child,
heavy with cloths of you.
Sweet witch, you are my worried guide.
Such dangerous angels walk through Lent.
Their walls creak Anne! Convert! Convert!
My desk moves. Its cavr murmurs Boo
and I am taken and beguiled.
Or wrong. For all the way I've come
I'll have to go again. Instead, I must convert
to love as reasonable
as Latin, as sold as earthenware:
an equilibrium
I never knew. And Lent will keep its hurt
for someone else. Christ knows enough
staunch guys have hitched him in trouble.
thinking his sticks were badges to wear.

4.
Spring rusts on its skinny branch
and last summer's lawn
is soggy and brown.
Yesterday is just a number.
All of its winters avalanche
out of sight. What was, is gone.
Mother, last night I slept
in your Bonwit Teller nightgown.
Divided, you climbed into my head.
There in my jabbering dream
I heard my own angry cries
and I cursed you, Dame
keep out of my slumber.
My good Dame, you are dead.
And Mother, three stones
slipped from your glittering eyes.
Now it's Friday's noon
and I would still curse
you with my rhyming words
and bring you flapping back, old love,
old circus knitting, god-in-her-moon,
all fairest in my lang syne verse,
the gauzy bride among the children,
the fancy amid the absurd
and awkward, that horn for hounds
that skipper homeward, that museum
keeper of stiff starfish, that blaze
within the pilgrim woman,
a clown mender, a dove's
cheek among the stones,
my Lady of first words,
this is the division of ways.
And now, while Christ stays
fastened to his Crucifix
so that love may praise
his sacrifice
and not the grotesque metaphor,
you come, a brave ghost, to fix
in my mind without praise
or paradise
to make me your inheritor.

No drugs for me they **** with my head
No alcohol either
I say everything that shouldn't be said
Videogames are just no fun
Binge watching **** can ******* undone
Reading gets boring
So does Facebook, pinterest and Skype
Hanging out with some people PAH
I don't have a single one who's my type
I don't like the gym or watching movies all day
I don't like children I never learned how to play
I'm not fussed on cooking and sewing gets old
I've grown out of my friends
That's a fact I've been told
So what can a person do when they don't click with the rest
And being alone brings tears no less
It looks like I'll never fit in

Poem a day, day 24*

Watching the Kardashians on TV at work
He says 'Oh I hate them'
'Isn't she engaged to so-and-so?'
Really? If you 'hate' them why do you follow what they do?

I'm not particularly fussed on the Kardashians
For that reason I don't know
What's going on in their life.
Really not interested.

Because I don't know about them
I don't know them well enough
To decide to hate them.
I guess some people enjoy negativity.

Continuing comments on the people involved
Why are their lives so important to you?
Perhaps if you hate them, avoid them?
Sure it's none of my business

But I can't avoid your opinion
I would be happy to do so.
Please keep it none of my business.
Just like the Kardashians

I'm just going to start off with this
a fairytale that was beautiful all filled with bliss
You and I is what I miss
I miss your touch and your kiss

Perfection was never found between us
but we created it but then we fussed
I got comfortable and lazy
fueled with bitterful lust

I lied to you hurt you but where did it end?
A broken heart, tissue boxes
Love that cannot mend

To wish that I was direct
is all that I should have been
acknowledged there were problems
where else I was keen

I lost my sight of you
I lost a part of me
Thinking this was a dream
believed to have gone green.

Now that you are gone
I know that it's over
To think you and I'd come to an end
I still wish upon a four leaf clover

It was both of us
things didn't work out
nature took the course
it's not what I'm all about

I wish i'd hit send
text you what i'm thinking
but i know it'd just annoy you
the hazard lights be blinking.

I know that if this went to your phone
Our love is absolute wreckage
but I'd type backspace before you'd know it
it's just an unsent message.

Never allowed to grow
Beyond ornamental,
Small perfect leaves
On small well pruned branches;
To please the eye
Of miniature torturers.


Cramped in a micro life,
Roots restrained
Within un-natural boundaries.
The promise of a tree
Never really fulfilled,
Beyond a whisper.


Fussed over relentlessly,
Like an O.C.D.
Perfect shape and form,
Trained from natural beauty,
To sit on a shelf
Hidden from reality.

I had ridden back from work
that Saturday midday
with Milka's brothers
and we parked our bikes

in the farmyard
and Yaakov said
want to come in
for a coffee?

Sela said
and see Milka
while you're there
he laughed

and we all went in
the farm house
and their mother fussed
and asked me

what I would like
and treated me like a son  
and said
sit down Benny

and so I sat
and waited
for the boys
to change out

of their work clothes
I have made
a fruit cake Benny
would you like some?

their mother asked
that'd be nice
I said
and watched

as she moved
about in the kitchen
is Milka about?
I asked

she's out with her dad
they've gone to market
o ok
I said

they'll be back soon
she said
she handed me
some cake on a plate

and mug of coffee
Milka likes you
her mother said
but I told her

to take things steady
as she's only 16
and there's plenty
of time ahead of her

I looked at Milka's mother
as she fussed about
in the kitchen
putting a ***

on the stove
clearing away others
yes plenty of time
I said

trying not to think
how Milka and I
nearly got caught
in bed the other week

when I was alone
in the farmhouse
with her
she has all these fancies

about her how much
she wants children
where she wants to live
and so on

the mother said
I told her
Benny's only
a young man yet

he doesn't want
all that at his age
I ate the cake
nodded

and thought of Milka
rushing to get dressed
in her room
while her mother

talked with a farmhand
in the farmyard
or the time
at my place

one Friday
during my lunch hour
at my house
while all others

were out
she lying there
on my single bed
and I kissing her

from neck down
plenty of time
Milka's mother said
they've no sooner

left dolls behind
and they want real babies
she smiled
and I smiled

then ate the cake
and sipped the coffee
while Milka's mother
put some things away

trying to think
of other things
other than Milka lying there
completely bare.

She met me by the river and turned her cheek to the sun
taunting it. Her willingness could cause a mark in red,
like a statue she sits so still.

My feet dangle in the river, which she dare not touch and I know
why she must stay so fussed with the pray that is all in her head,
to think she may die.

Or end up dead down some dark dingy creek
gives me no better reason to meet her here where she knows, her
friends. To say goodbye is to become a foe with the daring woman.

So I just hope that she'll turn her head and pull the mask to her chin.
To look me in the eye and scream in my face,
that I might die tomorrow.

Even though I know she could strike me down this minuet,
with the river raging i'd close my eyes,
to the fish flailing, and my friends across the waters.
To the beat of the rapids, i'd happily die.

It is time to compile, as it has been a while
and it is worthwhile, to trial
an animal style, that is very versatile.

So, tonight we will do and so-with accrue,
an insight into something funky and spunky,
and do a little Kung Fu Monkey.

But not the whole training sessions,
will be spent on our Monkey Expression,
we will also train, some kung fu just plain.

So, come to training tonight you must,
just come, do not be fussed, else you will rust
your kung fu skills and health too will go bust.

One day
I noticed that
Things didn't matter
To her
Anymore.

Not calories
(Which she counted meticulously)
Nor clothes
(Which she scrutinized routinely)
Not even
Her hair
(Which she fussed over ridiculously)

One day
I noticed that
The spark
In her eyes
Was missing.

One day
I noticed
Her sitting outside
In the rain.
Soaked but you could tell
She was crying.

I asked her.
She told me, she was trying to bring him back.
She sat under that tree when it rained
Because its where he first kissed me
She said.
She traced his kiss over her lips
And tried to bring him back
Through the power of her memories.

One day
I noticed how often she laughed
But so little smiled
I asked her
She told me.
Her smile was taken
By the boy who took her heart.

One day
I asked her.
She told me.
He jumped,
He was just looking up at the sky
And then all of the sudden
He was gone.
Not a word,
Not a cry.

All he ever wanted
Was to die.

Fireflies float in lightless rooms,
Spelling out words with fluid constellations
And my heart still tender from afternoon
Drugged up and fussed with the want of rain
Interprets these flecks of dancing
as love letters to pain

I think of dreaming and I think of you
Somewhere basking in summer rain
While I fall for foolish stories
written on the windows of a midnight train
These conversations that go nowhere
heavily soaked in honey stick to my tongue

These whisperings float in pools of ink
Like the daunting midnight sea,
But i'm too far gone into this dream state
Yet ready to drown, before I can hesitate,
In this ocean that you call home

On the beach
in the sun
Anne sits

in her chair
her one leg
hanging down

her leg stump
out of sight
she's beside

Skinny kid
who reclines
in a small

blue deckchair
other kids
sit around

fussed over
by three nuns
from the home

the tides out
so some kids
paddle out

ankle deep
listen kid
I hear one

of the nuns
had you in
to question

in secret
what'd they ask?
Anne asks

it's secret
Benny says
I know that

but tell me
I'm your friend
Anne says

Benny looks
around him
about you

they asked me
about you
Benny says

Anne frowns
about me?
Benny nods

what'd they ask?
what you did
what you  said

and did you
make me do
anything

Benny says
what'd you say?
I said you

were my friend
my best friend
Benny says

what'd they say?
Sister Blaise
the fat nun

said it was
a big sin
to tell lies

what'd you say?
Anne asks
I told her

I guess so
was that all?
can I go?

Benny says
Anne smiles
good work Kid

keep the ****
penguins stumped
and things hid.

Once I was wronged before my friends,
They all cried out in protest.
'How dare they treat you poorly,'
They all screamed and fussed.
I merely shrugged my shoulders and
With a soft sigh did say 'Doesn't matter,
We will all die some day,'

Now weeks did pass and it's been forgotten,
And my friend was wronged by a similar few.
I then began to cry out in wicked frustration,
And she then too sighed and shrugged her shoulders.
'Whats done is done, the past is past,' my friend
Did admit to me. I shook my head and grabbed a bat
and said 'You mess with me, you get off easy,
Mess with my friends...

You're ******'

He used to deliver
Groceries to Mrs
Ushmore as a kid and

She’d say, bring it into
The kitchen, Henry, and
Put it down on the side,

Why, you must be thirsty
After carrying that
Heavy load to my door,

And he’d go in with the
Groceries and lay them
Down where she had shown him

And looked around the place
Trying hard to avoid
Looking at young Mrs

Ushmore who was dressed in
The skimpiest of things
And pretended to be

Looking around at the
Shelves and gas cooker and
Out the large window.

What are you having, she
Asked, Coke? Yeah, that’ll be
Fine, he replied, looking

Over her shoulder at
The wallpaper of bright
Yellow flowers. Have you

Seen my *****? She asked.
Miss Glissy, I call her.
Henry shook his head and

Looked briefly at her. No,
He replied, getting a
Quick glimpse of her *******,

Fighting to escape from
The black bra. Here, she said,
Have a Coke and don’t go

Rushing it now, don’t want
You to get the hiccups
And have your mother come

Over here telling me
Off. No, I won’t, he said,
Sipping the Coke, tasting

Each mouthful, letting it
Rest on his tongue. I love
My *****, she said, but

My husband, Clive, he has
Little to do with her,
Says she’s nothing to be

Too fussed about. Henry
Swallowed the small mouthful.
His eyes settled like small

Butterflies on her thighs,
Focussing where her black
Suspenders met the brown

Stockings and the skin stretched
Out there like nothing he’d
Seen before, not even

Amy Shortdove, showed him
That much for her two dimes.
Would you like to stroke Miss

Glissy? She asked, giving
Henry a wide-eyed stare.
No, I better be off,

Henry said gulping down
The last remaining Coke.
Mr Ashton don’t like

Me hanging around and
I’ve loads more to do and
Maybe another time,

Mrs Ushmore, I can
Stroke your *****. Sure, she
Said smiling, I’m sure she’d

Like that. Henry rode his
Bike away not looking
Back, not letting her see

He was interested,
Not letting her think he’d
Ever stroke Miss Glissy

In a thousand years let
Alone days or weeks,
And he never did see

Or stroke Mrs Ushmore’s
*****, but he often
Dreamed he did and enjoyed

The dream, with him and Miss
Glissy purring and both
Of them licking the cream.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 28, 2019)

My first job was data entry, with all those awful numbers.
The next ones were flush with time and words were incalculable,
floating out of copiers and stenographers. I hand-wrote them then

in-between walking memos to real, plastic inboxes.
Microsoft changed everything with their windows
in which I could type out my poems. After all,
writing poems looks awfully similar to working.
And instead of office supplies, I began to steal time.

I snuck words in through open windows,
met them in small storage rooms, had conferences
with them at lunch. I sat in ergonomic chairs
while they reclined on the yellow, lined paper.

Sometimes I had to cajole them.
Sometimes they were team players.
Sometimes they were only wanting to gossip.
Sometimes they came out of the mouths of people
standing unawares in front of my desk. Sometimes
they didn’t show up to work, but I couldn’t fire them.

They liked to be fussed over, rearranged.
They wanted to be knit and spaced.
All they wanted was my attention.
And they must have known I would never give them up
for all the money. Because at the end of the day,
when they took their leave, it always sounded good.

There she was covered in her mother’s nourishment.
The doctor removed the cord and freed her spirit.
The nurse fussed, wrote, cleaned, and wrapped her in her
Gender’s color.
Being experienced with first timers she bent and adjusted my arms
And hands creating a cradle to place my daughter.
No crying, only a dove’s coo. Eyes like Caribbean seas stared up as
She nestled in soft and sweet as a chick.
A bell sounded.
Cathy looked on sweat glistening and spent and smiling.
That wonderful smile, her smile
In a moment my eyes truly opened.
Just a moment.
Such a moment. There she was covered in her mother’s nourishment.
The doctor removed the cord and freed her spirit.
The nurse fussed, wrote, cleaned, and wrapped her in her
Gender’s color.
Being experienced with first timers she bent and adjusted my arms
And hands creating a cradle to place my daughter.
No crying, only a dove’s coo. Eyes like Caribbean seas stared up as
She nestled in soft and sweet as a chick.
A bell sounded.
Cathy looked on sweat glistening, spent and smiling.
That wonderful smile, her smile
In a moment my eyes truly opened.
Just a moment.
Such a moment.

Have to song along
Nothing I can do about it
About all words known
Motown ... bring it on

Years of chillin' in your space
No matter my age
I always keep pace
Drifting off ... to my soul filled place

All Great things
Visionaries started
Up to that point
No-one ... fussed over it

So masses they fought
Went out on a limb
Did their own thing
And we feel in love ... we did

Mentors of Inspiration
Gave birth to a legend
They set the standard
So we could ... humbly follow it

Thick skinned individuals
Seek the same goal
Of making music
To stir your soul ..

And the beat goes on ...

The Haunting of the Ol' Fisherton Bay Morticianary, Pt.2*

And so it goes...
The good mandelver, was given two,
caskets to measure his feelings to...
the undertaker sat, while the artist was gone...
pulled a flask of whiskey out.. and,
sang himself a song.

When he stood up,
to look 'pon the corpses
he found his flask missing...
he fussed and cursed, what's worse is;
that there stood a man, in such deathly groom,
he stood in the corner-centre, of the prepping the room...

There stood a man who'd sung along,
whose eyes indeed were really on...

"Off with the willows and off with the bloom,"
he said..
off with the cherry too, and off with the tune...
Come ol' Merry merry mate, come and sing along,
for when you bring the caskets make,
sure to sing a song.
One for the lock-it ring,
one for the key.
Another song to whistle to,
and a song to rid of me...
What's wrong you old drunken ****?
All pale and wet! O' gee...
the cat's gotten your tongue, I hope!
You dare not mess with me!"

A.r. Bazian
Feb 19th, 2016

Burning arms mean no harm,
They’re gentle, soft, delicate,
Oh so wonderful.
She sat next to me on a friend’s sofa,
All I was doing was being a lofa,
Even still she was getting closer,
**** me I love her,
The ex is basically my brother,
I want to be her lover.
Risk of sounding corny,
I’ll change the story into something more boring.
I’m not fussed, don’t give a ****.
Sod your silly rhymes,
Moving onto better times,
Like ******* on limes.
How can I enjoy writing lines?
You’re supposed to snort them,
To be like real men,
Not you, you ******* hen.
There we go again, back with his pen.
Stab it in deep, right in your feet,
In the middle of the street.
You can’t decide nor go anywhere,
You’re stuck there.
All the pain you gonna bear,
All ‘cos you care!
It’s completely pointless,
No-one to say ‘ah-bless’,
You’re a ******* cunting mess.
What you gonna do?
Sit there and stew, squirm like a *****,
Say *******! Say *******!
That’s what to do,
It’s all down to you.
So get on with your boo-hoo’s,
Stand up and fight,
Don’t ever lose the sight,
You might just, you might!

hey there, hey now, just hold on..
the road ain't bumpy if your dancing to the rhythm...
tell me, tell me, tell me how..
you still learned to smile, with the conditions that you live in..

granted, granted pain is foul...
you still made gold with the lemons you were given..
truly God himself is wow-ed...
in fact, I'm surprised you don't even have a ribbon..

Sunset Ave, has lots of sights,
perhaps you chose this corner for a reason..
its getting kind of cold, this night..
just our luck, there goes Cali with the seasons..
..
the cardboard box, a sweater and jeans.
a flashlight, a belt, a bible and dreams.

police said it was wrong..
couple nights out there, made us strong..
Momma said just tonight, tomorrow we'll be gone..
and if you fussed, she sang..
"hey there, hey now, just hold on.."

cold, isn't cold to me no more,
cold isn't cold..
one day we'll settle down, a porch and all..
but for now were on the road....


-afj

They never said when
And time trickled on
Assignments came and went
Shows were performed
Tests were studied for
And taken in due course.

But...

They never said when
And her mind kept churning the idea
Slowly it twirled
Around and around in her head
Until she could taste the possibilities:
Smooth and creamy
And a little nutty
Like her soul

But she couldn't be sure.
So she fussed
And she kept herself
Outrageously busy

But now and then she thought of it
And her pulse raced
Her brow furrowed
As she tried to bully her wishes into reality
In spite of her fear
That she would be made a fool.

Finally...

Her world was packed
In a black room
And she was more nervous
Than she had been in her life

She made sure to wear
The white sweater
And the gold scarf
Just in case
Someone would look at her

The world went still
The words were said
And somehow she knew.
She knew what he was going to say
Before he said it because

She wasn't in her body
Her life was a hard back book
With well worn edges
And a ***** cloth cover
Where heroines
Can get anywhere
With hard work

And a lot of coffee.

Her blood alcohol level was point thirty three
when the trooper pulled over her car.
She had a flat tire and her speaking was slurred
As if she had just drunk a whole Bar.
She was over the limit and half in the bag
So they charged her with a D.U.I.
Yet her case got dismissed and the D.A. was miffed
When she proved she was naturally high.
In seems that some people who munch on French fries
Are host to yeast that is causing them grief, making sure that they never run dry.
For Stella’ own body was churning out brew thus explaining her bloodshot red eyes
(and her sad reputation as a cheap date as well as her poor taste in guys.)
Her babes that she nursed never fussed or complained
For her ******* they were naturally keen.
Kids back in High School all thought Stella was cool
(She was drunk off her *** as a teen.)
She now must watch carefully what she consumes
when she’s out for a night on the town.
She produces Grey Goose with her own gastric juice
So Pasta remains out of bounds.

I hate it,
Firmly hate it,
And have hated it,
When I feel I have to answer
For people constantly.
Once is fine,
But a thousand needs a heavier
Addressing.

Arms folded,
People look around the room,
Nothing happens.
Don't we realize
We have more power
Than the scary proctor's
Presence?

People, listen.
Me, listen.
If you think you're going
To passively make a difference
In life,
You're *******.

No one wants to get in trouble,
It's a psychological withdrawal from privilege
As much as physical.

But think of all the people who "got in trouble"
To make history what it is.
Wouldn't you agree that most historical
And acclaimed/notorious events
Around the world
Took place
Because someone
"Got in trouble"?

If Jesus didn't "get in trouble",
Would Christians and Jesus-followers
Feel the faith of salvation
As strongly
Had Jesus not thought his words through?

Would Nelson Mandela
Have sent a message
To the apartheid crisis
Had he not
"Gotten in trouble,"
Handing over
Most of his rightful life's longevity?

Would protestors
Have overthrown rules
And unprincipled ideas
Or even made new ideas known
Had they not
"Gotten in trouble?"
****** revolution,
Women's rights,
Addressing racism,
Achieving justice from unruly assassinations,
World War II,
Kent State shooting.

Would brilliant minds and workers
Have achieved their roles in life
Had they not experienced
"Troublesome" times?

It's important to get in trouble,
Rather, most times,
It's the only way to a resolution.
If we never stole that cookie
From the cookie jar,
Yelled at mom or dad,
Failed to study,
Called someone a nasty name,
Fussed over mom or dad
Helping to dress us in early years,
Misspelled words,
Missed goals
Like soccer, basketball, football
Goals.
If we never drove
Along a road restricted,
If we never hopped a fence,
Tossed a ball in a neighbor's yard.
If we never procrastinated,
If we never cost our team(s)
The game, the victory.
If we never felt behind,
Overslept, dragged.
If we never whined about work,
People, transportation, relaxation,
If we never pouted about not getting
What was desired,
Or if someone forgot what we said,
Or the other way around
In however long of a time span.
If we never admitted...

Now this can be the biggest trouble:
Keeping reserved can alter time
In larger ways than we realize.
Point being, if life were perfect
Up to a certain point in time,
Then no one would know
How to react positively
To an error.
One of the underrated reasons
Why all the good things are
How they are
Is because of errors
Molded over time.

People will react
To reactions
As if they shouldn't have happened:
"Why are you crying? Stop crying!"
"Quit arguing with me!"
Yeah, I've had emotions come out
Plenty of times.
But I don't want to care if people look at me the same or not,
Change comes in many forms,
And change isn't always pleasant

Errors are obviously obvious
Everywhere.
But how can we know how each of us thinks
If there's no conflict or tension?
I am not saying I am for trouble,
Just find peace in troubles of all sizes.
Maybe we/I should come back to the basics more often
To understand the trouble sort of peace.

I knocked on the door of Fame,
She kindly opened up for me and
   spoke my name
And smiling, bid me enter
(I must have made the grade this time)
Inside lay a whole new world, a world
   of wonder
She looked at me as if to say "Where were you all this time, we've been waiting on you".

Well she fussed over me something
   terrible
Lavishing on me gifts and sweets
   aplenty
Showering me with praise and high
   accolades
She was great she was... O! She was
   lovely!
Bestowed on me great new names,
I was an intellectual now, a member of
   the intelligentsia
I was a 'great artiste', a Big Star
I was part of the Elite
I was one of them now, I was one of
   them.

I got to sit on my little seat at the Big
   Table
The others sitting there they all smiled
   down at me
" Look at me now ", I thought to myself, " look where I am and who I am, who would have believed it ".

Puffed me up no end she did, inflated
   my ego
I thought I might up and float away
And for awhile, a little while I was
   happy.

                            II

But the House of Fame had another
   face I found
Would invite young hopefuls in from
   outside, young aspiring artists
Allow them to come and read their
   works, exhibit their wares
While those sitting there around the
   table, they'd judge them
Like little Roman emperors we were, giving a thumbs up or thumbs down
Some of my fellows, they were quite
   brilliant at it
The way they could dissect a work, get
   right to the heart of it
And sum it all up,
And they could be so funny with it as
   well
They'd make you laugh with their
   witty remarks
But there were times though, when
  things they could get a bit ******
When they'd turn on someone, heap
   derision on their work.

There was this one young lad I
   remember
In his hands he clutched some papers,
He held his whole world, his whole
   life in those papers
You could see it in him, just how much
   it meant to him,
Sad to say though, he wasn't all that
   good
Well they just took him apart, they hit
   him like a hurricane
You could see his disappointment, see
  his face drop
His world start to crumble,
   his hopes and dreams start to die
Could see him almost shrivel up right
   before your eyes
He'd may as well have been in front of
   a firing squad,
"It had to be done", my fellows would say, " you had to be ******* them, they
   had to be told"
And they could be so witty, my fellows,
   so funny
They'd make you laugh, laugh at
   anything
They all laughed, I laughed too and then...and then, I thought of you, I thought of you.

                           III

Now some writers when their very
  young write great stuff even then
I'd be only too proud to have written it
   myself if I could
But when I think back to what I wrote
  early on
I close my eyes and wince as if in pain,
I shake my head and grimace, "awful,
   terrible stuff, what was I thinking"
Guileless, naive, infantile,
   incomprehensible even to myself a
     lot of it, without wit or cunning
If any of it ever came to light I'd be so
   embarrassed, I'd be mortified,
      scandalised
I feel I'd have to flee the country, go
   and live in some remote jungle some
      place
And never show my face again, I
   thought it that bad,
It was like some ***** guilty secret I
   had to hide.

And you know I couldn't help thinking
   what if it was you standing there
Before this - this Inquisition, reading
   your work
How they'd listen to you probably
   with mouths wide open almost in
      disbelief
Barely able to contain their laughter
And when you'd finished
How they'd wink and smile knowingly
   at one another and maybe say
       something like
"And what do we have here, what
   exotic creature
From under what gilded stone have
   you come out from under"
And then they'd lay into you... "this
  *******, this crap, this mindless
    drivel, I never laughed so much in
        my life! these inane ramblings,
This guy he must be the village idiot",
And what would I do, would I rush to
   your defence, would I lift a finger
     to help you... No! not a chance
I'd just sit their silent and not let on I
   knew you, just watch them take you
      apart
Like lions in the arena, tearing you
   asunder
I'd even join in, yea, I'd laugh too,
And what if your eyes met mine, well
   I'd quickly look away,
" I don't know you, you're not me,
    you're not mine,
And if you were  I'd disown you
I'd have you erased from my past,
You're an embarrassment to me
You're worlds away from who I am
   now".

And later in my room alone would I
   think of you
And what it was like for you back
   then,
And that world you came from
Would I remember a boy so utterly
   lost with no hope of ever getting
        back
All alone with no one to show him the
   way
With a mind like a war zone, broken
   and bloodied, pummeled from every
       side
Trying to make sense of a crazy world
Trying desperately to keep a grip on
   life
To cling onto something, anything
   that'd keep him afloat,
Trying to write because he thought it
   was the only thing left that he could
      do
(Someone who'd never even been a
   reader of books...
Do many writers write just to stay
   alive ?)
And the more I thought about it the
   more I began to admire you
How really it was quite amazing you
   were able to write anything at all...
And to think that I would just sit there
   and watch this, your... your
         crucifixion and do nothing,
That I could betray so brave and
   beautiful a boy,
Wasn't the shame not yours but all
   mine.

And maybe they'd bring you back a
   second night saying - laughing!
"This one was so good, we had to bring
    him back again to impart some
      more of his little gems",
And to see you there the tear stained
   face, the dead eyes with no light left
      in them
Devoid of all dignity now, begging
   them for some sign of approval,
    some gesture, anything at all !
Looking at them as if they were God
  Almighty
And you were nothing but a piece of
   **** on their shoe
Would I finally have the guts to stand
   up and call a halt, would I !
Jump over their Big Table, go and take
   you in my arms
And tell you" It was alright, that I was
  here now and was so sorry I hadn't
    been before ",
And then turning to them say -admit,
" This, this *******, this drivel, this
    village idiot
This was me when I was young,
It kept me alive, it gave me hope when
   there was no hope ",
And smiling at them I'd say, " and I'd choose him every time over any of you
   sitting there,
What do you know of me and my life,
  what I've been through, were you
      there ?
And turning to you again I'd say,
"Let's get out of this place, we don't
     belong here
This isn't us, this isn't who we are,
Let's go home the two of us, you and
   me together,
Let's go home.