Living with a Beanstalk Boy
[First published in East on Central, 2013/2014]
Teenage boy knows everything
so he takes our only cow to sell
at the market and returns with
some magic beans and shrugs
whatever when I yell and scream
and choke on tears and bitterness.
I am back to my endless chores
of dishes and laundry, pausing only
to stare hungrily at the empty
pantry and wonder when the
power and the phone will be
turned off for good.
He may have found a goose
laying golden eggs but now
there’s a dead giant in our
backyard and the neighbors
complaining of the smell.
The village forester insists
the enormous vine growing
on our property could be an
invasive species because it’s
not native and he’s issuing
a citation for planting without
a permit.
I wish I had my cow back –
loyal and dependable with
warm nose and docile demeanor.
Instead I’m saddled with my son,
an oaf, a fool, a typical teen
who’d rather skip school and
climb the stalk of adventure.
Conversations with my Knee
First published in East on Central, 2016-2017
I am conversing
with my knee
At least my knee
is talking to me.
To avoid confusion
I’d better specify
it’s the left (not right).
The chatter started
after I began to
run for exercise.
The conversation
is civil but I sense
that there are limits.
Certain crossroads
once crossed could
lead to language
unbecoming and
damaging to our
relationship.
I’ve coddled it
with ibuprofen and
ice, purchased more
expensive shoes
and socks and inserts.
I’ve added vitamins
for improved joint health.
My knee is not satisfied.
Nothing quiets the noise.
Still it says, Why don’t
you take up swimming?
Apology to My Books
First published in After Hours, Winter 2019
Dear beloved characters
and the authors who
created you, please
accept my apologies.
While we are together
I am yours completely.
I hold the details of
You in my mind’s eye
clearly and firmly.
But close one book to
start on the next and
you shimmer – heat
vapor on the pavement.
What’s your name? It’s
on the tip of my tongue.
Everyday Blessings
First published in Highland Park Neighbors, January 2020
May you open your pantry or refrigerator to the perfect combination of ready
ingredients.
May your bread not get moldy before you finish the loaf.
May you find parking where you need it.
May you have hot water and clean public restrooms.
May you remember an umbrella.
May you get seven to eight hours of sleep that restores you.
May you breathe freely.
May you labor and see results.
May you have rhythm and music in your bones.
May you find friends, loyal and true.
May you keep nimble as you dance with time.
May you travel great distances and have adventures and still know your true north or
home.
May you taste joy and remember its sweet warmth when you taste sorrow and ash.
May you hear the water touch the shore and remember me.
The Theater
Awarded 1st place for Free Verse in 2009 Poets & Patrons Awards and first published in East On Central, 2011/2012
The Bard says all the world’s a stage
but I love the world of the theater,
that ephemeral country
where left is right and up is rear;
where you stand on a rake
or in wings that don’t fly;
where fourth walls are invisible and
the green room usually isn’t.
Where teasers and tormentors
don’t annoy but corpses laugh;
where the cues are no good for
playing pool and the apron
won’t keep you neat.
Where dying is an art,
drying is a nightmare and
killing the house an aspiration.
A superstitious kingdom where
the ill magic of whistling
or the Scottish play is purged
by cursing and spitting.
Business cannot be bought or sold there,
projecting has nothing to do with the future
and cheating is expected.