Blog Archives

A Scattering Of Quizzical Looks

A scattering of quizzical looks,
A flurry of meaningful hugs,
Why must my sad lady fair
Scare as if all men are thugs?
More than a pair of kisses &
A small certain of rolled up eyes;
With a hand-to-palm reflex too old—
Ma’am, unspoken thoughts aren’t all lies!
Just gimme some shelter:
Those northern storms boil up so fast.
I’m not very sure your fear and dread
Will all night gunk us up in the past.
Lovely one retired just last week,
Congrats on your monies independent,
But risk a chance with a dancer cheek-to-cheek
Before your tired heart is completely spent.
To those eyes whose tears have shed Afghani sands—
Find your calm and take hold of loving carefully hands.

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The Sun Goes Round and Round

Did you see how that sun did sure set
Burning down and turning grass to hay
A fiery heat like in our redhead’s eyes
When things broke up but it’s gonna be okay
Too young to Afghanistan
Too young to learn life’s that dirty
Too young to have to always gear up again
An old old woman before she made thirty

Did you see those high night sparkled skies
Space with just enough empty to hide all the shame
Stars breathless shining down on we the unworthy
Though not so for our redhead who lost the game
Too young to Afghanistan
Too young to sail in the Horror Sea
Too young to fight it over and over again
Another veteran shotgun betrothed to PTSD

Did you see how that sun did early rise
A fresh start promise of another new day
Like the love flowing in a nurse’s pure heart
Floating in a speed boat off a New Jersey quay
Too young to Afghanistan
Too young to become so old old
Too young even if she’s only just fifty
With a sad sad story too often again retold

My Stop

Sally Somewhat Lovely wondered why all the fuss
She had just been standing there awaiting the bus,
When Bob Horridman stumble stumbled across the street;
Bobby wan’t much to look at, but Sally, he wanted to meet.
Exchanged hellos and embarrassed burps and such,
The two wannaloves stood close but they didn’t touch;
Then Bob stepped off the curb to gather his thoughts
And a Chrysler mowed him down and connected the final dots—
Because inanimate objects always win over flesh and blood.
It dawned a rainy day, the sun came out, but ended with a thud.
Later on the Crosstown bus Sally Somewhat Lovely didn’t cry
She tried to remember his face, didn’t, couldn’t understand why;
She had just been waiting for her end-of-day bus ride home,
Now sitting seared with the image of flashing cloth, blood and chrome.
She looked out to see the leaves were all gone from the oak tree top,
Then the familiar called and she stood to say, “Okay, Driver, this is my stop.”

A Horsie of Orange and Blue

Papa come play;
Papa put down your cares today.
Are you really so sad as that?
Did all those days leave you cold and flat?
Papa, tell me no more of that war;
Papa, yes, there are better things in store.
Try not to leave me with your weeping back;
Yes, I see you cry, I see the tears’ crisscross track.
Papa, were they all your friends?
Papa, not all met very bad ends;
Some of you did at last come home—
Some happy, though others are still lost, and roam…
Papa come play;
Papa, look what I drew for you today:
With crayon, a horsie of orange and blue.
O Papa, Mommy and I really love you.
Little Isabelle cradled in her tired Papa’s lap, and one good arm;
Papa pushed out a smile: Father and daughter were now safe and warm.

For Our Veterans: thank you isn’t nearly enough! Bless You!

Let Fly

Come out from behind your cover
Make me a better man
Let the young pan wren fly
Come over as soon as you can
He was a very instant person*
Ten feet ahead of all of it*
But it was so early morning façade
Every little stoned bit part of it
She was all total PTSD
The subject is surely closed
A shattering glowing in the past
Is what we all supposed
Their paths crossed over the river
Love of a finer distraction
Until the prelude fell away
Making way for a newer attraction
He shouldn’t have said that
As all the passion has flown
Too late he shuts his trap
Too familiar the feeling of being so alone
Come out from behind your cover
Make me a better man
Let the young pan wren fly
Come over whenever you can

*stolen from Paul Trynka’s “Brian Jones,” 2014