Baby New Year is Coming

 

Bouncing Baby New Year,

is about to be born,

blubbering and babbling,

blowing bubbles and

burping, like all babies.

 

A New Year, on the cusp,

ready to shove more insanity

in your already sunburned

faces, smearing you with

baby New Year ick.

 

I’m not sure of the lessons

learned in 2024, or if there

were even lessons at all,

seemed like people wanted to

go back in time, having learned nothing.

 

I did learn to hold precious those

that I love and keep them close,

to acknowledge the love of others,

a practice I’m still unfamiliar with,

and to be gentle.

 

2024 reinforced the need for

civility, kindness and a general

return to respect, things I fear

will be in short supply in the new

year of 2025.

 

Which is also odd to say out loud,

“2025”.

For those of us of a certain age,

2025 was supposed to be an age

of incredible technological and

human advancement.

 

Yet I fear 2025 will be slingshots

and muddy feet.

But I still hope for the best,

the future is always full of possibilities,

unless of course Baby New Year goes

on a horror film style assault against

humanity.  

 

Happy New Year!

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.