compelled to stalk unceasingly.
The Light Under My Eaves
The only light I spy
comes from the sky;
focused on my soul,
through a crack under my eaves.
It best shines through at dawn and dusk,
when birth and death are the main event,
when the sun is low—
when we are in most need to know.
For it heralds beginnings and endings—
as though from start to stop,
when both at dawn and at dusk
the horizon comes aglow.
And, although it shines throughout each day
it is not as illuminating in the same way;
as at the beginning and ending
of our allotted stay—
through the crack under my eaves.
The Mob
Here they come.
One by one they are not so bad.
But in a group they can be a Hell.
They are a mob.
As locus they gather.
As army ants they march.
As a pack of dogs they bark.
As a litter of cats they hiss and spit.
For glory, fame, or plunder,
or simply to rumble as thunder.
Waving banners and chanting
caught up in raucous ranting.
The Plight of a Supervisor
Theoretically management,
but subserviently labor—
caught in between:
a life in escrow.
Circumcised from above,
ostracized from below—
caught in between:
a life in escrow.
A drudgery of repetition,
in charge of tedium—
caught in between:
a life in escrow.
Company policies always foremost,
union rules as an added dose—
contending to and fro:
a life in escrow.
The Prospective Author
A wicker full of antonyms and synonyms.
Which to use. Which to abuse.
All so promising for some place.
None to throw away.
Each inspiring, yet fleeting.
Here now. Gone now.
Catch them, imprison them.
Don't let any get away.
Weave a theme, with a purpose.
Make it adhesive. Bind it with fancy.
Smoothen it, fold it.
Tuck it in neatly away.
Send it in, hoping for acceptance.
But expect rejection, along with dejection.
Have faith, and try again, and again—
never letting hope fade away.
The Room in My House
There are seven rooms in my house.
Two are for wives who have gone away:
the first of which died during child birth—
so I gave the child away;
the second one I divorced,
and she married some hombre.
The keys to both of their rooms
I have since thrown away.
The third room is for my current wife,
whom I met in another life
when we were both adrift that day.
Now I rarely see her—
since we like it that way.
The fourth room is for my mother,
now old and grey.
She runs a junkyard business
with father’s ashes on display.
Then there are the fifth and sixth rooms:
each for my two sisters;
who, until their dying day,
will pick and peck, at all I do and say.
And finally there is the seventh room:
stark and bare, with door slightly agar,
with only a ceiling light bulb on display,
gyrated about by a frenzied moth,
never more than an inch away.
As for me, I stay in the shed so as not to be misled
by the going ons in those rooms in my house,
but often wonder if that seventh room is a facade,
and the moth in gyration is God—
impatiently waiting for me.
The Stump
Once majestically it stood
reaching toward the heavens.
But along came man to end its time . . .
felling it for firewood.
And, as it had crashed in an anguished roar
with branches slashing as whips on the earth,
any compassion felt for it was too late
to resurrect that oak from its deadly fate.
No longer would it be a roost for birds,
nor the harvest of squirrels,
nor instrument for the wind to strum,
nor the glory of seasons yet to come.
Instead; left, was just a stump—
leaving to imagination what had been before.
And then, as nature repossess her own,
that stump too, will become no more.
The Wall
Too high to jump
too steep to climb
can’t get over the wall
no trees to climb
no ladder at hand
can’t get over the wall
the guards are coming
the dogs are coming
can’t get over the wall
too tired to run
no place to hide
can’t get over the wall.
Those Bygone Days
Oh for the days when a nickel could buy a pickle,
and ladies were not so fickle,
and marriage was not just a fling,
and being in the closet was a private thing,
and porno stores were not common place,
and getting to work was not a rat race,
and there was no TV to anaesthetize minds,
and a lot less people had big behinds,
and water was pure and the air was clear,
and on and on for those taken-for-granted things
that we now in reflection hold so dear.
To Adopt a Child
To adopt a child
as an act of charity
or an act of mercy
or an act of love
Love of what
love of whom
of the child
or of one’s self
To love as of flesh and blood
as though carried and born
as if god given
not out of charity
No matter,
for it is a child
for mercy sake
who needs your gift of love
To Forgive and Forget
To forgive, when Death is perched with intent,
by a life about to be spent,
can be a blessing bestowed on those remaining,
who have not been previously bestowed repent.
Conversely, such forgiveness can be done with intent,
as revenge for injuries long suffered—
by a life about to be spent, on those remaining—
who themselves have not been previously willing to repent.
To Kill A Cat
Day in, day out, it lurks.
Hugging the ground.
Ready to pounce.
Bird, chipmunk, mouse:
bunnies too—all fair game;
merely for sport.
To release, then capture;
again and again,
until death do it part.
Then the torn and bloodied carcass to be placed
at mistress’ front door—
as if she were a god in days of yore.
Oh how fitting to kill that cat.
Then to place it at mistress’ door—
to end its butchery evermore.
Too Grown Up Now
I once had a friend inside my head.
We played and talked a
nd pretended.
Illusions and delusions were our way.
No problem at all—just children at play.
But now, grown up and grey,
such fantasies are considered passé.
Unneighborly Dogs
Neighbors at arm distance can be the best of friends.
But when they walk their dog free to poop and pee,
and do not pick up the leavings under your tree
such a neighbor is no friend to any degree.
And if unwilling to favor your plea
the police may be a necessity.
If, in addition, the dog barks to an annoying extent
and thereby is protected under the fifth amendment
there is little you can do but pray for the day
when neighbor and dog will move away.
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