He shuffled his feet

like a short man who

had suffered a stroke

or a drunk trying to

find his way home,

except the exception

is the rule. In winter

clothing, it was a

child who tossed a

snowball onto the side-

walk just in front of

himself and stood silent

as it smashed. He even

may have thought of a

bomb dropping and

said, “Boom,” as

it splattered in front

of him. And then the

bullets smashed into

his twelve-year-old

body like one of the

boy soldiers of Africa

or Iraq or Afghanistan

except it was in a park

on a wintry November

day in Cleveland, the

US of A. The police were

told a shuffling, black man

was seen in a park brandish-

ing a lethal weapon. The kid

could have been playing

cops and robbers with his

pellet gun, but the cops

certainly weren’t playing

around or playing fair as

it turns out. The tape shows

it. No metaphors here.

Just a tape of the incident.

Score one for technology

as the keeper of justice.

Eye-witness reports have

been proven so unreliable.

So much for what we see.

“Just give me the facts, ma’am,”

old Jack Webb used to say

on T.V.

When I saw forty posts, more than I can remember,

I wanted fifty poems posted in November,

but November came and went into December

with only forty-nine posted in November

and I have to start all over again in December;

but November is a month to remember

for reasons beyond that it is the month of my birth;

for reasons of poems that give me great mirth,

mine and others by great friends of infinite worth,

friends of infinite worth.

Hey, I’ve already written two for December one

and continue to have a truck load of fun.

We are told that everything

that happened

in the big bang is still around,

surrounding us, passing through us,

stopping periodically on a cold day

to lounge in the warmth of

our organs or

go for a ride in our circulatory

system or, to be perfectly

honest, the alimentary canal,

which can’t be much fun,

because every now and then,

I hear something calling

and pounding on the walls

to get out.

Anyway,

on their way they go, changing

form but not substance circling

round and round until they have

found somewhere else

to play in the

garden of the gods

before continuing

on the journey of eternity.

One day, I’ll tag along.

You are my sun

I am warmed by you

Grow in orderly fashion

Endure the occasional storm

Never put off by clouds

Your light is in my heart

You provide hidden treasure

I simply cultivate

When my day is done

You give me a chance to rest

Beneath the moon and stars

Until you come and request

That I begin my day and

Watch that I eat healthy

You begin as a spark, but

By noon you have me hot

When my season is done

You still have use for me

My heart must be tenderized

You long for my special groove

You are water washing over stones

Eventually they become smooth

You are my sun

I am a project you can’t release

When my year is over

Preparation will be made

A new dance with the same band

Fresh costume for your parade

You have me depending on you

In a way I like the feeling

When the weather is cold and wicked

You are even more appealing

You are my sun

How long can this go on?

Is forever a real word

I’m in it for the long run

You, too, depend on me

I must absorb your energy

Keep you excited with destiny

You’ve always known it was with me

Steve Haarman

December 2, 2013 ^

In what has become hyper-rich

real-estate, years after we bought

in Sleepy Seas, Florida,

we thought going to the then upscale,

indoor mall was the best, especially

as we rode there on our bikes. We

never bought much, but it was a

happening, a thing, prescient as it was,

for us well meaning naïve consumers.

Well, we got to see a lot

of stuff. It seems a million years

ago now, maybe not for grand

reasons such as coming to our senses

regarding consumerism run amok

and free market capitalism as just plain

banality, especially with the

glorious gulf just a few blocks

away but as prescience often

has a way and we’ve

moved away, we

see that more clearly than

ever, each and every

day.

Travel many miles

to view leopard in the snow.

It must move to see.

Travel many miles

to view leopard in the snow.

Maybe let it be.

Travel many miles

to view leopard in the snow.

It moves. Did they see?

Leopard’s eyes shone blue,

steely, cold with black center.

View was ecstasy.

Leopard’s head turns back.

Piercing eyes vanish again.

The mountain turns white.

That would have been nice to see.

He has a hard time believing

that a woman could yearn

for a man as a man yearns

for a woman. They are

“sugar and spice and

everything nice,” distant,

aloof, crystalline, cold,

spicy, too hot to touch. Males

are “snips and snails and

puppy dog tails,” They’re

snippety short on what’s

long in life, slow to grow,

doofusy, a swinging,

swaying Chocolate Lab’s

tail full of neediness and

please pet me, please.

They stumble and bumble

and fall head over heels

while cool, cold, icy

cubes of sugar with

so many sharp corners

only melt in coffee or tea

but certainly not he

and his charmless arms.

Or maybe it’s the other

way around or better

yet, both and — sugar

melts, the dog laps up

the sweetness, the

tail wags, they fall

headlong in love

which turns out to be

romance — some say

God’s trick to secure

marriage and the future

of the species – hormones

as a divine joke.

Really?

That’s not very romantic.

Day comes and goes;

Night comes and goes;

Sun comes and goes;

Moon comes and goes;

Stars come and go;

Snow comes and goes;

Rain comes and goes;

Wind comes and goes;

Rivers come and go;

Mountains come and go;

Breathing comes and goes;

Life comes and goes;

Death comes and goes;

Joy comes and goes;

Sorrow comes and goes;

Holding comes and goes;

Letting go comes and goes;

You come and go;

I come and go;

All come and go;

None comes and goes;

And so it goes.

The smartest scientist

who ever lived said,

is saying and ever will

say, “It is all here right

now – past, present,

future.” She was, is

and will be asked,

“How do you know

this?” She said, is

saying and will say

now, “An old, drunk

Lakota when he

wasn’t, isn’t and

won’t be so drunk

and neither

was, is nor will

I be…so drunk

told, is telling

and will tell me.”

He sat at the kitchen counter

where he kept his computer

and, immediately, smelled

stinky feet.

He looked down where his

shoes and feet did meet.

He breathed a sigh of ease;

it wasn’t he,

but he looked up and

on the counter

sat a dish of breakfast cheese,

two and a half hours after breakfast

and three out of the deep freeze.

Then he heard his wife ask nicely,

“Darling, put the cheese in the

refrigerator, please.”