Horror and betrayal warred
At Grandpas barked guffaw,
Unexpected insult heaped
Upon Mother’s recent wound.
Was he still a babe in arms
Needing mom to wipe his chin?
No! He was a man and grown…
Or very nearly so, at ten!
Drying mirth from ancient eyes
O’da laid confusion rest,
“At luncheon this day ‘twas I
Pullin’ yon face to me own marm!”
Slowly came his dawning-
Forever, Moms will be Mom’s.
Listen Up, you grey old goat!
Your racist ways are history.
Does that hate not sere your throat?
That grossly overt bigotry
never fails to offend
But since we’re here within this lodge,
I’ll try to muster up some grace,
abide the precepts of wiser men
and curb my urge to pulp your face.
I’ll maintain regard unconditional
despite your beliefs, so unlovable.
Forgetting how to control
both temper and car,
he lays heavy on his horn
trying, vainly, to control
actions of other drivers.
They must think us dogs
salivating to their bells
doing tricks for tiny treats!
And how can they not
when we drool at every cue
playing games they tell us to?
Is there any choice?
After all, they hold the cards
and set the rules we must regard.
Why must we regard
their arbitrary edicts
when their only care
is their self-serving interests?
Bite the hands that feed, I say!
Ignore their strident bellows!
Exercise our every freedom!
Let us run across the meadows!
What silly substance seals your engine
While it lubricates your brakes,
Also keeps your hands from burning
And won’t stick to baking cakes?
What magic metal polymer
Helps to make your dry flies float
All while doing double duty
Shedding raindrops from your coat.
When it’s in its other form
A partner at both work and play
This stuff makes computers work
And lets you use your phone all day.
You can’t escape this silly stuff; it’s always within easy reach
In every sky high satellite and under foot on every beach.
Through this driving, bitter, rain,
Off to Grandma’s once again.
Sadly muted Christmas songs-
No one wants to sing along.
Only mournful background sound,
Dragging all our spirits down,
Drowned without a hesitation
By adolescent recitation
Of somber death, poetry
From the nineteenth century.
Perfect mirror for my mood-
Spending hours with this brood!
I must ask you, my old friend,
Will this winter ever end?
I saw three young men clad all in black
Except for bright white tennis shoes.
I’m rather pleased that my first thought
Was “They could use a fashion muse!”
No sense of dread came rising up
From deep within some hidden core
Of long forgotten biased fears.
No deeply planted racial lore.
Just three young men clad all in black
All wearing bright white sneakers
Out for a stroll this Saturday
Not some heartless violence seekers.
Perhaps they want more festive dress.
I pray they avoid unpleasantness.
Three times now, since Tuesday,
They’ve been there with their guns,
Four young men in camo tees
Lounging against the tailgate.
Their presence isn’t new; they’ve been there many days,
Lounging against the tailgate
Rapt in friendly conversation;
There without their guns.
I see them now in different light
Than I did those days before;
These four young men in camo tees,
Lounging against the tailgate,
With their pistols on their hips,
Rapt in guarded conversation.
What might we regret
in lonely final hours
and we contemplate our fate?
Might we not regret
all our reckless use of might
without due contemplation?
Or might we regret
a timid intervention
allowing fright to triumph?
Or might there be no regrets
because we acted in good faith
after careful contemplation?
From ragged verdant verge
Eruptes a freckled fawn
Frightened into flight
Not long after dawn
By the sudden sight
On the lower lawn
Of, clad in crimson bright,
clumsy human spawn,
Who, in turn, was shocked
By the sudden charge
Of that tiny fawn
That seemed so very large.
Peace replaced by peril in a single instant,
A unity of terror in the minds of infants.
See those bloody shirts a wave,
lying us the reasons for?
Hear those shiny sabres rattle,
their deathly, hollow, call to war?
Feel the ache of frightened souls,
for whom living’s now a chore?
Taste the bitter widow’s tears
as she greets you at her door
to receive the tragic news
of husband dead on distant shore?
Smell the acrid tangy fumes
of burning corpse and scattered gore
drifting from the battle field;
is that enough or need you more?
Here I stand, waiting,
The casual negating
Of these fifteen years.
A professional life spent
Helping those the masters sent
Through each horrid life event,
Just more grease for endless gears!
Guess I’m done trotting the globe,
Loaning out my frontal lobe.
Bet I’ll shed narrie a tear
For the end of this career.
And so I bid you fond adieu.
I’ll find better things to do.
Cried the novice out, in fear,
“The road is all down hill from here!
But thrice my age you are, at least
And yet, it seems you still find hope.
How have you slain this fearsome beast?”
Spake the sage, in voice most deep,
“When the hill you’re on is way too steep,
Must you never surrender hope.
You can always bend the curve
And, in so doing, change the slope.”
“But that would mean a longer path,
How ever will you get there fast?”
“Life’s not about a race to run;
It’s about a journey that can be fun!”