BREAKFAST WITH OATMEAL

It is a morning for coffee, eggs and bacon.
But since the doctor has forbidden me
the pleasure of life’s small vices,
I eat my hot oatmeal, grimacing as I wash it down
with bland, watery decaf.
Upstairs I hear my wife’s feet
shuffling towards the bathroom.
I read the morning paper while I finish my oatmeal,
passing over the bad news for the sports page,
then the funnies.
I hear the toilet flush just as I reach
Pearls Before Swine.
My wife stumbles into the kitchen
looking as if she might really be on the hunt
for some tasty brains.
I distract her with oatmeal and decaf.
The oatmeal looks very much
the way my brain feels most days.
As she sleepily spoons the mushed cereal
into her gaping maw,
it suddenly occurs to me
that as much as we’d all love
coffee, eggs and bacon,
most of the time,
we have to settle for oatmeal.

A Comedy of the Absurd

Suppose a man awakens

some anonymous morning

and finds the world has slipped

into one of those off-off Broadway plays

where nothing makes sense

and everyone speaks

in melodramatic non sequiturs.

At first, he is confused

by what he sees,

it is as if the world has been

turned upside down and sideways.

He begins to fear he is losing his mind

and soon they will come

to lock him away.

But as the day goes by

and he becomes acclimated

to the rhythm of this strange,

Kafkaesque universe

he realizes that this is the way

the world has always been

and it is he who has been

out of step all this time.

Published in Poem, November 2009

Tonight's Feature

 

The clouds separate, like the drawing

Of the curtains at a movie theater

And the sky is suddenly flooded

With a cavalcade of stars.

Elizabeth Taylor as Cassiopeia

Lounges seductively upon her chair

Casting come hither glances towards

Steve Reeves’ Hercules who is locked

In mortal combat with the Hydra –

Special effects courtesy of Ray Harryhausen.

Kirk Douglas as Orion the Hunter

Pulls the string of his great bow

And sets fly a flaming arrow

That impales Ursa Major’s rump

Who rises up roaring and with one

Giant paw swipes the Big Dipper

From the sky, spilling a shower

Of shooting stars all across the sky.

A 1950’s science fiction rocket

Blasts past overhead,

Disguised as a satellite or an airplane,

But we know it’s an invasion

And only the teenagers down at the Soda Shop

Led, of course, by Steve McQueen

Can put a stop to their nefarious scheme.

Later, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers

Traipse across the blue face of the moon

Then it’s intermission and the night

Is filled with burlesque popcorn boxes

And dancing hot dogs.

Published in California Quarterly, Spring 2010

Finding Home

How far will a bird fly to escape

Winters arctic display?

A thousand miles or two,

Following the same

Migratory pattern year after year.

Yet we are surprised when a man

Changes his skin to escape the past.

That the earth continues

Its seasonal cycles whether

We are here or not is miracle enough

Or that salmon know the way

Back upstream to their spawning pool.

We will never understand the conversation

Between the trees and the wind

Or how far we will travel

In our lifetime, a million miles

or only a dozen, so what can we

Ever hope to understand

Of our own lives?

That we always find our way home

Is miracle enough.

Published in Poem, May 2010

This Island of Tears

 

 

The moon rises over the twisting spirals

and minarets of the old gods.

It is the quiet solace of their

ancient sanctuaries that call me

from my hotel room to the streets below.

The warm tropical heat is like

stepping into a blast furnace

after the cool air conditioned climate

of the hotel, I can smell salt

from the sea just a mile distant.

A truck rumbles by, spraying me

with cold water from the evening’s rain.

Up and down the avenue,

hard muscled men with olive skin

gather on the stoops of tenements,

listening to loud, lively rap music

and chattering jovially in their

exotic, alien language.  But I’m

the foreigner here, an intruder

in their world. I pass by silently,

a ghost tourist, keeping my eye

on the pavement at my feet.

There is a hint of agitation in the air,

a barely restrained sense of menace

in their posture and voices,

as if at any second they could explode

in a fury of fists and violence.

But they pay me no mind

and I soon pass by their neighborhood

into a narrow row of shops

and bars, leaking light

from open doors and plate windows.

An old woman with two snaggled teeth

and a scarf wrapped around her head

offers to tell my future

for ten dollars American.

But I already know my future.

It is behind me in the shadows

left by my passing.

My feet come to a stop on the stairs

of a looming, majestic cathedral.

The stained glass depicts St. Michael

brandishing a flaming sword.

I reach out and grasp the ornate handle

of a huge oak door.

But the door refuses to open.

Heaven has denied me entrance.

The moon drifts behind a cloud

darkening the street around me.

I can travel no further.

Published in Ship of Fools, Fall/Winter 2010

Disclaimer

No one was injured

in the making of this poem.

Whole families were not

wiped out by computer guided smart verbs.

No soldiers were fragged by friendly nouns.

No innocent bystanders were accidentally

gunned down by stray adjectives

from some random drive-by.

No women were beaten to death

by jealous prepositions

and absolutely no children

were harmed by conjunctions.

 All stunts were performed

by professionally trained

parts of speech

to bring this poem to you

100% injury free.

 Published in Poem, November 2010

Work for the Day

 

The way the twisted cords of yellow twine cut

into the fingertips, the weight of the body

as it turns and tosses

the tight packed bales from the wagon.

On the ground, your partner stacks

as fast as you can throw. Sweat

seeps down your back

into the crack of your pants.

You can smell your own

clean, sweet odor like a field of timothy

drying in the hot sun.

The cows keep watch, their heads

dangling over the fence, wondering

what curious creatures we humans are

to be expending so much effort in such

a seemingly meaningless task. 

Three hundred bales by noon,

unloaded and neatly stacked

to the barn’s wooden rafters.

You go inside for a quick lunch

of a cold meat sandwich and a bottle

of icy beer downed in a single

long, ecstatic drought

that leaves your head

slightly swimming and pleasantly buzzed.

All the long afternoon stretches before you

like those endless rows of Indiana corn.

Sighing, you push your ball-cap

back on your sopping forehead and right then

the evening seems a distant promise,

but you know the day

will not be long enough

for all that’s left to be done.

Originally appeared in The Rockford Review, Winter/Spring 2011