American Neighbors

American Neighbors

You are not required to like me,
  You are not obliged to thank me,
But you are encouraged, God bless the right,
  That you might, the least, requite me

I am the boy in the girls room stall,
Asking that I might be loved,
  Though I may never bear a womb

I am the latin in your school home room,
Only asking ‘me dejas aprender,’
  Not fearing deportation soon

I am the woman with my wife,
The man who’s husband bears your strife,
  Whom you lie tactfully to your kids about

I am the black who’s your new boss,
I’m the woman whom you sit across from,
  How is it you make more than me?

Perhaps I’m odd, not in your style,
Yet must you set you set my bar so high,
   To keep me broke, awaiting trial?

Your ancestors, once too were new,
Though proud, were told, need not apply,
   When were they white-washed clean for you?

We’re in the house abuts your land,
  We whom you use to fear and mock,
If should you need a neighbor’s hand, 
  Would you want my door also be locked?

The Church Yard Round Around

The Church Yard Round Around

Aggression is the easy vibe
When homeless camp on the parish lawn,
How can compassion be applied?

One keeps his bags by the drain pipe,
They come and go but they’re never gone,
Aggression is the easy vibe

The shelters wake them after five,
Quick showers then they must be gone,
How can compassion be applied?

Five vodka bottles I found hid,
Ah needle too, five inches long,
Aggression is the easy vibe

No loitering signs have arrived,
Now police can move them on,
How can compassion be applied?

My children ask when we drive by,
These people make the church their home?
Aggression is the easy vibe

I want to help but more arrive,
It torments me deep in my bones,
How can compassion be applied?

He wandered with a homeless tribe,
Who would drive off an orphaned lamb?
Aggression is the easy vibe,
How can compassion be applied?

The Onion Phase

The Onion Phase


It’s not like an onion, there’s nothing in the center,
It is like an onion, when cutting in, tears can come,
  Old ear-worms in the knots of a tangled mind,
  Soon are squirming to unwind,
Teasing a reaction, sometimes feel-good endorphins, 
  A natural high you can’t recreate tomorrow, 
Or as often, snotnose, tearful ghosts,
  Makyo in the Buddha Hall, absent of distractions

In this breath, out this breath,
  And again

I never wept for my Mother, even at her service,
Leaving, my Father looked to the clouds and burst,
  “She’s up there now …”
Brothers hugged and held him,
  I stood aloof, alone

I never cleaved to my High School girlfriend,
  My first kiss,
Whom I prommed and dry humped at parties,
Then I was immune from a lover’s remorse,
  When over terms we grew apart

I never changed my major from that hobby,
  I let my guidance counselor off too easily,
I avoided, un-acknowledging,
  This degree will lead to no career

Silent in my borrowed ash robe,
  I am sorrowful now,
Remember what they say of chopping onions?
“Don’t wipe your eyes, it only makes it worse,”
  With patience, the old fuses sparkler out

Sparrows spit in the bushes, framed in the open window,
  My humpback neighbor noses windfully,
As a drying wind blows through,
  In one ear, out the other,
    And again

Was it real? 
  Could it be there was no onion?
    Can I just sit with what comes next?

Rhymes with a Raw Red Nose

Rhymes with a Raw Red Nose


I lift our Mr. Cat,
  Warm and soft,
Pliant as a favorite plush toy,
  I scratch him on the hips,
And out comes from the lips
  His pink tongue to lick upon my nose,
Should some day his rough barbs wear
  (I not minding his cat food breath)
Through the skin, to leave me open skeleton faced,
  Nose exposed nasal cartilage,
His affectionate and kindly grace
  I could never disparage

Yet, this is a behavior to ponder

Why, only when I scratch him there,
  Does he counter with such curious care?
Is it being since he’s gotten fat,
  He has given rear end hygiene pause?
Could it be he thinks I clean his butt
  That gives his reflex habit cause?

Murmurations

Murmurations


Walking, half a block before my bus stop,
  A woman, near my age,
Head crooked looking to night-hood,
  Where by I stopped and watched

  “What d’jou see?”
  “It’s that cloud, among the sky, swirling round?”

Above us swam a spinning mass, as much
  A scribble, a pen’s crossing out,
Rolling forward, tail erasing,
  A windless tornado, a black cotton candy,
  All spun in the dusk,
Its pixels a dense winged smoke,
  They were birds

“They’re Starlings,” I said, “European, introduced,
  They come from Europe, Mozart had one,
  The bird would sing back his recitations”

They squeaked a rusty magic high above us,
  Mass chattings, their cacophony of love,
  (or perhaps “Migrate, migrate, migrate,” it coming on Fall)
Some forward, teasing others nowhere,
  Those behind, trying to cut up the arc before them,
None arriving anywhere first,
  None remaining anywhere last

After a moment she walked on up the street,
  I turned on down to catch my bus home,
She did not dart back like the birds, teasing me,
  I did not cut up into the arc before her, courting wise,
I thought she was nice, I scribbled her out,
  I whistled a song she never heard

We each went home, I’ve not seen her again

Murmurations pas de deux,
  Love flies above on Starlings' wings

Myron

Myron

When Jerry Lewis died, I told Christine
  My favorite joke of his, was,
In an old film with Dean Martin, he told a girl
“My mother always called me Myron Myron,
  First she’d call ‘Myron,’ and if I didn’t come
  She’d call me again (yelling) MYRON!”

This was September, 2017,
I’d thought her clutch had failed in the autumn chills,
  Grey and rainy New England
Gets the patchwork remnants of
  America’s tropical hurricanes and storms

Until the day out the kitchen door
  There’s Cleo (I’ve wrote of Cleo)
And her nest that bore a little head,
  Black and white as Jerry in old movies,
She feeding him crop milk,
  He pecking at the lip behind her beak for more

A week on, she’d often be gone,
Wherever, gathering more formula for crop milk,
  He growing on the rim of the nest,
His head bent back to remove the sheaths
  On pinfeathers, like a plastic wrap,
Reaching out stiff wings,
  As if to catch a wind had not yet come,

Past the time migrating birds had flown,
  Leaving us only the wintering Jays and Cardinals,
Far too late for a fledgling in the brush,
  (Cleo’s first clutch fledged in June!)  
Yet now our mourning nest was empty, amid
  The rains of another named storm

Beside myself, I flew off on out the driveway,
  Seeking, whispering, then boldly not whispering,
To all the flailing brush and trees;
  Myron, Myron,
    MYRON!

Fish Guts

Fish Guts


As Cuttyhunk tourists we are cautious,
  Seaside townspeople watching us,
Seagulls watching us,
  “Why you watching us, Seagulls?”

Fish Guts

At the only store, she bought me this t-shirt,
We walk up to the old WWII bunker,
  Saw no U-Boats through our glass,
Walked back to town, the tide’s still out,
   Oh God, what’s that aroma? …

Fish Guts

Blue Stripe Fishing Tours ties up to the dock, all tanned
Wealthy family stepping out,
   Helped with the Surly Captain’s hand,
Next Popeye Skipper takes their catch,
   ‘Cause he’ll make every buck he can, … cleaning 

Fish Guts

Slap on a plywood board nailed to the dock rail,
He slides his knife into each belly,
  Pulls the white paunch sides so wide,
Scoops with his hand red fresh pink jelly,
  Next thing he’s throwing to the tide, … fresh 


Fish Guts

It dawns us how come it is everyone looks this way,
From everywhere at once they come,
  Descending from the sky,
More seagulls than you thought could be,
  Each squawking hearty seaside cries, … for

Fish Guts

Ropes of fish intestines wrap around their yellow beaks,
The Captain minces giblets,
  Then he tosses them in reach,
Of a hundred squabbling seagulls,
  Who now rule the dockside beach, … grab

Fish Guts

Our boat arrives, departure, now we’re on a queasy ride,
The catamaran we’re on takes
  Every wave from side to side,
When we get back to Oak Bluffs we’ve decided we will, we’ll
  Rather get ourselves a pizza, thoughts of fresh fish make us ill,  … bleh!

Fish Guts!