Anything Helps
He stood in the deserted island
formed at the intersection
of Kolb and 22nd Street.
Sleepy-eyed commuters
glanced
at his cardboard declarations:
Poem
Free
He clutched
sheets of white paper
flapping like seagull wings
on the stirred currents
of whizzing cars.
The light turned
the color of autumn leaves.
Cars slowed and rested.
Windows slid down.
Elbows protruded.
Voices sang out.
“Any of those
old-school
rhymes today?”
“Hey, man.
Make me giggle.
Need one
terrible like.”
“Loved yesterday’s.
Read it to my kids
at the dinner table.”
“Touch my heart, Poet.
It’s hurtin’
bad sore.”
“I got a feeling
you’re gonna
make me cry.”
He walked the line.
Handed ‘em out.
Touched skin.
Stretched his grin.
“Morning,” he said.
“Feelin’ good today?”
“Thinkin’ ‘bout yuh,”
he said.
“Hope this helps,”
he said.
The light changed color,
golf course green.
Traffic edged away,
a soothed tide
going out.
Some waved
the words
out the window
in a nice,
see yuh later kinda way—
and his ribs ached
from the banging
goin’ on inside.
from the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
. . . j
Under Repair
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,
(surprise, surprise)
a baby girl
came along,
perfect in every way.
The boy soon drifted away,
a small boat, unmoored.
So, there was no
high school graduation
strut across the stage,
or cartwheels
with diploma in hand,
or proud parents beaming.
Home alone that
celebratory evening,
her daughter fussy
and running a fever,
bottle bubbling,
angry on the stove,
and later, when 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,
at fifteen bucks an hour
standing beside a dusty road,
dressed in sloppy jeans,
hard hat,
and fluorescent vest
holding a
SLOW,
sign
that she wished she had
noticed
way back when.
from the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
. . . j
A Soldier's Dilemma
What you aim at,
Sir,
is not an
empty can
perched atop a
snowy fence post,
nor is it a
shadowy deer
gliding through
your autumn forest.
Rather,
your hand steady,
your eye focused,
your finger gentle
on the trigger,
you plot
to end the life of a
brother human being,
lest he
end yours.
from the Wonderments and Such collection
. . . 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.
From the Wonderments and Such collection
. . . j
A Morgue Experience
There is a primitive wailing sound—
a stricken keening of utter despair—
a mother’s awful symphony
of savage tongue,
throbbing throat,
and ruined heart.
A son? Handsome youth cut down?
A daughter? Blooming beauty snuffed?
Father, steeped in rage, refuses to go,
preferring to drink himself numb,
and lay blame at a careless God’s doorstep.
There lurks a hidden cavity,
a storage packet of sudden death,
murky beneath dark, wet streets.
An officer of Laws for the Living
escorts Mother down a dim hallway
to a large viewing window where a
teenager lies in state under bright lights
and hideous shroud of white sheet.
The blanched face revealed—
Sightless eyes cannot see Mother,
Stopped arms cannot hug Mother,
Silent voice cannot greet Mother,
Sealed lips cannot kiss Mother farewell.
Comes the keening.
From the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
. . . j
Photo by Download a pic Donate a buck! ^ on Pexels.com
An Octave Below
Blessed are those
who live near the sea,
and hear the tiger's complaint
roll deep in his throat—
a sound
the rest of us
can only
imagine
as an impatient Ferrari
passing by.
from the Wonderments and Such collection
. . . j
You've Been A Fun Crowd
Should i but read
my poetry
to neglected fields
and
sagging fence posts
i
might be assured
of
a polite and
attentive
audience
with soft murmurings
of approval
and spare grumbles
of
complaint.
from the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
. . . j
Overheard At The Coffee Shop
I do like your hat.
really?
yes. it reminds me of a lampshade
i once knew.
really?
yes. like you, the lamp wore it slightly askew.
you mean crooked?
aye. awry. cocked just so over one eye.
really?
yes. it's a fabulous look.
thank you. do you come here often?
here? only to see the hats.
from the Wonderments and Such collection
. . . j
A Modest Request
When I grow old and weary,
legs all atremble,
unable to walk far,
and my garden—
oh,
the delightful colors,
the delicate shapes,
the delicious scents—
when my garden—
with eyes weak and bleary,
is too far to see,
then please,
if you will,
bring my garden to me.
from the Wonderments and Such collection
. . . j
You
From my window
I glimpse the sea.
From the shore
I closer be.
Imagination
carries me across.
‘Tis but You,
I long to see.
from the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
. . . j
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