There was once a dock worker whose name was Dick,
His employers knew not, Dick had worked out a perfect trick,
Forty five was his speculated age,
He dressed according to his meager wage,
Went home daily with a barrow, security noticed dick was quick.
On other days they noticed many a different kind of trivia,
Told security was selling empty boxes to buy pills, had leukaemia,
Will tell you more when I retire,
Continued with his routine and poorly attire,
His secret, confessed stole a barrow a day, headlines in media.
Moved to Mexico, learnt Spanish, dyed hair black so could blend,
Applied for a job in revenue office, made many a friend,
Managed and learnt to cheat a little,
Hey Dick be careful, don’t fiddle,
Persisted to play his tricky games, predictably caught at the end.
She didn't walk the way the world expected
None could guess what storm she had weathered
She moved and moved and never stopped
And her every footstep was strong and bold.
With a body that has carved its own battles
Adversity could not shake her firmness
She carried none of its sting and bitterness
But joyfully shared only smiles and sweetness.
While we speak of limits and constraints
She spoke of immense possibilities
Always exploring her potentialities
And lived them as graceful entities.
She refused any act of sympathy
And spurned faint token of empathy
All the time stood firmly saying no to pity
Predictably preferred the ground of dignity.
Legacy of self-dependency and dignity she sowed.
In her life journey all along, she has proved
That Power and strength are not measured
in strides but in the grit and spirit imbued.
How on earth can I relate to the news they choose
It’s enough I’m forced to pay politicians dues
Comments without commas, coming each and every day
Commons talking pros and cons, never to delay
Let them Russian dancers sing, and Ukrainian singers dance
Let the Iranian strait float, I won’t take a chance
To go there, over there, and right there to see
How it goes I care as much as they care for me
Life seems better without news they put on the roll
Fooling me about the things out of my control
South Korea got their bronze, than predictably
Went to hell, I beg your pardon, to obscurity
It’s a snippet I remembered, and it hasn’t gone
Every game contains another, with no players shown.
like a sunny day
before the weather changes . . .
the man Mom once knew
To this day I still recall my strongest childhood memory. Dad is driving us to the seashore.
The sun follows us, a happy fellow, beaming in the mid-morning’s azure sky. In the back seat with my two sisters, I’m looking out the window as I crunch on Mom’s homemade salty Chex Mix, anticipating the warmth of salt spray from the waves I’ll be jumping on this beautiful day -
"Life is a beach" not yet even in my vocabulary.
We are now at the shore, a large blanket laid out, Mom with her bright red hair tied back with a brighter red checked scarf, and my dad, dark-haired and handsome, smiling. So rare is this happy countenance he wears today! For a while I sit as if entranced, watching the waves roll in.
But eventually, and predictably, my joy ebbs like the tide.
Dark clouds are gathering; gray begins to envelop the sky. I look over to my dad; the gray has recaptured his face. In the vanishing sunlight, familiar dark thoughts invade my mind -
Dad, can I see you be happy just once for a whole day?
the man I never knew
living in my memory . .
a sad sunless day
I finally felt your heat
under the pouring rain
an inexorable moment in May
perfectly predictably perceived
a picasso'd sliver of life
art depicted of time
escaping the angeled mind
I would die to coil up in your spring
give you peace and hope
quite possibly everything
shared a slice of a certain pie
tip toes on the piano
the sparkles of the eye
your smile doesn't laugh enough
at the silly rhymes
as we watch the swans
swim on by
Never write a poem about the sky,
she says,
that blue and blue and blue
interrupted by shape-shifters,
squawking crows, grumbling
aircraft.
It’s been done.
Besides, the day is tranquil,
disinclined to fuss.
The porch rails studiously etch
the sun into diagonal slats.
A silver spider practices ballet
across them
A chickadee chirps predictably.
If you could breathe and
see and know, she says,
all at once,
the glimmering line that bisects the air--
the one the spiders left behind--
the absence of wind, of wings,
of words—the morning itself,
woken with the slurp of ripe pears
and the ashes of a dream--
that would be your poem.
the vampire ball will be held in Salem for a lark
a place where witches don’t like to be after dark
I went anyway, with my cousin Glud
For he loves gruesome stuff, gore and blood
I was dressed in the brightest purple I could find
with homemade black tulle ruffles, the stiffening kind
it was low cut, so my neck could be easily bled
In case a vampire needed to be diligently fed.
I am wearing a garter belt that is satin with a bow
Attached are old world hose, silky ones that flow
My high heeled shoes are painted red on the bottom
The vampire ball is held, of course, predictably in autumn
I am expecting a blood-letting, without benefit of leeches.
I have already had that happen at one of the beaches
a handsome vampire will dive down and take my hand
And lead me through his silver tongue to the promised land.
My cousin Glud has been told to get lost when he arrives.
I expect my handsome prince to come down in fancy dives
He will be wearing a tuxedo that matches my satin dress.
We will be such a great twosome, I’ll have to attend church and confess.
No paradigm of peace will ever dwell
Upon the land of evil and the outcasts
Who are not evil, but were born in hell
And this alienates them from the lucky ones
Who despise those unfortunates, believing
They’ve drawn the short straw they deserved for sins
Of their forefathers, which seems merely decieving
To the unfortunates, for they’re not welcomed in
The lands of lucky, and those habitants of hell
Don’t understand the laws of kinship from the Bible
And this exacerbates their fates so well
That makes them feel a bit upset about arrival
And so predictably they hate the lucky ones
And so the lucky hate those people in return
The only option left is to load up the guns
Expanding hell, for reason possibly unknown
The explanations become vaguer, there is no
Plain truth to tell, and every fool looks pensive
Although when killing is the only way to go
Both sides meet hell for being too defensive.
The guide with his cheesy hat, and colorful umbrella
encourages us to: gather 'round.
His anecdotal spiel is by rote. His shtick is fact-slim
and slick, but it’s also my current gestalt as I am dragged
unwillingly along by his CliffsNotes speech.
What catches my wandering eye
is that one of those ruined effigies
is a fair facsimile of myself.
He (a god/king of some minor something),
looks mildly disgusted, as if
a bothersome fly had landed on his crumbling nose.
My world-weary face reflects perfectly
his sour mien.
At last, I am processed meekly
back onto the tour bus, where predictably,
my fellow passengers are already
peering forward into a new fancifully imagined past
from an equally fanciful present.
The guide with his cheesy hat, and colorful umbrella
encourages us to: gather 'round.
His anecdotal spiel is by rote. His shtick is fact-slim
and slick, but it’s also my current gestalt as I am dragged
unwillingly along by his CliffsNotes speech.
What catches my wandering eye is that this one ruined effigy
is a fair facsimile of myself. He (a god/king
of some minor something), looks mildly disgusted, as if
a bothersome fly had landed on his crumbling nose.
My world-weary face reflects perfectly that sour mien.
At last I am processed meekly back onto the tour bus,
where predictably, my fellow passengers are already
peering forward into a new fancifully imagined past
from an equally fanciful present.
Imperfect indifferent ineffective Ivan Inglebritzen
Was wistfully, wildly, wantonly weird at work.
Not indispensable, but rather despicable, desperate and diabolical.
Cautious co-workers candidly discussed dozens of Ivan’s idiotic decisions.
Determined to alert Alvin, our alluring but not attentive boss.
Bernie, Beaver and Betty bellowed about his shoddy shortcomings.
Providing proof of Ivan’s problematic predictably imperfect performances.
astute assessments failed on prideful, persnickety, president Alvin.
asinine attempts at preventing Ivan from essential employment a bust.
These three did not know that Ivan was Alvin's caustic cousin.
Alvin kept him, not wanting him to crash on his cushy comfortable couch.
BELLS
Bells that talk among themselves
Sounding their distinct messages
From one city church to another
Predictably on each exact hour
Yet sometimes for special reasons
In celebration, maybe as a warning
Whether singly or a complex peal
Some low, others higher in pitch
Tones reaching into the distance
Heard, yet ignored by thousands
Thought a token of a bygone age
Yet all still with an important role
A hopeful Sunday call to prayer
In an increasingly agnostic land
Yet campanology skills survive
Expertise in ringing the changes
A commitment, if not to music
But to maintaining the tradition
Bell ringing for the community
That if silenced, will be missed
SINGLETON
Why do memories always make me cry
Many are old now, after so many years
One would’ve thought they’d run dry
But predictably, always yet more tears
Familiar melody or maybe even a lyric
I can see it now, part of a scene I recall
In context it’s so very real, not esoteric
As if it’s here and now, not history at all
But how can it always have this effect
Despite a mature and balanced mind
There must be brain circuits to detect
And secret nerve connections to find
Sometimes it’s a face in a photograph
A snapshot of how we both used to be
When even a smile turns into a laugh
As if calling up a loss-tinged memory
I also can feel it strongly in my heart
Also in my gut, as a familiar tension
When I remember then, I fall apart
A loss that I find so hard to mention
But such responses I cannot control
A strong reaction I still can’t figure
Yet rising from so deep in my soul
They never do take much to trigger
High above the quiet, darkened streets of January, the night wind begins to whisper secrets through my apartment window casements. Far below me lie four cafes, all in sync as they awaken from daytime hibernation to begin an evening ritual of turning on lights, welcoming thirsty patrons, discouraging lost polar bears, trying to survive.
Light bulbs hang in lazy swags, dripping evenly from the edge of each identical awning. Predictably, their glow travels as fast as the light itself creating a sudden and uninvited interruption of the Arctic desert landscape.
Sitting apart on their respective corners below, the cafes squeeze into a single pane near the bottom of my window. Leaning closer, I blow a hot and intoxicated breath onto the glass in defiance or retaliation, an attempt at immolation perhaps. Instead, my unused air lies wasted across the cafes on the other side of the window, in an irregular oval of futility.
I use a balled-up fist to wipe away the misty scene before it has a chance to evaporate and leave me alone, a desperate and inevitable disappearing act in the face of my curated isolation.
A rattle snake sunning itself
on a well walked hiking path.
I should have killed it
I had a 410 shot pistol
carried just for that purpose.
I just edged around it and walked on.
I mean it really was a beautiful creature.
Later that day
talking to a fellow walker
he mentioned a lady had got bit by a rattler
on that same path just an hour after
my meeting with it.
Sometimes you have to select
between two likely evils or two
predictably bad choices
and let Intention and outcomes
fall as they may,
especially if you are too nervy or cautious
to prod a snake away with a stick.
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