In my old neighbourhood
I stop at a light-controlled intersection
that didn’t used to be,
On the corner
I see a glimmer of a younger me
in my safety patrol vest,
the stop sign at my back,
waiting for the whistle to spring to action
decades ago.
It is
It isn’t
Round and round
I can!
I can’t!
You do
You don’t
and trying
trying
trying
doesn’t make it easier
to pull your broken brain away
from turbulance
I don’t know you anymore
I don’t like you anymore
Loyalty keeps me doing
because I promised him
and you can’t help being broken
I know.
It is
It isn’t
Time ticks by
I try
I try
I try.
Ka-ching
She rings a bell, sings to tell
the world.
Ka-ching
He rings the knell, swings to tell
a world swirled in garnet garlands
Ka-ching
Fling things!
Ka-ching
Flash bling!
Ka-ching
Ring, ring, ring
Sing, sing, sing
Ring, ring, ring
Swing, swing, swing
Ka-ching
Ka-ching
Ka-ching.
Beneath a cloudless blue sky
I feel the storm coming,
black clouds gathering.
Could they reflect black shirts?
I ponder,
seriously,
if I should be building false walls
to hide those who will be escaping tyranny.
I wonder,
if I am far enough from a border to avoid
occupation.
A century ago,
they didn’t understand the signs,
but now we do.
Those who read are the first removed
when the evil rises.
Do all those kids who demanded,
“Why do we have to learn this?”
remember that their teachers said,
“So you’ll see the signs.”
“So it will never happen again.”
“Remember, they elected Hitler;
“they heiled and fell for his lies,
“because they wanted to believe their superiority,
“wanted a scapegoat for their troubles.”
There can be no excuses.
Shall I buy bricks or drywall?
Where will I construct false bottoms?
Where will we hide in the resulting rubble,
when the jack boots stomp through?
Another cristelnacht, this time in New York?
The hammock swings its consolation:
It can’t happen here.
It won’t happen here.
How many said those words a century
ago?
How many grew to knowing the meaning
of fear?
I express myself
in languid liquid
tiny cup
great potential
rocket fueled fuming
consuming conflagration
fire eater me
Oh you
sip seductively
out of reach
but teach me
no one needs to see me
for you’re devouring words
making a meal of my brain burst
You don’t see me
but you feel me,
say the tears dripping down your cheeks.
I wield a mighty weapon,
anonymously.
(An early Father’s Day poem)
.
When I was little
your face was behind a camera
capturing moments of my small life,
fearlessly climbing the steps on the tallest slide,
thigh high stretches for a toddler,
far above your head,
not afraid;
no pain had touched me.
Your greatest gift was security
to grow up confident in your love.
No one else ever loved me so well
or with such shameless devotion.
Oh, how great my loss.
When I miss you,
as I often do,
my memories are lit with
gratitude,
gratitude,
gratitude.
Hey, headphone man
with your head cast down,
I drive past you each day as you soldier on your way,
Always in the same place, unless you are late,
or I am early.
I try to catch your eye, but you march with determination
toward your destination.
I want to share our small connection, give a wave, or smile,
but you just stare at the ground, absorbed in the sound in your head.
Hey headphone man!
Look around!
.
.
I’ve been working on this one for ages, as I do pass this guy every day on my way to work.
