Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Shut In

Shut In

Like an insect he carries in his heart
the dreariness of winter; turns inward
and exists on small pleasures.

He ignores a splendid law of natural
rewards: he who gives receives, he who
only cultivates avaricious appetites,

afraid to share with others, loses his
humanity, dries up in the sunshine,
becomes loneliness itself.

My Timid Mother

My Timid Mother

She speaks too much of danger,
afraid of life’s natural, healthy risks.

Don’t be afraid I tell her,
poison ivy grows outside the door,

The snake coils under the porch
and the eagle’s talons cling to the roof

but the sun goes on, lighting the sky
and our lives tread upon the earth unscathed.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Candy kisses

Candy Kisses

Oh your smile is like a sweet, sweet kiss
That truly tastes like love
Oh your smile is like a small bird’s coos
Perhaps a morning dove

And sweet you are my lovely girl
To yield your precious lips
And I will want you still my love
When you’re old and the scale tips

Till the scale tips, my love,
And the moon falls from the sky
And I will want you still my love
Until the day I die

So keep the trust my dearest girl
there’s nothing that’s amiss
your suspicions are unfounded
and your smile a sweet, sweet kiss.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Help Wanted

Help Wanted

I’m literate, shy, but no way a nerd.
Playing golf with demented friends is just great.
I’m looking for a new job, something to do with words

My application for work is not really absurd:
High salary, long vacations, perks and medical.
I’m literate, shy, but no way a nerd

Want a quiet setting, away from loud herds
and indiscriminate, biased co-workers.
I’m looking for a new job, something to do with words

I like a boss who doesn’t give damn, a civil service bird.
I have gray hair, poor eyesight, a bulging paunch.
I’m literate, shy, but no way a nerd

I’m sixty-nine, white, retired. Salary diminished by thirds.
Searching for work, any type, anywhere, ideally suited.
I’m looking for a new job, something to do with words.

No Scams! (Some offers have been absurd).
I hang out on a bench, near the library.
I’m literate, shy, but no way a nerd
I’m looking for a new job, something to do with words.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Inauguration 2009

Inauguration 2009

My Mexican friends coined a new verb
for the inauguration. Obamanos (Let's Obama)!

Passing the baton, a delicate moment
in a relay, adroitly transitioning,

balancing two acts simultaneously,
racing and handing off, separating

winners or losers, successes or failures,
victories or defeats. It is poetry-the rhymes

and meters of the will synchronizing
to the music of the human spirit.

Obamanos!

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Chanticleer's Domicile

Chanticleer's Domicile

This old rooster thinks connections
between his cock-a-doodle-doo
and the sunrise.

Awakes the sleeping flock,
this cock-of-the-walk squawking
his cacophonous reveille.

King of the barnyard, fair fowl
most magnificent of them all
irascibly proud, standing tall,

an impressive regal resident
whom, if ever runs for office
would surely become the President!

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Aw It Ain't So Cute!

Aw It Ain't So Cute!

Dog walkers stop on my grass
they 're sneaky it's early morning
they hold small bags they're looking
over their shoulders they don't want to be
caught they hate
picking it up
sometimes these walkers don't care why
are they so arrogant the old men's
jaws get squared they give you looks
which are often angry looks
made for enemies in the
heat of battle

Sometimes I step outside
the yappy mutts
get excited become territorial
and snarl like their owners
I gently remind to take
the waste post haste to
be kind to the little beast
of burden to be careful
what you ask for it might
just drag you all over the
neighborhood before breakfast
before lunch before dinner
before anything

Saturday, January 10, 2009

January Voices

January Voices

January, and the voice of the winter storm
howls over the pallid passes
before dawn. The Douglas fir, the pine,
the Engelmann spruce snore
at the first soft clues of morning.
A frozen day,
I think, yet it will arrive
amazingly, daylight
ascends from the arms of boughs, streams
silently from the hearts
of pink clouds.
The Great Horned Owl screeches
from its branch, shivers,
and flies away. The grizzly,
asleep for winter, growls in his dreams
and swats salmon in the river. My head
races in the memory of a trillion fallen snowflakes.

I hunker by the fire waiting for a warm chinook wind.

War Work

War Work

Three long rows of instruments
arraigned meticulously on a mayo stand,
ligatures speaking the language of silence.
Under the light, I in my ghostly mask
suturing the fragmented intestine,
as big around as the thick casing
of a Polish sausage. “Right here
is the critical part, saving
this soldier’s life.” We work in shifts,
morning, noon, night. First bright
sun’s rays enter the tent, I
pause after the last suture
to take in the new day reaching
outside and beyond. Daylight
bathes the standing and moving
rows of armored tanks; fresh gusts
of desert wind blowing, battered
buildings, fallen palaces of Saadam
and sons. As far as the mind sees
a rolling cloud of locusts as dark
as death brings the wounded in.

Wednesday, January 07, 2009

Coin Flip

Coin Flip

Sometimes I hate this place
Sometimes I hate the winter
Sometimes I love this place
Sometimes I love the winter
Sometimes I hate the summer
Sometimes I love the summer
Sometimes I am loved,
Sometimes I am hated
Sometimes I am over
Or under-rated.

Monday, January 05, 2009

Louis S. Cohn Inc.

Louis S. Cohn Cigar Inc.

Ever since my childhood,
the wooden Indian has protected the smoke shop
from his porch-front perch.
Inside carries all his wampum:
small cylindrical beads, polished shells,
peace pipes, Prince Albert tobacco tins,
aromatic cigars from Castro’s Cuba ,
carved Meerschaum bowls
seasoned to perfection.,
jawbreakers in a glass fishbowl,.
snuff tins, Bugle Boy papers,
imported stogies, climate controlled
in the walk-in humidor,
Phillies Cheroots 2/$.50,
The old warrior grimaces and stares
over his reservation, over and over
beneath the blue Montana sky.
He is old and cranky.
Please do not bother him.

The Short Happy Life of Things

The Short Happy Life of Things

Purging the old, seeking the new;
curbs lined with treasures headed
for the local landfill.

A microwave here, a stained sofa there,
some Dr. Seuss books across the way
accompanied by an ironing board.

Down the street a bicycle, wheel missing
in action nervously awaiting the crushing
compactor blades of the trash truck.

Every curb contains midden, disposables,
impermanent goods of lives disinterested
thrown away to make room for new clutter.

Gleefully I lift my treasure from the heap;
a black forest cuckoo minus the pendulum.
I imagine bird songs in my sleep.