Guilt A storm’s wrath had wrenched the robin’s nest from the tree above. Jerry and i, boys of ten or so, stumbled upon it the next morning. The mother robin stood her ground, fluffing her feathers in defiance. We two, imitators of brave hunters, executed her with a BB gun and laughed. Jerry grew up, played college football, and became a famous California detective. i went on to teach children our language, and lay bare my shame in poetry. j
God's Blueprint To be certain our species would flourish, God constructed a magnetic force within us so powerful that when young Men, stopped by a deep and rushing flow of icy water, or a gaping, precipitous chasm rent in the earth, peered forth and saw comely young Women on the far side (picking wildflowers) God could be certain, bridges would be built. j
Tree Talk But soft, whispered a forest tree. Someone comes this way. If woodsmen, asked his brother, will this be our final day? They carry no weapons, saw or axe— perhaps just pilgrims, come to pray. Like boats to safe harbor let them steer, and find peace among us this joyful day. j
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
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
j's blog 