This boy
My son.
I used to feel
that he never listened to me,
always going against me.
This boy
was one of my biggest problems.
The machinery inside him
was like the latest EFI system
once I took it apart,
I wouldn't know how to put it back together.
Still, I could never throw him away
a glistening, greasy chunk of meat
covered in sand.
A termite,
perhaps,
for whom I traded
my own dreams
for his future.
Then my grandson said,
Grandpa, you don't understand anything.
Look here.
Don't worry.
I'll explain it to you.
That boy—my son
even complained
that his own son
was getting on his nerves.
But my grandson
he is just like
the way I was when I was young.
I find myself
drifting along with his imagination,
wandering through
the little worlds inside his head.
And sometimes,
I even find myself amazed
at my own son
because somehow,
my grandson
is even more lovable
than his father.
My aunt complained at “cocktail hour,”
All they served was juice,
The definition of this drink,
Sans alcohol, too loose.
She’s in assisted living now,
At almost 98;
With many neighbors wheelchair-bound,
She simply can’t relate.
Her balance is an issue, though,
And even with her phone,
It’s clear that, though she disagrees,
She shouldn’t be alone.
I can’t imagine being told
That others can decide
That where you’ve lived no longer is
The place where you’ll reside.
It may be necessary; still,
Though safety’s a concern,
The loss of one’s autonomy
Is something I would spurn.
A rather daring young plumber
Worked in the nude one hot summer.
An old lady complained
And so he was arraigned
Which was a bit of a bummer
Everyone thinks Elves are all males, Edwina complained to me
I had not realized this, but saw she was both touchy and angry
How can they all be males? It makes no sense at all.
I am not sure everybody thinks that, I said in a voice really small
When people generalize and say, “ everyone” they usually mean one
Two at the most, but my suggestions and comments were done.
I could see she was miffed by someone other than me.
Preferring it to stay this way, I decided to flee.
A philosopher once complained
that the stars refused to answer questions.
For forty years he interrogated the heavens.
What is justice?
What survives death?
Why beauty?
Why suffering?
The stars responded only with light.
At last, old and exhausted,
he climbed a hill one winter evening
and asked no question at all.
The sky unfolded above him
in magnificent indifference.
A silence vast enough
to contain every mystery.
There, finally, he understood:
the stars had been answering all along.
Not with explanations.
With presence.
For some truths cannot be spoken,
only witnessed.
And perhaps wisdom begins
when certainty ends,
when one learns to stand beneath eternity
without demanding that eternity become small.
Why do they call me Halloween owl?
It makes me feel exclusive, complained the irritated fowl
I suggested, “Maybe it’s the witch’s hat you wear”
He stuck up his beak, gave me the middle feather and flew off into the air
Red light
Shining bright
Such the sight
Twirling bright
After a toothless fight
Sticks and pucks
What's a Canuck?
Many asked
Listening to the Islander perform winning tasks
Potvin was the man
In demand
Waiting for John Sterling’s winning command
“Islander Goal, Islander Goal”
Coming from the ice that was cold
Trophy lifted, five times in a row
While Rangers bowl
Throwing strikes
John Sterling manned WMCA’s mike
Replacing Simone
Who was hanging up his phone
Wanting to hear
Nassau Veteran’s cheer
Near
Hofstra where the Jets train
And never complained
Since Broadway Joe
Headed to a Hollywood show
Knees were saying, “time to go”
Sadly, Stanley Cup was too violent for regular routine TV
And that is why we appreciate John Sterling’s decree
When Trottier did his thing
And Chico was the goalie King
Who was there?
John Sterling’s enthusiastic flair
Bringing victories home
For those alone
Enjoying the Cinco mayo championship run
Entertaining and fun
after the manner of Bukowski
they met under a flickering light
in a bar that smelled like wet cardboard
and yesterday’s regret
she laughed too loud
he didn’t laugh at all
that’s how it started
he liked her because she didn’t ask questions
she liked him because he didn’t have answers
it felt like truth
or something close enough to pass
they drank
they always drank
like two broken clocks trying to drown time
her lipstick stained the rim of his glass
his silence filled her mouth
they kissed like accidents
like missed exits on a long, dead highway
the neighbors complained
the walls were thin
but not as thin as the line between love and habit
they called it romance
because calling it anything else
would’ve meant leaving
and leaving takes courage
or at least a reason
he slept with his shoes on
she slept with the lights off
neither one dreamed
in the morning
they didn’t look at each other
just two strangers
sharing the same wreckage
but come nightfall
they’d find their way back
because some loves
aren’t meant to be natural
they’re meant to survive
like cockroaches
like bad poetry
like people who don’t know
how to be alone
On day of the dead Daddy hired the guitarists four
to liven up November first a tiny bit more
they came to our house and sat on our couch
one of them complained of comfort yelling out “ouch!”
I know what you mean, I said. I hate that spring too.
They played me a song – “Rapsody Day of the Dead blue”
My mother told me to stop making fun of her furniture though.
By the November second, they had returned down below.
my legs are warm
as if they just popped out of a toaster
it is eighty-eight degrees in Kansas
ridiculous warmth for October
there is loud obnoxious music in the distance
do these neighbors think we all share the same taste?
a few raised voices
I wonder if another neighbor has complained
it feels like August
I could fry an egg on my asphalt driveway
It was a mistake
for me to bring Ben.
Eleven-year-old boys
and birds don’t go well
together.
I took two pairs
of binoculars
in the hopes that he
would bother to look
in a pair.
The sky was tumbling
it’s full gray clouds
in a frantic tussle
over our little wet
heads and peering eyes
that scoured the trees
for anything singing.
“There is no bid
fallout!” Ben complained
with his arms pulled
inside his tee shirt sleeves.
He looked cold
and cranky.
“Did you hear the goldfinch?”
“They all sound the same.
Can we go home now?
The same birds are in
our backyard.”
The rain dripped
unevenly off
the thousand petals
of a dogwood tree.
Is anyone other than me
seeing what I see
right now?
Family night, at an Italian restaurant.
Enjoying excellent homemade fettuccine noodles with
That buttery, creamy, cheesy sauce.
The family's eyes soak in anticipation… Urge
Up all that goodness's savoriness, aroma, and taste.
Customers dining around us in intimate
Conversations, enjoying every bite of their meals.
It is pure magic, the food and ambiance of the restaurant.
Not one complained about their own meals.
Everyone enjoyed themselves, leaving full.
The tempest kicked my door in twice,
spilled thunder like bad gambling dice,
lightning argued with the sky.
Roofs took flight, quite unprepared,
trees complained it wasn’t fair,
even rain rolled its eyes at me.
I stood soaked through, profoundly small,
negotiating with the squall,
promising tea if it would hush.
The storm replied with extra wind,
as if to say, “Don’t kid, old friend,”
then tripped me with a flying leaf.
Still, somewhere past the noisy fuss,
beneath the chaos making a mess,
my heart rehearsed a quieter joke:
if peace won’t come by sunny means,
I’ll laugh it in between the screams,
and wait the tempest out, politely.
She complained over his inventive
Creativity
Cardboard shavings
Straw
Clay dirt
And
Concrete
To fill
Milk gallon jug soft
Lego blocks
It has a port hole through
The middle to tie rebar together
She called him a cheap bastard
and the materials prompts.
I stood and watched her performance
Citing she said she loved him
My hope to whoo her bewindled
When she refused to recognize me
Smile ya'll we happy
All us happy!
I built a grand salad of chaos and cheer
With pickles that whisper and cheese that can hear
I tossed in three noodles, a shoe, and some jam
Then sprinkled confetti on top of a yam
A carrot recited a speech to a bean
While olives formed conga lines nobody’s seen
I added cold waffles and lukewarm perfume
A pineapple slice that demanded more room
Two croutons eloped with a radish in June
And celery tried to lasso the moon
A tomato complained that the lettuce was loud
So I stirred in a cloud just to quiet the crowd
I folded in glitter and half of a map
A cucumber wearing a coat and top hat
A raisin declared it was now in command
While spinach applauded with leaves for a hand
The bowl tried to flee but I held it in place
This salad makes no sense and that is its grace
Nothing I said was close to evident
Look at me I could be president
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