Listen, Dad,
Mom’s dead, but
you can dance
with her again.
She’s waiting
in the sky, behind
a star, humming
to the music.
You and Mom
can waltz around
the moon forever.
She may even sing
that song you like.
I’ll comb your hair,
shine your shoes
and press your old tuxedo.
There’s no rush.
You know Mom.
She’d never dance
with anyone but you.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.
They tell her to wear
a certain kind of clothing,
and that she should smell
a certain way.
They mention kindly that
she should smear herself
in make-up, and that the
person she wants to kiss
may not be the right type.
They tell her that she may
want to consider “getting
some work done,” but that’s
enough because she doesn’t
want it.
She wants to kiss who she
wants, even if it’s wrong,
smell like a human, age,
and live at peace.
The problem with Chloe is
she moved to San Diego
where the weather’s fair
but hasn’t found anyone
who’ll listen to her so she
calls you or me at midnight.
Back here she had folks
who liked to listen to her
and if someone got fed up
someone else stepped up
with a problem to discuss.
Some folks liked Chloe
taking an interest in them.
Remember old Homer
in the nursing home?
Twice a week she took him
a mocha latte and a cookie.
He’d sit up in bed and listen
as long as the coffee lasted.
Once she forgot his coffee
and Homer grumbled a bit
and fell asleep.
When her sister Daisy
got sick they reconciled
after years of arguments
and Chloe was delighted she
had someone new to counsel
but when she told Daisy she
had better go to church
the truce ended there.
Chloe needs more time to meet
someone new in San Diego.
Dudley left her, I understand,
to marry Alice who understood
Dudley didn’t like fancy chat.
In the meantime, you can try
what works for me with Chloe.
I unplug the phone before
I go to bed because she will
dial until someone answers.
Then she won’t hang up.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
We died tonight
Died when darkness covered the blue sky
Died when the moon put on her bright white gown and sat upon her
throne
Died when the stars claimed their nightly territories
As the sun slept after her twelve hour labor
We died tonight
We died when we hid from the revelries of the world
Died when we became victims of forced spiritualities
Died when we bent our knees and babbled strange words to stranger
spirits
Died when we deemed ourselves superior to our fellowmen
Based on our beliefs in thousand year old doctrines
We died tonight
We died when we removed our coats of bravery
Died when we allowed some member of mankind’s fraternity
To rob us of our happiness, freedom and liberty
Died when we choose to sit down and complain about elements of
governance
Shunning the right to take a stand and conjure some solution
Remaining servants of cursed complexities
We died tonight
We died when we choose to remain hushed to evils around us
Died when we became bearers of hopeless hearts and darkened minds
Died when night consumed our knowledge
When darkness stole our reason
When shadows devoured our bodies
Died when we feared that the approaching daylight would reveal our
true characters
And remained tormented by our own hypocrisies
We died tonight
We died when we became slaves to midnight forever fearing the
darkness
Yet never shining our own lights to guide our own souls
Died when we closed our eyes and ceased our vigilance
When we ended our labors
Allowing our minds and bodies to be engulfed by the night’s dark
abyss
Forever awaiting promised forgiveness and resurrection
We died tonight
We died when we lay in hell’s coffins
Succumbing to perpetual darkness and death
We died tonight
Look so pretty you
no sound floats
out of my mouth
as I sit silent now
staring through you
boring in
wondering
what it is that
does this
to me now
and every time
I see you still
just out walking
talking
laughing with him
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.
Willy’s old.
Still a con man
but bewildered now.
Spent his life
screwing people,
rich and poor alike.
Never discriminated.
Made millions
he tucked away
in stocks and bonds
and foreign banks.
A few gold bars
under the mattress
for emergencies.
He’s dying now,
a shrill curse
his final gasp.
No plea for mercy.
One might think
death would be
a con man’s finest hour,
a last chance to cut
the biggest deal.
But Willy loves Sinatra.
He’s proud as hell
he’s done it
his way.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.
There is bearded me
and skeptic me
and nonchalant me
usually, these all
come out in winter
like a bear
warmer climates
bring reflective me
and shaven me
and in-between me
autumn brings solemn
academic me
reading me
bookish chin-rubbing me.