Saturday, January 30, 2021

the dancer

her hands float on voyages

out past the reefs,

under the stars.


her hips sway,

the breeze stirs

grasses and fronds.


her heels clack on hardwood

staccato and sharp,

her hands weave castanets.


she wheels around campfires

scarf twined round her waist,

hair flying, silk floating,

her eyes flashing sparks

in the mirrors sewn into

her bodice.


she rides on the tears

of a violin moaning.


her feet slap packed earth

deerhide wrapped hammers

keep a heart beat on drums.


she crouches she springs

she twirls on her toes.

her arms reach out

to gather in the world:

a firefly, a fairy, a bird

a story, a lover, a ghost


she escapes from this world

stretches a hand that invites.

but forget about shoes,

i need some wings on my feet.

Thursday, January 21, 2021

some things i saw in washington

i went to washington DC a few months ago,

to celebrate the new president and witness a little history.

that was very cool. actually it was pretty damn cold.

but anyway that was my second visit in a year,

the first time was just a normal visit.


you know, to look at the memorials and museums

the marble columned institutions.

it was late autumn, the edge of winter, just beautiful 

especially the red-leaved trees beside that sunken wall

inscribed with all those names.

the senseless fallen ones, as usual.

i saw myself reflected, faintly,

like a mirror behind the names

in the sheen of all that polished black granite


and on the steps below abe lincoln's calm gaze

some school children were clustered around their teacher.

he spoke to them about slavery and the civil war.


meanwhile, the ipod-wearing-spandexed joggers

were puffing steam on the gravel paths

between the monuments and the cherry trees,

the bronze statues and the ponds.

and there were twelve thousand little american flags

stuck in the grass in front of a shrouded empty podium.


the national christmas tree was strung with lights

and standing on a lawn way behind behind the white house,

sort of disconnected you know, and by the way,

the white house is much smaller than I expected.


it's kind of stuck right in the midst

of a very urban downtown setting,

it seems homier than the iconic seat of power.

maybe that's just me.


there's a lot of sidewalk hot dog and pretzel carts everywhere,

and commemorative t-shirts, three for ten dollars


we saw a bomb sniffing dog poking in the pansies

behind the iron fence in front of the white house

and a woman living in a tent right across the street, 

apparently she's been keeping a peace vigil there for decades,

I wonder if she's still there. probably forever.


and of course, i just had to see the watergate hotel,

it's this huge rambling pile and out front in a traffic circle

there's a statue of benito juarez  pointing his finger at the sky

where the helicopters drone around every few minutes.


we went to the smithsonian where

a lot of important historic stuff is gathered:

it's amazing, alexander graham bell's telephone

and thomas edison's lightbulb.

right next to the very first  swanson's tv dinner tray,

albert einstein's pipe and colonel custer's coat,

a pike from john brown's raid,

the first nugget from sutter's mill,

thomas jefferson's bible,

ben franklin's walking stick,

but also…..


marilyn monroe's white kidskin gloves,

mr rogers' sweater and archie bunkers chair.

they've got the greensboro lunch counter

complete with stools,

the 60 minutes stopwatch, the top hat lincoln wore

to ford's theater, john phillip sousa's baton,

beaded buckskin dresses from the kiowa.


all these things. this stuff with all it’s stories

and i tried to remember them as i stood

and saw my self reflected faintly

behind those fifty thousand names

chiseled through the sheen of that black granite wall.


i wanted some memories of my own

i wanted to stand and cheer a little history as it’s made.

with a couple million friends freezing our butts off

on the national mall.


so we went back to washington this january

and joined the river of people streaming through the streets

and arrived at our designated entry gate,

and everything just stopped.

we were crammed in so tight and no one’s getting in,

apparently the security checkpoint here was closed

so we tried to find another place to enter. and another. fruitless. closed up.


and it was cold. but ahhh, the air and space museum was open.

and they’ve got hot chocolate and coffee in a McDonalds cafe on the mezzanine.

and it has glass walls and a glass roof. with a view of the mall.

and what do you know,

a television mounted up behind the counter.


so there we were,

with a bunch of other refugees from the frigid breeze

listening to our new president speak

and we could hear the voices

of the millions roaring right through those walls.

watching the inauguration on a TV at McDonalds,

we flew 3,000 miles from home to be here,

and we're watching TV at McDonalds

at the Air and Space museum.

but you know, somehow it just fit. 

Saturday, January 9, 2021

Baptists

At a dig in Jordan,
on a hill above the Dead Sea,
in the palace of Machaerus


where Herod Antipas

ruled and stewed

about John the Baptist’s


opposition to his desire

to marry Herodias,

a divorced woman,


the niche where his throne sat,

and the courtyard where her daughter,

Salome, danced, has been unearthed.


Herod was so entranced

that he promised to grant

Salome anything she asked for.


She asked for

John the Baptist’s head.

Herod had it brought to her


on a platter. Perhaps

that explains the antipathy

that strict Baptists have


to dancing. I don’t know

where their frowning

on card games comes from.


It was never discussed

at my Baptist Sunday school.

We sang songs about


how Jesus loved all

the children of the world,

and looked at Bible


stories picture books.

My favorite story was the one

about Daniel in the Lion’s den.


I’m sure we didn’t talk about

what happened to his accusers

and their wives and children.


I know the whole story now

and what I think it means.

I still like to dance and play cards.

Wednesday, December 30, 2020

Tanks

I spent a good chunk

of my thirties building

plastic model tanks.


Shermans, Tigers, Panthers

American, German, Russian.

Named for generals and cats.


Put them in meticulously

created fictitious scenes

as if the Cold War 


in which I’d served

and then rejected

had turned hot.


Juggling and struggling

with God and Revolution

at 1/35 scale; a scale

I tried to handle on my desktop.


A Patton M60A1E

crashing through a Safeway.

A French howitzer embedded

in the ruins of a McDonalds.


I wasn’t hungry for aggression,

the scenes weren’t always bleak.


I recreated a photograph I saw

of a young man playing a clarinet

next to a burned out

Sherman tank in Managua.


An imaginary picnic in

the ruins of the no man’s land

between East and West Berlin

inspired by the Christmas Truce of 1914,


when German and English soldiers

crawled out of the trenches,

kicked around a football,

shared cigarettes

and Christmas songs.


Before the chlorine

and mustard gas attacks,

the vanities of commanders,

and the storm of steel

and TNT resumed.


The last diorama I built

had multifold hands I crafted

from plastic Chinese backscratchers


bursting through the muddy soil

as if the Earth herself

was reaching up to drag a tank

down into her molten center.


The earth in my basement

had the final word; all my

dioramas corrupted by the

damp and moldy soil.

Saturday, December 19, 2020

the window

the dried bodies of hundreds

of black flies lay on the sill

beneath the window pane


where they’d vainly tried

to reach the garden outside,

buzzing weakly until they died.


no one had been in the house

since sometime around the time

when families gathered in front

of the color set on sunday nights

to watch disney and bonanza.


the sunbeam in the dust rising

in the air looked like a ray 

emanating from the hand of god.


through the grime-speckled window,

falling on a broken ladies’ mirror

lying on the floor and sending

a sparkling reflection to dance


each afternoon on the ceiling,

like tinkerbelle touching the castle

with her wand or the fire

burning through the map.

Saturday, December 12, 2020

tsugasvsdi: smoke

Jerry left his sleeping bag,

the one with a broken zipper,

underneath the clover leaf

freeway interchange.


Trudged up to the Kwik Serv

to get a bag of peanuts

and a pack of smokes.


paper sign taped to

the left hand door

arrow pointing right

“use other door”.


The clerk behind the

plexiglass at the counter

said, you need to put on

a mask, sir.


Jerry says, I don’t

have any of that.

walks out side.

using the correct door.


digs through his

duct-taped knapsack

looking for a scrap

of something he can


use to cover his mouth

and nose. it’s important

now to take care of others

and he really needs a smoke.

Friday, December 4, 2020

I was looking for turtles

A swarm of garter snakes

charged blindly through a school

of minnows trapped in a shrunken pool

swinging their open mouths

from side to side until they

caught the helpless fish.


Two snakes grabbed

the same fish and began

to swallow it, one from the head

and one from the tail until

they met each other

snout to snout.


A tug of war ensued,

without give or quarter.

A snake’s teeth make it difficult

to back off what they begin to swallow.

Would one snake have to eat

the other if neither refused to yield?


This way and that way

they struggled, each determined

to prevail. In an instant, one gaped

wide releasing the minnow,

shot back across the sand to the pool

to try for another. Undoubtably successful.