Living near the mayor,
I am inconvenienced when
A head of state comes through the gate,
Which happens now and then.
The secret service and the cops
Block off surrounding streets
And if you try to get on by,
You’ll suffer some defeats.
But it’s much worse for those who live
Or work near the U.N.,
For they are barred, which makes it hard,
From getting home again.
Between the protests and the police,
They’re sadly out of luck.
Like all the crews who film the news,
They’re flat-out simply stuck.
We city people know the drill,
But still keep seeing red.
We disapprove, but would we move?
We’ll suffer here instead.
maneuvering over the vast expanse
might take eons
starships leaving the speed of light
in their rear-view mirrors
crews of AI along for the ride
in case G-d might decide
to breach the great divide
The AQI* has me obsessed.
I check it every hour
And rising numbers get me stressed;
It’s not within our power
To change what all the wildfires wrought.
The smoky haze that’s drifting,
Despite how first responders fought,
Is growing and keeps shifting.
So miles away, our air is filled
With particles unhealthy
And, though the fighting crews are skilled,
Pollutants are quite stealthy.
While venturing outside, we might
Breathe ozone and some oxides,
Invisible to normal sight
But felt inside as toxides.
The AQI goes up and down,
With warnings – if you’re older,
Don’t venture out around the town
While fires burn or smolder.
*Air Quality Index
A tower carved from heavy stone,
It braves the raging, timeless sea,
Where ancient wooden ships were blown,
By winds that whistled wild and free.
The keeper climbs the spiral stairs,
To trim the wick and light the flame,
Through bitter frost and salty air,
To guide the ships without a name.
With whale-oil fire and iron gears,
It pierced the heavy, choking fog,
A savior through the passing years,
Recorded in the Captain's log.
Through naval wars and trading booms,
The lens revolved with steady grace,
To rescue crews from watery tombs,
And mark this rugged, lonely place.
Though modern beams now take the lead,
The weathered structure stands sublime,
A monument to human need,
Defying all the rust of time.
A statue’s story draped
Across the soldier’s fat nape.
Lousy with me. Can I call
Row boats on ship seas?
We started the damnation of . . .
Nay! Shun! And Scorn!
The pilgrim’s progress (the
In a copper dress) Hail
Thy version and thy sack
Of rice. The penance,
The pound, the hunchback’s
Spy. Nail the legs
To the floor and shoot the whore.
The sheep keep bleating
The wound seething
Festering moles steering
Fallen crews suffer eyeing
In darkness.
Loose sulfur
Drying in sparkles.
Exposing thy
and thou explosion.
Master, bait the sun
In this marred age
With the lunar blind bull.
Straight into outer rage space.
Mark this the last page.
Litany
A television plays in the background
while a housemate sits on the couch.
The sun through the window
promises another day.
My basketball team lost in the round
of the Sweet Sixteen, a disappointment.
Afterwards I nursed a drink and sang
a Paul McCartney song.
This morning when I walk barefoot
in my office space words stir inside my head.
When in high school I told my dad
writing was all I wanted to do.
Then I laughed when reading Walter Mitty
while sitting on my parents’ couch. Mitty
was a quiet man who wanted life
to be something more.
Now the cat leaps onto my desk
as I write. Is it so crazy to have another
life, I ask. He blinks his eyes.
Today, a day off from a part-time job
after working four-years traveling
for a flagger job for construction crews.
People in writers’ groups know me
for roads I travelled.
Trees at the end of the street
reach for wispy clouds.
I saw a friend last night as she sat
at an art walk and displayed
the stickers she made.
In college, I studied hard
to become a psychotherapist
but through a litany of poems
and songs my life is found.
Heard the news all about strait of Hormuz
Israel derail flail impale Septic tanks muse
Evisceration of entire nation excuse do use
The emancipation of a pariah state the ruse
Eschews queues of pundit crews from pews
Abuse truths confuse proof of sleuths views
Clues bright clear hues who did light the fuse
Whichever side you choose everyone will lose
Fossil fuel rule the soaring price of a barrel
Notoriety of warring society as things unravel
Deploring apparel Dickensian dystopia carol
Impropriety imploring piety noone can travel
Trump myopia even after alarm of Vietnam
Cruise missiles trials denials all about harm
Disarm nuclear piles more lies from the farm
Can’t becalm not napalm just arm AI wiles
No qualm war once more hush defile isles
Crush the rush of plush paedophiles files
The ads and displays are everywhere
crowding entries and doorways.
There are even commercials on monitors—
I can’t escape.
I rush in for a few items and conversation
but choices offered seem bigger than life.
Signs that say save and save
implore that you spend more.
I pass by an aisle of more types
of bread than I could imagine
leading to a myriad of types
of peanut butter.
I must confess I couldn’t find
the peanut butter with jelly
that delighted my tongue
when I worked long, hot days
with construction crews
some other time and place.
Every small town I passed
nestled along narrow highways
had a name on a water tower
as it pierced the sky.
I long to go to a quiet place
and list my memories
a collage of the life
I’ve known.
Gunner
What has woken you, Gunner? What is it you hear?
Can you sense the beat of heavy engines drawing near?
There’s been no alert, Gunner, the lads are all at ease.
But you know something’s up, don’t you? Won’t you tell us please?
I heard that little growl, Gunner, low and in your chest.
Is the time right now, Gunner? Should we end our rest?
You’re straining at the sky now Gunner. What is it you see?
A skein of passing geese, or our dreaded enemy?
I see your hackles raised Gunner, it’s time to ring the bell.
The other guns will follow suit, they trust your instincts well.
The crews are all closed up, Gunner, before the siren’s wail,
We all know you were right from the twitching of your tail.
There they are above, Gunner, just like your growl predicted,
And thanks to you, we’ve limited the damage they’ve inflicted.
The enemy has fled, Gunner, they’ve turned around and run.
Now go and get your well-earned rest, underneath our gun.
Supply ships arrived ready to delight the colonists
It was a strange eerie day on Roanoke Island
No colonist ran out to greet them
The ship crews searched for them
They had vanished
The word Croatan was carved into an oak tree
The only indication they had been there at all
No bodies were found, no drag marks
No sign of a struggle
It was a spooky time for the crew
When you travel and you’re on a plane,
Attendants must always explain
What to do in a crash
But the words they rehash
Most on board think are spoken in vain.
Yet a Delta flight recently dipped
As it landed and suddenly flipped.
Every seat belt held tight
As each one on the flight
Dangled upside down, very off-script.
Flight crews got all the passengers out
With some injuries scattered about
But they all did survive,
In one piece and alive,
Though quite shaken up, there’s little doubt.
A payout from Delta proposed
Thirty-thousand for each one exposed
To this harrowing turn
(More than some people earn)
But not worth it, as many disclosed.
Make no mistake – though it looks fake,
The snow is coming down
And every flake will help to make
On cars a snowy crown.
Yet on the news, the weather crews
Predict a change to rain,
So kids will lose their avenues
For sleddable terrain.
We never know just how much snow
From Nature will abound,
Yet blow by blow, the radio
Will track what’s on the ground.
The half-time show was well-rehearsed
And those who watched it all concurred,
Though I’m not sure if Kendrick cursed;
I didn’t understand a word.
There was a message; what it was
Perhaps the younger crowd did get,
But in between the hype and buzz,
One note made me a bit upset.
I know for years it wasn’t right
When chorus lines did not include
Performers who did not look white,
Despite the talent they’d exude.
Yet now the pendulum has swung,
But way too much; it hasn’t found,
Among those who have danced and sung,
An integrated middle ground.
The times are changing, as they tend
To do, yet progress will reverse
If entertainment won’t extend
To casts and crews who are diverse.
Yellow above the dredged-up earth.
hard hats, husky men
bent on constructive destruction,
Brush burning,
they flame throw their wands of
progress.
It all has to be done, done to be mended,
done to be done with.
Nature got too messy,
it overgrew its concrete margins,
it got above our work-booted
aspirations.
Clean-up crews sweep and press
against the head-on-winds
of a riotous environment.
Steel, hammers the seeded mud
crushing it of any taint of green.
Everyone knows this is obscene,
lips and ears must be temporarily closed
like the bleak roads ahead
and those dug over
below our feet.
The game we play
Very reckless
Taking risks without measures
Even when they don't believe in us
We've always believe in ourselves
Nothing good comes easily.
Exploring beyond
Our comfort zone
That's the game we play
Staying away from home
Without any comforter or helper
From a very tender age
We did what many are afraid to do.
Even when we have no clue
We stick to our crews
Staying focus
Without apartheid
Together forever our watchwords
Doing so many crazy things to survive
Even though we're aware of the ripple effects.
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