Water Glass

A clear plastic glass, less than half full,
Reminiscent of a Dutch still life,
Goes unnoticed in the crush of morning mayhem.
It sits on the sidewalk edge
As though left unfinished by a restaurant patron
Who joined the rushing maelstrom, competing
To reach an unseen, but exulted position before the sacred gates close.
 
The glass, unaware of Mercury’s race,
Waited undisturbed in a universe removed
From Monday morning with no life expectancy
And no place to go.

Dying in Vain

Impelled by the IED under his wheels
Chuck rose, defying gravity.
He looked quite peaceful leaving the Jeep
Much of his body remained in one piece.

Oh shit! This is very bad,
Snaking from my upturned Humvee
Moving to him. What a fucking stupid move!
I’ll just go there, put him together.

My life was not erased in that roadside incident.
Chuck’s body parts sent home.
We survivors huddled, scared, mourning the loss.
Now we will not die in vain.

Our job is retaking Ramallah
The natives are not friendly.
No safety here, but we remember Chuck,
And we will not die in vain.

These people are crazy, killing each other
Over a 1,500 year old disagreement.
Saving people who want us dead sucks.
Chuck is our cause.

How long will we fight for Chuck?
Is our belief strong enough to sustain us?
Can we fight forever for a lost comrade?
Who, then, are the crazies?

At least we are not Vietnam vets,
Apologizing for our mission.
We are lauded, eulogized, elegized.
Stay, they will pronounce us brave.

Applauding our efforts beats sharing them.
Everyone wants us gone, everyone but the Decider.
Who extols the painful road to democracy.
Surely Chuck did not die in vain.

Life Goes On.

Phil had just received a call from the police.
Ed had killed himself, leaving a note for Phil.
“Please see to my family”.

When your world falls apart.
It is neither bravery nor cowardice
That work to recover balance.
Touch your desk, and hope it will not prove illusional.
A drink, a drink for Phil... Maybe two.

Life did not go on, thought Phil.
It’s death that goes on;
Poorly timed, very inconvenient.

What have you done to me?
Your family is not my responsibility.
I have more important things to do,
You miserable son-of-a bitch!

First School Day

I most decidedly did not want Mom to walk me.
True, I was terrified. My first school day ever.
Probably be the worst day of my life.
Certainly the other kids would be bigger than my 50 pounds.
Still, to be seen grasping Mom’s hand would be instant death.

Decision time. Just short of the last corner,
Too late to claim a sudden terminal illness,
I released Mom’s hand, and barely holding onto my pee,
Crossed to the school yard.

I don’t really remember the rest of that day,
But I think I sat at my desk for about 2000 hours,
Checking the wall clock every fifteen seconds.

Vision

I dreamed I saw a field of men
Moving as one, all focused, athletic.
They rose and fell, always coordinated.
Sound and light marked their performance.
Millions saw but did not understand.

Walls, high above the field,
Portrayed the beauty and possibility of earth.
Pregnant with magic, the walls
Erupted with sky piercing light displays,
In celebration of the wonders below
And the achievements they could usher.

I saw recognition of the Bigger and Brighter.
Could we appreciate the wedding of thought and expression
And carry the dream from the field to the future?

Conviction

I’ve been here.
Rationalizing moves I might make,
Yet lacking the required conviction
That makes boldness possible.

My internal dialogues are repetitive.
I am uncertain that my poses are
Not merely studied.

As time passes my sense of righteousness grows,
Becomes a banner I wear
To proclaim my virtue. There is no wisdom
In the face of contemptuous indifference.

I suspect that near the surface,
Infancy, obdurate and insistent,
Rules my field of vision,
As though I might be holding my breath
Forcing others to seek my forgiveness.
Ah! But I would be sublimely, nay divinely kind,
And so charitable that both God and man
Might deem me worthy of immortality.

I cannot love those I do not like.
Still the possibility remains
That tomorrow will be resplendent
And an adult will remark upon it.

Distraught

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 fu----g 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.