A Poet at Christmas

 

A Poet at Christmas time,

is a curious beast,

whose only desire is to write a

cozy, comforting piece about

family love, or good tidings,

peace and joy.

 

A nice poem about, perhaps,

settling in by a roaring fire,

as chestnuts roast and

the firelight glitters on the

garland and tinsel hanging from

the softly lit Christmas Tree.  

 

But a poet at Christmas Time,

is strangely burdened by the

emotional weight of the Holidays,

the excesses of material desire,

the many hungry mouths and

shirtless backs.

 

Donations can be made,

goodwill wished,

but there’s always this nagging

sensation, as we sip hot chocolate from

white mugs and stare out windows at the

gentle drifting of light fluttering snowfall,

that there’s too much pain and too much suffering.

 

In a world so largely connected,

yet separated by it.

A division that can’t be healed,

with egg-nogg, or any nogg for that

matter. Just a revolving door

of well wishes and in-action,

thoughts and prayers, in

actionable times.

 

Gifts for loved ones,

wrapped under the tree,

but nothing for those we do not see.

And it weighs on me.

But we do our best and what

we can, and we let it be.

 

(Sip) Mmm… good hot chocolate…

(Blinks) – Hmmm… snow falling…

Happy Holidays, from poetry.

Whatever Chicanery

 

My knuckles are cracking

as I type out these words,

the petrification of my joints,

being worked out,

as I considered my self-imposed

heartbroken silence; word by word.

 

We’ve entered (re-entered?)

a time where the worst fears of

my like-minded peers have come

true, much to our collective

chagrin.  A shocking jolt of…

whatever chicanery it will be.

 

I’m not sure they even have

a name for what it will be called

as of yet. I certainly haven’t had the

words for it, much less the intestinal

fortitude, to devise a moniker for the

debacle that may await.

 

There’s still a large part of me,

so stunned and shocked, that I hardly

believe it happened, but I’m reminded

of my own words and what must be done,

what price we have to pay,

to be vigilant and unbroken.

 

As I emerge from this unsure silence; I remind

myself to be more loving, patient and

considerate, to the point that it

sickens those that would rather wish

ill-will than extend a helping hand.

Yet I’m cautious, since I’ve been hurt.

 

It’s a wound that will take time to heal,

and a scar that will take revision;

to overcome the potential future

of a world I no longer recognize,

an unfamiliar zeitgeist, and a strange

populist fever dream I’ve no desire to have faith in.

 

It is, however, by a renewed faith, that I move forward,

perhaps quietly at first, shaking the cobwebs

from my joints, until I am full-throated and

my fingers are nimble gymnasts, tumbling and

flipping like Olympians over the keyboard,

expressing the poetry inherent in our times.

The Inkwell

 

The inkwell has been dry,

the words have been atrophied,

the will and vigor sapped,

by the mourning and grief,

constantly tolling like the

alarm bells at the city gates.

 

The metaphorical paper

on which I write is yellowed

and stained by disillusioned

tears, bitter coffee and comforting whiskey;

this paper; crumpled and thrown into

an angry heap near the trash.

 

I’ve rung my fingers,

I’ve tussled my hair,

I’ve cringed and gasped,

I’ve crossed and uncrossed my arms,

I’ve curiously furrowed my brow

so many times it’s a wonder I

look anything like myself.

 

There’s a different level of

hurt being explored,

the depths of which I’m unsure of,

it’ll take a spelunker of a exceptional skill

to get the bottom of this abysmal pit,

and return to the surface, changed.

 

But all that; all that needs to be done,

the milk has been spilt and there’s

no crying about it.

We can work through our profound

sadness and disappointment, with

calcification of the truth in our deeds,

in our actions and by our virtue.

 

No tyrant, or dictator, or self-aggrandizing

narcissist can ever truly diminish the passions

we hold so dear and to the liberties that we’ll

have to fight for, again, and again. The cause

of Freedom is greater than the depths of

our despair and those of us willing and able will

wipe our runny noses, wipe away the tears from our cheeks,

and steel ourselves for the next great challenge.

 

Liberty, freedom, and the fight

will refill the inkwell and the words

will flow and the pages will fill. 

Halloween 2024

 

All Hallows Eve,

Halloween,

Samhain,

when the misty veil

between the living

and the dead is

thinned.

 

Ghouls and Ghosts,

may roam the streets,

looking for goodies

and snack to eat,

but it’s memory that

haunts me.

 

All for the sweet, lost Lenore,

in her sepulcher by the shore.

 

No. Just kidding. There’s no Lenore.

But who else should you quote on

Halloween, but Edger Allen Poe?

 

If ever I could write so sweetly

and yet so melancholy, about

the incredible depths of passion

I had for the incredibly mundane.

I would then be a poet of some

renown I’m sure.

 

Halloween is for the children now,

getting treats, wearing costumes,

going trunk to trunk in safely lit

parking lots as local DJ’s play annoying

Halloween novelty songs.

It’s no longer really about the horrors

of Death, a grim reaper curling its boney fingers

around your throat as you struggle against the inevitable.

 

No witches are flying across the Moon,

stealing children for their bones to add

to the eye of newt soup, boiling in a cauldron

back at the coven.  They probably feel bad

because the horrors of the real world completely

usurp the imagined horrors of lore.  

 

Frankenstein’s Monster,

would be a welcome guest at many

tables and be a marvel of medical science,

rather than the soulless, tortured

creature of literature.

He’d be less of a pariah than your

racist Uncle who always ruins Thanksgiving

with his rants about, “those kinds of folks.”

 

In a world of true terrors and horrors,

it’s hard to rectify the enjoyment of

cursed mummies, vampires and spirits,

teasing the living with nightmares and

spine tingles.

 

Nevertheless, Happy Halloween!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nativism is Old

 

Whenever I hear anyone spout the ridiculous phrase,  “America for Americans”; I am always reminded of the “Know-Nothing” Party of the 1830’s and 1840’s here in the United States. 

A ridiculous movement, alleging they were  Nativists who were attempting to protect the United States from outside foreign influences often through violence and the fear of violet reprisal. 

A party that called itself, The Know-Nothing Party, obviously could not sustain its anti-immigrant, and often anti-Catholic, public opinions because they literally knew nothing. They were stupid people doing stupid things. Yet, they were effective in influencing multiple government policy decisions of the past. 

Their politics were based on old stereotypes, misinformation, racism and fear mongering, which if you think sounds familiar, let me let you in on a little secret:  “It’s never gone away in the United States.”  There are still huge portions  of the population who do not understand the benefits of this melting pot of a country or that their own existence in  this country is likely due to immigration. 

Creating fear and mistrust of immigrants is the cornerstone of any Nativist movement.  Be it here is the United States or Germany, Europe, the Mid-East, it’s always the same. 

The hallmarks of Nativists are always the same, “those people are not us, so we should shun them, beat them, shoot them, or otherwise keep them separated from the rest of us through poverty and inaccessibility to opportunity.” That’s what they do. 

It’s what they did in the 1830’s through the present. They make you think that your way of life is being threatened by some person or belief system that is different than yours. They use that to make you afraid and to keep us divided.  It didn’t even have to be about immigrants either.  It was always about race too. 

The threat of Nativism is usually just seething under some other layer of political double-talk. It’s always sort of there, but the angels of our naivete seem to simply ignore it and pray it stays confined to the small corners and pockets of old-World thinking, hoping it will eventually be naturally snuffed out through generations of progressive idealism and an expansion into the greater global markets. 

Yet, it reared its ugly huge head recently, spewing the vitriolic acids that the worst rhetoric is made of. It is poured into the ears and empty heads to bubble and corrode any moral compunction to do the right thing. And those is the crowd cheered at the belittlement of their fellow man. 

It’s always been snake oil and shenanigans.  Because on this tiny freaking planet. The only one we have. We’re all just human beings trying to live, have a good life for ourselves and our progeny. So for god sakes, stop falling for this Nativist bullshit. It’s old, it’s ridiculous and frankly what’s held back this human society for thousands of years. So get over it. Love thy neighbor and shun the proselytizer who tell you otherwise.   

Vote for the party that wants to bring us all together, not tear us apart.

 

  

That's Pretty Scary

 

                “There’s a Pumpkin Man standing on the front lawn, Jeffrey,” said Margie. 

                “What’s that you say,” asked Jeffrey. 

                “A Pumpkin Man, he’s  just standing on the front lawn. It looks like he’s waving, or maybe, dancing or something,” said Margie. 

                Jeffery put his mug of hot apple cider down on the near by end table, tossed the cozy fall blanket off his legs and rose from the warmth of the well-worn leather couch. His shadow flickered against the wall of the study as he crossed in front of the crackling fire in the fireplace. He stood next to Margie at the window and separated the blinds. 

                On the lawn, just as Margie had said, was a lumpy looking Pumpkin Man standing on the lawn amid the recently fallen Autumn leaves. He seemed to be doing some sort of primitive dance, raising each stubby arm up elbow high as if he were playing maracas, but slowly and out of sync with any actual tune. 

                “Well, that’s weird,” said Jeffrey, “I wonder if it’s some sort of Halloween thing. Some kids or some goofy neighbor. You remember how weird the Gonzalez's were don’t you honey.” 

                Margie looked out the window again at the oddly shaped being, so orange in the face, the green stem on the top somewhat yellowed rotten and old. It was clad in a wrinkled and ill-fitting suit, just sort of dancing on the lawn to a song it didn’t really know. 

                “I don’t think it’s a Halloween thing. I think it... wants something,” said Margie. 

                “What could it possibly want,” asked Jeffrey as he looked back out the window. He was sad his apple cider was starting to cool rapidly on the end table. He was starting to feel a little annoyed Margie had interrupted him. It was her idea to light the fireplace and have a cozy night under the blanket. 

                “I think it wants our vote,” said Margie. 

                “Our vote? For like, best pumpkin at a State Fair or something,” asked Jeffrey. 

                Margie leaned closer to the window to get another look. Jeffrey sighed and looked longingly at the mug on the end table. He’d added some whiskey when Margie wasn’t looking. 

                “Yes, I see it now. His little leafy hand is holding a Vote for Me for President sign,” said Margie, “It’s a small sign, but it’s holding it, holding it in the weirdest way possible.” 

                “President? President of what, the produce aisle,” asked Jeffrey as he looked out the window again. 

                Margie grabbed at her shoulders and shuddered. “I just got a terrible feeling”, she said. 

                Jeffrey snorted slightly through his nose but they both kept staring at the swaying Pumpkin Man on the lawn. 

                The doorbell rang and both Jeffrey and Margie jumped. The sudden chiming had startled them both. 

                “I’ll get it,” said Jeffrey. But Margie grabbed him by the crook of his right arm and pulled. 

                “Let’s both go to the door,” said Margie. 

                The doorbell chimed again, and Jeffrey and Margie stiffened their backs. They headed toward the front door. Jeffrey flicked on the porch light and peered through the peephole. He could only see someone’s back, their body swaying back and forth on the balls of their feet. 

                “Who is it,” questioned Jeffrey through the closed door. 

                “Just a minute of your time if you would sir. We’re just looking to talk to some registered voters and get their opinions on some of the most important issues facing our time,” said a grumbly yet strangely youthful voice from the shadows. 

                “Um, we’re not accepting any callers at this hour,” said Jeffrey as Margie squeezed his arm. 

                “Sir, the fate of our way of life is in serious jeopardy, so we would sincerely like to talk to you about what you can do to make this country great again and save it from the evil within that is rotting it’s soul,” said the voice in the shadows of the front porch. 

                “Um, no thank you. We’re not interested. Thank you,” said Jeffrey. 

                “We’re not going away sir,” said the voice, “You need to stand up for your county sir.” 

                “Are you affiliated with that… thing on the front lawn,” asked Margie. 

                The figure on the front porch paused for a beat. He shifted on his feet and cracked his neck loudly. 

                “Ma’am, that man is the holy savior, given divination by God to save this Country from the rats and liberals that have destroyed the holy Christian fabric of our nation. He is the only one that can save you if you elect him as President,” said the man on the porch. 

                “Um,… this nation was founded by Protestants,” said Margie. 

                There was another long pause from the figure on the porch. 

                “Can I leave some literature with you folks,” asked the figure on the porch. 

                Jeffrey and Margie looked at each other, both shaking their heads. 

                “No. No thank you,” they both said, “Please just be on your way,” added Jeffrey. 

                The figure on the porch shuffled lamely, as if one of it’s legs had been seriously injured at some point in the past. It shuffled and limped into the chilly Autumn night. 

                Margie shuddered again and Jeffrey rubbed her shoulders. 

                “That was extremely weird,” said Jeffrey. He straightened his sweater from where Margie had been holding him tight. He turned from the door and headed back to his now cold apple cider and whisky.  Margie returned to the window and looked outside. 

                She shrieked and stumbled backwards as the Pumpkin Man was now pressed against the glass. It was moaning and mumbling incoherently about tariffs and dealing with the deals that only he can deal with the dealers who do the dealings, tariffs and that he loved women, and enemies, and then it stopped and just stood there, sleeping it seemed, but still dancing. 

                Jeffrey helped Margie up and hugged her tight. He reached out toward the window and quickly whisked the curtains closed. The Pumpkin Man, still mumbling against the glass, slobbering and mixing metaphors with unintelligible ramblings. Until it just stopped, seemingly forgetting what it was doing, until there was no sound at all. 

                “Just a few more weeks darling,” said Jeffrey as he soothed the terrified Margie, “Just a few more weeks and he’ll be gone. Back to the dead zone from which he was spawned.” 

                The fire crackled in the fireplace, the flames casting eerie shadows on the walls.

 

 

               

 

                 

 

 

Weighing In

 

I do not think we are in

desperate times, calling for

desperate measures,

but I do see some peril,

creeping ever so sickly

over the Horizon.

 

There’s a grotesquerie that has

slithered across the heart

and soul of this Republic,

churning up the fear and division,

and that sickly and threatening

creep is Donald Trump.

 

It is not clear to me at all

what his appeal is to people;

he is not a strong leader,

he is not decisive or clear-minded,

he is neither charming nor decent,

he is a narcissist with an addiction

to perceived power.

 

He has never said the words,

“I’m sorry,”. Ever. He doesn’t believe

he’s ever done anything wrong in his

entire life. He thinks compassion, empathy and

civility is a weakness. He is incapable

of learning any lessons, because he

believes that he is always right.

And he’ll never, ever say he’s sorry.

Or that he learned something new.

 

He doesn’t like you,

he wouldn’t sit next to you at a Diner,

he is grossed out by the people of

this Country, but begs and pleads

for your money like a pimp in a

church courtyard.  Feigning religion,

while contemptuously sinning for profit.

 

He has no policies to help you,

to enrich your lives in any way,

only himself and his mega-rich

associates (let’s face it I don’t think

he’s ever had a real friend.) And

wouldn’t give you a second notice if

he saw you bleeding on the street.

Unless it was for a real estate deal.

 

He is mentally and socially incapable

of helping anyone but himself or his

own egomaniacal projection of who he thinks he is.

He is no Messiah.

He is no savior.

He is a misogynistic con man in bad suits.

Selling snake oil from a wagon to the

gullible and infirm.

 

He will not help you or your

kitchen table concerns,

He’d sell your kitchen table

right from under you if he

thought he could make a profit

from it.

His appeal is a mystery to me.

 

That being said; I am a liberal,

a Democrat, and have been since

I have had the privilege of

voting for who I believe

has my best interests at heart.

I have a bias towards the Democratic

Party because I believe in their intentions

of unity, equality and intelligent compassion.

So excuse my clear and unedited endorsement of them.

 

Right now,

the people who have my

best interests at heart are

Kamala Harris and Tim Walz,

and I fully endorse them

for President and Vice President

of the United States of America.

 

There’s virtue in their desire

to be a Civil Servant, to be a

voice for the voiceless in this

representational republic.

Kamala and Tim consider it an honor

to serve the People.

 

They understand the duty and

personal sacrifice that it takes

to be an elected official

and it is those traits that I respect

and fully endorse.

There’s sincere compassion they both

exude for the people they want to represent.

And to me, that is the best qualification

for leading this nation.

Empathy, understanding, and a

commitment to the betterment of

us all, regardless of background, are

the pillars of strong leadership.

 

When the least of us,

has the same opportunity as the

best of us, the same potential as

the most privileged, and a drive to

achieve and an opportunity to do so;

reflected in our elected officials

then we all do better.

 

So in 20 days, if you haven’t already,

vote your conscience, vote for the future

of this nation, a nation of integrity, decency,

equality, liberty and the rule of law.

 

Please resist the temptation

to vote for the boisterous braggart who would seriously

be the villain in a Bond movie,

or any political thriller.

Do better for us all.

Do better for the future.

 

Vote Blue to protect

the values of our Democratic Republic.

Put 'em Up

 

Political punching bags,

by promising patriots,

placating in the parlance

of present times to the

peons and principalities.

 

Prestidigitation and parlor

tricks, to pacify and

plunder the poor,

the plebian and professional

persons.

 

Pointing to preposterous

pontifications,

predicated on a potpourri of pestilence,

plainly performances to pollute

and pilfer.

 

Politics by pugilism,

puffery and pomp,

plaguing the people

with poxes and infected

poultices.

 

Pursuing power for the

sake of power, rather than

providing power for the sake of

people, progress and peaceful

proliferation.

 

Progress for a more perfect

Union, preserved in Liberty,

provide for the common defense,

promote the general welfare for

ourselves and posterity.

 

Part of a Planet,

a purpose,

as people,

participating in this Republic’s

process and promise.

 

Purposely and with profundity.

The Old Summer Gods

 

The eyes of the old Gods

of Summer are getting

sleepy with each shortened

hour of daylight,

diminished minute by minute,

day by day.

 

Their yawns are the winds,

coldly blowing through the

chilling Summer evenings,

as the crackle of Summer

bonfires set in and we get

that old sweater out of the car.

 

The Autumnal Gods,

are licking their lips as

they know their time is

coming soon, and they

stretch and reach up,

tinging the leaves gold and brown.

 

Each night, the Summer Gods

doze just a little more,

just a little longer,

each morning it’s harder to

get up and roll out of the light

Summer sheets of bed.

 

The trudge to the kitchen,

more laborious, more hungover,

with the festivals, parties, and Olympic

trials, now quickly in the past.

Summer Gods too fat on the

hedonism to care.

 

Summer Gods, fading tans

and blonde hair highlights,

bikinis and trunks nearly threadbare,

almost ready for next year,

and a return to the joys of

daily Bacchanalia.

 

While Autumn waits.

Shoeless

 

While out for drive

with my special lady,

she noticed something

strange.  Or curious,

or just out of place.

 

A young man,

riding a foot powered

scooter, in only his

sock-feet, shortly

after an afternoon

rain had dampened the

streets and sidewalks.

 

“No shoes,” she said

as she pointed at him from

the front passenger seat.

 

Indeed there he was,

stopped at the crosswalk,

waiting for the WALK sign to

give him permission to continue

on his shoeless way.

 

He was dressed casually for

a Summer day, tee-shirt and

shorts, nothing too unusual,

except for the fact that he was

missing his shoes.

 

“That’s so odd,” I said.

Genuinely perplexed by this

young man’s predicament.

I couldn’t understand by

what means this young man

became shoeless on a scooter,

in the rain.

 

What fate befell this young shoeless

scooter rider? Was he robbed? Was he

making a quick getaway and

left his shoes behind before his

lover’s significant other came home to

discover their tryst?

 

It got me thinking about our

backstories, the stories that

make-up our identities and generally

define who we are and who we are

to each other.

 

So many questions, no answers.

Another player on the stage,

another mystery playing out on the streets

of Chicago for us to ponder,

with only one person that knows the answer.  

But so many stories inside. 

 

 

 

Summer Carnival

 

The Carnival of

outrage, with its

many spinning and

looping rides, may be

missing a few screws,

but you are tall enough to ride.

 

I bought a ticket for the

boardwalk, and heard the

side show talkers shouting and

shimmying for a dime,

as they picked our pockets

as our backs were turned.

 

The juggling jugglers,

juggling other jugglers,

who in turn juggled still

more jugglers up into the air,

a tower of twirling hands and bowling pins

spinning in infinite loops.

 

Seeing the two-faced boy,

floating in the brine,

under-lit with intensely bright

light, showcased oddities,

graced with glamor and

 a certain je ne sais quoi, glee.

 

The line for tent for the Ladies of France,

who dance in their underpants,

is 40 men deep, shoulder to shoulder,

it’s quiet, but simmering

with too many hands in pants pockets,

and too many hats pulled low.

 

The shows and the extravagance,

the bright lights and flickering neon,

hiding the piles of elephant dung,

flung over the wrong side of

the railroad tracks,

where I left my shoes.

 

It is best to not,

go around kicking rocks

in your socks,

or cartwheel over eggshells,

on the edge of a

Carnival of outrage. 

 

Unsteady Seas

 

Cautious,

but steady,

on rollicking seas of distrust,

I try to steady my sea-legs

against the violent surf,

and raging upheaval

of the changing tides.

 

The horizon is coming

into view, the landscape

looks less craggy and alien

than it did before,

as there’s gentle ports and

safe passage when we go ashore,

to survey the land.

 

A nauseous sort of optimism

is starting to bubble in my

belly, as if, maybe, through all

these troubles and tribulations,

there will be peace on the land

and plenty restored to those

that are wanting.

 

The Captain made a course

correction, and the ship seems

to be righting, there’s less mutinous

looks on the faces of the crew,

less sailors looking for the

lifeboats.

Yet still, cautious eyes.

 

The ceaseless storms

are slowly breaking and

Sunlight is barely streaming through,

spangled light, dappling

across the still rough seas,

but a break nonetheless,

from the pitching and rolling.

 

The winds smoother and steady,

not rageful and hateful,

not tearing the sails from their ropes

and masts, an uncharacteristic

calm, but welcome,

till we make shore.

We’ll see if there’s treasure on the beach.

It's Always Been Here

 

I’m perplexed when people

say, “there’s no place for

violence in our politics,”.

Because I’ve seen that

to be wholly untrue.

 

American history is rife

with acts of political violence,

since we were founded.

All kinds of beatings and shootings,

fires and tragedies have been political.

 

We can certainly condemn

political violence,

but that doesn’t seem to make it

go away.

It’s still there.

 

War is merely politics

by another means,

so politics itself is

inherently violent and

combative.

 

Anytime you pit one

ideology against another,

there’s the possibility

of violence, it’s as common

as a cold.

 

In 1856, Preston Brooks of South Carolina

beat Senator Charles Sumner of Massachusetts,

with a cane on the Senate floor because he disagreed with

Mr. Sumner’s unflattering characterizations

and devotion to the anti-slavery movement.  

 

It was condemned

but nothing changed,

the Civil War still happened,

Lincoln was still assassinated

several years later.

 

Condemnation is clearly

not sufficient to calm the

already ragged nerves of the

populace. 

A new affirmation of Anti-violence

must be made.

 

Or at lease everyone

needs to calm the hell

down and look with rational

eyes on the serious problems

we’re facing and determine a

cooperative path forward.  

 

Political violence indeed,

has no place in our Democracy,

trouble is…

it’s already here, and has been,

for a long time.

 

 

Cynical Dreaming

 

This collective dreaming,

about a Country,

an idealistic eutopia of

Voltaire’s imagination,

are platitudes to

conceal the illusion

of choice.

 

Dreams,

are not real;

only reality is real,

or I used to think so,

anyway. Until things

became unreal.

 

I am not dreaming

about a country,

unified against tyranny,

or a country of underdogs,

yearning to breathe freely,

in one deep sigh.

 

I am dreaming of fires,

set by zealots, acolytes

of personality cults,

running through the streets,

exclaiming how they are

the truest of citizens and

they will have the blood of

those who are not.

 

I fear Kings, Dictators,

and Fanatics, whom I thought were

only puffs of nightmare dreams

in America, but now

I am afraid of the dreams

and get little sleep under the

blanket of freedom.

 

I dream differently.

Unsettled, tossing and

turning, in anxious,

Cold War sweats

of my youth.

Cynical of Dreaming.

The Heartbeat of a Nation

 

This page was blank

for a long time,

staring back at me with

the same anxiety

I stared at it with.

Blank Anxiety.

 

A dreadful anxiety,

gnawing at the corners

of my well-being,

trepidation and

tepidness,

of anticipation.

 

I know why of course.

It’s not a mystery,

where this concern

dwells; it’s in Atlanta,

on a Newsroom

TV stage.

 

The culmination of

years of dialogue;

speeches, monologues,

summations, defenses,

accusations, comments,

off-the-cuff witticisms.

 

All on display in

blaring anxious colors,

flickering on TV’s,

as I nail-bite and pace,

with each debatable

disappointment.

 

The animal of politics

is vicious and ferocious,

blood thirsty and venomous,

but enjoys being pet and

cuddled, told it’s “Good”,

while people go hungry and wars wage.

 

This page was blank for

a long while, as I sorted my

anxieties, so I understand,

why the page might be looking

back at me, with anxiety.  

Suspicion, even.

Faith

 

I have faith in

soft, sweet kisses,

from a lover.

 

I have faith in the

embrace of loved

ones.

 

I have faith

that things tend

to work out.

 

I have faith that

people usually do

the right thing.

 

I have faith in

the beliefs that

sustain me, and only me.

 

I have no faith

in forcing your Faith

on anyone.

 

Looking at you

Louisiana.

 

Shame.

Shame.

Shame.

 

I have Faith your

shame will outlive

your intentions.

 

Which pave the Road

to Hell,

coincidentally.

 

Or, is it coincidence?

 

 

 

  

https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Sculpture-Leap-of-Faith/867675/2903216/view

Eulogy for a Crab Cake

 

She really wanted those

crab cakes.

She made a special trip

to the store and brought

them home with an excited

grin happily spread across

her face.

 

She was deliberate in

her joyful anticipation

for those crab cakes and

described their delicious

contents, seasonings and

flavor profile with glee.

 

She could hardly wait

to eat them, to go with

the special Salmon

she’d also happily bought

for a lovely dinner she

had planned.

 

It had been a while

since she had been able

to make a full, fun, special

dinner for us since the operations,

and minor medical setbacks and all, so

she was eager to make

something.

 

I was happy she was happy

to make this meal, so I stepped

away as she started prepping

and sorting and getting things

in their proper dishes and into

the oven and air fryer.

The kitchen happy and warm.

 

An opportunity to take out

the trash perhaps,

I left the kitchen and

stepped outside, through the yard,

past the gate, to the alley, and

disposed of the disposable.

 

I turned from the gate,

only to hear, a painful wail

and scream through the open

kitchen window.

I latched the gate quickly and

ran up toward the backdoor and

flung it open, and crossed

the back porch and into the kitchen,

where I found her, crying and clutching

her stomach.

 

The small dish containing the

now well heated crab cakes

was flipped over on the floor,

the crab cakes themselves,

a smushed mess of crab and

cake, still steaming from the oven,

now, rendered inedible.

 

She cried as she explained through

her tears how she tripped on her

flip-flop sandal, and almost fell, but

dropped the much-desired crab cakes,

and also how she pulled something in

her stomach, near a most recent site

of medical procedures.

 

I got her to the couch,

as she continued to cry,

about the lost crab cakes,

now ruined on the floor,

how she wanted to make a nice

dinner for us and now, because she’s

clumsy, had ruined it all.

 

I hushed her and calmed her

down, explaining that as long as

she was okay, the crab cakes could

go to hell, there’d be other crab cakes,

other dinners to have.

I blamed the flip-flops for all the trouble,

and will likely ban them in the future.

 

I cleaned up the lost crab cakes,

lamenting for the wholly crushed

enthusiasm of my girlfriend,

who really wanted them. 

Her sadness made me

love her more.

  

Her passion and enthusiasm

for crab cakes, and her profound sadness

at their destruction,

made me appreciate how much she

cares for me too.

A human crab cake, for

her to love.

 

I brought her an ice pack,

and placed it on her belly,

as she wiped her tears,

I told her I love her,

and that everything would be

alright.

 

And I believe it.

 

 

Something About the Weather

 

Poetry writing

is kind of like a lover,

who is suspicious,

about the weather.

All the time,

always looking skyward.

 

An eye for the sky,

the darkest tinge on the

edges of the clouds,

always perplexed by the next

breeze blowing, hot or cold.

 

Will it rain?

Will it be partly cloudy

in Cleveland today?

Will a Rainbow arch

across the gray sky?

Will lightning strike?

Will the Sun warm my face?

 

This lover,

this poem,

wandering all over the page,

concerned for the temperature,

the humidity, for the storms

in the readers eye.

 

I’ve erased about 17 different

version of this very poem

with thunderous aplomb.

Unstruck by lightning,

the Sunny grace of language or

the peach-colored magical words of

sunset over a snowy valley evades me.  

 

A lover meandering,

in a storm,

all over the page,

a lover in too many embraces,

too many ports,

too many musings about weather.

 

Of which I am suspicious.

 

 

We Do The Math

 

The arithmetic of atrocities,

who does that math,

counting lives like

piles of cordwood destined

for the funeral fire.

 

Are atrocities algebraic,

x plus y plus Time equals

a mathematical formula

for the horror and traumas

we have inflicted.

 

Do we count with our fingers,

with our toes,

with an abacus,

slide ruler,

calculator or computer?

 

Math is the constant,

counting the rolling heads,

the bodies buried under

heaps of other dead bodies,

neatly accounted for.

 

For History needs its numbers,

to show who won,

who lost,

the cost,

the wages of sin.

 

The ridged, cold

numbers; orderly and

succinct, filed and

stamped, in long

symmetrical rows of carnage.

 

We can put a price on it,

a number can be affixed,

we know how to do it,

we’re practiced

and very good at math.

 

We do the Math.

 

Sepia Tones

 

Is it wrong to fantasize

about the mundane,

the boring stillness of

absolute nothingness,

amid the swirling madness

of reality?

 

I don’t think so.

Especially when madness

seems commonplace and

stillness and calmness are

the foreigners in a strange

land.

 

I long for beige,

manilla,

khaki,

sepia;

away from the burning Reds and Blues

in constant flashing neon.

 

With age comes an appreciation

for the slowness of things,

glacial movement being profoundly

more interesting than sudden changes

in direction and course.

Look

at

that

paint

dry…

 

I do like the occasional

fireworks display, in the distance,

the explosions so distant they are

merely popping sounds, but

up close; I’m frayed to my last.

The rumble is an arrogance of sound

I can no longer tolerate.

 

Calmness absent mediocrity,

Stillness absent rage,

Passion absent jealousy,

Nothingness absent vacancy.

Space, empty,

containing multitudes.

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------

Photo Credit: https://www.saatchiart.com/print/Photography-Route-66-Grants-Cafe-Neon-2012-Sepia/888771/3051890/view 

Another Moment on the Soapbox

 

                Hey, would you lend me your soapbox for a moment? Thanks.

 

I just read an article that made my blood curdle and my eyes tear up. A Virginia schoolboard voted to restore Confederate names to two schools. The schools had been previously named after Confederate Gens. Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson, Robert E. Lee and Turner Ashby. They were changed four years ago in what I feel was an appropriate vote to remove the vestiges of the Old South and the history of racism and segregation. 

                Now they have voted to change Mountain View High School and Honey Run Elementary School back to their former Confederate names. Because it’s 2024 and the history of the South should not be forgotten, apparently. Proponents of the plan to restore the names stated, “I ask that when you cast your vote, you remember that Stonewall Jackson and others fighting on the side of the Confederacy in this area were intent on protecting the land, the buildings and the lives of those under attack,” said a woman urging the board to restore the Confederate names. “Preservation is the focus of those wishing to restore the names.”  And “that revisiting this decision is essential to honor our community’s heritage and respect the wishes of the majority.” 

                Which is the stupidest pile of crap I have ever heard. The Confederacy lost the war. They were traitors to the Republic and Democracy. Losers don’t get buildings named after them. They belong in the history books as the losers of the war and that is it. There was no honor in their cause. It was to keep slavery as an American institution. Which is an absolute moral wrong. Without question. The bondage of humans by other humans is abhorrent and vile and we should not honor those that wanted to sustain that institution. 

                The Lost Cause narrative espoused by the Daughters of the Confederacy in the early 20^th Century is absolute nonsense and any “honorarium” for traitors should be resoundingly rejected. The romanticism of the Civil War by Southern revisionists should be absolutely rejected.  It was wrong then and it is wrong in the 21^st Century. 

                Yet, I’m not surprised by this disgusting move by the “majority” in Virginia. It fits part and parcel with the current wave of nostalgia politics. This strange yearning to go backwards in time to remove women’s rights, return to segregation, expel those different than White Christians and basically a want for days when white men could do whatever they wanted with impunity. It’s a baffling trend in this country and frankly if you believe any of those things are good, then quite frankly, you’re an asshole who should be shunned and set adrift on an iceberg. While on fire. 

                The worst kind of asshole too, pockmarked, and oozing smelly puss, while smeared with diarrhea.  The worst of the worst of the very and absolute worst. That Grinch song, it’s about you. I’d rather you just curled up into a festering pile of dog shit and fucked right off. Because if you think you’re better than anyone, or think the Country was better in the 1950’s, or your rights as an American supersede the rights of other human beings, then you can just go to hell.   

                I’m really exhausted by these assholes and their “All for me and none for thee”, attitudes. I can’t contain my absolute disdain for them. I can no longer try to see the other side of the conversation. Any side that actively advocates for the Lost Cause, White Christian Nationalism, the politics of division, or that sews hatred, bigotry, and nostalgic whimpering for the “good old days” can just go fuck themselves. I won’t waste any more time on them. 

                Okay, here’s your soapbox back. Thank you for letting me borrow it.

 

 

https://www.cnn.com/2024/05/09/us/shenandoah-county-confederate-school-names-reaj/index.html