A Place To Breathe

I still watch Tom and Jerry
sitting cross-legged
mouth slightly agape
Intensely fascinated
Immensely entertained
and lord knows I’ve
seen them all before
but that doesn’t matter
It’s a warm place
to breathe
To gather myself
I just don’t have the
Froot Loops
anymore

One Moment (Unrehearsed)

I had a friend call me once
from down south
In the wee hours
In agony
His .45 in his mouth
seeking a reason
from me to not
pull the trigger
That’s a big moment
Enter stage right
Unrehearsed
A moment in which I
dearly missed poetry
where my words
didn’t matter
On this night
they were enough
He didn’t

Would It Matter?

Would it matter if I cried?
Would the world stop turning
to stand by my side?
Would the robins return early
with songs for my ears
and Spring in their eyes?
Would the voice in my head
stop whispering lies?
Would the Hallelujah Chorus
ring down from on high?
Would it matter if I cried?

Delinquents

We have no long rich
history to speak of
relatively speaking
Less than 250 years
Juvenile delinquents
from everywhere
but here
China
Africa
India
Europe
South America
all have long
histories
and we pay to trace
our ancestries
back there
but please do
continue
fretting over
the immigrants

Poetic Udderance

There comes a time –
Let’s say it’s now
when it’s fine to rhyme
said the studious cow

So I thought it over
and said I’ll try
and the cow ate clover
while I penned these lines

And the sky was blue,
The fat clouds, white
And I sang “I’m through!”
to the cow’s delight

The End

Packin’em In

The gaping maw of hell
will need to be widened
to accommodate
the sheer volume of lying
ne’er-do-wells
rushing headlong there
and more chairs for the table
by the devil’s right hand
will surely be added
A higher mind than mine
might be saddened
instead of applauding
their passage

Now Showing

Murderers make good neighbors
so the neighbors say
Never caused any trouble
Always a smile and a wave
We’re sales presentations
Walking slide shows
Interchangeable
like pocket squares in suit coats
or scarves in every color
Who do we really know?
Not even ourselves

Poesy

What is waking at three
in the morning to pee
but poesy
The moon
brightly shining
somewhere
Owls grasping
errant field mice
from the tall grass
Trees
whispering secrets
like they do when
when the sun is away
knocking on other
folks doors
Poesy
Mystery
Getting up
to pee

True Sight

I watched a delightful
young smiling boy with
bright brown blind eyes
learning braille
Eager fingers tracing
the words and drawings of
“The Little Prince”
The joy
fascination
intensity
on his face
far beyond
language and
I cried
realizing
it was I
not him
that was blind

I Believe

If there be a heaven or
some nirvana we slip into
once we slip out of these
wretched meat suits
I assume it smells like
Nag Champa incense
floating through and
entwining with the
heady aroma of freshly
brewed coffee
for that is
divine