POEM - Same Old Threat

I'm going back to the gypsies

Sent there for misbehavior

It’s my mother’s favorite threat

Thinks it is so clever

It is only what she heard

When she misbehaved

When her mother couldn’t handle her

It must have scared her good

But it wasn’t the fear of being sent off

It was the surety that she would not

That it was just an idle threat

Now even more idle

After all the years

Her heart's not in it.

I throw another mud clump

Against the backyard wall

Maybe break another dish

All to hear her drone out

Her dejected, handed-down threat

Of being sent to the gypsies,

Often she would say it

In the very same breath

As she would brag to her friends

I think it's the gypsy blood

that keeps moving us around so much!

Wanderlust,

Waking hours haunted

By trinket filled wagons.

I yell back

I'll send you to the gypsies!

Old Woman I will!

Just try me!

Always makes her smile,

Makes eyes glaze over

With far off looks,

Then she starts singing

The song she always does

The one she thinks no one can hear

The gypsies are coming to town,

gather all your children round,

gather all your children round,

the gypsies are in the town . . .

POEM - Drawers of Depression

It is that feeling you get

When you approach your dresser drawer

And you find it devoid of solace

All that is left is disappointment

The wash was procrastinated

And you  are stranded

You are relegated to wearing THOSE underwear

The ones that twist

Ride up and bunch

Have a hole in the wrong spot

Pinch your bits

Fail to support

The dreaded backup pair

You should have tossed them

Long, long ago

Before this tragic day

Before they could torment you again

Going commando would feel better

But you live in a society

What would people say?

What if you got in an accident

Or your pants spontaneously combust

These are arguments to consider

So you succumb to social constructs

Put on your best face

Attempt to hide the active mutiny below

Sneak an adjustment here and there

Stroll to the throne room

A couple extra times

So you can sit for a few moments

Released from the iron maiden

Residing in your trousers

Though brief the respite

It gives you strength

In the face of crushing torment

Gird up your loins little camper

Tonight the wash will be done

Then once again you can drop yourself

Into the drawers that feel right

POEM - Vinyl Victorious

It is better than it should be

Despite the noise

The background

The clutter that accumulates

That just shows it was shared

That others got to hear it

It is the peaceful way to enjoy

That gives the sound more space

The waves a broader spectrum

Instead of cramming them

Folding them

Squeezing each tune

Until it can fit

In the smallest corner

Of the latest digital prison

I always remember the aliens

On “3^rd Rock From the Sun”

Trying to listen to a CD

It gave them angry faces

They tossed it out of the car

Accompanied by the line

“When will this planet ever discover

            The superior sound of vinyl?!”

We had it already

Almost let it go

With the other good stuff

Everything that is tactile and real

It is disappearing

When we don’t watch

When we believe the lie

That faster and smaller makes better

We lose touch and can’t feel

But at least in this case it has stayed

My beautiful rich records remain

I can say the word album

Without as many stares

Talk about a record player

And confusion has lessened

The revival came

The simpler ways remain

And the warmth of the music

Blankets my ears

In soothing sounds

POEM - Mystery of the White Carnations

There were white carnations

Sitting on the front step

When I opened the door

Just a few in a vase

A small note with no name

My first secret admirer

I was readily confounded

A habit I keep up

When the situation warrants

I don’t look for hidden presents

Believe the premises in movies

Like the gifts only found

When they arrive by complete surprise

So I thought on it

Not too hard, but I thought

And thinking a thought I thought

Not of who it really was

But not of who it wasn’t either

Just confusion and shock

As if it was lightning

Nothing more and not again

But it was again

It happened at a dance

Perfect opportunity

To discover who she was

Everyone was there

I danced oblivious

Consumed in music

Until it stopped

For a public service announcement

From the admirer

The one still hidden from view

The one with the white flowers

That turned my face red

A third delivery of flowers

Revealed the hidden face

Of a former love

The last I thought it would be

Thought I had ended it badly

That we had devolved to apathy

Not enough spark even for hate

Just a dissolving

A drifting apart

A few flowers rekindled fire

And she was cute which didn’t hurt

She had kept the embers alive

From a fire I thought had passed

Took the hand of a silly boy

And showed him where they were

From palmers touch

To touch of holy lips

The star crossed lovers stopped

Held fast the moment

Forsook the poison

Decided to dance instead

POEM - Ahna’s Secret Song

This is probably not my story to tell

But I did participate

I know the interested parties

I was part of the secret

It all revolves around a game

Played by a couple

Which means it was played by Ahna

To the end of bothering Fletcher

A control thing maybe

            More likely just something to do

Ahna was cooler than her age

Probably had cool parents

Who never grew out of being hippies

She drove a tan Volvo

Full of music on the Blaupunkt

And a cavernous back seat

That’s where I first heard the song

Crammed into the back

With four or five others

Next to Fletcher and the skateboards

Both relegated to this position

Just out of reach of the stereo

The song playing and taunting Fletch

His search for a holy grail

Held at arm’s length

She dropped off Fletcher first

Let me move to the front seat

Handed me a tape when we drove off

A magnetically bound secret

With a look that said to keep it safe

My smile back showed that I would

At home and back in my room

Sitting in front of my stereo

Reading the words in the tape

Revealed the band was Aztec Camera

            I had never heard of them before

The song was entrancing

The lyrics a little more telling

I slid in the tape and pressed play

The guitar strummed out the chords

A voice flowed, sang and swirled

As the chorus revealed the game

“On every whisper that welcomes

            The inconceivable

                        And the birth of the true”

An idea born of suggestion

An inconceivable secret

Shared in whispers

Would give birth to a truth

Would discover who kept the secret

Who cherished the whisper

Sworn in by her knowing smile

Bound tight by the secret song

POEM - Revival Season

Love’s hand to my head, palms

Hot sweaty and callused

I think I have found

A working man’s evangelist

That fixes his own trucks

And helps put up the tent

Has a wife and kids

Raises dogs in the off season

Thinks this makes a difference

Like his daddy told him,

Like his momma believed

With the faith of a Southern woman.

Love rides the hallelujah circuit

On the back of the Good Book

His striped tabernacles consume empty lots.

Curiosity gathered this skeptic in

Here to expose a quack, I find

There is no lie; this is no medicine show,

Found power in his roughed out hand,

Burning the fear of God in to my forehead

It’s a trick I think just in time

To miss discovering what faith means;

And just keep my skepticism alive

And just enough of Love rubbed off

To make me visit an empty lot,

Where Amens once shot at the stars

To reprimand them for their vanity.

POEM - Towel Day!

A day to celebrate

Had come at last

We prepared

As best we could

We had our towels

All seven of us

It is really the most important item

One should never be without

We learned from the Guide

It taught us why

It makes people think the best

That you can travel and trek

Through all sorts of trials

Face danger and death

Unknowns and adventures

While managing the simple task

So impossibly insignificant

Of keeping track of your towel

So that’s where we started

Towels for everyone

Seven in different colors

Stacked neatly on the breakfast table

What could be more exciting

More indicative of pending fun

Than a pile of new towels

Waiting for their new owners

It worked out well

Each activity had an extra companion

A soft fabric friend

There to rest your head

Or to wipe a tear

Keep you warm

Or fan you off

Swat a fly

Or cuddle a baby

Is there anything they can’t do?

We did everything we could think of

Chores and cooking

Errands and outings

We played Towel Tag

And had both laughter and crying

This companion can  both cut and heal

It is the magic of the towel

The wonder of the mundane

POEM - It Wasn’t Elvis

I didn’t choose to raise teenage girls

I’m not particularly suited for it

Growing up I had one sister

            And we never got along

So, my frame of reference is biased

My tolerance level low

Squeals of over-excitement

            Rapid half said words

                        Drama llamas

All of it makes me a curmudgeon

What’s worse is my own daughter is transforming

Becoming one of these weird creatures

I have to stop her often

Make her repeat nearly every sentence

            At half the speed

                        Enunciating each word

It is enough to make me scream

Sometimes I even do

Though I try not to scream at her

Cuz it makes her leak

Then on the way to Claire’s concert

End of year sixth grade orchestra

Already on edge

            About the pending ordeal

Expecting to be assaulted

            By out of tune violins

                        Played like twangy fiddles

Josie erupts from the back seat

“OH MY GOSH!! (high pitch squeal)

            I THINK THAT WAS GABBIE!!! J !!! J !!!”

My sarcasm was instant

“No way!!!” (over emphasis and eye roll added)

            You saw Gabbie driving

            Down the road

In the town we both live in

            In the same general direction

            Of the neighborhood we both live in

            A couple of 100 yards apart?!?!?!”

“Appropriate reactions Josie.

                        It wasn’t like it was Elvis!”

I felt good though

I think I finally figured it out

Said something that made sense

            And provided quantifiable parameters

Realized that, like so many things

It is just a matter of how it rates

Compared to a sighting of Elvis

POEM - Splinters

The discomfort it causes

That miniscule bit

That some indignant board

Or insolent thorn

Left inside your skin

A sub dermal torture spike

It can’t be real

So small, so innocent

My eyes water

As I scratch and prod

Gouge and squeeze

To dig the offense out

It astounds me

And it is nothing

A little black exclamation mark

Without its supporting dot

So fragile and frail

I could never reinsert it

But it arrived

And it pained

Regardless of size

I remember a time

I rode through the desert

Slid to a stop

Looked up and felt a bump

I had knocked my head

Against the tip of a joshua tree

Just a little poke

Scratched my head

Rode off care free

Then a few days passed

Noticed the bump wouldn’t shrink

I felt and prodded

Squeezed and pushed

Until suddenly it gave

Popped out a little cone

The very tip of the sharp branch

I had so carelessly bumped

Splinters are funny like that

I think there is a lesson there

Something about pain and relief

The burden of the intruder

And the sweet relief

That only comes

After our pain departs

POEM - C-c-c-copy Face, C-c-copy Face (Mum mum mum mah C-c-c-copy Face)

It is something I have always loved

Better than a Polaroid

The sharp black and white snapshot

With edges dark as deepest space

Sinking into an impenetrable abyss

Occasional need would find me idle

A tag along with my father

As he stopped by work

Just for a few moments on a Saturday

He introduced me to the process

Probably so he could get a few things done

After I had exhausted my interest

In the IBM Selectric

            With it’s fascinating chrome orb

                        Covered in a plethora of symbols

I had spent a good while

Trying to get every character

To hit at least once

But now I was bored again

            Asking what was next

                        Or better yet, could we get ice cream

The answer came by way of distraction

“Here son, let’s look at this

            It is called a copy machine.”

One push of the button and the gears churned

A flash of heated light

            And then the paper emerged

                        Both our hands etched perfectly

Surrounded by a warm carbon sea

Naturally my face went on the glass

As soon as no one was looking

I made the mistake only once

            Of keeping my eyes open

Once I recovered from brief blindness

I made sure they were shut

Turned out page after page

Of grotesque caricatures

Goofy squished faces

Captured for later

Evidence of a productive outing

When my mother would ask later

Just what had we done all day

I still take the opportunity when I can

“Accidentally” slip my hand into a copy

Smash my face on the glass

Contort my features

Lift the original in different ways

Twist the paper as the light goes by

Experiment with the world that is seen

By an electronic eye

Millimeters at a time

POEM - A State of Nirvana

Lee and I set out in the mild October

It was a Monday evening in 1993

We were headed to a concert

The Arizona State Fair was in full swing

Which meant five dollar general admission

You could justify seeing anybody

            When the tickets were five bucks

This wasn’t just anybody though

We were heading to see Nirvana

An epic first concert for Lee

More epic than either of us knew

We shuffled in with the crowd

Got good seats, not great

South east corner,

            High up, but close to the stage

We could see everything

Mudhoney opened and got no respect

This was not the hardcore Seattle crowd

Most were there because it was cheap

And “Teen Spirit” was pervasive

When Nirvana finally took she stage

It was everything it should be

The Who and The Clash and all of punk rock

Exploding off the stage

Of the packed coliseum

As the energy grew Kurt took the solo

Climb the large front speaker

Vaulted into the air

            Spun to his back

                        Landed on the ocean of hands

Never stopped playing

As he floated back to the stage

At the end they destroyed everything

Dave kicked his drums to death

            Krist threw his bass repeatedly in the air

                        Never caught it once

Kurt turned his guitar into splinters

            I went home complete

In less than six months Cobain was dead

            Nirvana was put away

                        In a heart-shaped box

A couple of years later I bought a car

It was a 1972 Volkswagen 411 Fastback

            Kind of an unusual car

Made all the odder when I drove it home

I notice something I hadn’t before

In the rearview mirror was a shadowy figure

The perfect impression of Kurt Cobain

Logic told me it was a sticker that had been removed

The rest of me knew he was visiting

Just for a minute

            Letting me know he was OK

Thanking me for sharing that October night

            A witness to his farewell tour

This looks just like the car I owned

This is the picture I saw in the back window

POEM - You Know I Don’t Like Any of You, Right?

It is May 20^th

The day my mother always points to

As the most important day of my life

It has been 42 years

I’m still not buying it

But I will try to be nice

Since it is her birthday

I like to remind her how old I am

Tell her that she is a grandmother

That her oldest child

            Now has a child

                        Old enough to have children

It’s a little reminder that her days are numbered

The great-grandchildren will arrive

And then it is done

            She will then be REALLY old!

Today I will call her with best wishes

She will say that my brothers called earlier

Were surprised I hadn't already

She will say that I am maturing

Not waking her at 3AM when I could have

I will laugh and dispel that thought

            “You haven’t checked Facebook then!”

I should be more grateful

This woman taught me many lessons

Like having a suspension of disbelief

When it comes to hair color

I thought blonde roots were dark brown

And my wife was a red head

Until well into my married life

Besides, I owe her a lot

For all the horrible things I did

Or taught other to do

That she has suffered through

            With good natured exasperation

And indefatigable love

It is what a mother will do

Despite tilting all of her pictures

To mess with her OCD

And moving everything just out of reach

            When she had a broken leg

All the fart sounds and throw-up

            And endless attempts to disgust        

She will always respond just right

Roll her eyes

            Expel a guffaw of disgust

                        Ask the heavens why her

Tell us just how much

She really doesn't like us