Guarding Antietam

It started somewhere up the hill,

Some great bitter ragged fight

Full of yowls and shrieks of rage

Marking some mammalian plight.

Down the hill they, crashing, came

Through the leaves and underbrush

The neighbor’s black and white barn cat

Running fast in fevered flight.

Hotly pursued by one vexed vixen

Likely guarding kits and den

From the existential treat

Slinking from the barn next door.

And like a school yard monitor,

Not knowing prey from predator

I intervened with one loud bark

That sent them off their separate ways.

My green’s not your battle ground

On which to die, ‘least not today!

What’s In A Name

How dare they name it “The Preserves”;

Their tacky little neighborhood

Full of plastic McMansions

Standing there in stately rows

On their vast 2 acre lots

Like so many well marked graves

On land that’s been a family farm

Since the Sixteen Sixties?


I suppose some urbanites

Accustomed to the chaos

Of their hurly-burly cities

May regard this rigid mess

Of restrictive covenants,

Invasive fruitless pear trees,

And precisely sculpted lawns

As an earthly paradise.


And I suppose, on second thought,

The name Preserves may be correct

In so far as plastic jars

Of Strawberry flavored Jam

Can be said to be preserves

Of the many luscious bowls

Full of plump, fresh picked, fruit

Served along with Clotted Cream

And Grandma’s pound cake sliced, still warm,

From her ancient oven.

Our Country, Black and Blue?

Perhaps it ‘s finally time to strike

that monochrome, blue striped bastard,

abomination of our flag

(the sacred symbol of our country,

emblem of all that we hold dear,)

that takes a stand for harsh repression,

desperation, hate, and fear.

I reject your blind defiance

of our citizens, repressed

who have gone a step too far

in their hope to find redress.

Their mistaken, hasty actions

don’t confer on you the right

to take our country’s noble flag

and corrupt is as the vile banner

of your self-righteous foolish fight.

The Down-side of Roofs.

“Like the poem, not the content,

of course!”, I say,

as I wait patiently for roofers of my own.

“We’ll be there in the morning…

and out of your hair by noon…

That shed’s a small job- no time at all!”

While making my lunch,

roofing materials arrive…

Trienta Minutos, Señor, the roofers they come!”

And three times thirty minutes later I wait,

All alone…

With the cat…

who, at least has flitting birds to stalk

on this sunny afternoon.