NEVER CRY (c)

Learn the secrets of survival.
Observe, listen, and don’t talk.
Pray to Jesus.
And never cry. At least,
not where they can see or hear you.

Study them. Scrutinize them.
Look for the flick of her eyebrow;
The narrowing of eyes;
Red painted lips pulled into a thin line.

Watch the vertical blue vein, the barometer,
on his forehead turn purple, throb.
Don’t wince or jump, as his meaty fist
sledgehammers the tabletop.

Feign innocence, be disinterested but attentive.
Don’t speak up, or defend yourself.
Pray to Jesus.
And never cry. At least,
not where they can see or hear you.

BOMB (c)

The play was a bomb!
Not like an explosion,
more like a stink-bomb.
Not a stink bomb like
when Uncle Ernie’s
outhouse blew up
because cousin Jimmy
dropped a cherry-bomb
into the hole, igniting the
methane gas, blowing the crap
and wads of toilet paper
all over the place and
even took the wood plank
door off its leather hinges.
In fact, the play would have
been better, had the stage exploded,
and the actors stood facing the
audience with surprised
soot covered faces.
This bomb would have elicited
applause, and laughter instead
of groans and moans of a bomb
that failed to ignite.
No, this bomb of a play
was more of a fart-in-church
type of bomb. Before you knew it
the smell of something awful
came creeping up on you
leaving you to look around, hoping to
find the culprit, praying no one
thinks it’s your fault, that kind of bomb.
When a play is a bomb, you
want to ask for your money back
and get the effluvium
dry cleaned from your mind
with a stiff drink and rousing
commentary with friends.
But no, you walk
out wishing you had the
courage to release the bomb
building up in you intestines
from the baked beans you ate for dinner.
A righteous and just comment on a
stinking play, or so you think.

1940s FOUR HOUR FEEDING RULE (c)

Must wake sleeping tot
force-feed despite its being full,
and remember later,
ignore hunger-pain cries—
diligently hold fast
to four-hour feeding rule.

Close eyes to child’s rhythms,
cave not to its demands.
You, parent train infant,
instruct early what
to do and when,
learn not to bend, or
cradle a spoiled brat
in the end.

Child must be taught
their life you control,
then it will obey
whatever you say
forever and a day.

So what if set on its own,
well indoctrinated
in four-hour rule,
this blind adult child
with needs overridden,
ignored, fears dying,
eats to obese, or
embraces starvation,
wastes away compliant,
vacillates from
hyper-active to lethargic,
arrogantly smart underperformer,
goes nowhere, fails.

Blame not unsophisticated,
brainwashed parent,
follower of pediatrician’s directive.
Never doubt male god with
PhD, he knows what’s best.
Look! Even his book attests!

Independent thinking?
A horror to behold.
Darling, pay no heed
to puzzled voices in head
that doubts four-hour eating rule.
Don't let yourself be misled.
It’s the 1940s, and
women’s brains are not well fed.

9/11 Remembered-- 5th Anniversary (c)

names read
one by one
cello strings moan
tears of torment
blow on sun warmed wind
dust rises on radiant rays
ashes of loves lost.

bell rings
echoes emptiness felt,

unspoken.
music, voices cease

heads bow
in silence
hands clasp in quiet prayer

hands clasp one another

hands wipe tears
hands wipe child’s nose.

names read
one by one

anniversary
of futile immortality

flowers float on reflecting pool

penned notes blur in sorrow’s water

mother’s backs bow

father’s eyes glisten

children tremble

wives, husbands, siblings
mouths turn down,
no words
no words

no words

names are read

one by one,

sobs chill the listener
politicians at podium speak
from duty and shame
jobs half done

told-you-so’ gone un-heeded
as violin strings are stroked for father
never known
by young girl

born after hell’s fire died.

names are read

one by one
children's string orchestra
wails heart sadness
while someplace
somewhere
right here
in our country
cheers rise up

at our anguish
smiles warm faces
at our grief at
celebrations held
on our anniversary
of remembrance.

victor’s feel justified.

come victors, all! celebrate!

drink the blood of yours and mine

sacrificed for this fine wine,

and tell me, how does it taste?

SHE WALKS (c)

She walks the parched desert floor,
searching, gathering kindling
for cooking to feed her last living child.

Save the Whales!

Her village plundered and burned,
tribal elders slaughtered,
husbands butchered, sons abducted,
mothers, sisters, daughters, molested.

People for Ethical Treatment of Animals!

She walks barefoot on burning sand,
arms laden, sticks piled high.
Jan-ja-weed gallop full speed.
She runs on calloused feet.
No place to hide.

Save the Rain Forests!

Too far—refugee camp—for ears to hear her cry.
As Jan-ja-weed gang rape,
leave her near dead,

Ban Torture!

machete hacks her legs,
slashing marks her forever, “whore”,
no further use to decent man,
a slut to Fuck, and Fuck, and
Fucking ignore.

Ban Pornography!

Stop Iran! Stop Korea!

Stop Nuclear Proliferation!

Stop!

May I have a water cured, fair trade, decaf mocha latte, with soy,
and Splenda, no sugar, hold the whipped cream, extra hot, to go
with a NY Times —that one with the headline:
Massacre in Darfur: UN help near?

How much longer do we bear
leaders and people who declare
more time is needed to debate and decide,
if Dafur meets the description
of genocide.

Meanwhile . . .
Save the Tree Octopus!

WE NEED HEROES--Live Ones (c)

Arts For Peace ~ Peace Poem for the Month

We need heroes, George W.
Live heroes, not sleazy money grubbers
who work worker bees to death,
send young off to die in deserts
for manufactured wars profiting
America’s royalty, who dole out
false promises of a protected tomorrow,
and laugh all the way to the bank.

We need heroes, George W.
not lies spun of cotton candy,
sweet, sticky pink fluff,
empty calories,
sold for high prices
by carnival government
run by freaks in sideshow offices
with no soul or purpose for living
except to gouge the poor for more.

We need heroes, George W.
not a leader following oily merchants,
suited up, partying clowns
juggling colorful balls—pollution,
health care, homelessness, decent wages—
with glitzy, sleight of hand card show,
passing out hot air balloons
to youngsters facing annihilation,
as you, clowns,
pack yourself in circus car,
ride ‘round under protective tent, untouchable,
tooting horns, flashing lights,
going home, wallets full,
sleeping well at night.

We need heroes, George W.
not a ringmaster in fancy tuxedo
with top hat and satin lapels,
pretending all is well,
as our world-esteem is shot to hell,
out of a canon of religiosity,
landing in Muslim countries
without a net,
greeted by roadside bombs and
smashed pies in faces,
not funny at all.

We need heroes, George W.
not one who lost his chance,
chose instead to spin empty plates
in center-ring, diversion for cronies
bankrupting USA with war,
with no way out,
burying future in mounds of debt,
as flags unfurl, graveside,
red, white, blue,
we bury our fatally wounded,
while Katrina’s black flies buzz, still,
‘round New Orleans and Mississippi’s
lives lost, unclaimed and unfound.

We need heroes, George W. . . .

WAR AND MOTHER EARTH (C)

New Paltz Nation Award--Poem of the Week

Mother earth drinks the blood of our young.

Consumes their bodies slowly.

Spits out their undigested bones.

Desert-sun-bleached bones.
Charred black bones.

Buzzard cleaned bones.

Bone bits.

A skull.

Fractured.

Missing perfect white teeth.

Gaping hole.

Never to grin again.

Empty sockets stare,

Blue-less, Green-less, Brown-less,
Black-less orbs,

Life and promise

Gone.

Hand
rises from mounded sand

bent fingers
grasp the air,

leathery skin-strips flutter,

torrid wind whistles, moans

through porous joints,

across fingertips no longer

able to touch tender lips.

Son.

Daughter.

Slaughtered.

For terrorist-tyrants

of so-called free,
and not-so-free world.

For cowards.

Puffed peacocks

hiding behind Lincolnesque desks,

sitting on straw mats in dirt-dug caves
safely planning each others annihilation,
guaranteeing their immortality
in future war stories told
around graven-image monuments,

hallowed spots tourist-mourners
will place flowers on.

And Mother Earth will continue to belch up bones

to bleach white in wind-whipped sands

blowing across unmarked

mass graves of young and old,

across

son

daughter

unfound

hand rising up from ground,
with stories
never lived,
and never

told.

DUST MOP SNOW FLURRIES (c)

Dust mop snow flurries

flit through frozen air

sideways, up, down,

hovering momentarily,

before falling to frozen ground,

a resting place.

Do snowflakes feel the cold?

Do they fear growing old?

Created, born,

descending to earth, delighting child's eyes,

lingering one on top of another, fated

to bask in glory on field once green,

or perhaps be shoveled and plowed,

chemically altered, polluted.

Do snowflakes feel abandoned?

Do they worry about dying?

Sun drenched snow banks melt,

streamlets run ruts in Mother Earth,

rousing her awake.

She stretches ragged arms, yawns,

drinks till satiated,

overflows rivers to run rough, as

crystals thaw, cascade down hillsides steep.

Do snowflakes fear becoming liquid?

Do they have a nirvana to reach?

Soon Spring on doorstep

will burst buds of joy out of winters breast,

dust mop snow flurries having been retired, are

switched for seeds of milkweed, air-dancing.

Oh, seasons oft' repeated drill,

the wonder will not be stilled:

Do snowflakes feel their life is mad?

Do they ever fear they've been had?