Childhood Remedy

Childhood Remedy

To be young and unfettered

with the burdens
and troubles
of life

is a most precious slice
of fleeting time.

The clock is ticking!

A cloud's nimbleness!
A flower's innocence!
Curiosity on fire!

The need and desire to

climb towering trees,
dive into summer lakes,
build warrior forts,
chase older brothers,
mimic freckled sisters,
and giggles without cause,

are the enterprise of children.

Leave them be.
Celebrate them.
Forgive them.

Time will cure them

soon enough.
Photo by Trinity Kubassek on

Tree Talk

Tree Talk

"But soft," whispered one tree to another,
"Sometwo come this way."

"If  woodsmen," asked his brother,
"Will this be our final day?"

"They carry no weapons, chainsaw or axe,
perhaps young lovers, come to play."

"If so, they intend no harm upon our backs,
and are most welcome to linger stay."

"Like boats to safe harbor let them steer,
and make gentle love among us if they may."

"We counsel them to lay aside any fear,
 and enjoy only boundless joy, we pray.

Photo by chepté cormani on

A Racist Bone

A Racist Bone

I don't have one.
I don't buy none.
I don't borrow none.
I don't crave none.


I don't want a single one
them racist bones,

not underside my ribs,
'tectin' my heart—

not overtop my skull,
shieldin' my brain— 

not round my back,
bulwarkin' my spine.


Day I's born,
doctor don't slap  me up my backside
with one them

racist bones,

and Mother don't feed me up my hunger
with no gnawing on those

racist bones,

and my school don't teach me up wrong 
with no 'lectual books readin' on

racist bones,

and my church don't hymn me
with no musical 

racist bones,

and my friends don't pal me up
with "we in this together"

racist bones.


But just a second young man— 
now I been thinkin' 'bout it
long time—
goodly while—
indeed, mosta my life—

despite I lovin' LeBron
roarin' up court,
full steam ahead,
"outta my way!"

and marvel that Stephen Curry pest,
shootin' anywhere on court,
swishin' 'em like
nobody's business—

why do I keep hopin'

yeah, why I be hopin'

so nobody notice me,
nobody hear me,
nobody know me,

and if I don't have no racist bone

nowhere in my body
growing inside me,

secret in my mind somewheres,
crouched down my heart chambers,
camouflaged in my soul,

all invisible like,


I'm asking you why,

do I keep hopin' some skinny
white kid come along,

someone like

Cousy, Bird, Pistol Pete,

all rolled up in one human concoction
like one them Thai spring rolls
all mixed up vegetables,

come along,

and throw a barricade up on LeBron,
shuttin' him down all good an' proper,

and hold Mr. Curry to 18 measly,

all the while putting up
a grand 42 and 12 unselfish shares


on any given Saturday night?

If I sincere got no racist bone,
then why I be thinkin' that way?

Somethin' not quite right here.

Could it be possible I got 'fected somehow
with one them racist viruses,
and it be festerin' my marrow?

Photo by Tim Mossholder on

Waste Not, Want Not

Waste Not, Want Not

One of my biggest


in life is

my inability to

stuff left-over


back in its tube.

I can insert key to lock,

throw pill to mouth,

squeeze foot to sock,

slide letter to mailbox,

transfer love to heart—

but forget 

cram toothpaste to tube.


I’ve handicapped 


I didn’t earn a 

Harvard Law degree,

or Stanford PhD—

I’m not a Rhodes scholar, 

or Oxford Fellow—

Cal Tech Engineer,

or win Summa Cum Laude honor.

Coupling those discrepancies 

with my less than

a kindergartener’s

store of

common sense,

makes life a constant 


No wonder 

the toothpaste debacle.