of course,
but in their proper place -
the box of pictures taken down
from the shelf
needing to be organized,
the busy clamoring of children
just outside the door
ready
to come
in.
Let’s extrapolate
and say
it was the act of a harsh
and vengeful god
who’s beliefs, coincidentally,
just happen
to mirror
my own
insecurities
and perceived
weaknesses,
god
damn you
god
I am
I am so much better now
that I’ve castigated myself
this once
again and have been saved
and freed
to punish all those other
evil doers
in your name
mostly
guilt
free
hallelujah
do I hear a call to action,
can I get a witness
amen
Let’s just say
I have this run jump kick fall down
pop up and do it again boy
in my class
whose mom is an entomologist at university
and who regularly posts links
such as “nature will eat you”
and her boy wrote a 5,7,5 insect poem that won the 13 and under division
I hear some crickets
They soon will be lizard food
I am sure of that
pretty cool for a 7 year old who sees our grins
with a confusion
as we read not only his poem
but the judges comments:
This short poem describes a scene – states a
fact, really – with unfiltered honesty and precision, almost in
defiance of the allegory typically demanded by adult literature. Its
legitimacy, both of the protagonist’s thought process and of the
crickets’ fate, was refreshing. Though the setting is ambiguous – did
he buy crickets at the pet store to feed to his brother’s lizard? Is
he listening to crickets in his yard and projecting on their fate? –
we are comforted by his assurance that, indeed, these crickets will be
silenced soon … The poet wades through multiple literary themes, in
just three short lines: omniscient narrator, tragedy of life and
death, the fate of the weak in the face of a predator. Despite the
maturity of his words, though, we were reminded of our childhoods,
when the world is filled, at once, with surety and imagination.
We congratulate the poet on penning this extraordinary piece and thank
him for sharing –
and let’s just say by chance he chooses
to become a poet someday
we can only hope that his profound befuddlement continues
with our own when we have poetry judges tell us what a precocious 7 year old means,
might have meant, wanted to say
but could only imply
in a lonely 17 syllables
For years
he perfected the art
of drawing his love
on a grain of rice
when he finally looked up
to show her
she was even
more beautiful
than he had
imagined
I think Hamlet
was a total putz
until I start to question
the easy answers
the “I think Hamlet” poem
most definitely
an inferior haiku
so what do you think?
the love governor – a love/anti-love declaration and rant
(before we begin -
you, on the other side of the aisle,
be sure to apologize profusely for you have offended those
who believe you don’t have a right to express
your own opinions)
all righty
let today’s session begin-
transvaginal probes
government small enough
to fit into your vagina
no really,
if you were raped
(and by the way just what were you wearing)
you really wouldn’t mind your government
probing you again would you, slutty lady
and why wouldn’t you want to have
that rapists baby-
sally from accounting
we need to know
why you are on the pill
every sperm is sacred mr smith
sorry, we know you’re a man
but we’re an Equal Opportunity Employer
so tell us about this viagra
do you have any hard evidence
of your medical condition
and did you hear
santorum’s sweater vest swears
it’s only right and natural
procreation not recreation 2012
who knew vulcan pon farr
would have made it into this
presidential election
and don’t get me started on minneapolis
airport restrooms, evangelical boy raping
taxpayer sponsored marcus bachman
stylish tough loving hug hug hug
beat the gay out of you
oh good lord
we do hereby declare
this an era of republican
lovin for
they really do want to
F you over
and over again
so be sure
to cinch your belt
and don’t turn your back
on the love governor
from your very own
state
of incredulity -
beware
the stylish gay
barbarians
at
the
gate
storefront of the heart
well used concrete
now swept clean,
walls and windows
bare
of adornments,
no next sale
or new item
signs
in evidence,
only some
vague
sense of something
missing
or perhaps
a déjà vu
to the passersby–
that in their own
hearts
just such a space
is waiting
no expectation
no recognition
just one grand
opening
for love
the 5 year old
accepts it as fact
that he has to show the 40 year old
which buttons to press before offering
the sage advice, “you should have picked
the AK 47”, before he calmly shoots me
in the back of the head -
smear was what we played
when we were kids,
one football, 10 guys
all bigger than you, and a field,
someone hands you the ball
and you run, juke,
avoid the pain of getting
smeared for as long as you can,
“when I was growing up”, I always
want to tell the little 5 year old smart ass,
but the learning curve is too steep,
arenas, strategies, the power moves
of different characters,
in the end, of course, I always resort
to what I do best,
push buttons as fa
st as I can
before the entire scene
goes blank
Don’t you hate it when your animal
spirit guide turns out to be
really lame and the group
leader, who has a white Indian tiger,
tells you those are the ones
you can really learn from.
He keeps going on and on
about beauty not being in the eye
but in the symmetry of the eyes,
at least that’s what he heard
on the Oprah channel,
and it doesn’t make any sense to her
that the bilateral symmetricals
would ever have a soul mate
as their right and left halves
already make a perfectly
serviceable whole,
although the radial syms
might make one great
soulmate oreo if they could
ever figure out who’s top
and who’s bottom,
and those catholics,
it would seem to make sense
that they would embrace
the asexuals but the Vatican
made that decree against cloning…
God, if only this hermaphroditic nematode
would just split, I think.
Not possible, it says, we’re both
radial and bilateral, male
and female,
and all androdioecy (wink, wink),
and besides,
we’ve just found
a wonderful new home
right here
in your
digestive
tract.
You were always
black and white,
wet nose nudging the present
joy you knew was in my hand
even when I didn’t,
the long leash
of us
stretching
thin
at times
with the irresistible
urge
of a dark underbrush -
its only breaking,
the one time
I called
and you didn’t look back,
collie grin fading
to a distant
field,
memories of you
nipping
our heels,
your loyal, uncertain
stragglers -
I know it’s hard, girl
but stay,
we’ll catch up soon .
The trouble is …
always me
shoes strewn askew
in the doorway
of your life
"are you trying to kill me?!"
you ask,
there is no try,
I quip,
only do
and you said
that
long ago
when everyone kept asking
are you sure you
want that boy,
he's nothing but…
and I remember you saying
distinctly behind
your gauzy veil of love
and hope,
in front of god and all those witnesses,
not, I guess or sure, why not
I distinctly heard you say
come here,
bring it on, trouble
yes
I do
no problem
The man with the long stick
or 2 short sticks,
or the long and short bamboo
swords
ready and willing
to hit you in any of your several
sensitive
body parts,
no problem
the skirt, the ties,
the armor that needs to
be perfectly aligned
to show your proper
fighting
spirit,
no problem
if they come at you
with feet and fists
and throws wanting to
submit you into
a leg slapping, tap out
submission,
not even a problem
standing
in a 20 foot square
alone
with a weapon and then with
empty hands
to demonstrate to
the crowd
your mastery of
a complex series of movements
with power, focus, speed
and precision -
the long months
before the competition
are the problem
knowing not today, not
tomorrow, but soon
you will be tested
and the oh so glorious release
from delayed gratification and
discipline,
youtube, boobtubed, feet propped up
waiting
for the right time,
just the right moment
to sweat and train,
waiting and wondering
how you’ll do
when you really
have to fight
to survive
Tree
Board,
a plank,
a tool but more likely
the handle of a tool,
a hammer,
the cannibalistic ax,
mostly dead
structural
support
for the thin, sappy
1%,
its green skin under
a rough bark
feeding tendril clones,
those leafy solar collectors
reaching for a sun
to out shade the
competition
until
the inevitable cold snap,
a downturn too extreme
threatening to burst those cells
of perpetual growth-
the showy fall all gold
leaving
the mostly dead
99%
on life support
swaying, dreaming
in the newly opened
landscape
of eternal, brittle
spring -
this
board,
a plank,
a tool but more likely
the handle of a tool,
a hammer,
the cannibalistic ax.
The surprise preemie
when her seal broke
early
only hinted at
what was to come –
months in the hospital
being trained to constantly
troubleshoot equipment –
knowing when the black gasket
wasn’t quite catching
in the suction machine,
dropping O2 sats, the fault
of a probe or a hidden leak
in the tubing of the
ventilator,
dirty filters, trach cuffs, gtube
ballons to be monitored,
replaced,
their little boy, the fighter, the miracle,
beater of all the doctors odds,
so fragile
their hope
under the weight of the work, the pressure
of the years to come,
the little leaks
of doubt
always needing to be
retaped each night
with their quiet sobs
under the covers
while the other watches the
heart beat
of the machines
sitting alone
in the dark
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