Monday, July 6, 2015

It can haunt you

They say “Watch out, don’t let your past come back to haunt you.”

But what if the fact that it is past,

Is a thing that tantalizes,

And taunts your review?

Imagine a past that lingered like that,

Way later and far after the fact.

The creak of a voice and a shimmering of light off glass.

So much to remember that never came to pass.

Monday, January 19, 2015

Stacks of Stuff

Stacks of stuff inundate our lives,
Bags of things, pictures, posts,
Sharp as knives,
Reasons to hold on,
Thoughts to let go,
Flooded with detritus,
From the get go.
Sucked into the past by the way things look,
Anyone can read us like an open faced book.
Piles of acts both missed and mundane,
Stress the weight,
We carry in over loaded brains.
Stacks of stuff,
Enough to start a new civilization,
All over again.

Friday, July 5, 2013

Super Man

The lesson is lost somewhere in a sliver of smile,
a winking laugh beckoning towards
more than a cliff
less than a while.
I’m left here in a telephone booth
with one leg stuck in Superman’s blue coverall.
When Lois Lane and you reach me in time to ask eternally, “Can he help?”
I shout “Yes!” (more or less)
“If someone will get me out of this damn phone stall.”

And that’s when the fun starts. Lois fogs my glasses with quick kisses
and your … hand … on my thigh is beyond relief.
“Wait!” I cry, and then it’s too late. I burst into the air as you and
Lois operate the gate.

“It’s Christ in suspenders with nails in his knees.”
a chorus reveals.
My laughter just peals and peels.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Mars and the stars . . .

Men, like the spurm they are,
spurt and spume
themselves into the vast
vagina of the universe
which waits, hot upon entry,
Until relativity cools them down.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Yellow Ribbons . . .

On the trees,
Yellow ribbons on their sleeves

But red is the blood
You spill in war
And colors are what
Dead eyes can see
No more.

So yellow ribbons
Wrap the trees while
Bombs blast the sand
To its knees


Countries begin to sew
Yellow ribbons to the body bags,

Let yellow ribbons become

Refugee rags,

And remember that dead yellow

Eyes can not see their
Own toe tags.

This poem grew out of the frustrating realization that ending Vietnam, which is what we libs liked to think, hadn't meant we wouldn't have to face the same idiocy over and over again.  But here we are, a second Gulf War later, Homeland Securitied and 1984ed, and supposedly scared to death.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Stress and Strain

Here's my first rewrite.  This poem's origin is in the poet's reaction the first War in Iraq.  I'll post the original later.

Stress and Stain

Killing my brain
Leaves my train of thoughts tangled as twelve people

Dead in a confusion of crashed railroad cars,

Cabooses up, engine ends down.

No, yes, I can or think I could, toot-toot.

Just empty sounds of parts falling, echoing away
        like oil fire dust clouds in arid lands or
Blownup up Twin Towers.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Glad Roses . . .

I can fix sad roses . . ., she says

And her smile confirms
Like rain on the earth
That indeed sad roses
Is familiar turf.

But it’s not so easy
This task in my mind
The world with its roses
Is definitely blind.

They’re scentless you see
And sad for that reason
These roses I give
No matter the season.

So it isn’t the wilt from
Stem to the hilt
Nor the mad range of
Colors that drives me so sad.

But the lack of a scent
And the image it recalls
That hammers at my heart,
Raises my walls.

I can fix sad roses

Her smile supposes . . .

As she arrays them in a vase
Then turns and pauses
At the frown she can see
Is still on my face.

So she takes my hand and
Pulls me in a way
That suggests dancing
As we begin to sway.

And it’s then that my senses
Pick up the scent
Of timeless embraces
And memories well spent.

I can fix sad roses.
I can here her voice murmur . . .

And her smile is my smile
As we waltz down the aisle
And the laughter we hear
Is from a child at play

Or a family gathered
At the end of the day.

And the roses are real
Red, white, and yellow
And the music is moving
And her touch smooth and mellow.

And its night on our porch swing
In a light breeze
And the roses are shadows . . .
With a backdrop of trees.