Suffering follows the man like an
old Chocolate Lab coming up slowly,
nudging the man’s hand telling the
man that he’s still here.
Suffering comes at the man point
blank like a car charging sixty-five
miles an hour on a side street posted
twenty-five miles per hour.
The man with what peripheral vision
he has left looks to his left and then
to his right and, yes, suffering is
coming at him from those directions, too.
The man thinks to himself, Yes, that
really is the way it is. The man stops,
turns and watches the gray muzzled
dog limp up to him and kiss his hand.
We Sit in the Sun
Posted on September 27, 2011
We sit in the sun on the
soaking up the warmth,
out of the wind on a cool,
My Chocolate Lab nudges my
forearm and nudges again.
I look away from the poem and
I look at him beckoning me.
He’s old. He might not be here
a long time and someday
I will wish that he were here to
nudge my forearm.
I rub behind his ears;
I ball up a fist and
rub his snout
which itches with late
He goes to lie in the sun.
I look over at my wife and
return to Jim Harrison.
I suppose there are despicable,
fat, old, white females
like we are seeing
despicable, fat, old, white males,
but for the life of me,
an old but not fat, white male
and hopefully not despicable,
I have not seen
many despicable, fat, old, white females
in the number of
despicable, fat, old, white males.
We are all humans – male and female
and are all prone to err,
but for the life of me
I had not seen her
until I saw the two, despicable, fat, old, whites
brandishing guns – him and her
living their suburban, lifestyle dream,
which white privilege did confer.
And when I saw the hate and fear
of those despicable, fat, old, white people,
I, a hopefully not despicable, not fat, old, white male
had to hang my head in repentance and prayer.
The sweet Chocolate Lab
has compassion in her eyes.
Trump has only lies.
We sit on the deck
inhaling fragrant pine sap’s
He thought, perhaps, it is not too late
to expurgate the corrupted state
but upon further thought,
he thought such should be left to fate
and he would sit and blissfully meditate
and then he thought
because of what he did meditate,
he should do what he ought
and not just leave things to fate,
but join a non-violent protest, he thought
and then he thought
than never, he thought.
A young bully boy, big for his age,
rides his tricycle up and down the street
shouting obscenities that outrage —
a greeting for everyone he meets.
The rains came, sweeping the street
while the young bully boy, big for his age,
shouts at the swirling wind he meets
“Go away, wind. This is my street. You’re an outrage.”
While the young bully boy, big for his age
shouts at the sun now beating down on the street,
“Go away, sun. This is my street! You’re an outrage.”
Now there is no one left to greet.
At the empty, rain-swept, sun-dried street,
the young bully boy, big for his age,
shouts, “This is one tough dude no one will beat!”,
while he rides his tricycle downhill and off history’s page.
America descends into hell;
Amerika rises mid chants of a rebel yell,
the Statue of Liberty to sell
to save scared, politically powerful, fat, old, white men
who thrust people (children) of color
into cages — the lion’s den.
Where is the Liberty Bell?
Her clarion ring muted (no silenced!) by rifle sounds and shells
bouncing off city streets. Can no one quell
such heinous, fascist acts
and bring a dying (terminal?) democracy back?
I watch wonderful Broadway
musicals of life in America
during the twenties, thirties,
forties — Gershwin, et. al.
and their wonderful revivals
and now I think about all the
history lost during all those
years with, perhaps, the ex-
ception of Porgy and Bess,
but was that the best de-
piction of life for African-
Americans in America? I
love those wonderful Broad-
way musicals but now look
forward to a rainbow rep-
resentation of America, so
I can watch wonderful
Broadway musicals of life
in America — now and into
a bright light, technicolored
He saw his neighbor get ready for a trip —
packing the bags, loading the car.
He knew that he would get a Rt. 66 kick
out of a road trip so very far.
But during this time he was confined
as should be all to their homes
and so through his mind, he mined
journeys where he could roam.
With Jules Verne, he traveled to center earth.
With Carl Sagan, he traversed the cosmos.
With Neil deGrasse Tyson, to the universe’s birth.
With Jacques-Yves Cousteau aboard Calypso.
And when the travels were done,
he thought how nice it was to have gone.
He awoke safe and saw the dearest travel companion
— Sophia sat by his side, she — wisdom.