Giggles
Windswept
First published in cattails
With Liberty and Justice For All
You are not perfect, surprise, surprise. But, when I was a child, you were boundless, mostly because my imagination knew no bounds. Boundaries come with age. You were field after field and an occasional strand of barbed wire to climb over but, truly, my range was primarily limited by how far I was from dinner.
In Selma, Montgomery, Nashville, Birmingham, Jackson, Tuscaloosa, Hattiesburg, Memphis, across the South, and beyond, the battle for equality raged just out of sight on Grandma’s TV, conveniently covered with a blanket. I knew nothing of the Civil Rights movement growing up, though it touched me on several occasions.
confused sea—
the island’s lighthouse
obscured by fog
On one such occasion, I was riding through downtown Brunswick, Maine, the place where Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote much of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Grandpa had the radio on when the announcement came over the airwaves, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. has been assassinated. I didn’t know that name, what it stood for, or even what assassination meant. Grandpa muttered, Damn, and then went silent.
drinking
from a polluted stream . . .
dying fox
Later in life, one of my best friends in the army, James, a six-foot black man, built like a boxer, but as gentle as a kitten, surprised me one day when I found myself in a predicament. I was surrounded by four GIs who were pushing me back and forth among them until I stepped on someone’s foot. That earned me a blow to the face. Just then, James came around the corner, saw what was happening, and turned into a roaring lion. Leave him the fuck alone you pansies! If you want to fight, let’s go! The group made a hasty retreat.
I don’t like referring to my friends as black, Mexican, Jewish, gay, or any other label. To me they are, and have always been, just friends. I didn’t grow up labeling people and I’ve resisted the tendency ever since. But I celebrate the diversity of my friends; their integrity, experience, wisdom, interests, skills, creativity, and companionship.
bird sanctuary . . .
a symphony of color
in flight
For me, America is a melting pot. As I ponder the promise of this “land of the free,” I wonder if there will ever be freedom from divisiveness and maliciousness. “We the People” are the ingredients of a grand experiment. The past is set in stone; now is in our hands; the future is the shape of our imagination. I chose to dream of a better tomorrow, born of a steadfast conviction that today is my day to change the world; to change it with a smile, with my protestations in the face of bigotry, with my support for justice and equality.
Here and now, I take up this pen and set my sights on my better self, seeking a community of fearless voices committed to the best this country can be. This land is not your land; this land is not my land; this land is our land! We are the potential energy for a nation built on harmony. It will take many small steps, and we may not reach the destination in our lifetime. What is important is that we stay the course so we can hand the baton to the next generation to carry forward, ever closer to Dr. King’s dream.
the crier
breaks this morning’s silence—
neighbors rising
Pulpit
Darkness. The brush of rough canvas against my cheeks. Hemp tightening around my neck. Do I have any last words?
Ladies and Gentlemen, leering close. Thank you for your attendance on this auspicious occasion. So many friends could not be here today. I am the only one left; you see. Lend your ear; let your minds absorb this song of the dying.
The scaffolding creaks as the hangman’s weight shifts from foot to foot.
I have lied to myself, cheated myself, stolen time from myself. As I came to believe the lies, I spread the word to others. When it came time to give, I was a well-practiced hoarder. With no time for myself, there was nothing left for you—until now.
Today, we have this moment. Here in the warm afternoon sun, you have all the honesty I never had to give, the generosity I kept to myself, these precious breaths I choose to breathe with you now.
Creak.
Gentle folks, the sun will surely set on my dreams today, so let me share a recent one with you now.
In this dream, I am lying on a bed of fresh moss—the canopy above rustling and chirping as a doe and fawn approach. The doe stands above me, her eyes soft as mother’s hands tucking me in at night. She begins to hum a lullaby. They kneel beside me and say a prayer; she tells me that one day I will remember her, and when that day comes, I will forgive myself and say a prayer for the one standing beside me—
tonight the town
lit with pale moonlight
amen
First published in Contemporary Haibun Online
Drowsy
once upon a night
in a far off land called Sleep
I fell—
I tell you now the tale
as best it be remembered
‘Twas a week of tossing and turning ‘fore that fateful eve of slumber—fairies in the pillowcase chanting peals of thunder, bed sheets ‘round my legs in an anaconda’s grip—slipping in and out of stupor come from staring holes into the ceiling. And so, the bed was made.
the storyteller
opens the ancient book . . .
I absorb each word
as she rewrites the pages
for me to read again
9 pm . . . the fairies have left a fine dust on my pillow with the sweet scent of pine; the snake rests quietly on my thighs. I close my eyes and in a blink begin to dream. I know I’ve started dreaming because the fairy says it’s so. I hear the page turn and she is gone.
I wander for a while, then come upon a stream. Sitting near its bank, I watch the years flow by—faces from my past, demons, delights, dullards, and angels, some with a frown, some with a sigh, some with a tear, some with a smile.
In the distance, I see a mountain and know I must ascend. It takes hours to reach the base, days to gain the summit. Once there, I’m caught in a cloud and float out to sea. Something tells me it’s time to let go.
I fall
a receding wave
sparkles with moonlight
and I fall
on wet sand . . .
and I fall
the sleepless deep
finally lulls me to sleep
and I fall
Atmospheric Conditioning
She was the wizard’s candle, bright as a brand new dawn. Floating through the doorway, a breath of summer breeze—hers was the realm of magic woven into the tapestry of my life.
He was the woodsman’s ax, sharp as clever could be. Sitting ‘round the table—stories spun into fantastic laughs—his was the gift of guidance, a gentle hand on my shoulder.
Together they were a pair of birds nestled beneath my eaves. When their time came to abandon the nest, they left some feathers for me to collect—keys to the heavens where they spent their days, reminders we each have our time and place. Now, free from the bonds of this earthly gaze, they fly like angels through the skies of my mind.
weathervane
pointed at the sunset
a boy’s bright eyes
A Piece of Heart
Dedicated by way of a thank-you to Elaine and Neal Whitman.
I love jelly and jam—grape, strawberry, raspberry, blackberry, blueberry, gooseberry, cherry, apple, orange, peach, mango, and mint. Most of the preserves I eat these days come in plastic containers stacked in wire baskets on restaurant tables. It’s been a long time since I tasted a scoop of delicious straight from one of Grandma’s Mason jars filled with fruit.
love
suspended in pectin
my spoon
I suppose I could go to the grocery and buy a jar of Smucker’s or Welch’s, but what would be the fun in that? No, my spoon needs a special jar. Not a drawer or a silverware tray. No. A jar. A real, down to earth, good old-fashioned jelly jar. Something to make it feel at home—remind it of all the smiles it’s fed, spreading gooey delights on toasted bread.
recipe for life—
between flan and fritters
friends
It comes in the mail, an odd sort of package—lump-in-the-middle sort of odd. Upon opening, I find the best brand of found you can ever find—a thank-you. In this day and age, a genuine thank-you is hard to find. Out comes a poem, a fitting response to a book of poems. What better kind of letter than a bunch of letters arranged delicately on the page? But what’s this lump? I’m stumped ’til I pull out . . . a spoon? Best read the poem before venturing a guess, “12 Spoons” by Elaine Whitman.
It started in a local gift shop.
Hmm.
One spoon. Inscribed in its bowl: today is the day.
I pick up my spoon and take a closer look. Inscribed in its bowl: today is the day.
Walking home, we sang from Mary Poppins, ” . . . a spoonful of sugar . . . ” We put our new spoon in a jelly jar . . . And we considered spoons.
hot summer day . . .
a cool dip
in vanilla ice cream
nasty winter cold . . .
sitting at the table
slurping chicken soup
stirring honey
into chamomile tea . . .
a warm hand
There is no hour of the day when something might not be sweetened or nourished with a spoon.
By this point in the story, my heart is a mug of hot chocolate as my spoon swirls in a splash of cream. I sup it up as my mind tries to get a grip on this cup of thoughtfulness.
Studying the single spoon in its jelly jar . . . What if we collected twelve spoons? The jar of spoons would be a reminder of what is sweet or nourishing in life.
I have got to find a jelly jar! Preferably, one I’ve emptied from top to bottom, perhaps onto peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Grandma is no longer with us, so I concoct a second-best plan; I need something natural, homemade, something you can’t find just anywhere. There’s an Amish store in Wisconsin. I’ll go there on my next trip. It’s a treasure trove of fresh-from-the-kitchen, and there’s sure to be some of whatever’s in season nestled up on the shelves. They don’t take plastic—all the better—one step closer to the vine. The best recipes take time.
“love thy neighbor,”
stir in the seasoning
then feast
If It Were True
why do you glare at me so bright
that blank stare of a dare to
express myself on hallowed white
but, no SIGNS, no rules, no lines to read between
the owner’s manual makes it official
yes, i am the full-fledged owner of a blank sheet of paper
now i can scribble
or perhaps write a decree → nail it to a telephone pole → invest in a ream of this stuff
‘cuz, it’s starting to get crowded on the page
i’m thinking of hanging this masterpiece on the wall
flipping through a fresh leaf or two
but the idea of driving a nail or a staple
through my trusty friend
kind of bugs me . . .
and i’m easily bugged about friends with nails or staples in them
they hang around until someone rips ’em down
shreds of dead trees littering city streets
torn-down friends
abused and forgotten
then there’s newspaper for a blanket or for packing dishes
now, i’m worked up over newspaper blankets and empty bowls
all these marks
in the once-empty space . . .
breadcrumbs
guiding the eye on its path
don’t look back ← we might ram a tree
i’m reading between the lines . . .
thumbing my way
through once-virgin forest
pondering my navel
and the miracle of recycled paper
you must un-pre-un-pre-un-PRE-APPROVE me
and you cannot replace my apartment windows
my roof, my plumbing,
my air conditioning, my heat
get your facts straight
i don’t need 258 channels of spam
paper with too many lines
so small, so tight
can’t read between them
but somewhere buried . . . deep beneath them
a Medieval twist of the trident
damn all this modern symbolism
not a syllogism in sight
so much lead on the paper
you can’t even see the poems on it
and the symbolism’s messing with my feng shui
can’t take me out for a walk
mow the grass
trim the hedges
water the flowers
or even wipe myself up and down
could paper my walls with it, i suppose
nope, it’s an apartment
never mind the feng shui makeover
turn me sideways
i’m looking crooked
or maybe the mirror ain’t straight
either way
time’s-a-ticking
if there’s a sensible solution
perhaps this ink
ain’t flowing out my veins . . . in vain
these words
ain’t no manifesto
or deed to the door of my soul
no, more a proof of purchase
a canceled stamp
says we’ve arrived
nothing about the condition
of the contents, though
as thunder rolls
through the darkness
punctuated by the flickering glow of lightning
and the impending threat of tornadoes
i walk outside to take a look
come inside and jot these thoughts
electrified
sometimes all it takes
is a grand display of nature
to seduce my creative mind
into doing crazy things
albeit crazy things
like spreading my propaganda
on digital sheets of paper
marked with virtual dots of ink
0s and 1s in a one-lump game
time to press the alarm button
oh, the trees harmed
to create this poem
words alone, cannot withstand
the sandstorm of this human condition
playing games with life the way we do
Earth turns, and we play till we drop
these words are worthy of a straight-face font
there‘s plenty of pulp to this reality
the pages are filled with
juice of the pen
should i abandon my clutch
of unwritten poems
or should they breathe
as free-roaming thoughts should breathe?
it’s possibility I see
watering seeds
one row at a time
letters on the page color the lines
between act and effect
and to that end
I resurrect my unwritten poems
we hired a band for the wedding but
the groom never showed up
all those invitations wasted
somewhere, a tree lost its life
for a train wreck
the pastor has no poem
to suit the moment
drop a dime in the jukebox, instead
listen to the strains
of country love gone wrong
makes tears in my beer
taste better
drain the glass
head back to the back
for a moment or two of relief
then step out into the rain
taking the long walk home
i jazz to myself
about climbing trees
got to write a poem
about climbing trees
if everyone climbed a tree
we’d all have something in common
never mind, we were all “born”
that’s just too common
to deserve a pat on the back
but, say each of us humans
adopted a tree for every year of our lives
started climbing our trees
or just looking up at the sky through their branches
feeling their bark
inhaling their scent
tipping our cups
as we sip from the same
troubled bubble of air
if we each climbed a tree
we’d realize / chopping down trees
especially, now that we’re in them, means
“One Jarring Case of Suffocation”
not a recipe in Grandma’s kitchen
other treats not in her cookbook
“Acidic Rain-brewed Instant Coffee”
and “The Nuclear Fallout Breakfast Sandwich”
yes, chopping down forest
will strangle us
polluting the water
will poison us all
and nuclear war
is not a game for shared planets
according to the rules of sanity
so, never mind tomorrow’s poem
i recycled it today
words i wrote yesterday
leaflets blowing with the falling leaves
no nails in trees, walls, or totem poles
stapled instead
to my virtual forehead
walking around; jumping up and down
flapping my ode in the wind
but the crowd’s so accustomed
to my crazy behavior
whenever i mention a correction
i might as well be talking to a flea
feasting on the neighbor’s dog
which might explain
why my message in a bottle
meant to heal the world
floated back on the evening tide
with a note on the back of my note inside
written in red ink: Just be thankful
no one’s nuked your island.
Desecration
You have humped America’s flags into sweaty rags.
written your personalized brand of history,
your name on this, your name on that:
sneakers, Bibles, baseball caps, museums, plaques
and other writings on the wall,
do you see greatness in the mirror—
greater than the greatest great?
The question is, is that great enough
for the greatest of all greats?
You have a tale longer than your tie.
Tried and convicted on a trail of stench, dragging
your tail through the droppings you left,
while wringing the next mark dry.
A reading of the entrails reveals
facts are solid facts. One cannot stop the aging
of a certifiable old shit; cannot excuse
the rubble left by the wrecking ball in his head.
Yes, I’m still talking about you. So, stop shampooing
in your golden bowl long enough to show me
that famed, crazed,
racist rage!
Then,
continue washing the guilt off your face.
Don’t stop for hairballs;
pull out the plunger and plunge!
The worst you can do is
make it worse.
Autumnal Dream
as autumn’s chill descends
and leaves paint the floor of Earth
as daylight withers into quickened sunsets
as frost lays its bones over the land
i sit in the deep of night
the shadows that darkened my day
have slithered into my memories
locked there for the foreseeable eternity
my breath is slow and even, a sign sleep is near
the candlelight spins my imagination
i curl up into a poem
outside, the wind leaves no doubt
the last of the leaves will fall
a promise of autumn snow begins to flutter in my mind
calling on my muse, we begin to weave a dream
a dream of naked trees — the cloudy sky so low
i could almost grab a slice of heaven
put on my wings and fly
as the vision unfolds, so do the recollections
of many a dream long past
i can tell the tale a thousand times
but it always comes out with a seasonal twist
spring, summer, winter
i have a poem for all but fall
now, at the midnight hour
i recite my soliloquy; then put pen to page
the ink stains on my hands, proof that I was here
the verse, simply a testament
to this assemblage of words
comes the midnight hour
and with it, a shot of rye
i do not deny the passage of days
i do not struggle with nature
as the world around me disrobes
so do i unveil my mindthere’s a storm brewing outside
i brace myself against thoughts of doom
with just one life to live
i have to say i’ve made mistakes
mistakes deep as oceans
love mistakes, money mistakes
decisions, decisions, decisions
i’ve poured my soul into making amends
and i have many amends yet to make
as the landscape glistens
in the pulse of dawn’s first rays
the dream fades
and in its place i find a poem
a lasting recollection
of this season passing by.
