IKO'S SPIRIT

 

Devastating. A visceral shock 

We brought Iko in for routine dental work 

but then 

a massive tumor in his throat 

“Aggressive melanoma” 

We reluctantly agreed 

to have Iko put down 

Three weeks have gone by 

Iko’s ashes are on the mantel 

His spirit has spread throughout the house 

I look for him each time I enter a room

expect to see him on his pillow in the hallway 

or waiting at the door when we return 

My biological clock tells me 

when it’s time for our walk 

I note each shrub on Ludlow Ave 

where Iko would want to pause and sniff 

Last night as she was getting out of bed 

Katja saw Iko on the floor near her feet 

She stepped out of the way 

to avoid hurting him 

When I turned twelve 

I gave up my belief in ghosts 

Now I find myself re-thinking the matter

THE TWO LISTS

 

“Ready for number seventy?” 

my reunion letter asked. 

Two lists of classmate names were enclosed. 

 “Still Here” and “Gone”. 

I found myself in the “Still Here” list 

along with 88 other classmates. 

The “Gone” list had reached a new pinnacle of 114. 

They compile these lists every five years. 

This was the first time 

that the “Gones” have out-numbered the “Still Heres”. 

I checked out the “Gone” list first. 

More startling, more immutable. 

I couldn’t figure out why people 

were on one list versus the other. 

Both lists had star athletes, 

bright kids, dumb kids, 

health nuts, fast food addicts, 

religious types, nerds, trouble-makers.

Impossible to predict who’d wind up where. 

Eight of my friends were “Gone”. 

Grant, Gus, Nancy, Rick, 

Turry, Huntz, Jerry S., Hal. 

Eight others were “Still Here”. 

Carol, Toddy, Earl, Jerry B., 

Butch, Sally F, Sally H, Duke. 

At least I’ll have some chums to talk to. 

What all this boils down to 

is that the Menominee High School class of 1955 

is slowly but surely shutting down. 

There is a steady flow from “Still Here” to “Gone”. 

Nobody ever goes the other way. 

We might have one more reunion, 

possibly two, 

but after that there will be only one list left. 

The most that I can say 

is that we’ll no longer be split into separate groups.

Just one big class together again.

MY OBITUARY

 

The older I get,

the more I read the daily obituaries.

Interesting but depressing. 

Just about all the dead people in Cincinnati 

have had more impressive lives than mine. 

When I draft my obituary in my mind, 

I run out of items after 6 or 7 lines. 

I didn’t belong to any groups of note. 

Wasn’t the champ at my golf club. 

Actually, I didn’t even have a golf club. 

I wasn’t the CEO, 

didn’t serve on any boards, 

didn’t volunteer for charity. 

never did gardening 

or scuba diving 

or wood-working 

or travels to the Far East. 

My obituary kind of sounds like a footnote. 

I think I will tell them 

to list my age and cause of death, 

my sundry relatives, 

a list of family dogs, 

No. 2 singles on my high school tennis team, 

my introverted nature. 

That’s about it. 

Instead of flowers, 

send contributions to the SPCA.

A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE

 

I shouted at the grave-diggers to stop 

as they lowered my coffin 

into the grave, 

but my vocal chords were frozen 

and down I went. 

The coffin plopped on the floor. 

I listened as the mourners 

tossed dirt onto the lid. 

Before long everyone had left 

and my tomb was silent. 

It’s chilly under the ground 

and remarkably boring. 

I started composing a list 

of virtuous things I’d done in life 

to see if I’m eligible for Paradise. 

To my dismay 

I remembered mainly 

cruel or heartless acts. 

I wish I could begin all over. 

In the meantime I wonder 

how long I have to lie here. 

Shouldn’t an angel be coming for me? 

No one tells you exactly 

what to expect after dying. 

Based on my experience so far, 

I’d say death is a bummer. 

My advice: 

Avoid it at all costs.

AFTER A DEATH IN THE FAMILY

 

The wind so harsh at dusk, 

the dark clouds menacing, 

even the dog 

just wants to go home. 

Our crosswalk is so dangerous.

The red light, that guy 

didn’t even slow down. 

We’ll get hit one of these nights. 

My neighbor’s magnolia tree saddens me. 

The frost returned 

and its blossoms turned black, 

shriveled up, 

fluttered to the sidewalk. 

That sums it all up. 

Shriveled, withered. 

Things make no sense, 

our world is coming to pieces. 

I watch the dog, 

sniffing at a clump of weeds. 

He seems to be saying, 

be patient, this too will pass.

AT THE SYMPHONY

 

Schumann 

Wonder how long it will be? 

Should be pleasant 

These are really good seats 

Probably cost a fortune 

Katja should have asked me 

Balcony would have been fine 

Maybe even better 

That woman has pretty hair 

I wonder if it’s natural 

Unusual color 

Must be dyed 

I need a haircut so badly 

I hate going to the barber 

Hate having to make small talk 

It doesn’t matter 

I don’t need to look decent 

I don’t even need to shave 

A retirement perk 

I wonder how the department is doing? 

It’s amazing how quickly I forgot my career 

I never give it a thought 

They’ve probably forgotten me too 

I do still have all my books and papers 

What will happen to my stuff when I die?   

We don’t even have graves at Spring Grove 

I want to be cremated 

but I’ll probably die first 

and Katja will stick me in a casket 

Charles died last week 

I am running out of friends  

They either die or move away 

We’ll have to get along on our own I

hope we’re able to stay in our house 

Whoops, there’s the end 

(I stand and applaud enthusiastically)

THE END

 

A woman’s voice, barely a whisper, 

“Time to close him down.” 

A still softer voice grunts assent. 

Then a loud screeching sound

like a rusty metal door 

scraping across coarse paving stones, 

fading into an empty black void, 

no sound, no touch, no sensation, 

until a brightly lit portal opens

and my comatose body is being 

propelled through space, 

a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors 

flashing on every side. 

Suddenly a burst of dazzling white rays, 

and a second portal opens, 

giving way to a gentle meadow, 

golden flowers swaying in the breeze, 

hummingbirds and butterflies. 

A familiar voice calls out, 

"We’ve been waiting.” 

My father is alive, 

a young and handsome man, 

my mother standing with him, 

so beautiful. 

The three of us embrace, 

I never dared to dream 

that I could be whole again.

Pandemiciana

Farewell

RIP, Alex, that’s it for your run

We watched you at dinner for years 

Right or wrong, we had oodles of fun 

RIP, Alex, that’s it for your run

For millions of fans the world is undone  

So many sorrows, so many tears

RIP, Alex, that’s it for your run

We watched you at dinner for years 

 

Crusty Old Guy Triolets

                 Eighty-Three

My eighty-third birthday to me was a fright

Who could imagine I’d still be around? 

The perils of old age still leave me uptight 

My eighty-third birthday to me was a fright

Though reaching eight decades I’ve done something right

Thanks to whiskey and Miltown I’m still above ground 

My eighty-third birthday to me was a a fright

Who could imagine I’d still be around? 

Loneliness

 

All my friends have gone away 

A fact that leaves me lonely 

No chums left with whom to play  

All my friends have gone away

I wake each morn to loss, dismay

Finding myself only 

All my friends have gone away

A fact that leaves me lonely 

The Worst Idea  

This is the worst idea of all 

Each hour that we’re here, one hour closer to death

The very thought of it casts a dark pall 

This is the worst idea of all

The truth is we need to confront our downfall

Every creature on earth has to breathe their last breath 

This is the worst idea of all

Each hour that we’re here, one hour closer to death

Polymalgia Rheumatica 

I wake each morn in abject pain 

My arms, my legs, my shoulders, my spine

To walk ten steps, a cruel strain

I wake each morn in abject pain

By afternoon I’ve made some gain 

My knees, surprise, now feel just fine

I wake each morn in abject pain

My arms, my legs, my shoulders, my spine

Too Many Docs  

It seems like I go to a doctor each week

The lung doc, the heart doc, the skin doc and more 

My body’s turned into a creaky antique

It seems like I go to the doctor each week

Each visit I’m sure that my prospects are bleak  

But the doc always says he finds life in my core

It seems like I go to the doctor each week 

The lung doc, the heart doc, the skin doc, and more 

Kitchen Horrors

“Wake up, wake up

We caught the mouse

But he is still alive

Please please go down to the kitchen”

“Stop poking me

I’m sound asleep

The mouse will die soon

This can wait until morning”

Then it was morning

I made my way downstairs

The mousetrap, empty, upside down

The mouse a foot away

Lying on his  back

Kicking, jerking

Squirming, writhing

Unable to right himself 

I slid a New Yorker under the helpless body

Laid an AARP magazine on the top

Rolled the bundle in a coffin-like cylinder

And carried the package to the driveway

What does one do when the mousetrap fails?  

I tossed the crippled body into my neighbor’s garden

Watched as the leaves shook about

What now?  How long?  

I walked away, stoop-shouldered, head down 

The demeanor of a guilt-ridden murderer    

"The Dance of Life" by Edvard Munch

Midnight on the Norwegian isle 

A full moon glitters on the lake 

While villagers cavort along the shoreline

Spinning, twirling to the mesmerizing music

A gray-haired man lustfully dips his partner 

While a man in black and his partner in red slowly sway

Hand in hand, arms stretched downward

The man’s face, yellow in pallor, the mask of death

The woman, dark circles engulfing her eyes

Sad, absorbed, resigned

The last dance the doomed couple will know

A woman in white stands to one side 

Smiling, fresh and innocent, virginal 

To the right, an older woman, adorned in black 

Hunched over, face glum, hands clasped

Gazing at the couple, contemplating their demise

The dance of life persists but moments more 

Until the dancers sink down to the netherworld 

The Ant on the Patio

Eight a.m., coffee on the patio

I’d slogged my way through the Enquirer

Skipping most stories, so boring, empty

Sudoku, more enticing but

even it imploded at the end

Just then I noticed a solitary black ant

making his way round the table’s rim

Running for two or three inches

Stopping, looking here and there

Running some more 

His body language, clear signs of panic 

“He may have to do this forever,” I thought

This ant will never discover

that the table rim is round

Not a drop of water, not a speck of food

Nothing but barren gray metal

Will he run in a circle 

until he dies?

I caught my breath, gave a sigh

I felt sorrow for the ant

and also identified with his plight

My own table rim is larger

but every bit as circular

Fruitless, bereft of nutrition

I went to the kitchen, found a piece of cardboard

I would lure the ant onto it

Then lower him to the ground

I hurried back to the patio

Much to my astonishment

the ant was nowhere to be found

He’d left my table

for a better ant place

I felt a vicarious sense of triumph

If that ant could solve his predicament

There’s surely hope for the rest of us 

Touring the Hereafter

Our Triple-A branch, I was thrilled to learn,

Now takes tourists to Heaven and Hell

Since any day now I’ll be ashes in an urn

I thought I’d see which rings my bell

Heaven, top to bottom, is a pristine place

Cozy cottages with white picket fences

All wear long gowns that are trimmed in white lace

Best of all, they are charged no expenses

The first day in Heaven one is given a harp

Lawrence Welk composed all of the tunes

Cous-cous and kale at six o’clock sharp

For breakfast, poached eggs and dried prunes 

All the radios in Heaven play NPR

People meditate and then do Tai Chi

Heavenly melodies float from afar

Tiny toddlers might sit on your knee  

Finished with my tour, Hell became my next stop  

The dwellings, not so fancy, I’d say

People gobble Big Macs, drink sugary pop

Then torture newcomers all day

The residents of Hell play poker all night

And do other stuff we’d call risky

They write poems with metaphors totally trite

While besot with too much Irish whiskey

           

All the TVs in Hell are set to play porn

Strangers dance the quickstep while nude 

I never saw anyone looking forlorn

One can’t be forlorn when they’re lewd

I’m having some difficulty making up my mind

Of course Heaven is seamlessly nice 

But Hell, I found out, is unfairly maligned

It’s so sad to pass by such fine vice 

Bombs Are On My Mind

              Hiroshima

          August 6, 1945

      the first atomic bomb

80,000 people died in place.

We learned about the A-bomb in our Weekly Reader. 

Harry Truman, Miss Zellinger said,

saved America from destruction.

She taught us about the 

peace-time wonders of atomic energy.

But what stuck in our child-minds —

the firestorms destroying all life on Earth.  

Fourth grade, we had monthly atomic bomb drills

First, we put away all pencils and erasers. 

Then we hid our heads under our desks.

No one understood just why.  

Deeny-Boy thought

maybe radiation can’t go through wood. 

The nineteen-fifties, the superpower arms race.

In my U.P. hometown many believed

we were a likely target of a Russian A-bomb.

From high in the sky, the elders said, we were easily mistaken for

the St. Lawrence Seaway.

If the Russian bombers were off by only a smidgeon…

So long, Menominee County!

My father and Uncle Lars came to a decision.

Our family needed  an @&%*#! atomic bomb shelter.

So, in the basement of my grandfather’s drugstore

they outfitted our room.    

Canned foods, bottled water, graham crackers,

plates and silverware, dish towels, Brillo pads,

flashlights, matches and candles,

extra underwear and socks,

pillows, towels, blankets,

empty paper bags,

comic books, crossword puzzles,

and lastly a portable toilet.

Uncle Lars argued strongly that we needed rifles

in case the townspeople

tried to force their way into our space.  

My father was ambivalent about

killing our neighbors.

So they never did bring in the rifles.

Skip ahead a few years.

My wife and I, students in Ann Arbor.

October 22^nd, 1962, the Cuban Missile crisis.

Nuclear war in the offing.

We were dangerously close to Detroit, a prime target.

Fear, cold sweats.

We thought about driving to the U.P.

to our family bomb shelter.

But then I remembered 

the St. Lawrence Seaway

so we hunkered down with our dog.

Many decades passed

and I almost forgot about atomic bombs.

But now we have a president

who threatens nuclear war with North Korea.

From the air Cincinnati could easily be mistaken for Detroit.

Or Pittsburgh.

Or Cleveland.

   

And we don’t have a family bomb shelter any more.

But at least I learned how to

hide my head under

my desk. 

"Possible Side Effects": A Found Poem (from Rx handouts)

It seems like each month I ingest more pills

My doctor assures me they help solve life’s ills

But each drug arrives with a Side Effects list

I’ll tell you a few and you’ll soon get the gist 

Hearing loss, mania, ringing ears, heavy breathing

Joint pain, eye pain, chest pain, bone pain 

Coughing, itching, cold sweats, unusual bleeding

Upset stomach, belching, rapid weight gain 

Trouble moving, trouble swallowing, trouble sleeping, trouble talking 

Nightmares, nose bleeds, hallucinations, amnesia

Diarrhea, clumsiness, problems in walking

Angiderma, xerostomia, tachycardia, asthenia

Tingling feet, numb feet, prickly feet, trembling feet 

Swollen glands, dizziness, skin irritation

Fast breathing, tarry stools, puffy eyelids, slow heartbeat 

Indigestion, constipation, painful urination  

Runny nose, suicide attempts, shivering, sneezing 

Slurred speech, seizures, aggressive acts

Bleeding gums, liver damage, vomiting, wheezing

Dermititis, yellow eyes, panic attacks 

Flatulence, bleeding gums, dark-colored urine

Fever, convulsions, sadness, bad breath 

Dry skin, scaly skin, yellow skin, blue skin 

Acute renal failure, loss of consciousness, death

Most of these side effects aren’t so bad

The most inconvenient, I would guess, is death

But even death keeps your blood pressure low

The worst fate of all: having bad breath 

Deathly Musings

I happened upon death at the age of four

Lying flat on our lawn, a dead crow

My cousin said I’d be dead one day

That’s more than I wanted to know

Then I was eight and in the third grade

Mr. Perkins, our crossing guard, died

We stared at his corpse at the funeral home

Couldn’t rouse him as hard as we tried

I asked my father, “What happens when we die?”

He said that we don’t know for sure

Skipper explained you get eaten by worms

And then you turn into manure

Frankie said no, you fly up to Heaven

Dead relatives are waiting to greet you

That might be good, it might be bad

I had uncles and aunts who’d mistreat you

I don’t believe much in an afterlife

We’re like frogs, we just die and that’s that

My mother always hoped that we’d be together

Not just us but her dogs and her cat

I’m sure that death’s not like a party

And definitely not a trip to Cancun

It’s probably more like an empty black hole

Or an unending Philip Glass tune

Death does get more worrisome the older I get

Some days it seems right around the corner

My funeral is actually what bothers me most

So embarrassing if I don’t have a mourner

And it’s not even death by itself that’s so bad

It’s the dying that is the real bummer

Sometimes it’s quick and sometimes it’s slow

It’s best not to take the whole summer

Death’s a no-brainer for those who are dead

It’s more troubling for those left behind

Once in a while it’s a pleasant event

It depends upon one’s state of mind

In truth, there are quite a few perks to one’s death

You are done with the shots and the pills

No chance you’ll get stuck in a traffic jam

And Visa stops sending its bills

Much more could be said about death

Like pestilence or nuclear war

But I think I will look on the bright side

Make a list of life’s wonders galore