Thirty
10 for the girl that makes me smile
And makes me want to stay awhile.
10 for the girl who brightens my day
And got a little lost on the way.
10 for the girl who has her own tune
And wants to leave this world too soon.
The girl that always forgets about sex ;)
And constantly worries about what’s next
Sometimes she should sit back and chill
And please set down the bottle of pills.
The girl that knows the way of the world
And cries for all us boys and girls.
This is the girl that brightens my life
And hides in closets with me on Halloween night.
This is the girl who makes me worry
And because I can’t make it better,
I’m sorry.
I know that I can’t save the world
At least not without this lovely girl.
So 10 for the laughter
10 for the pain
10 for the dances
Late at night in the rain.
10 and 10 and 10 is thirty.
And aren’t you proud that this poem isn’t dirty?
A Hug in Prose
Hello, child. What brings you
to my realm today?
Was the thunderclap
bangbangbangbang
too loud for you to play?
Did another lost one like yourself
Leave a trail of crumbs to follow?
Or were you left alone to wallow?
Come, dear one and tell me your story:
one of love and loss, or pain and glory!
Or was it the screams of “Damnit, Janet!”
and “You been screwin’ the milkman!”
that drove you to my cottage in tears in western night,
in search of solace in my prose?
Come here, child, and tell me your woes.
Lend me your tears, dear one
and take a nap until they’re gone.
Please, heal to your best and take your time;
snuggle up with my protective rhymes.
You will never have to feel alone
so long as in your heart, you carry a poem.
These Shadows Three
Streetlights, dark nights-
Triplicate incandescent soldiers
March in rotation, and weave
In and out among civilians, casualties-
Glaring, but not shooting, they watch
Like vultures over the rotting carcass
At the edge of the desert.
What to make of these shadows three
(Hovering in this world I see)?
The nurse, the pacifist, the politician-
Dancing the verbal tango atop concrete,
They stain the earth with contention
And blood.
Blood, blood!
The snow smells of blood!
Whispers and deceptions haunt
The streets where they argued, ringing
With the ghosts of gunshots.
What to do with these liars three
(Shouting in this world I see)?
Sword and shield clash
To the sounds of AK-47’s shooting
At politicians, nurses, pacifists who yell
As metal explodes on their skin.
Sword, shield, slicing word-
Crying out for answers to war.
“Death, death!” squeal the tings of metal
As they drip
Streams of blood onto sanitized patriotic uniforms
Of the free, the fighting, the forsaken.
What to do with these soldiers three
(Fighting, striving in this world I see)?
Nations clash in hearts of soldiers
Fighting over land, oil, ideas-
Ideas that call to war the young lover, the grieving mourner;
Ideas that inspire the struggling, broken father;
Ideas that save the half-dead gangster,
Surviving day-to-day in the ghettos, from a simple drive-by;
Ideas that spread like STD’s- born in lust and rash decisions,
But never seem to reach the beds of the Mighty.
The Mighty who sleep soundly in feather beds
After being dragged home by tight-lipped harpies,
After being cut off by the bartender and shooed
Away from black market merchants of fleshy relief,
Only to stumble to the liquor cupboard
For another round of whiskey therapy;
The Mighty who smoke cigars in politically charged
Brothels of Commerce while ranting about golf,
news, weather- but never lowly Ideas (meant for the hearts of men);
The Mighty who may never see an AK-47, or hear a gunshot
Or have their hearts blown open like atom bombs over Hiroshima;
The Mighty who gamble with the soldiers’
And the children’s lives for one more rush of adrenaline
And one more zero on their paycheck.
What to do with those Mighty three
(Smoking, polluting this world I see)?
Children of dreams
Playing in the streets, skipping
Around mortars and corpses,
Whistling Yankee Doodle a’capella
And avoiding mercenary eyes.
Beaten, they run from the boulevard,
Tripping into bleeding snow piles
With death at their heels.
Death! Death!
Young men lay sobbing, bleeding like snowmen,
Trying, desperate to whisper stories into ears
Of neighborhood children, leaning against guns;
To breathe one more minute, to exist one more second- they die,
As Casualties, one and all.
Stories of love, stories of valor
Haunting the outer corridors of the mind,
Die on the lips of brothers, men
Who cry out for lovers far and away-
Who will sob in the morning?
Mothers, daughters, sisters, friends
Will call for the blood of the Mighty, who drove
Their soldiers, men into death with advertisements
Of honor.
Their tears melt into asphalt,
Staining the street with love.
Children, soldiers, lovers- gone,
Learning too soon the cost
Of politics on battlefields, in trances;
Who learned how there really is a price-tag
On humanity in the real world.
What to do with these humans three
(Crying in this world I see)?
A Lost Pair of Platonic Conversationalists
Act I.
Fork on the Left,
Knife on the Right.
I have better things to do with my night.
He gazes at me with a look unforgiving.
“Sorry for committing the sin of living!”
A shocked stillness fills the air
and a break in the silence, no one would dare.
Silent, stick straight,
not a word or a nod,
This is how dinner goes with God.
Classical music rings through the air
(clearly a genre chosen with care).
Each step choreographed, each line planned,
every movement reflects on our Man.
I waltz, I glide, following him blind,
no thoughts for the future of mankind.
The silence is broken by a mechanical roar,
the sound shakes my body down to the core.
The rough and tough bike, masked with leather;
he and Father are not birds of a feather.
I sprint to his side without a glance or farewell:
“Screw that, Dad, I’m off to hell!”
Act II.
Later, long after,
writhing and grinding at Nightclub Disaster
he spins me around
(feet and hands, back and forth)
so I cannot find which way is north.
Dancing with the Devil by my side,
I find I have no sins to hide.
Bodies and sweat, sublime anarchy:
a beautiful mesh in humanoid gallery.
Twists and turns, anything but tame
until I cannot remember my name.
We tango, we mamba, we swing, we kiss
lost in the art of physical bliss.
Our bodies laugh, our prayers die,
never a thought to even try
to move or switch, or be polite,
too caught are we in our drunken might!
Sinless, wordless, nameless we fly,
a flaming cycle in the sky.
He won’t drive straight,
swerving left and right,
intoxicated from eternal night.
We kiss, we merge,
an embodiment of one.
Who knew blasphemy was so much fun?
Act III.
Around four in the morning,
not a chirp we can hear.
He lets out a whoop, a yell and a cheer.
My Father runs out, spiteful and fearless.
“I swear on my life,
you crude lying bastard,
the art of illusion is not hard to master:
you dance, you laugh, you play your games
but your real intellect
is twisted and lame.
Defeat will come to you,
my fine, ruthless friend,
and your reign of deception will come to an end.”
He regards my Father with a knowing look
and reads his eyes like an open book.
“Hey dude,” he says,
“Lend me your ear.
I have a few words
I think you should hear.
Life in itself is made for the living,
not solemn apologies,
but laughter and giving.
If one lives in fear
of offense and desire,
one won’t die truly,
but simply expire.”
With that he rises from his brazen crouch,
and into my ear, he whispers, “I’m out.”
He jumps on his bike
Without a nod or a word
And that was the last from him I have heard.
Sometimes I see him on such quiet nights
When the sky is illuminated with ethereal light.
I hear his sultry whisper once in a while
And it brings to my heart a devilish smile.
