It has been said you can’t write a
poem if you are in a bad mood.
I don’t think Sylvia Plath would have understood.
I suppose the same could be said
for Ann Sexton, another poet dead;
John Berryman, dead, too, as was his plan.
So what’s not to understand?
Great poetry has been written
by many who died by their own hand
and who with a death wish were much smitten.
And so, poetry can be written
when one is in a bad mood.
That is just something the muses
have understood.
However, to write a limerick
or a funny little jingle,
I imagine one must be
in a pretty good mood.
I’ve never heard of a dark limerick
or a little, black jingle,
or, for that matter, a depressing poem
about Kris Kringle.
I’m always depressed during the holidays,
but would never think to take pen in hand
and write something depressing about
the Christmas man.
That — neither the muses nor little kids
would understand.
They just would never understand.

Even with the Michigan October weather
so wet, I felt somewhat sere inside like
Phoenix in September, until I read a poet’s
explanation of a poem of his and the poet
wrote that the poem happened because he
was having a “poem-y” moment. In that
moment I chuckled, even though I probably
shouldn’t stereotype, as I heard the echo
of my dearly loved gay relative and then
I discovered that I was having this “poem-y”
moment.

Two thirds of the voting members of the
association passed new bi-laws violating
the basic, state law, constitutionally guar-
anteed rights of one of the member families
of the association thus, for all intents and
purposes, establishing a caliphate and
imposing suzerainty on the owners of one
home. And the owners of that home thought
they lived in a representative democracy. And
so they are left to tell their renters to claim their
rights and the selfish association members
be left to scream bloody murder. At least they
didn’t make a cartoon of the board president.
No telling what jihad the rest of the board
members might have called down on the
couple’s heads.

hesitant movements, bashful in nature,
freed of fear and knowing acceptance,

soft warmth enhanced by the fragrances
of the soul’s dew, flowing freely,

oneness, identity, a single life
knowing self,

oneness, identity, a single life
knowing themselves — joy.

renewal found in awakening senses,
expanding to a look, a touch —

closeness, ecstasy!

Warning #1

Screaming, raging rats
in overcrowded gutters
leap for brothers’ throats.

Warning #2

Thick stale air settles
on suffocating timbers
whose limbs search for life.

They all carried the patina of
respectability and so they all
went along with it because it
was what they wanted to do with
their superficial lives. It wasn’t
so bad they convinced them-
selves; in fact, it wasn’t bad at
all. In all reality it was the right
thing to do because they deserved
it. He is only one against all the
rest of us, they decided and really
he isn’t very nice and if we plead
our case convincingly those on the
fringe, the ones who don’t get in-
volved and don’t want to be involved
and would rather not bother will
see the logic of the position and
why it is in their own best interest
and when pressed will go along
with it. And so it was and is on
so many levels and in so many
different ways but, at the heart
of it, all just the same, always
the very same, so boringly, un-
originally, predictably, the same.

The unlettered, untutored generation
sits around a campfire, sticks in hand,
writing in the sand, rubbing out their
philosophical discourses as they go.

The children sit in chairs close to
the fire. Their sticks hold marsh-
mallows which they put in and take
out of the fire hoping for a light

brown crust. They listen to their
elders, take it all in and remember
what was said long after the sand
scrawls have been scratched away.

*Indebted to Robert Morgan’s
Squatting

Yesterday, the wind blew so strong
that he found himself experiencing
a bit of apprehension, a prelude to
fear of what might come near.

Today, there is hardly a flutter in
the birches let alone the maples
and oaks. The fish are very still
in the cold water of the pond.

Birch leaves float on the surface —
the first of the leaves to fall
this new fall. Maples will follow
but the Oaks will hold tight.

Soon the man and his wife will
shelter the lawn furniture, drape
a net across the pond, stop the
pump and start the bubbler.

He stands on the balcony looking
down at the zinnias, the pond,
waterfall and pine grove. Even
without wind blowing, he shivers.

The wind blows strong on this October day.
It swirls lifting branches and fluttering leaves.
The trees are sturdy knowing how to sway
and not break in sudden violent heaves.

Shielded from the strongest gusts, chimes play
tunes lulling listeners into a mood of ease
while wind’s strength grows causing a fray
and animals scurry for safety through swirling leaves.

It seems the animals have a sixth sense for survival —
the sense humans have lost along millenia’s way.
Animals know how to gauge nature’s harmful arrival;
humans linger in harm’s way lulled by chimes’ play.

The less-than-sharpest-tool
in the ship’s tool shed stood
on the Mayflower’s deck
with a slop bucket
in the hand of that very fool
to toss the noxious mixture
of piss and vinegar
and so in his hurry
he sent it flying directly into
the face of the Middle-East’s fury
and all on board got shellacked
with piss and vinegar blowback.
If eyes don’t deceive,
wasn’t that Uncle Sam’s man
Georgie Porgie with Dickie,
the Puddin’ Pie, standing by,
you better believe,
with bucket in hand
coughing and spitting
piss and vinegar
while all now face that raging
Middle East anger?