Fannie and Corydon crash my wedding

 

Fannie and Corydon crash my wedding

Corydon’s photo flash powder 
blasts the room as he asks 
How much are you paying 
the waiters and cooks?

Fannie wants to know 
Are you pregnant yet?

More than a century they’ve been ghosts. 
Matter of family history, they birthed 
my grandma six months after marriage, 
same day President Garfield was assassinated. 
Corydon published a newspaper, 
Democrat in a Republican town
until the printing plant burned down. 
Go figure.

Fannie as a hobby crocheted homilies 
for the Presbyterian ladies such as 
STOP THE RAILROAD BOSSES.

Grandma as their child endured
schoolyard taunts. Which may explain
why Grandma was an old lady all her life,
always proper. But she comes to our 
hippie wedding, her ghost.

Corydon offers a toast:
May your love bear fruit. 
May you nourish the poor. 
May you poison the rich.
Tell lies, you will be elected.
Tell truth, you will be shot.
May you tell truth regardless.

He leaves a silver dollar 
and a note under his plate:

Nothing has changed.  

…..

Note: There are ghosts at every wedding, though they wait to show up years later in the photo album of our memory. My own small wedding (it was the sixties) had more ghosts than guests. My wife and I were high school sweethearts. Still together. Our wedding party grows larger all the time.

Photos are of Fannie and Corydon. 
First published in Live Encounters. Thank you editor Mark Ulysses.

 Hear me:

Never Point a Loaded Politician at any Human Being

 

Never Point a Loaded Politician at any Human Being

My first job, no trifle,
I taught kids to shoot a rifle.
Gun safety at summer camp, on the range,
no one thought it strange to show 8-year-olds
to cock the bolt, squint and squeeze.
Blow holes in the paper target, please.

That same summer
I had a girlfriend, cute as molasses.
We met every night, hid our asses
in the boathouse under canoes.
Her expertise was teaching peace.

Next summer, age 18
I told the Draft Board I was pacifist
but the job history, me a crack shot.
They said not.

Kissinger lied.
Nixon lied.
Young men died.

Age 25, on impulse at a garage sale
a .22 bolt-action rifle I bought,
same model I once taught
and it came with bullets in a box
plus thirteen pairs of jogging socks.

Wore the socks, raised three kids
strong as molasses to be mindful,
to be kindful while Reagan lied, then Dubya,
Iraq oh my God and Dick Cheney
who never heard my safety rules
filled his hunting buddy with buckshot
and lied. And speaking of liars—
look now. Wow.

Grandkids come merry as molasses,
mindful and kindful and I tell you
when I die, bury me in jogging socks
with ammo, the whole box
plus that rifle, never shot.
First job is now my final task.
Teach those ghouls gun safety:
be mindful, be kindful. Don’t lie.
The best weapon is never fired.
The best war is never fought.

…..

First published in Poets Reading the News. Thank you editor Sonia Greenfield.
Photo is from an NRA web site.

Note: Yes, I still have that rifle. It makes people uncomfortable to know that. So I wrote this uncomfortable mess of a poem. Just sayin’…

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Ceasefire

 

Ceasefire

At Dog's Bluff
children swoop on the rope swing,
drop to muddy water.
Some daredevils climb the rocks
thirty feet above the swimming hole
and launch, disappear in the brown,
pop up gasping.

One girl stands frozen at the limestone edge,
a statue of fear while people shout
"Jump! Jump!”
One shirtless man watches silent and scowling.
It’s his daughter up there.
Scars scattered like stars over his back.
I can’t help myself, ask “Shrapnel?”
He fixes me with a glare. “Uh-huh.”

Just then she jumps.
Murky water. Five seconds. Ten.
She pops up. Dad exhales,
breathes again. Away from him, free,
hair trailing black and wild,
she swims toward boys.
“Which war?” I ask.
“Does it matter?”

…..

First published in Slipstream — thank you editor Dan Sicoli.
Photo is at Dog’s Bluff on the Big Piney River in Missouri. The girl midair is my daughter.

Hear me:

To be poor on rich land

 

To be poor on rich land

Evicted, this cold and final night
I tuck two children under blankets singing
    Knick knack paddy-whack,
    give the dog a bone.
Nonsense is sense to them.
They’ve known no other home.

We sit by the window watching the moon
drift among branches of Bishop pine.
Tomorrow we’ll haul away beds, bears, books.
Behind we’ll leave mildewy walls
crayon-colored with unicorns and rainbows.

Yesterday the bulldozer trundled down
from a flatbed trailer, now waits in the dark
to growl its motor, to flatten
this tiny cottage of scribbled rooms.
Spare the pine? We have no say.

A property priced in cash, not love.
Nests of mice in a field.
Comes the plow.

…..

First published in Slant. Thank you editor Michael Blanchard.
Photo by me.

Hear me:

The Car Cure

 

The Car Cure

Blended with the floor boards,
so we named him Oak.
Stood like a sawhorse blocking a child
from the street as if to say I will not let you die.
A predator, ate teddy bears.
More than anything loved to ride in our car.

Stumbled one day groaning to the yard,
collapsed on a bed of blooming lilies.
In the house Rose discovered
he’d eaten most of a braided hearth rug
like swallowing a rope of rags.
Why?

Would not explain, would not budge,
would not open his eyes in that garden,
not for love nor bacon. Insides aflame,
between gurgle and sigh,
waiting to die.

Rose would not let him.
Home alone, she could not lift eighty pounds
of yellow Lab but in stroke of genius
drove the car across flowers right up to Oak,
and she opened the door.

He cocked a blond eyebrow.
Slowly in agony raised himself.
Clumsily with a push on his behind
climbed into the vintage VW,
wedged his head out the window.
Sunday, tiny town, no vet.

Rose drove. For miles.
Doggy head lifted, neck stretched.
Nose inhaled fresh rolling scent
of pastures green, of dirt road dust.
He panted — with dangled tongue,
with ancient lust.

Do you sometimes drive,
simply drive,
top open or windows down,
casting your demons to the breeze?

Rose drove home.
Oak stepped out, shook himself
as if shedding water or madness,
and without thought of past or future
trotted peaceably into the house.

…..

First published in Please See Me
Photo: Oak the floor, Oak the dog, and my son

Hear me:

I take off my shirt and she giggles

 

I take off my shirt and she giggles

Trainee, a med tech who looks like
a high school girl in a white lab coat.
Treadmill, a stress test to measure
my heartbeat while I stride. First
she reviews a sheet of instructions.
Looks up, and she giggles.
“Excuse me but I have to shave
your chest hair so the electrodes
will stick.” Behind her a nurse, older,
arms folded, watches scowling.

From a can the tech squirts Barbasol
in white foamy circles, then scratches
with a BIC disposable razor, pink.
“Am I hurting you?”
I assure her it’s fine, it feels like the belly
of a mouse running over my chest.
Looks up, eyes wide.
“Does that happen often?”  

Leans in, brow furrowed,
tip of tongue at corner of mouth.
Her breath on my damp skin
like the touch of butterfly wings.
Works left-handed, razor between
thumb and middle finger which seems odd
until I notice her index finger is missing
above the second joint. I want to ask
What happened? What accident?
Am I your first chest? but such questions
seem somehow too intimate even as
her razor is circling my left nipple.
For the first time in my life I wonder
how my nipples compare to other men.

A throat clears.
Trainee and I both swing our eyes
to the nurse who grins and says
“Next time you’ll use the electric shaver
like the rest of us. Okay?”
Trainee puts hands to mouth.
Then bursts into laughter.
She’s been hazed. And by chance, I.

A doctor opens the door:
“What am I missing?”
Nurse says “Nothing. I’ve got this.”
Trainee presses electrodes to my hairless skin.
Adjusts a dial, flips a switch.
Already she’s older.
Tells me to match the pace of the machine.
Ready to test my heart.

…..

First published in Broadkill Review. Thank you editor Kari Ann Ebert

Hear me:

Chocolate Fudge

 

Chocolate Fudge

Gently we shake the quilt,
wake the boy who sleeps with
Chocolate Fudge, a bear.
Through dark streets we drive
silent bear and wide-eyed boy
without a sip of water or bite of food.

We act normal as if there is a normal
while in a bright room the nurse offers
boy and bear a choice of gowns,
blue or white. Choices—
we wish for more.

Nurse lets the boy push the big button
opening double metal doors to surgery.
In his too-large blue paper gown,
blue paper slippers, hair sticking up as usual,
he enters, pivots toward us—a quick
goodbye wave—a smile. Doors close
with a sound like a gulp.

We hold Chocolate Fudge
wrapped with blue crinkly gown
in a grip so fierce he might die.

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig. Thank you editor Hayley Mitchell Haugen.

Note: Boy and bear, now age 43, are fine. They are also fine musicians. The instrument the bear is playing is an electric mandolin, built by boy long ago. 

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Pierre Peiret

 

Pierre Peiret

In my blood is a pastor from France,
name of Pierre Peiret. His church
in the Pyrenees was a charity, a school,
an asset to the people of the village.
He preached against ignorance, untruths—
and against the Catholic Church,
against the law.

The king sent dragoons on horseback.
Their muskets breathed fire.
Pierre and his flock hid in high mountains,
the impenetrable forests they knew so well.

Pierre married Marguerite.
She was 18, he was twice that.
The baby was born six months later.
For sin of the flesh, he lost his flock.
A year later, they forgave him.
They needed him.

But the law closed in.
In 1685 Pierre, with Marguerite and child
fled to America
while France lost the Huguenots—
the educated, the literate, the skilled—
while the king kept his ignorance,
his untruths, his power.

Three centuries have passed.
Now in America an orange king
sends dragoons for our neighbors, friends.
Pierre, my blood, whispers in my ear—
Take to the mountains, the forest.
Resist. Or flee.

…..

Image: Cartoon of a French dragoon forcing a Huguenot to sign his conversion to Catholicism. Drawn in 1686.

Drops of my blood flow from the firebrand Pierre Peiret and the lovely Marguerite through their child born of love, Magdaleine, my great (eight times great) grandmother. Many drops, I hope.

Hear me:

April 22, Morning Walk

 

April 22, Morning Walk

Panicky cheeping to my ears.
A dozen ducklings in a storm drain
deep as I am tall
can't climb can't fly can't escape
except down the big pipe.
Mama duck above the drain
stands frantic, flapping and quacking.

So I lower myself
into gloppy gunk over my ankles.
Scoop with my clasped hands
twelve fuzzy wigglers
with underbellies of slime
one by one
and set them above.

Mama duck warns of discipline
as smelly ducklings in a peepy line
follow her to cattails, and gone.

I resume my walk in mucky shoes,
socks stinking of rot.

Had to do it. Right?
Happy Earth Day.  

(And some day, when I’m in the drain
will you do it for me?)

…..


photo by Alexis Fotos

Hear me:

Dear crazy-ass librarian: Thank you

 

Dear crazy-ass librarian: Thank you

for removing book jackets
because, you said,
covers were slick, slipped, took up space,
would get lost anyway
and we nasty children might tear them
but worst of all they sometimes lied

which was asinine, my mother thought
while she volunteered there
so she brought fresh covers home
where I read them
my sister crayoned them
my brother made airplanes of them
and then we cut, we joined
into big collages smelly with paste
until the school fired you, librarian,
after parental revolt
and your replacement wanted
all the covers back.
Oops.

Here, the ragged covers and ever after
please may we uncover new ideas.
May we color each day crayon bright.
May we fly on fancy,
may we connect meanings
to a larger pattern
and then with thanks
may we give back.

…..

First published in I-70 Review. Thank you editors Maryfrances, Gary, and Greg
Note: My mother and the book jackets is a true story. This happened in the 1950s when most books had plain dull hardback binding with colorful paper covers. Nowadays, the hardback binding is often just as colorful as the paper wrappers.

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