Before heading to the reception
for the art show in which his

wife had a mixed media sculp-
ture, the couple stopped at the

bookstore and perused the poetry
section. Several thin volumes

by local poets graced the shelves.
“My, my,” the wife said looking at

the covers and reading a few
poems, “these aren’t anything at

all compared to your two books.”
He demurred. Then to the reception.

“Oh, my,” the husband said read-
ing the list of award winners,

“there isn’t anything else here
that can hold a candle to your work.

I don’t agree at all with the judge.”
Shortly thereafter, the two biggest

admirers of each other’s art headed
to the restaurant to continue the

critique as members of a very ex-
clusive, mutual admiration society.

She asked, “Is it time to write the novel?”
He said, “I’m an extrovert.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“I had a professor who said he would
put glue on my chair to get me to
sit still and study.”
“And….”
“And so,  I couldn’t sit still long enough to
write a novel.”
“And….”
“And…I can write poetry
and then go out
for a cup of coffee.
It’s not a perfect rhyme —
poetry/coffee —
but close enough.”
“Ah….”
“Another cup of coffee?”
“Sure.”

The phone rings;
it’s her son.
She goes into
mother mode.
She brings me
two thick, small
pieces of ham
while she talks.
I think I know her;
but I don’t know
her as mother.
She seems foreign,
distant in spite
of the offering.
I think about my
former life — a
dead wife who
still plays
with my mind
the way she did
in life. Sometimes
it is all very
confusing and still
strange even after
twenty-two years.
My wife just brought
me a glass of wine.

Blessed are the meek —
gentle Jesus, meek and mild.
In our society that’s interpreted as
emasculation 101,
androgynous Jesus, two for one.
His feminine can be meek and mild
cause that’s what we expect of women,
but his masculine must be the guy
who overturned the tables and
wouldn’t
 take jack from Joshua or Jake;
except…meek means non-violent
and it takes a strong female
and a strong male to be non-violent
in this shoot ‘em up, live or die
by the gun culture or any
culture anytime since the time of
Cain and Abel and any macho guy.
So, androgynous aren’t we all?
So, hold onto your non-violent feminine
and your non-violent masculine call
and get into your two for one
when you follow the two for one Son
as you dance to “Here Comes the Sun,”
and “Ain’t We Got Fun?” marching
non-violently for justice,
mercy, peace, holding hands and
standing up to the hand gun,
long gun and all those assault guns.
The Second Amendment is for
the state-run militias otherwise known
as the national guard, son.
But if you must, just buy a BB gun
and go shoot alley rats (literally)
just for the fun.

Grifter
noun, Slang.
1. a person who operates a side-show at a circus, fair, etc.,
especially a gambling attraction.
2. a swindler, dishonest gambler, or the like.

They ain’t the Beverly Hillbillies,
honest folk in a silly TV series.

In the White House, our First Family Grifters scrounge for money
rippin’ off everyone in the country.

Hopefully, this family of Definition #2 grifters
will soon all be drifters —

once out of power
squatting in a Trump Tower,

bankrupt and without any dough,
hidin’ out in the laundry room
at Mara Lago,

askin’ “Is Daddy Grifter on the golf course?”
Well, now as a caddy, of course.

“Seriously, where is Daddy Grifter, ever so horny?”
Oh, he’s shackin’ up with someone named Stormy.

And as for son Barron and mommy Melania,
they caught a fast flight back to Slovenia.

Good ridden’s, y’all.

Ah, as with so many,
this stray’s name is unknown —
no name etched on an identifying tag,
silver in the shape of a bone.
We look forward to hearing whatever
history is known
along with behaviors observed
from the Chocolate’s history
and experiences preserved,
both good and bad.
It’s always a grab bag —
not unlike the dog’s fellow humans
a bag containing items
both happy and, ofttimes, profoundly sad.

This, too, shall pass
many are pleased to say.
Donald Trump will, like all flesh,
soon go away,
for we all know he is
the Ozymandias of our day.
For like Ramesses II,
the vain, bragging ruler of old,
he has crumbling feet of clay.

When young, we wished for a romantic
fire in a working fireplace and real
paraffin candles, sandalwood scented,
of course, strategically placed around
the room to create just the right mood.

Ah, what bliss. Oh, what work.

So, with the progress of technology we
heralded the dawn of remotes. Now, we
light the electric fire in the fireplace,
turn on the simulated crackling sound
of a fire on a CD to coordinate with
the rotating lights in the fireplace and
light the battery operated candles while
clinking glasses of wine and watching
Masterpiece Theater all from the comfort
of our recliners.

Ah, what bliss.

After snoozing awhile in the comfortable
chair, my wife rose and as she wandered
off to bed, said, “Darling, don’t forget to
turn off the stereo and the TV, make sure
the fire is out, and snuff out the candles,”
and four remotes she handed to me. I called
after her, “Goodnight, my dearest darling,”
and stayed up for the news.

Oh, what work she leaves to me.

A friend, a high school, jr. college and college classmate,
sent me a link to a Facebook page offering hooded sweatshirts with our high school logo.

This was my reply (updated):

I’d rather wear an old tee
And go on living with my fantasy
Of great days in high school
Than re-experience the
50th reunion reality
— t’was oh, so brutal.

Readers, Hoping all your reunions were fun
and an affirmation of the best of what you
experienced in high school, college, graduate school.

                      The man Does wear camouflage 
                       skin ovEr what is within.
          Does he even have a Clue
                   about who hE is through and through?
               He has fooled hImself at his father’s sin, whim
                    and will, Voiced over and over to him.
                Always say “GrEat, great, great, son,
                     and your Destiny for greatness is won.”