Words

Your thoughts, silent and invisible, cannot be judged,

Yet  your words not merely predict action,

They are in themselves action,

And reaction tells of their value.

Is my “good morning” pleasing,

Does it suggest my recognition of your presence 

Or do you hear a voice 

Prerecorded in a meaningless sound bite?

If I express doubt, 

Is it a preamble to an inquiry that we both may share

Or have I fired the first volley

In a war that may rupture any attempted dialogue?

I may exhort followers to destroy the temple

And watch the fires burn.

I may plead for a good man

Not knowing he will rise and consume me.

I may tell those I love

Of my desire for their happiness,

Without bringing a present, 

And expect to be believed.

Rid yourself of “you know” and “well”.

Recognize the silence that needs filling.

Know too the one that speaks truth,

Above all, offer compassion.

Witches

If I was a witch I’d work in the east.

West witches have a bad rep, to say the least.

They probably aren’t really so bad,

But they’re reputed to be stark raving mad.

Whether good or bad, east or west,

I wonder if they take a test

To see if they can fly their broom

All around the living room.

Do all good witches dress in white?

With matching pajamas for sleeping at night?

I’m sad for those that always wear black,

They live,we’re told, in a dingy old shack.

If I were a witch I’d travel so far,

And watch all the people from the rim of a star.

I’d help all the good ones raise money for  rent

As long as they fork over my 10 per cent.

When Tina Was 14

When is a girl not interested?

Surely not much at 13.

My daughter, Tina, is  too busy,

Boys are too “stupid”.

Is it 14 that she begins to notice

And starts getting noticed?

Her figure changes,

Boys become social legal tender.

Surely my daughter understands things.

We “girls” have talked about sex.

Her grades matter, and her Shakespeare club.

No, it must be later then 14.

Ted, a year and one grade advanced

Is going to a concert, he asked Tina.

She advises me “It’s on  Saturday,

I’ll be home by 10, 10:30,  no later”.

On Sunday I drove her to beach volley ball.

Lots of teens, handsome kids.

Tina whispers fiercely , 

“Slow down, check out those buns”.

When the Martians Land

!

I think of a baby in the bath water,

Splashing until the water is gone.

We speak of rights, without understanding

Them  or their limitations.

Much like the baby we demand liberty,

As though splashing or shouting

Will bring us to the unnatural state

We insist is our birth right.

2

When the Martians invade,

In whatever form they appear,

(Dead oceans, exhausted land, religious imperatives)

We will look to our deck chairs. 

When the Martians attack,

We will pass legislation making them illegal,

We will build useless walls, 

And condemn the enemy from the pulpits.

When the Martians advance

Short- sellers will reap a windfall,

With no way of collecting on their bet,

And no where to go with the gain.

When the Martians reach the gates

Speeches will be made, swords will be drawn 

And science will be offered as a sacrifice

To the last and best god. 

Whazzup

Knowing that a floppy disk 

Is unbendable marks you.

Signs of high school years not visible,

Gone beyond yesterday’s rearview mirror.

I’m considering Lawn Bowling.

Yesterday there was college and a young family.

Yes, the tattoo images will be sagging,

War paint has a limited life span.

I’m told telephone directories,

(You remember them, don’t you?),

Will be in short supply this year.

My grandchildren will not mourn their passing.

Morning papers , 

Companionable friends of long standing,

Usurped now by hate radio, are disappearing.

Still this remains my country, drunk or somber.

War

A rising sun on a smoldering valley. 

A smell, offensive,  persistent,

Overwhelms the odor of  smoke

That rises from the burnt out trees.

Union troops intent on stripping the dead -

Boots, belts, anything of use.

Soon the fallen will share a common pit.

In time new life will replace this scarred landscape

And the smell of death will diminish and pass.

But for  now it is omnipresent.

In the valley the sounds that fix attention

Are reduced from yesterday’s Armageddon,

No cannons, no rebel battle-cries charge the field

With terror and panic.

Today it is the moans and screams

Of the wounded and dying, men and horses,

Pained beyond endurance, waiting for help

Or death.

We kill fewer horses now.

Wallet's Gone

Distraught.

Racing home to cover, and recover my identity.

Wallet gone, probably stolen,

I need contact only half of the world’s population,

Alerting them to my virtual demise.

How could this happen to me?

I could be philosophical if it happened to you,

Manifest just the right amount of sympathy,

Offer  unspecified assistance,

And bewail modern man’s nightmare

In a post-Thoreau world. All records on a thumb nail indeed!

God, the trickster, has struck again.

I’d walked one block, since last using my wallet.

How could the fucking thing be gone?

Retracing my steps 3 times and finding nada 

I head for home.

At my front door  stands a large orange traffic cone.

Who the hell put that damn thing here?

Something very strange is happening,

And I am not amused.

Furious, I kick the cone a good 10 feet.

In the space just vacated sits my wallet.

God may play games, but there is at least one good Samaritan.