Scavenger Hunters

Scavenger Hunters

I find them at garage sales
and flea markets, old people
and young couples, curiously caressing
blue bottles and cast off clothing
worn during thin or fat periods.
I meet them behind rows of 25 cent
used paperbacks perusing titles
never read. I see their bargain-hungry
eyes scan for authenticity of turquoise
ceramic water jugs as if simple vessels
of the past contain dreams of the future.
I watch as they scamper off,
treasures in hand, competing for fame
on the Antiques Roadshow. I smile
as the appraiser asks “How much did
you pay for this piece of junk?” I cry for them,
as their dreams are shattered again.     

Meth Report

Meth Report

Report of National Methamphetamine Awareness Day.
Attorney General Gonzales reports today that math labs
produce toxic waste.

She-Walks-Through-theDo

She-Walks-Through-the-Door Loves Moon Dog
     
Her face is looking towards us, her soft eyes
mysterious in the painting.
Bright feathers, hair braided with dyed beads.
Before her the wise elders hunker,
The lodge is quiet, tense and smoke-gray.
She knows their words, the long puffs drawn
from the pipe, like the wolf’s baying, will
seal her fate. They speak. With wry, moist  lips
she smiles her way into the yellow of moon dog.

Red Ants

Red Ants

Red ants
Bold and pushy
Marching steadily
Like Napoleon’s army
Across the countertop

Pestilent soldiers
Swift and hungry
Seeking pizza
Like Italian laborers
If only I’d put away the leftovers!

The Day Begins

The Day Begins

I’m awake
I’ve already had my coffee
I read the morning paper
The snow gathers softly outside my window
It’s cold this morning
There’s some frost
I turn on my laptop
I arrange my ideas
Today will be busy
I have no time to waste
I write


El día comienza

Soy despierto
He tenido ya mi café
Leí el papel de mañana
La nieve recolecta suavemente fuera de mi ventana
Es fría esta mañana
Hay una cierta helada
Giro mi computadora portátil
Arreglo mis ideas
Hoy estará ocupado
No tengo ninguna hora que perder
Escribo

Suspension

Suspension

Snow
gentle
down
floating
white feathers
powder
tall
forest
evergreens
as the chipmunk
hordes last
acorns
and
prepares
to dig in
for a
long
frigid
spell

Street Poet

Street Poet

He attempts to wrap his words around
callous streets- raw lullabies stripped

of urban decay to bare meanness. Murky
lingo of  black argot, rhyming doggerel

of booties and bitches drawn to bling,
gold teeth and basketball paraphernalia.

Head bobbing, shoulder-rolling, crotch-
grabbing street poet. He struts like a lottery

winner, pimps his ride, shows his ass garishly
as young suburban girls, eyes closed, sway

and scream to words and rhythm that only
the father he never knew would understand.

Tribute to the Goat Lady

Tribute to the Goat Lady

We made fun of her- the goat lady
reclusive in her tar paper shack
like the witch and her gingerbread

house, luring neighbor kids-
Hansels and Gretels of  surrounding
suburbia to her sand hill haven.

Pot boiling, voice cackling, abracadabra-
Words enchanted from parched lips
conjuring dark spells from hell.

Envisioning the smelly goats-
sacrifices to chthonian gods
deep within earth’s bowels

burning in bleating flames.
Mesmerized like Pan’s flocks
we couldn’t stay away-couldn’t,

wouldn’t leave her alone.

A constant barrage of rocks, bb’s,
Firecrackers- pelted, shot, exploded
On or around her humble abode.

Miniature Salem witch hunters- we
drove evil spirits from our playground
in the dunes.

My grandchildren,
tantalized by this tale of terror
tremble by the crackling fire.

Reading today’s news from my
armchair, the obituary pays tribute
to Maude Gresham for her generous

contribution to the UNESCO Children’s
Fund and the Christian Coalition of
Worldwide Children’s Charities.

Days Marked on My Calendar

Days Marked on My Calendar

Check marks on the calendar, cemetery crosses
x-out hours of slow, agonized silence
fanning the flames of my fears from the front line
As I read new names;

youthful names from Akron, Boston, Chicago,
Darbyville, Eagle Point-an alphabet soup
of America’s place names, a litany droning
deafly in my ears

magnifying the hum of death’s dismal dirge.
Each day a lottery, a lethal game of chance,
Baghdad’s unending shell game, impersonal,
randomly choosing,

slovenly selecting young souls for slaughter-
Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters-defenders
whirling dutifully in the desert of history
like dust in the wind.

Each anxious day, petrified, expecting your
number to appear, imagining life without you,
imagining an unimaginable stark whiteness
spinning through darkness.

The final mark, the last cross, the terminus of
your duty penciled out this November ninth
when you landed on Fort Carson’s black tarmac
body and mind whole.

My calendar, now a souvenir, a keepsake-
A reminder, a cicatrix on my being.
Scars of war, etched-out crosses, in memory
of  fallen soldiers

The People Speak( November 7, 2006)

The People Speak (November 7, 2006)

O ideologues of this great nation,
haven’t you learned the truth by now?
Shun your foolish avocation,
ease the stiffness of unbending vows,

the maniacal, overzealous preoccupation
with religion, ocracies, isms and sacred cows.
Exit quietly if you will, and take your long bows.
Oh ideologues of this great nation

time to rest, please take a vacation!
Wipe the sweat from your nervous brows.
The train awaits you at the station.
Haven’t you learned the truth by now?

The people have spoken, their roar is loud,
throughout the land renewed sensation,
a change of course to make us proud.
Shun your foolish avocation!

Gracefully concede, resist temptation,
the ship of state will right its bow
on waves of peace and redemption
and ease the stiffness of unbending vows.

America’s seeds, rooted in moderation,
grow well in fertile soil beneath our plough,
eschew the cankerous grounds of  other nations-
defy your smothering dogma and disavow.
                                                  O ideologues!

Christmas Goose

Christmas Goose

A chevron of geese feather the gray sky,
trumpeting winter’s frigid love song,
circling the hunter’s watchful eye.
A chevron of geese feather the gray sky.
Below, unseen, unheard- the hunter’s sigh.
His Christmas bounty arrives in throngs
A chevron of geese feather the gray sky,
trumpeting winter’s frigid love song.

Spelunking

Spelunking

Like a spelunker entering a cave
hesitant, surfeit , hard-spored,
I cast my lot onboard
and thrust my throbbing package like a knave
into your Charon’s weeping waters.  
Doomed to wander banks a hundred years
searching for resolution to my fears.
Your petals, threshold of sons and daughters,
fiery, disappearing and reappearing
engulf me like a summer’s flood,
never dreaming love could taste so good
and send my helpless heart veering
through a cavern of gracious gold,
hidden pleasures, stories untold.

Commander-in- Chief

Commander-in Chief

Commander-in-Chief: blood drips on your hands.
Our youth are dying in desert sands.
They perish in battle without a cause
as you unravel America’s trusted laws
one by one like cotton strands.

Never, you say, will we cut and run,
we’ll stay the course until we’re done
and fight the “enemy” to bitter end,
the “evil-doers” We’ll not befriend-
Commander-in Chief: blood drips on your hands

The people speak words you never hear,
demagoguery has no fear
Of hearts and minds that dare dissent
as sons and daughters lives are spent.
Commander-in Chief: blood drips on your hands

Payback

Payback
     
Everyday he stands on the corner, holding
his sign up.” Will work for food”, it reads.
I’ve tried to ignore it, but he needs
some aid-and gathers his gaze towards me, old and
weary his face. Pock lines, Years of weathered disgrace,
substance abuse, hardship and troubled days revealed.
I see myself some years ago, dying on the bloody field,
the Angel of Death caressing my ashen face,

plucked from darkness by the peasant poor
on a rain-drenched field in Viet Nam.
It must be my time to settle old scores.
I ask him his name, he tells me it’s “Sam”,
I wave him towards me as I open the door.
“Thanks mister” he says, “Thought no one gave a damn”!

To Osama

To Osama


Terror builds
a life
of its own.
Meaning: once
you’ve tasted
the blood
of lambs
and virgins
you can’t
go back.
It gets harder
not to also
worship power,
not to embrace
darkness, not to
rid the world
of all the evil,
but yours, not
to examine what
blindness can abide,
once you’ve begun.

Maria Missing Juan

Maria Missing Juan

She falls apart and feels her heart divide.
She cries alone, weeping in her room.
She thinks of those days with pride,

recalls happy times, a young bride.
She hears his voice calling from the tomb,
falls apart and feels her heart divide.

Cooked his favorite food the day he died.
Hung their new son’s photo in the room.
She thinks of those days with pride.

Longs for loving moments by his side
before the wreck, the awful gloom.
She falls apart and feels her heart divide,

tears flowing, a sad, incoming riptide,
grieving loss of life ended too soon.
She thinks about his life with pride;

chokes at likeness in the son’s eyes,
the shape of his face, a soft moon.
She falls apart and feels her heart divide.
She thinks of those days with pride