He watched a commercial where a middle-school
Basketball player looks into the stands to see his
Parents. In that moment the man recalled walking
The aisle and mounting the stairs and standing on
The stage when his name was called for induction
Into the National Honor Society and he scoured the
Thousand plus visitors in the stands and saw his
Parents, especially his dad, sitting way up in the
Stands and remembered all the days his dad spent
Going over homework when the man was a fifth
Grader and the teacher was recommending that
The man be put back into fourth grade because
As a transfer student from the city he was way
Behind and his dad, who as an immigrant kid
Had been put back in school, pleaded with the
Teacher not tho put his son back. The son
Couldn’t have been any more proud that his dad
Was there and that went for his dad, too.
Monthly Archives: May 2018
Simple, Earnest and Heartfelt
When it comes time for him
to depart this life,
he hopes it is without malice,
rancor or strife
and that he will say something better than
what his dear mother, upon parting, tossed,
which was a simple, heartfelt
and earnest, “Get lost.”
The Gumshoe Reader
He reads mysteries mostly;
They help sharpen his mind.
He doesn’t recall names
But clues he often finds.
There is this lead and that
And he considers them all
Before making a decision
Wherever the pages fall.
Some accumulate facts
Of classics Greek and Roman
And posture superior knowledge
Even of Norse Thor and Odin.
But he scours the pulp fiction tracks;
He’s one sticky gumshoe —
Hopefully solving the crime,
Before the mystery is through.
So, mam, just give him the facts.
He’s a wannabe detective of paperbacks.
Peace, Peace When There Is No Peace
Ivanka looked lovely, smiling at the unveiling of the new embassy;
Jared actually spoke for a while, this time about peace upon peace;
The prisoners in Gaza, cut off in all directions, without anything
To lose, ran to the border with Israel and yelled, screamed, threw
Whatever was handy and were cut down, cut down, cut down at the
Border of their own prison, but fifty miles away, it was all smiles and
Peace, peace, peace ad nauseum and they cried peace when there was
No peace and the looney-tune, white evangelical Christians in power
Were smiling because they decided that Jesus would be coming that
Much sooner summoned by the control-freak Dominionists and Christian
Reconstructionists. Sweet Jesus, meek and mild, has no choice but
To follow directions and hurry up and descend on the Rock of the Dome,
Kill all the Muslims, abortionists, gays and thank Cyrus, the pagan pussy
Grabber, for protecting all white, evangelical Christians from blacks,
Browns, reds and yellows and all other heretics and public school students
And teachers, especially those of apostate, sacrilegious sex education.
The Persistence of Spring
The garden, brown for so long,
Beams bright green
Anticipating colors’ love song;
Welcoming such a tardy spring.
Forsythia’s yellow pokes through
With Rhododenbrun’s red
Hesitant along with others — the few
Who brave icy cold’s dread.
Jonquils and Croci, first upon the scene,
Were nipped in the bud,
But spring being what it has been —
Colors in the garden soon will flood,
Complimenting varietal fish in the clear pond
And trees — flowering deciduous and evergreen
Connecting all in a beautiful bond —
A testimony to the persistence of spring.
Dr. Doolittle, Where Are You?
Our fourth Chocolate Lab,
our third rescue, on the first
night we had him, heard the
thunder and all 105 pounds
pounced on the bed, squeezed
between me and my wife like
corned beef on a Reuben from
a New York deli and trembled
for two hours with my arm
around his furry hide. Had he
been on his own along the
mean streets when lightning
cracked, thunder roared and
rain dumped buckets on him?
He never said. We all shudder
and flinch at the closing
cracks and roars. Did our
ancestors run for the cave?
Are the gods angry? Is that
Thor’s roar? Our fifth
Chocolate, will listen to the
thunder, wince, give it a shrug
and go out to do her business,
come in, eat and head for the
comfort of her overstuffed,
security chair. She has more
disdain for the rain that she
must endure than the thunder
that rings in her ears. Is
she braver, just a foolish
old dog trying to impress
her newly adopted parents,
or, perhaps, was never on
the mean streets in a storm?
She’s not telling either.
Doctor Doolittle, where are
you? They do keep their secrets,
but they do seem to be glad
that we are there, especially
during a storm.
The Steadfast Love of a Mother for Her Son — A Sonnet for Chris
I know the love that’s in your heart for him;
the two of you traveled through tough times;
together you both loved to see a grin,
on the face of husband and father, ofttimes.
But disease has a way of stepping in —
an intruder oblivious to time.
For three years you two cared for him
and endured the steepest of climbs.
The deepest sorrow and grief cling long
and weigh down the spirit’s love of life
even after all these years have gone,
but both you and your son’s love is rife.
He is such a fortunate boy this day
for the steadfast mother’s love that will stay.
This Mother’s Day
It’s Mother’s Day and a thousand children
have been separated/torn from the arms
and hands and hearts of their mothers
at the border of hell. Why not just
push little hands through the vagina
into the womb and tear those babies out?
Then, at least, the babies wouldn’t know.
Where are those babies? Where are those
mothers? They cannot be seen but only
heard in the shrieks of horror, in the
whimpers of abandonment, while hyenas
cackle and the devouring dragon roars.
Why not just spit them up, dragon? Why not
throw them back, dragon? Let their
broken bodies and broken spirits reach
for each other in the searing sands;
let them embrace for one last time
before the fires of the desert incinerate
them, never to be forgotten but to rise
up in the inferno of righteous rage —
a Phoenix — and scorch us all with
guilt and shame in the burning memory
of these mothers and children on this
Mother’s Day, this ever-so-sweet,
Hallmark day.
I’m Thinking About My Late Dad
Because of an e-mail exchange with an acquaintance, I’m now thinking about my late dad, a man with a compassionate heart, a small business owner and moderate Republican, who endorsed the things my acquaintance mentioned were conservative values — balanced budgets, small government, no foreign entanglements.
I think my dad, erroneously, thought all the caring could be done through individuals and on a voluntary basis through non-profits like the church.
Being a “bum” alum having ridden the rails during The Great Depression, he faithfully went to the downtown Chicago missions to preach the gospel to his fellow “bums,” as they stereotypically were called, who had to endure the worship service to get a meal, the goal being that they would walk the sawdust trail and accept Jesus as their personal Lord and Savior — a uniquely, individualistic brand of Christianity more akin to the American ethic of rugged individualism than the covenant gospel. I recall, as a kid, sitting on a folding chair listening to the fellows snore through the mandatory chapel attendance.
Even there for all the good intentions (which I sometimes questioned having met the leaders of the missions and their gruff treatment of those who came for a meal) there were conditions imposed on the needy. Why couldn’t they just offer the meal and bless the boys? As inadequate as that may have been, at least there wouldn’t have been that additional piling on of humiliation.
The problem with striving for those conservative values is that corrupt motives invariably get in the way, which, ever and always, advance the greed of some to the detriment of others, meaning those in society most vulnerable and least able to defend themselves. Small government, code for small domestic programs and a big military budget, inevitably means the safety net is always in danger of being shredded.
Greed leads to fear which leads to BIG defense systems which leads to scapegoating the vulnerable (the poor, the minorities, victims of racism, nativism, jingoism, xenophobia) and labeling them as unworthy welfare moochers when the real welfare moochers are the corporations jostling in line for government handouts in the way of tax breaks /incentives/giveaways which ultimately will bleed the federal and state coffers in lost revenue and benefit the stockholders who then will set outrageous salaries and hand out equally outrageous bonuses and while nothing ever trickles down except contempt for those labelled as unworthy drags on society. This all gets vaunted as the necessary and uniquely American free-enterprise system, something of which every American should be proud and which will solve all economic problems as opposed to vile and corrupt socialism.
John Calvin who helped advance the cause of capitalism emerging from feudalism lived voluntarily a near poverty level life and urged others to do the same so that no one would be left out of the benefits of the system and assisting the vulnerable to climb up and out so they, too, might participate freely.
I think old Johannes Calvinus was a bit naive for all of his theological and practical and organizational acumen. Unjustly stuck on the fly paper of misinterpretation of depravity, he was, in reality, a bit of a softy who assumed, on occasion, people would voluntarily do the right thing. To his credit, he also believed the government should act justly on behalf of all citizens especially the vulnerable members.
Oh, and back to my dad? He became, in part, a victim of the very system he advocated. The system finally got the small government Republican. The believer in “pulling yourself by your own boot straps” had a heart attack when he was 55 and because he could no longer work in his sole proprietary business as he previously had, income dwindled, there was no safety net for him or his business, insurance policies were cashed in, he sank into deep depression, saw no other way out and took his own life at 56. I was seventeen.
Enfolding from the Cold
The rain came down cold;
this cold is now very old;
warm blanket — enfold.