Eulogy to today

sun flares in great Amen

as to netherworld she goes

like meteor come to earth

leaving all a flaming rose 

sunset sky afterglow 

puce and vermillion red

solar consolation gifts 

signals it is time for bed

Crown Royal purple night

descends on lake back dune

spring peepers greeting 

grey felt caterpillar cocoon

on mouse pillow willow

from snake eyelash depends

defying laws of gravity

as in mid-air it suspends

in forest fire swamp

gold embroidered log

with glitter snails trail

glimmers in gemstone fog 

molasses deep groans

from velvet butter bells

bidding us good rest 

as the Last Post knells

day neatly folds herself

in envelope of night

never to be seen again

new one dawns with light

So I shall dedicate

this poem to today 

her wholly gestalt self 

thank you for your brief stay

Dream Macabre

don't need a ticket

for this carnival ride 

with the circus big top

heaving and jolting inside 

sleep's carnival midway

on screeching calliope

three ring circus sideshow 

plays my nightmare lullaby

the show starts the moment

I first rest my brain

no sooner sleeping then

caged on circus animal train

swirling tilt-a-whirl 

jerking and twerking

my wits out of order 

till nothing's working

wish it took money

for Ferris wheel seat

So I can get off

and find my own feet

the rides that begin

must come to an end

my looping mind twister 

just rounds another bend 

foot stuck on the track

and here comes the train

following the leader

round carousel again

plaid skirt stuck fast

in spinning bar stool

gladiator winding me

up to play the fool

no bars at circuses?

easy for you to claim

keeping dreams weird 

is my middle name

Most dream so bad they

threatened my sanity

if I told they'd lock me

up and throw away the key

maybe it's the zipper 

a bolt's snapped at last 

never knowing where I am

or just what has me fast 

trapped by one arm

dragged on the ground

oh God here we go

another Mary-go-round

see the little dolly dance 

and vomit on the floor

has she had enough, folks 

or shall we cry for more?

shout out Himalaya!

if you wanna go fast 

all the faces melting 

as the mob whizzes past

stop the Gatling guns

of shooting gallery

I want to get out now

please cease firing on me

Now I'm playing cranes 

losing and never won

fed them all my coin

till I have not a one

who said this was fun 

why am in this place?

mirrors only leading to

more images of my face

tiny dancer on pointe

for the girl who owns

spinning on tippy toes

while crumbling her bones

ballerina coffined 

in the jewelry box 

latched by the child

with keys to the locks

clown in patched up skirt

so sweetly he does urge

behind Spartacus smile

we don't see his scrouge 

This started as a nature poem, sigh. 

 

On stopping by a diner with kids

Long road trip overtired crabby kids in need of sustenance, stopping by a diner on a snowy night in the middle of nowhere. A proper greasy spoon,  open 24 hours where the waitress is insulted if you call her a server and wears a proper waitress uniform with the orthopedic shoes. 

She's been serving people since before they put the new highway in, when the place was just called Truck Stop. She  doesn't hover asking how everything is tasting every 6 seconds but keeps your coffee fresh, filled and hot and remembers each order without writing it down. She calls you "Honey" and brings extra napkins and not just one but a dish of lemon wedges for the snooty oldest teen daughter's lemon water. 

Where truckers belly up to the lunch counter, perched on red vinyl covered stools you loved to spin on as a kid.  Chatting with the waitress behind the counter with the bubbler dispensers of of temptingly colored Hawaiian Punch and Orange Hi-C.  And the dessert case with individual pieces of Saran-wrapped cakes and pies. Men apologizing for accidentally making crude references. But no one really minds and when the mouthy behavior police 9 y/o asks why he said that, you say because people just do sometimes. Mind your business, don't stare it's rude and eat your supper. 

Tired men who drive across the country and are just glad they got there in time for a slice of the rhubarb pie, special of the house. Smiling at the kids, offering them quarters for the gumball machine which you would rather they did not take and gum they need like a hole in the head. But you feel obliged to say yes, because no one wants to hurt the feelings of someone with such bonhomie. And golly he reminds you of your kooky uncle Dave, may he rest in peace. 

Most of the kids eating eff all of the canned green beans you insisted they have with their meal. And snooty teen eating NOTHING BUT broccoli to spite you because she's mad you didn't stop where she wanted to. Or some such thing. It's so hard to keep track of what they are mad at you for at that age. 

And the rest filling up on French fries and pancakes drenched and syrup then eating the jelly out of the little plastic cartons that the waitress set out for the breakfast crowd. And kids playing with salt and accidentally spilling it . And copying their father putting creamers in his eyes and saying "take me to your leader!" Worse than the children! Kids begging for ice cream with half their pancakes uneaten. The little one eating French fries off the floor. And snooty one glaring at everyone. 

Mom and dad unwinding over their coffee and hot turkey sandwiches, relaxed by food and warmed by the cozy, grilled onion ambiance. Just kind of letting the kids' chaos happen a little. No one seems to mind. Leaving the waitress an astonishingly big tip to thank her for putting up with you all. And then she comes and tells you you have the best behaved kids she's ever seen and brings them free ice cream anyway. And the kids smirking at you over their chocolate mustaches. 

Hang on to these times. Savor the memories like syrup drenched pancakes. They're gone before you even realized they were there. 

In memory of a diner called Truck Stop along U.S. 2 in Michigan's  U.P. And a waitress named Barb who charged us whole pie price rather than individual pieces which would have cost twice as much. And bringing out a massive commercial size whipped topping thingy, to boot.  And Molly, serves you right your broccoli was overcooked and you went hungry. You should have had the chicken like we said. 

Poetry metacognition

I've been asked a lot where 

I get ideas for my poems and 

I don't know how to answer without

sounding fatuous or enigmatic 

or precious and tiresome 

To say I don't know is truth and lie

Can you know and not know

Or maybe you don't recognize

till you do and then you knew

you knew them all along? 

So I just start writing and see where it goes

Usually I end up more scribe than author

for there is an impetus I can't name 

that drives my thoughts and my pen

like spirit writing advertised at seances

What I've learned is that poems 

don't come from the atmosphere 

they don't grow on a tree like

ripe peaches waiting to be picked

if anything, poems pick you 

Mine come from muscle memory

and kneejerk responses and too long

silenced grief and frustration and 

feelings forced into tiny envelopes 

that can't hold them and split 

like a rug you stumble over because

too much litter has been swept under it

They source from my mind tree's trunk 

and course through my like sap in heartwood

They're don't come from or through, they are me.  

Some verse bursts like a lanced boil

others leak out in weeping you can't hide

some bubble up like a well tapped

others sit and stew, marinating this 

the time comes for them to speak out 

One thing I know for sure is you 

have to write when it's time. Don't push down

go big and deep and loud. Say stuff that 

might sound silly. Don't just say it, 

spray it like a huge graffiti mural

Don't let the hakken-kraks hush you 

don't second-guess or back down

it's poetry and there are no wrong ones

save those you don't give voice

that would be the real tragedy 

To rhyme is sublime and to not is fine

gonna try to break the rhyming

and the syllable counting habit 

so I can get my thoughts to coalesce

like turmeric and coriander bloomed in oil

more robust and diffuse and less restricted

rhyming can be a girdle worn

to compress or shrink ideas into 

tight boxes, but like Mexican  jumping beans

it may not flow in stricture of parsing 

in sound byte and measured stanzas

Rhyme isn't critical to  poetry

I mean look Williams' famous ditty

"this is just to say" about the plums

it was a note left on a fridge 

like an accidental scrap 

I didn't use to verse found it too tedious

but once begun my mind can't stop 

(Even now I'm seeking rhyme for tedious)

it's like you forget your mother tongue

by learning another language 

and having said that, rhyme is good discipline

it makes me struggle to find partners words 

and counting syllables gives a nice rhythm

poetry worth writing should come with 

some wrestling and head scratching and a few curses

It does however mean that I must forgo

words I'd really like to use because 

they don't fit, like a can that holds the door

open because it is proud of the shelf

But (there are lots of buts) that

too, stretches me to find that 

chef's kiss word to nail the dish

like the spice you didn't know was missing till you did

I test drive countless words to 

hit the flavor I'm seeking 

it might take Edison's 3,000 tries 

but when you get it right, you know

and the whole thing  lifts and takes off

and your heart sings

Steaming down from Birmingham one cold December day

in the shrine of the pine

in murky backdune gloam

last call for this train

as it steams us home

we're going deep tonight 

on lonesome railroad ride

 find your seat, ticket please

let's don't miss the other side

listen to her rumble as 

she croons to hobo's squall 

earth mother locomotive 

sharing herself with us all 

Serdeczna Matko dear

so beloved it hurts to sing

I don't know much about you

perhaps we've met in passing?

load-bearing ferry-woman 

carries her children safely home

Gaia, our goddess mama 

will never leave us alone 

many images of mother

mashed like praties for me 

I'll have to go rogue 

to get me any clarity 

choo-choo train and deity 

my Immaculata lady 

can anyone find my mama 

or a mama to love me?

 

I saw three ships come sailing

Father, son and Mother Mary 

steaming down from Birmingham

with shoulder rides for little me  

Mixing references like drinks

upon this night-night train

is the only way to make sense

of my mashed potato brain 

too cold to take off my coat

clacking away at my rhyme

cold that gets in your soul

and doesn't warm with wine

feet like ice blocks carved 

from lake Michigan whole 

when they used ice tongs

which grampa found and stole 

(from the abandoned Swett place in the dunes

long-forgotten. If they wanted 'em they should have taken them and they didn't so no harm done)

on highway made of steel

endless faceless porter men

no points, none keeping score  

Will we ever see their kind again?

the railway's done and gone 

but a few ghosts I sill see 

of old men and their daughters 

rolling out of Kankakee. 

I'm the dad and  daughter

my old man and the sea

Granddad and the porters on

the train they call Memory  

For my da and granda and my husband and his da and his granda and my boys and girls. And me. 

A silly little rondo of song

trinkle tinkle ring says 

the wind in the chime 

singing through the trees

in the chapel of the pine

to the belfry tower

hear bells grumble rumble

chanting out their prayers

in baritone choir mumble 

to the white steeple tall 

one ringer all alone 

on church in the vale

pulls his funeral tone 

to glockenspiel in park

mazurka herky jerk

xylophone frilly trill 

for dancers of clockwork

to the lady with harp

on a promenade pier 

gently caressing strings

for little kids to hear 

to children's kitchen band 

on kazoo and oatmeal drum

and kleenex box fiddles 

do loudly pluck and strum

to the bird in the tree 

in our yard in her nest 

tweets last post and chorus 

as we all head in to rest 

back round the music plays

full circle to the chime 

it all begins and ends again

in our chapel of the pine

(picture is a gate-crasher at our nightly orchestral hijinks. But welcome none-the-less). 

Thank you for reading

Thank you to all who read

my funny blog of rhyme

I don't know who you are

nor if with them you chime 

perhaps you stumbled here

by inadvertent mistake  

then found you some comfort

and thought a rest to take

the reason for the reading

is not for me to tell 

just know you're most welcome 

to stop and bide a spell 

Pardon our dust, scattered

ideas like crumbs everywhere

Fragments of markings strewn 

hang on, I'll clear a chair

so what shall we talk about

tho if you've questions, I fear

I'm better clacking keyboard 

then verbalizing thoughts clear

I don't explain my poems

and I will never defend 

read or leave as written 

on that I will not bend

They are surely imperfect 

I do not disagree 

but I stand by them because

they've always stood by me

So if you're here to browse

if you seek no fault to find

then sit down and grab a pen

and jot down what's on your mind. 

 

The printing press in the workshop in the basement

certain phrases have their say

in my poems frequently 

more than mere lexicon 

they're my spirit vocabulary 

black as printer's ink 

a simile I often use

meaning more than it says

exposing more than I'd choose

ink's only black in print and

black ink isn't black you see

it's a rainbow-hued spectrum 

revealed by chromatography

I only discuss the science

to distract from the memory 

of basement press and printer

making little name cards for me

letterpress cabinet drawer 

with names like copperplate bold

tiny metal characters neatly stored

such wondrous order to behold. 

Upon the composing stick 

he'd arrange moveable type

tempting trays forbidden me

about that I did often gripe 

typesetting print to read

was technology back then

the typewriter's clacking keys 

replacing human hand and pen 

now we push buttonless buttons

a mystery I can't comprehend

touch screens are now touchless

instead of mailing we say "send." 

now we don't write we "text"

instead of talking we "interface"

we talk to boxes not friends

connected in cyberspace

computers are nice compared 

to messy loud  printing press

or typewriter's many headaches

digit-less digital is less stress

we've got to look forward and

Grampa would be first to agree

looking only backward you miss 

all the cool new things to see 

But (there's always one) we still 

found something gestalt in the press

though always covered in ink

it' was a "type" of mood therapy I guess 

I often mind walk in the workshop  

down in Crestwood Memory Lane 

to sort, if allowed, his letterbox

I will never see the like again

Pictures from Wikipedia user https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Trimalchio and Willi Heidelbach. 

Sitting shiva by our lake

crickle camp fire crackles

from trickly drip mist bog

sip fine pine sap wine 

atop birchwood swamp log

wet wood smoky choky at

impromptu bonfire night 

midsummer daze-y haze

from rainbow flame light

translucent and transcending

tongues untied by the wine

ancient wisdom descending 

helped by fire, weed and vine

t'was ever thus, this ritual

immemorial riddles break

eternity's secrets told round 

primordial old growth lake

woods-wise elders saging

on life mysteries engaging

in papal enclave debating

acolytes attending on the aging

I was young by the lake

in paradise I called mine

I walked among giants once

upon a faraway long ago time

with an elder wise as a god 

nattering on freely we did 

never shushing  nor shaming 

keep mum was all he forbid 

demanding I ask my questions

treating them all with  gravitas

no matter how trite or common

only foolish was the unasked. 

unschooled yet wise past words

this trodder of untrodden way 

hoping my markings please him

because of him they have their say

he was more than Irish charm 

he'd charisma, gin and IT

with a splash of lemon pine

blarney with no bullshit

transparent where he could

opaque on his own pain

translucent when needs must

blurring bad with twilight rain

I've tried hard not to stray 

to printer's black ink rhyme

all it gets us is hurt by

my endless jitterbug with time. 

he passed so quietly it hurts

no footprints left by our sea

it's my job to share Opi's opus

to the jungling entrusted to me

I shall be the elder now

sitting shiva by our lake 

holding court with my littles

in a perfectly Granda wake

I love you Grampa-Opi Kinney. Moja droga ja cię kocham. 

Rest in peace. 

No second line on this funeral train

"just a closer walk with thee

grant it Jesus is my plea"

so many hymns I sung to God

yet love heaven withheld from me

we're told we've friend in Jesus

our sins and griefs  he'll bear. 

all my griefs and parents' sins I bore

never felt Jesus nor anyone there

I didn't see that till, well now

and that helps unravel a mystery

filling pews in all the churches

I sat pretty much alone and lonely

where were they when this 

church hopping they did

or maybe the question is 

where was I, their little kid?

All memories are of me alone

for the life of me I can't recall

shouldering too heavy burdens 

laid upon me by them all

I was scapegoat and servant

surrogate parent and spouse to all

I carried their privy cans of shit

and took for everyone a routine fall

a friend asked yesterday how

child me felt treated so odd

parents owning me like property

making me think they all were god

couldn't say, never thought about 

needs, wants, self verboten for me

existing in shadow like baby ghost 

stumbling clumsily along periphery 

dragged along begrudgingly 

bounced between his or her home

to their next big Ponzi scheme

never having a home of my own

Each obsessed with themselves 

and the new people they found 

expected to parent and char for all

used to them never being around

growing up by accident despite

their harm not because of their aid

dancing for scraps like a dog

being very and always afraid

fear of pissing them off 

I always made them so mad

fear of failing and being in their way 

those called stepparents, mom and dad

what pictures remain, so few do 

show my anxious pinched face 

trying hard to smile and perhaps 

oh frabjuous day, find my place

I've read, didn't know back then

that keeping mum, small and hid

wearing pain scars like death mask

are tell-tale signs of an abused kid 

now an adult or what passes for that

I still try to take up no space at all 

I pretzel and crumple myself up

like used Kleenex rolled in a ball

I'm sore everywhere, everything aches 

from bowing and bending myself so low

I've broken and torn myself  to shreds 

I don't know how much lower I can go

about the songs I sang in church

all this harm parents did only to me

dislocated, cold, shattered to bits

Friend Jesus was not anywhere to see

He may have been, we're told it's so

but surrounded by anger, hurt and pain

God seems blind, deaf, dumb and shut

you can't see the Son through storm and rain

they were so selfish and off 

whatever shit they wanted I gave

Provided for them at my own cost

still hear his shame from the grave

bitch of it is  I get relief

from parent cruelty I can't separate

no rest for the weary even in sleep

can't leave pain at the cemetery gate

voices yammering in my brain

dying only makes louder and worse 

songs choked by toxic fumes from

gaslighting powered funeral hearse

no hope for peace from this death train

forbidden the jubilant second line 

their jazz funeral express non-stop

 "closer walk" dirge march through time

The girl with the sandburr in her side

now that I'm out it's out

the dirty little secrets we kept

shackled by their heavy burdens

it's about damn time I wept

now that weeping's begun

hang on it's gonna get loud

ugly crying, threats and curses

to spit it out I'm not too proud

I'm stooping to their level?

you say but you don't know

there's no rock bottom to 

which my parents would not go 

You call my truth vindictive

two wrongs don't make right

you curse my darkness yet 

you offer me no light 

but pointing wrong way round

your wagging digit of blame 

excusing parent perpetrators

while scolding my spoken shame 

 

but just remember and beware

the lecturing you so often do 

when that finger you point at me

four more point back at you

it's not for her dirty secrets

that the kid is taking the rap

it's shit they did to her 

so shut your flapping trap 

open up mind and stop your

tone-deaf prat so crass

hear my inner child out

don't make yourself the ass

what you call disloyal is me 

calling out dad's vowed suicide 

premeditated death weaponized 

to make me cower and hide

and what about your mom

she's victim too you say 

funny now you mention it

that's exactly what she would say

"what about Nancy?" is the

burden of her theme 

her utter narcissism has

become a classic meme 

when dad dumped on me

mother turned her face away

concerned only about herself 

abandoning me each and every way  

when I asked for help 

she shrugged and tossed her head

callous to death and pain

let's focus on her instead

caring not that her little girl 

was drifting out to sea

in fact mommy cut the rope 

and glibly gaslit my reality 

since then and to this day

no one's ever thrown a bone 

being pre-emptively pall bearer 

was a fear I carried alone 

we didn't know nor spoke of

such things back in the day

well I lived then too and alonee

with no one to guide my way

and scuze me, did I just hear 

you defend adults who did not 

help to carry a child's load 

left her to shoulder the lot? 

Standing on your ignorance

I'm sorry that just won't do 

what you're ignoring is conscience

I'll hear no sermons from you

And spare me your fake pity

if sorrow you have for me 

I can't hear your caring

over your ignoring complicity

even if you confessed guilt

it's many days and dollars to late

Keep your  sorrys to yourself

They're well past their sell-by date

and funny how mea culpaes 

until eleventh hour wait upon

fire insurance apologies aren't 

worth the paper they're printed on

sorry they say but don't mean

you'll get no sad contrition

they're only sorry they got caught 

you'll be lucky to get admission

dressed in DARVO and excuse 

if admission you ever get 

then it's begrudgingly only

when trapped in their own net

but be careful, don't trust 

for there will surely be a snare 

that comes back to snag you 

when their sins they must declare

gaslighting was their legacy 

it's what silenced my voice 

groomed to bear their guilt 

having no aid, solace nor choice

help arrived late or not at all

it took me 60 years to see

all the scars and bruises they

continually inflicted upon me 

to rescue little me I 

write out my pain in rhyme

big me owes small her a 

life ring thrown back in time 

my grasp must exceed reach

If I'm us both to save 

arms stretched far and deep 

lest we sink under the wave

expect more dark verses

as I go down the well 

there's lots of us trapped there

and a lot more pain to tell

This ain't over, Jack (or) we've only just begun to die

Hello it's me again 

the death-eater dad's spawn

the brain-cursed kid on whom

the doom is starting to dawn

back for round two in the

memory goo-stew to romp 

got some personal hell to sort

and evil juju to curb stomp

parting gift from my pater's

dark flirtation with the grave

You haven't heard the last of  this, Jack

I've got an inner child to save

my old man who knew I 

hated him self-applying that name

when I tearfully told him so

LOLed and did it just the same

And speaking of dumping junk 

in your kid's mind to blight

it wasn't the only or worst 

for me he'd a special gelignite 

To call it by name is verboten

you can't even use the word 

it starts with sui and ends in cide

but fine for this kid to have heard

so I can't pen about the pain 

that my father inflicted on me

internet protocol forbids that I

spell out his threatened heresy 

and beyond threats, promising

he'd bring himself to an end

I'd cry and beg him not to 

he'd smirk and leave me to fend

( I was five). 

I see now he was bluffing 

my eyes washed clear by tears

the self-harm song he sung

just to trip-wire my worst fears

terrified that he'd upsticks and go

as he and mom had often done 

I'd walk through fire to shield him 

from the Ku-Klux-Klan of his gun

I see now it wasn't for me

that I body blocked my dad

it was for him that I feared 

it hurt like hell to see him sad

but now I ask myself was he

sad or were S-word threats a tool

to get me to do what he wanted 

to see me dance like a motley fool?

who sends a kid to fight the

demon horde in his stead 

combat fatigue like no other

it sent me out of my head

But a wary word to the wise

too little too late for young me

you can't fight the dark with only

dad's gaslighting by which to see

I'm so exhausted by grief 

and this poem has no close 

this ain't over by a long chalk

I've much more hurt to expose

there's no such thing as closure 

I'm bleeding from so many sores 

unlocking one door just leads to 

many more crazy confusing doors. 

But this ain't over Jack. Not even if the fat lady sings. 

(photo is me at age 6 or 7 around when he started his death threats)

Black Rhyme Time

I love to pen the poems 

of dunes and lake and rain

there are times for those but

also for my sonnets of pain

Shakespeare, or his ghost writ

bled out his heart in rhyme

I find dank verse comforting 

their harsh jarring notes sublime

I've a black parade of memories

but I won't sing a morbid tune

I'd a death-eater dad for that

it's to the falling but trying I croon 

ever notice how "help" can hurt? 

on essential cruelty BS we're fed

healing by inflicting suffering 

to bloodletting nonsense we're wed

 

Sure there's stuff I don't know

but I really don't get why 

if help helps and hurts hurts 

will it actually help if I die?

Cuz it really hurts like hell

That's how "therapy" can feel

by gutting, debriding and dicing are

they cutting off more than they heal?

That's where poetry has a place

to our suffering it gives voice

you can opt bearing down and tearing 

but know that you have a choice

we can sing out our bleeding

or in theatre we can bleed out 

is everything salvageable with verse?

that's what this verse is about

It's naive and yet I find 

salve in my bitter refrain  

my soul wounds embracing 

instead of opening up a vein

So let the blackness come 

let sorrowing heart waters flow

let justice roll down like tears 

as to my River Styx I go 

That's where the prussic acid

in my black rhymes originates

damned dammed up flood rivers 

neither pooh-poohs nor placates 

no condescending shush-hushing

Hurt must be screamed out in song 

all the little lost souls grieved for 

this shit won't be quiet for long

so with this ship I'll go down

and on this bloody hill I'll die

let's quit spit-balling platitudes

and take a stand on the why 

why so many broken people?

why do they choose the dark side

call it what you will it's the same

self-harm, or dare we say suicide?

So let's name it and claim it 

with guns and bombs we're sending

so many to what it fucking is

the endless end without ending 

and I don't have rhyme for that. 

Some us went down that path

to their promised uncloudy day

us blind, crippled, lame and insane

sent on our hopeless, helpless way 

And it's because I well recall 

many filthy, grimy bleak days

I don't want any of mine to 

trod in my footprinted dark ways 

ways which were preordained

by my death eating dad of yore

ways which I inherited but still  

I don't want to go down anymore

so now we come to the gist 

to prevent I WILL go down the

fiery slide to Hades and more 

whatever it takes to protect them

I'll open up that unhallowed door

I'm not brave but I owe

to my beloved posterity 

to exorcise demons so we

can I hope live clean and free

but I'll admit that I'm anxious

to face down Satan's horde

may handsome boatman Charon

ferry us both safely back to shore  

with love to my handsome boatman 

Albert by name, psychopomp by trade

(photo is me around 7 already carrying a lot of pain)

I found the moon for us

our dear Jakey A was a 

lovely little man child

though you daren't call him

lil guy lest the boy go wild 

workman was the name

young Jakob best preferred

(loudly demanding) by that 

title he should be referred 

his workman job description

included some duties at night

this industrious third shifter

made sure to do his tasks right

self-appointed watch to keep 

when day began to wane

he'd always find the moon for us

from his bedroom window pane

when moon played hide n seek

and Luna was difficult to find 

Our Magus persisted diligently 

that rascally orb to mind 

nights when moon was new

her face seemed turned away  

Jake would explain she had to

shine on other kids that day

or when on stormy nights 

she couldn't be found at all

he'd cheerfully remind us she

still shone behind cloud pall 

 

his efforts were appreciated

keeping track was too much work 

it's nice to have a moon finder 

who never does his task shirk

adults get busy and we forget

simple pleasure can be ours 

thank God for our workman

displaying his universe of stars 

he was emcee and impresario

at the stellar moonshine show

bidding us come and hurry 

to see friend moon all aglow 

sometimes it takes a small one 

musing upon the heavens above

to draw our attention moonward 

and to help us feel her love

Jake now wears the dad hat 

has his own flock to tend

adulting leaves no moon time 

when there's work without end

but happily for everyone

a successor was begat 

a sweet starry-eyed maiden 

to wear the moon minder hat

All's well that ends well

now we've a star tender again

each night she finds the moon for us

Thank you, dear little Flora Lane 

our Gen 2 skygazer performs her

job, like pa, conscientiously

never a night goes by without

her checking for the moon to see

We're blessed, said the spider

for just a moment in time 

to gaze outside the window and

dance to earth's eternal rhyme

So peek out your peek hole

in whatever nest you call home

moon is smiling down on you 

to say you're never truly alone 

With love to the Magi, then, now and to come

Death-eating father

This ain't one of my 

summer sunshine rhymes

sorry fresh out tonight 

this is for blue black times

I'm not normally one to

let my inner goth out

but there are times when 

she needs to howl and shout

there was a man, a wolf

no, a werewolf was he

he was black Irish charming 

this wolfman father to me

he had a curse on him that 

he alas to me passed on 

or he cursed us both with

his morbid self-harm passion

death by name, death by trade

my pater was fixated upon 

a modern pre-Raphaelite with

unholy suicidal obsession

So very romantic, innit?

Poe, Rosetti and Millais

such fine young gentlemen

must have their peccadillo play 

look at all the little punters 

those dreamy soul-eyed pens

halcyon nights smoking life away

in disease ridden opium dens 

in laudanum induced stupor 

fantasizing about a red head

who by her own hand made 

herself all drowned and dead

isn't it a bitch when your 

superheroes show their grime?

welcome to my world folks 

that's what happened in mine    

he was my Ozymandias

despite having feet of clay 

we all do of course but

his were the muckiest of clay

by clay I mean earth, dust

eaten up by moth and worm

plotted his own decomposing

composing  his funereal requiem 

I get Mozart,  us both co-opted 

to play death disc in reverse 

to sound knell prematurely our 

dear old dads forced on us 

unlike Wolfgang I didn't have to

Pre-emptively eulogize my dad

I don't know if on reflecting

it woulda been any less bad

what the hell is wrong with 

these death-eating fathers of ours

bloody consumed with fussing 

about arranging their canopic jars?

so discussing this is hard and

I'm coming to it roundabout 

with all my highfalutin nods

why can't I just spit it out?

me dah detailed his bucket kicking

urged me to join in suicide pact 

his death wish 'bout destroyed me 

his the plan, but mine the act

on top of his threats, the guilt

made worse by the well-intentioned 

wondering aloud at his motives 

my shame increased when questioned

did he jump or was he pushed?

did it predate him enshrined in tomb?

his constant cakewalk with the grave

might it have begun in the womb?

I'm tempted to cut him slack 

cuz that's what I always do (did)

did he have a secret half life

that he kept from me well hid?

Was there some abiding pain that

made him speak fluent self-harm

did my dear grandparents hurt him

and set off his coffin alarm?

but how and when he did shows

endless talk of ending was ruse

to claim exemption without remorse

was a weapon to punish and abuse

I was threatened with his rope 

when he wanted an exit or excuse

suicide promises have a way 

of shutting down home truths 

funny tho it's never themselves

with whom they plan to do away  

vampirically they suck your self 

till you've no spark to light your day 

But I found my voice recently

and I find I've got a lot to say

to him who terrorized little me

dicing with death to get his way

yet too late now the doom's on me

the mirror's cracked side to side

taunts of his self-death ruined me

the gates of my hell opened wide

It's a curse I'm stuck with 

this tendency toward self-harm 

the loop has come full circle

now it's me sounding the alarm

I hate like hell I'm like this

it's knee-jerk though unwillingly

passing on the devil's contagion 

hurting my beloved posterity 

sins of my dad, brain-staining

Mea culpae for my many wrongs

mea maxima culpae, though two wrongs

don't unwrite the death-eater songs

I can't erase what's past but 

I can ease our today pain  

stop the evil juggernaut and

derail the ceaseless self-hurt train

I have to. I owe it to them. 

--with sorrow, contrition and love to the family circle

--and prayers to the Heavenly Father to help me to excise this generational cancer of the soul

--picture is me and Wolfman Jack about two years before he started sharing his death wish with me. Don't let the fond pose fool you. This is Instagram foreshadowing performative parenting for the camera. Usually he was nowhere to be found. Or mad at me. 

                     

It's my poem and I'll cry if I want to

You scold my poems because

they've a bitter bit of sting

the acrid sour anthems 

I've finally begun to ring

I'm "too heavy" you say

that I should write with levity

think of rainbow colored ponies

drink the chalice of poison Hi-C

Much as I'd love to be

a bright whiter shade of pale

tempting as cyanide is not

mine's a Bleaker street type tale

My biography was ever 

tart with lacrimal note

so I owe no explanation

and I'm not taking a vote

you demanding I defend

my verse's tear- salty word

shows you weren't listening 

you never saw nor heard

you turn your back now

as you always did back then 

against deaf-blind-muteness

why should I bother to defend? 

there are none so deaf 

as those who won't hear

none so obtuse as they who

harden eye, heart and ear 

If you still insist on reasons

don't miss your hand pulling strings

flip the mirror roundside right

you'll see how you messed up things

you called me oversensitive 

such hypocritical arrogance 

YOU told ME to sunny up, you?

the death-eating vampire prince?

May I ask why it's essential 

I sing a Nutra-sweet refrain? 

what's in it for you to tart up 

and candy-coat my memory train?

why the gaslighting nonsense

that the problem is the hurt one

that reporting harm is worse than

what and by whom hurt was done? 

Eleventh hour awareness shows

you bound and gagged my voice 

now your dirty blame shame game 

exposes your abuse as a choice 

you claim my remembrances mean

because I'm ashamed I'm to blame

what they reveal is you playing 

your sick Twister DARVO game

but I guess I should thank you 

your agenda demonstrates a lot

my shell-shocked brain now sees

that loving parents you were not

your overplayed your hand

the biter bit by her own fang

you're too up yourself to see 

by your own rope you'll hang

so beware your slip is showing  

you effed around and found out

your pink slip has been issued  

you're fired for messing about 

in this sorry song of mine

it's here we turn a corner

do an about face on shame and

be our lost child's chief mourner 

their pride killed small selves 

time the solipsists were leaving

forget their fanned out voices 

get on with overdue grieving

time to permit myself to

repeat the shit they said

to evict rent-free squatter

flying monkeys from my head 

I didn't think it needed 

to be reiterated yet again

that tears too long unshed 

just burn in endless pain

It ain't pretty inside me 

it's a grubby rubbish pile

But to heal the yuck within

I must dwell on it awhile

if it's inconvenient to hear

if you cannot sit beside me

think how hard it is to live and

don't mellow my harsh reality

Keep your toxic platitudes 

Save them for your rainy day

when your angst overflows

and everyone's gone away

I don't want your cheery

unicorns all sparkly brite 

you scoop their rainbow poop but

beware, lest they come back to bite

I don't give a fat rat's arse

who does or doesn't like my song

It's my poem, I'll cry if I want

you're free to read or move along

Grama-grampa reminise-storys: a verse in scents

Remembering the grama-grampa

house now has faded with time

but the scents and smells stay strong 

in this jumble sale mind of mine 

den redolent of evergreen

from closet conifer lined

I played without toys 

had a grand old time

also scents of mothballs

from cedar closet of hers

placed to protect grandma's

coveted fox and monkey furs

In den lived countless curios 

inkwell, gramophone, ukulele 

something called a stereoscope

church organ grampa played for me

ornate marble top table

I now have in my bedroom 

it holds her Christmas angels

and old Avon bottle of perfume

this ungodly heavy table 

with fussy carved woodwork

made when quality mattered more

than figures in a ledger book

on it family photos displayed

inscribed with spider-writing names

smelt of masonry and musty dust 

from oft-repaired antique frames

a vintage decanter set 

gave off faint odors of hooch

a riding crop adding horse scent

long-gone dog leash, hints of pooch 

everywhere notes of furniture polish

that iconic lemon Pledge smell

grampa took care to dust and wax

if he didn't she'd give him h-ll (🤣)

writing brought back memory

minds-eye looking out window  

in fragrant warm contentment

watching as it began to snow

attic smelt of wet wool mildew

sniffs of kerosene in the air

of army blanket and mattress ticking

and old toboggan stored up there

basement nosed of cardboard 

and the big Lionel steam train 

board games by the fireplace 

smoke with heated metal refrain

in cellar multi-tiered perfumes

engine oil, printer ink and Ajax

workshop, metallic, wood and glue

and solvents of epoxy and tacks 

a beach-sand-water smell

did a spicy fragrance make 

added to the overall aroma

of the house beside the lake

And best was grama's cooking

the savory, sweet and fine

her tiny kitchen table was

the very best place to dine

It's not just about smells 

they have lessons to tell

about treasuring and preserving

and loving often, much and well

It's old things lovingly saved

curious curios, not really toys

lack of playthings far surpassed 

by those bygone gestalt joys

A pair of tiny great grandma boots 

A gun from American civil war,

A furry ancestor hat and photos

And super 8 home movies galore

Each with tidy foxed labels 

history conscientiously taught to me

better than any book I've read 

their bedtime reminisce-story 

from photo album minty paste to

pine wood shaving and boot black 

home movie heated celluloid

they all take me right back

such an olfactory cacophony

Throughout their home dwelt

so many happy memories live 

in how their house smelt

When just a whiff I get

Scent memories in my brain

I'm transported back to the 

home on Crestwood Lane

The lamp post in the yard

a post light was planted

in the many-treed front yard

at the grama grampa home 

to recall feels sweet hard 

I see him at the lamp post

her window waving bent hand

rain or shine they welcomed 

till they joined the angel band 

lamp and window folk bidding

hello and farewell at night dark

side by side joy parenthesizing 

like enfolding punctuation mark

my without was shades of grim

their within sequestered sanctuary 

the old post light signaling a

place with room enough for Mary

the grama-grampa house an

enchanted hidey-hole for me

red brick lakeside castle 

on Michigan's dune strewn sea

journeys start with first steps

my personal Narnia fairytale

entering cedar wardrobe, to

emerge on snowy lamplit trail

Christmas lamp was bedazzled

In her festive noel skirt

His simple holiday offering was

just a wrapping paper insert 

paper faded by the bulb

as it decorated the years 

memories of him standing there

always brings me to tears

That's how everything was at 

The grama-grampa home so bright

Like lamp post nothing fancy but

giving so much more than light

yet all the much muchness

those dear old people gave

makes nostalgia bite harder

now that they are in the grave

But I must take care not to drown

in hole black as printer's ink

if I should tarry too long at 

the memory fountain to drink

I must only let recalling

fringe-flutter firefly by 

not capture nor cling lest the 

poor thing and I surely die

So I'll let their yard beacon

beckon to the yore day

but too long in back then 

I shan't allow myself to stray. 

Because I have now joy

the delights of my soul

people in the today time

who make my picture whole. 

Love to Gram and Gramp from Marilisa

Music of the swamp

critter sounds resound

in the riverside damp

knowing folk call wetland

we just knew it as a swamp

tree frog sawmill buzz

burp chirrup of bullfrog

companionable jamming

on an old bog log

don't let's forget the 

orchestra insect band

and slurpyish munch of

deer dining in marsh land

this is cattail country

I've long been keen on those

the bushy exploding fronds

as fuzzy as horse's nose

And on swamp things furry

that pearly grey pussy willow

which Jake calls kitty toes

we could make of them a pillow

no idea what they grow into

softy beansies are fine for me

not sure it's required I know

the full Systema Naturae litany 

I sing the all creature choir 

that in misty symphony play

such merry melodies abounding 

just cause it's Tuesday

Specter at the feast

This began as a nature poem

bout cattails and pussy willows

those pearl grey fuzzy orbs

our Jake calls kitty toes

but then I lost the plot

increasingly common for me

well divergence as Frost says

paths not yet taken are poetry 

Which brings me to winter

nodding to Robert's snowy night 

not my prime time to pen on

being much too cold to write! 

what's the point or am I 

just pointlessly rambling along?

P'raps I'm on the road less taken

and I'm still writing words to my song

And there's the point: we're all

just making it up as we go 

weaving tapestries out of fragments

not knowing what we know till we know

And yanno, as I write I think 

I like it so much better this way

letting the verse go where it will

allowing the poem to have its say

Characters in my story do that

start writing on their own accord

butting in where I don't see them

and then demanding to be heard

Suddenly I'm not the author 

he's taken over the show

I'm playing ghost writer to

a character I don't yet know

like lunatics seizing the asylum

who's not and who is in charge

If I'm the one who invented them

they've become remarkably large

Or maybe I'm the nut who

just thinks she controls the plot

maybe he's in my head composing

while this pen pusher is not

And then if it's real or made up 

Am I the one with the choice 

or am just a seance medium 

an instrument giving them voice?

So who's the specter at the feast?

persona non grata perhaps is me

Banquo, the murdered killjoy?

my character real while I'm the story?

I'll break the fifth wall a moment to say that yes, disturbing, right? I'm wondering if that's why so many writers went mad (can you go mad? Is it a place on the map? not sure if that's the worst place to go?) Anyway. Such is our lot. And yes, I absolutely have had specter characters emerge out of nowhere and demand a bigger part. One of which was just starting to rear his head in my book "Heir Supply." before my computer caught a virus. Alas the tech guru pronounced the machine "toast." Sad because both books saved on it were viable for publication. And these books only exist in my head

And I'm not even sure "he"  had a name yet. He was an itinerant odd job man. Who wrote himself a bigger role. And unfortunately American names from back then are all SOOO banal. Fred (yawn) George (yawn wider) Ben (cracks head open yawning too hard). I mean why can't we name like the Brits?? Roman names like Septimus! Or Saxon, Ethelred! So I will give our character a Bible name my husband recently referred to and which surprisingly, Bible scholar me had forgotten (never heard of, gasp, no forgotten) Elkanah. 

How about that, Elkanah? What do you think?. (The author and audience await his nibs' approval). We could go with Ahasuerus?? I can't believe I'm kowtowing to a MADE UP person!! Funny how I've NOT forgotten as much of the book as you'd have thought I would being written mostly in 2010. 16 years ago!! Damn!!! I wish I had that file. Maybe it wasn't that good. But it was over 100 pages long with the gist of it in my head. Yes, even you Ekanah/Ahasuerus whoever you are. I'd have love sparring with you over the passages. 

I probably won't go back to the poem because it's so difficult trying to rhyme. Seriously, you're very constrained. I would like to return to the marsh poem. I can see the place in my head-- Harbor Island in Grand Haven. Not so much a marsh now. Thank you Progress. Still, weeping willows ...

Red light district poppy cabaret

Field of Pompeian red poppies 

in our back garden blaze

parades of scarlet ladies 

queuing for sun dance days

Architectural floral marvels 

impossibly large petal heads 

pirouette and jete upon the

slenderest of stem threads 

In moulin rouge chorus can-can

Voluptuous vermillion lassies 

degage their heels up high and

show off blush pink under panties

What a frenzy of ruby hues

These sensual blooms bestow 

our own red light district puts on

it's annual cabaret show

Enthusiastically bombastic

Our flirty flower girls

Are ever so rosy cheeky

with their ruffles and whirls  

They tango with the wind

Drop curtsies to the Sun

With garnet glowing blossoms

we got the blues on the run! 

Such bejeweled radiance for

that so-fleeting spring time 

they turn themselves inside out

Their torch song in crimson and mime 

Each gives without ever taking

Opening wide her fiery heart

No admission ticket needed, quick 

The second act's about to start

but with entrances barely begun

their pageant too soon ends

And we must bid adieu to

our cheery cherry red friends 

We loudly applaud "brava" 

one last encore and bow to all 

Blowing dancers final kisses 

in their flaming curtain call

We'd shower them with roses

Throw bouquets at each foot

But as they'd outshine the votives 

The point would be quite moot 

And now the stage is dark

no more a berry merry maid

their little beacons burnt out

as they wither in the shade

Starry eyed and enraptured 

We exclaim with giddy head

wasn't this their best year ever?

our private rhapsody in red?

Lucky us with front row seats 

for the world tour of "Poppy Dance!" 

Compared with, no Broadway stage

performance stands a chance

Your rest my girls you earned 

thank you for our lovely show

each season's farewell gets harder

when mother nature calls time to go

with gratitude for the dance

(photo attribution John Haslam from Dornoch, Scotland, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)  till I can find my own pictures

Imaginings for my baby grands

 As our score of grands hits 13

I've some Omi imaginings to share

of wishes and hopings and aims

various hats I hope you all wear

before you, your parents and auntie

were children belonging to me

my baby birdies of back then 

now perch in the big bird tree

I love them with all my heart

and prouder I could not be

sometimes I confess to getting 

lost in regret and memory

regrets of all my shouldas

it's an overplayed refrain

memories of how I let 

them down and caused some pain

But my loves, that's the part of

growing old that I'm not proud

the maudlin regret refrain

We think and shouldn't say aloud

So we've all been there, the

older folks and now me

how we appreciate what we had

only when it ceases to be

But I'll be damned if I let

this devolve into melancholy

I saw too many people drown

in what is basically self-pity

Because regrets should only serve

to teach us to celebrate the day long

all our loved ones here and now

carpe diem shall be our song! 

Alas the Prophet says I can't 

visit your tomorrow house, it seems

Ancestors can't can go where you are

not even in our dreams. 

(this is the part where we cue sexy guitar riff, sip some wine and grieve a bit)

We can't rewind nor fast forward

we've neither tomorrow nor yesterday 

so let us dive in and enjoy 

this lovely present called today 

And so as they fly up to

the place we call "grownup" 

I give thanks to have you

all to overflow my cup 

My very dearest little dears 

I ain't the wisest owl on said tree

but what wisings I've got are yours

So listen up to Mama Omi 

You've all so very much muchness 

M. Rogers says, just by being you delight

You shine so brightly it hurts and

I'm happily blinded by your light

like 13 waterfalls carousing

you rain down so much joy 

to wash away our pain 

my each little girl and boy

you pour your light like water

on all the lonely people below

for those blessed in your orb

We're lucky to be in your glow

For you aren't merely uniform

you're a lovely parquetry of bits

some parts with jigsaw symmetry 

and the rogue piece that never fits  

we're none picture puzzle perfect 

And that's exactly as we should be 

my hope for you babies grand is 

you be the you-iest you you can be

For the Lord looked on, he knew

he saw that all of you is good 

That your enough is enough

your being just as you should 

for in this race we call human 

we fear failure too much I fear

but what exactly we're afraid of

is to me not entirely clear

I fear we're afraid of stumbling

but it's not a failure to fall 

the only way you can fail is

by never even trying at all

When bumps come and they will

go ahead shed tears for the pain

then adjust your bum on your bike

and soon you'll be rolling again!

And who cares if you don't make it

Omi'll always cheer you all

the only thing that'd make me sad  

is if falling kept you small 

My babies, fly your YOU flag

don't hide your light under a jar

inhabit your you fully, as gran said

tell 'em who you are! (dammit!)

I hope your reach exceeds grasp

don't settle for safe on shore 

and exceeding reach, visions 

seek and open up the door

don't let can't limit you

can't never did nothing till he tried

shatter your glass ceilings

bust the pane way open wide! 

But grandiose dreams don't mean

you must perfection sustain

some days we just survive and 

and somehow try to maintain 

I love you in dazzling red and blues

on far ups and way down days

all the sort of in betweens

when the best we got is grays. 

You don't have perpetually shine

some days you just feel dim

but Omi loves ya no less, honey

cause you're still sparkling within

May your possibilities be endless

may the choices always be yours 

and opportunities limited only by

an overabundance of doors

But don't worry if you miss one

we all do, and it's okay

if you ignore and walk on by

there will be more another day 

So let's end with rousing crescendo

a full chorus in full voice then

a song of praise for our children

we'll shout the great Amen

(I know you thought this was ending but I must make a nod to my Alaska and Lake Michigan)

May you range free where

the deer and antelope roam

May whatever place you live in

always feel like home. 

And if you need space or shelter  

you're welcome with us to take 

there will always be room for you

in the blue house by the lake. 

with love from your Omi

I have a new grand boy

I have a new baby grand

not piano, a little boy man

born as the church was about

to start the O antiphon. 

He brings the blessings to 13

an embarrassment of riches for me

a luckier Omi on big blue marble

there never, ever, never could be

It's hard or maybe impossible

to express the joy you are to me

for a kid who existed on sufferance

to be grandmother to so many 

I wish I had known in then time

when I seemed to bring no one joy

that the day would arrive when

I'd be given this shiny bright boy  

a foretelling of his star plus

12 stellar lights around him

a prophecy of our own constellation 

would have lit those days so grim

days of winter with no Christmas

So little summer sun back when

Even Lake Michigan refused me

Nothing much to celebrate then

I had such big ideas, Cassius

the world was my oyster you see

I was sharp smart and gung ho

but there was so much denied to me

horizons artificially narrowed 

my firmament shrink wrapped

it's hard to reach potential 

when your resources are tapped

Despite a major recession

I did push my boat out to sea

In the crappiest car on the planet

I made it to Grand Valley

I'd have liked to go further

but not enough on board family 

yet grandad said with pride that I

was the first to make university

I wish I could tell more about 

great Omis and Opis of your'n 

but I know so very little

not even where they were born

Think of that, my baby

Omi never asked our people

it would have been so easy to

inquire about their nativity

Perhaps you see, being closer 

to the womb than me 

why did I take for granted

they'd live eternally?

It's a sad mistake to think

that they'll all always stay 

They'll always be here for us

and never ever go away

I wish that was true, Cassius

If wishes were horses we'd ride

I'd ride with you forever 

If from passing time I could hide

So  ask your questions now

before we olders must fly away

I wish I'd asked my Omi 

She said I'd regret it some day

My boy, this is going to

a long away far ago time

and farther away than that

And you can't visit what was only ever mine. 

And as Kahlil says I can only

visit where you'll inhabit in dreams

you live in the place of tomorrow

and I sadly can't go there it seems

but I can dream a world for you 

where time won't let me know

with no press and sealed skies 

and oceans wide places to go

May you walk with chutzpah

and fully inhabit your shoes

don't hold back, dive in, honey

you've only adventures to lose

If this saddens anyone let it

be me and never you, I hope           

you're maxing out your youness when 

you read these words that I wrote

Love, to Future Man from back then Omi