A Wedding Dirge
Ezekiel connected dem dry bones,
“Mr. Khashoggi? What a nice surprise.
What brings you to Istanbul?”
“What else? My love, Hatice, waits here.”
Now hear the word of the Lord.
Head bone connected to the heart bone.
Heart bone connected to the soul bone.
“I seek the required Marriage Document.”
Now hear the word of the Lord.
Soul bone connected to the courage bone,
Courage bone connected to the backbone.
“Please come with us, Mr. Khashoggi.”
Now hear the word of the Lord.
“Hatice is waiting outside. She’ll be worried.”
Now hear the word of the Lord.
Backbone connected to the shoulder bone,
Shoulder bone connected to the arm bone.
“We insist, Mr. Khashoggi! You dare to write!
You overstep the bounds! You cannot criticize!”
“I write only of the truth. Is truth a crime?
Please. My bride waits just outside. Hatice. Hatice.”
Arm bone connected to the hand bone,
Hand bone connected to the truth bone.
“Lies! There is a dear price to pay, Mr. Kashoggi!”
Now hear the word of the Lord.
“I cannot breathe! I beg of you! Have mercy!”
Now hear the word of the Lord.
“All we need of you, Mr. Kashoggi, is silence.”
Now hear the word of the Lord.
j
Hesitant
Eighty-one years now,
memorized in Kindy,
stand tall,
hand over heart,
"I pledge allegiance
to the flag and the
United States
of America."
Never wavering,
standing tall,
removing my cap,
to sing our song,
". . .the land
of the free
and the home
of the brave."
Saluting when in
navy uniform,
standing tall,
hand over heart
leading the students
in my classroom,
at our games,
standing tall,
uncovered,
hand over heart.
This year,
of course
I'll display
it again,
but, with never
before weakness,
lest my
neighbors
think I've lost
my mind,
mindless,
mind you,
forgotten our
Constitution
and joined up,
disgracefully,
with the Trumpers
and the Court
who seem
to value
money, guns,
power and control
over
"land of the free
and the home
of the brave"
cowardly turning
their backs on
all the young men
who fought
and died at
Normandy,
at Iwo Jima,
in Korea,
and
Vietnam
and our children
in their classrooms,
standing tall,
hands over hearts,
and our women
in childbirth
losing their
"freedom for all."
God help me
in my shameful
hour of hesitancy.
j
Abortion Denied
She had dreams
as big as yours—
of college—
fine clothes—
a useful career—
but,
someone
grabbed her heart,
that junior year.
He said,
“I Love You,”
and she was
trusting
enough
to believe his
thinly sliced
Promises,
Kisses
and Caresses.
The upshot,
a baby girl
came along.
The boy soon drifted away,
a small boat, unmoored.
There was no
high school graduation
with diploma in hand,
proud parents beaming.
Home alone,
her daughter fussy,
bottle bubbling,
angry on the stove,
and later, after the baby
finally fell asleep,
she, our dropout,
stood before the mirror,
imagining a glorious
satin cap and gown,
tassel flipped to one side.
It was then she saw herself,
standing beside a dusty road,
dressed in sloppy jeans,
hard hat,
and fluorescent vest
holding a
Road Closed
sign
at fifteen bucks an hour
that she wished she had
noticed
way back when.
j
A Reckoning
The poinsettia has died—
I tried.
As best I could—
Anyone would.
Bathed in natural light—
Warm and bright.
More Christmas joy brought—
I thought.
Auld Lang Syne and table set—
“A cup of kindness yet.”
Cupid launched his arrow—
Some thought the aim too narrow.
Easter’s promise. He cleansed our sins—
Life everlasting and everybody wins!
Saint Patrick listens to March say—
“Corned beef and cabbage okay?”
Mother’s Day we all know—
Do miss her so!
Memorial Day, too high a cost—
So many brave young lives lost.
Juneteenth, America's shame—
Slaves yes, too many to name.
July 4th’s quiet celebration—
Little enthusiasm in a wounded nation.
As for me—
What will be, will be.
The poinsettia has died—
I tried.
j
Compilation
We are the stories we've read,
the words we've written,
the songs we've hummed,
the tears we've cried,
the clothes we’ve worn,
the miles we’ve walked
and
the smiles we've initiated.
j
Photo by Nicolette Leonie Villavicencio on Pexels.com
More Hyenas
Sometime during the night
while everyone slept,
an intruder dared invade
the village perimeter.
Nose to the wind,
sifting, learning, knowing,
he found a child, untended,
and carried him off.
When the tired sun rose
again, lighting the darkness,
a mother screamed,
a sister sobbed,
a father, outraged,
consulted the elders.
They sat, solemn, listened
to a mother's grief,
a father's anger,
a sister's innocence.
They discussed the matter.
The sun climbed higher,
the heat oppressive,
the light blinding.
Finally, at dusk, the elder
said, "To make our village
safe from the hyena we
need more hyenas."
The village women wept.
j
Crystal Clear
The meaning
of a poem
should be
untroubled
water—
clear as an icy
mountain stream,
not just a string
of pretty words
tiptoeing through
the debris of
ruined romance,
a Rosetta Stone
needing to be
deciphered,
or a phone app
to be pondered.
I have
no time left
for translation.
j
Solitary Confinement
Let's pretend Covid
cannot touch me here,
In my imagination.
There are no mandates,
or quarantines,
or swabs,
or masks.
It’s a place filled with
delightful and dangerous
thoughts—
a hawk of poor vision,
a frozen flight of students,
an enemy drone,
breathing down my neck.
j
Narrow are the Base Paths
Our
Heroes
Race
Around.
Quick is the Laughter
That,
Follows
Our
Love of
Jokes.
Thin is our Forgiveness
For
Apologies
Unmade.
Voracious is our Appetite
For
French Fries,
Cheeseburgers
And Apple Pie.
Paltry is our Patience
For
Red Lights
In
Commutes.
Solid is the Constitution
Our
Democracy
Rests
Upon.
And Wide as the Mississippi is our
Demand for
Guns,
Kevlar,
And
Yes, ever more Guns.
. . . j
Would I could,
I’d spread my wings,
feathered ribs,
across the sky
Oh, let it be.
to shield
America’s children
from gun violence,
and the lawmakers
who father it.
Oh, let it be.
Would I could,
I’d spread my wings
Across the sky.
Oh, let it be.
j
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