He read a poem about the death of
a father when the poet was young
and the consequent sale of the
family farm and it gave him an
idea for a poem of his own about
early death and lost love but
unwelcome thoughts kept invading
like arrows piercing his brain,
like the arrows he saw in a store
the day before in Cave Creek, beaut-
iful arrows, handmade by Indians
in central Mexico. Unwelcome thoughts
often appear as something beautiful,
desirable, something to hold onto,
stroke, nurture, like running an
index finger along the arrow’s
feathers; that’s how they get
in but then the sharp tip tears
deep into the spirit leaving no-
thing but a bloody psyche, and so,
he just quit the poem.

He read two poems by an angry
poet, a young woman with a real
beef apparently about several
things given the content of the

two poems. Someone might glibly
and dismissively toss off that
“She has issues,” but that same
thing has been said of him —

“He has issues,” and that would
be true — he does as does every-
one, but that response doesn’t
help; he found himself recoiling

at what he read, not because it
was a mirror into his “issues,”
although it might be (There’s
always that possibility.) but

because the poet seemed “so”
angry, so over the top angry.
It scared him for her. One
line stood out: “I hate myself.”

He didn’t want her to hate her-
self. He just sat there for
awhile wondering what kind of
“issues” were dancing around

in her family of origin and he
wasn’t real sure he wanted to
go to that dance now that he
is retired from years and years

and years of dancing the jitter-
bug, the rumba, the waltz, the
line dance, the square dance,
the wah-watusi, the limbo, the

hokey-pokey, the twist, the bird
and so many other family of origin
“dances” that he danced over the
years.

Back in the 60’s, the young
Episcopalian vicar in the
local ministerial association
decided it was time to
identify with the wretched
of the earth, take Jesus
seriously, throw off
bourgeois values and
identify with the
proletariat, which actually
sounded more Marxist
than Christian but the
priest’s senior thesis had
been on the relationship
between Marxism and
Christianity for which he
received an A, so, of
course, he considered
himself an expert on the
subject. At the following
month’s meeting, he
arrived unshaven,
unwashed and with a ring
around his clerical collar
arguing that the aluminum
in deodorant causes cancer
and that women needn’t
shave their armpits or
legs, such expectations
being indication of male
misogynistic rule. We all
sat a little farther
away from him than we
previously had. The next
month he showed up shaven,
washed and with a clean
clerical collar. Turns out
his wife had banished him
from the bedroom. We all
sighed in relief and said
a silent prayer of thanks
for the young vicar’s
wife’s persuasive if
bourgeois ways.

My friend Mary Faust gave me permission to
post this haiku. Her nom de plume is Hilda.
I’m glad she can turn her existential circumstance
into poetry.

Hot flashes by day
Tossing and Turning At Night
Ice packs are my friend

He read the inimitable Maya
Angelou
and competitive gender thoughts
through his head just flew.
Her Phenomenal Woman had
him in a groove,
so he started thinking about
Phenomenal Man as if he
had something masculine
to prove,
but Phenomenal Man kept
coming out Neanderthal
Man instead
with way too much hair
in his ears and out his
nose and running up and
down his back
and way too little
on his head,
so he gave up thinking
about men altogether
because it’s so scary
while thinking
about Phenomenal
Women is simply
a whole lot better
and a lot less hairy.

It’s the middle of March and hotter
than hell here in the Valley; he

knows because he’s been to hell
a time or two and it’s enough to

endure such things in the head but
it’s as if his toe nails are begin-

ning to curl from the heat and all
he can think about is global warm-

ing, the end of human life, which,
on occasion, does not seem like

such a terrible thing, especially
now in campaign season, but if he

is going to die, he doesn’t want
to do it wandering in the desert

until every drop of water in his
body has fled for the snow capp-

ed peaks of Flagstaff and he turns
into six-month-old, Navajo fry

bread, which is not exactly the
same thing as manna from heaven.

He would rather his wife tie him
into his touring kayak and launch

him onto the cool, blue waters of
Lake Michigan, a thing to which,

occasionally, she has consented
enthusiastically.

One thousand five hun-
dred posts about all kinds of
things on this blog site.

Now, a non-haiku, non-tanka,
un-poetic exclamation: hurray!!!
One thousand five hundredth
posted this day.
Oh, shoot, I can’t stop
the meter and rhyme;
I’m just full of
gratitude ever so
sublime.
Thank you for caring
enough to visit my
blog site once in
awhile and you’re
welcome any ol’
time.

Well, I woke up this mornin’
with the We Five on my
mind, actually mostly the
incredibly sexy, lead singer
who stood out on the stage
at the Civic Center in Holland,
Michigan in 1966 when I was
a senior in college and sat
in the front row and saw the
really cool, brown, leather,
buckle boots on the drummer
and I decided to buy myself
a pair in the hope that I
could attract the unbelievably
sexy singer who belted out,
“You were on my mind,” and I
wanted to be the only guy
on her mind but knew that
would never happen without
the really cool, brown,
leather, buckle boots and
with them we could walk
away all our blues, but
by the time I would have
bought them, she already
would have caught a plane
back to San Francisco.

Fascists are in vogue;
He gets fascists; last
night he was one. All day
shoved around, getting
out-of-the-way, watching
the SUVs and BIG TRUCKS
and Beemers (That’s no
nickname for a fascist.)
and Mercedes and Audi
sound too sophisticated
but everyone knows the
apples don’t fall far
from the tree. They all
scream, “Get out of my
way!” He does. People with
noses in the air glibly,
nonchalantly butt into
line in grocery stores
while talking incessantly
on their high-tech, hand
held, flat screens while
visions of waterboarding
dance in his head and he
can’t take it anymore,
so like any certifiably
insane fascist, he calls
the cable company and
screams his bloody head
off into the phone at
some hapless person
and then criticizes his
wife for ruining the
dinner they had prepared
together and snarls at
the helpless dog who
slinks off to the bed-
room. Yes, he knows how
to be a fascist, especial-
ly after a few glasses of
wine.

He scans the refrigerator several times a day
like an investigator on one of the ubiquitous
Crime Scene Investigation shows, CSI for short,
looking for what should be eaten before it

goes bad. He wonders if he is obsessive/
compulsive about this or is simply determined
not to be one of those who, statistically speak-
ing, toss forty-percent of their food once it

is home and in the refrigerator. He loves us-
ing up the previous evening’s dinner in a wild
and crazy breakfast omelet, which most of the
time his wife, on occasion upon prompting, will

say, “Oh, this is quite good, dear, but it could
use a little bit more hot sauce.” He spotted
the plastic package of hummus way in the back
of the middle shelf. He remembered that it was

purchased a while ago for appetizers with friends.
He took it out, scooped the remainder onto a
spoon, dried parts around the lid and all and
savored the garlicky goodness as he tossed the

package into the soapy water to be cleaned and
put in the recycling container. Smugly, he said,
“Yes,” as he opened the produce bin for a close
inspection, the likes of which would have earned

him a “well done” from D.B. Russell played by
Ted Danson or Avery Ryan played by Patricia
Arquette or the ultimate “well done” from non
other than Gil Grissom played by William Peterson.