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.

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.

Digital Friendships

We’re pretty good friends, me and Stephen Colbert  

He tells me new jokes every night 

Disgust with Trump, that’s a main thing we share 

We’re pretty good friends, me and Stephen Colbert  

Steve could know me better but I don’t care 

When he comes to Cincy we will be so tight 

We’re pretty good friends, me and Stephen Colbert  

He tells me new jokes every night 

From My Poetry Room

In a hollow cavity at the back of my mind

there is a hidden room 

where I go when I need to write a poem

I simply close my eyes, grit my teeth, and pass through the portal 

shutting the sturdy door firmly behind me

A room that smells of lilacs and peppermint schnapps

decorated in pastel stripes

Fuscia, lavender, eggplant, plum

Thelonious Monk might be playing Misterioso in the background

Or Miles Davis, Sketches of Spain 

A large bay window on the North wall

displays a series of inspiring scenes

The Menominee River, Ludlow Avenue at dusk 

children at play in the forest

the beach at Siesta Key 

wretched souls in the fifth circle of Hell 

Life-sized portraits on the East wall stare back at me

Dorothy Parker, Ferlinghetti, Hilaire Belloc 

Charles Bukowski, Spike Milligan, Langston Hughes 

A digital message board is mounted on the South wall 

depicting an endless array of poetry prompts

Neurotic anxieties, Valentine wishes, what dogs get confused about

horrid parents, the lucky number 3, cryptids, arthritic joints

On the West wall placards list instructions for poetic forms

Villanelle, Kyriele, Shadorma

Triolet, Ghazal, Rondeau, Oviellejo   

Two armchairs await in the corner

One, plush and over-stuffed, prompts a gentle flow of poetic imagery

The other vibrates madly and shakes loose long buried ideas

For sustenance, the mini-refrigerator offers

Lorna Doone cookies and Canadian whiskey  

On the counter, half a dozen corked vials

contain smelling salts that induce emotions of choice

Joy, torment, grief, longing, mild amusement, confusion 

There at my desk a yellow legal pad, a laptop computer, a #2 pencil 

a thesaurus, a rhyming dictionary, a copy of Bartlett’s Quotations  

I am actually sitting in my poetry room at this very moment

writing this poem for you

I had planned to take a lunch break but

the door is locked, I’ve lost the key

I do have all the necessities

I will just stay here locked in my room 

until the end of my days 

Plaints of the Letter Z

Probably I shouldn’t fret

A true honor, being one of only twenty-six

But hardly an honor to be stuck at the end

We Z’s get short shrift

Webster’s dictionary has 953 pages

The Z’s begin on page 952

Does this strike you as just?  Logical?  

So disheartening for the grade schoolers named Zimmerman

whose daily activities are arranged alphabetically

They are fed up with being Z’s (as they well should be)

Zimmerman is the most common Z-name

but it’s not among the most popular twenty

Not even the top fifty

In fact it is number 379

Zhang comes in second at 472

In ancient times this was not the case

Practically everyone in the Old Testament is named Z

Zacharias, Zebedee, Zephaniah, Zelophehad

Zair, Zareah, Zedekiah, Zeeb, Zion

Zuzims, Zorobabel, Zophar, Ziza,  

and 131 more of our clan

Calligraphers admire Z as the most elegant

Like a bolt of lightning

Or the zig-zag trail of a mountaineer

scaling the face of El Capitan

Z is sharper than S, more fulsome than J

Twice as dynamic as our staid cousin N

And Zzz is among the most melodious of sounds

The gentle breathing of a sleeping newborn

Or the hiss of a snake-mother guarding her snakelets

Just ask yourself this question

Where would we be without zinnias, zebras, zithers,

zephyrs, zoologists, the zodiac, Renee Zellweger

Were it not for zygotes, the human race would be extinct

These are matters crying out for public discussion

Please try not to be zany when you next meet a Z

Swinging

  

I love to swing

When my mother pushes me

I go so high you’d never believe

Like a seagull soaring over the ocean

Searching the blue waters far below

Sometimes I feel I am close to Heaven 

Up here so high in the clouds 

Looking at the people’s tiny houses

Sending angel prayers to the sleeping babes

I have no fear when I’m high in the sky

I know there’s a safety net of love

My mother is always there for me

To catch me if ever I slip 

Swinging high

Swinging low

Swinging high again

Swinging my way to the unknown

Black T's

      

     

The Goodwill arranges its T-shirts by color

I skip past the white and the gray

I usually thumb through the red and the blue

But it’s black shirts that carry the day 

Black T-shirts, so forceful, so strong

Most thugs never mug a wearer

Even big guys step out of the way

While their kiddies look on in sheer terror 

Black T-shirts remind me of zombies

Of panthers and black bears and rhinos

Tarantulas and scorpions are blacker than night

Many dreaded creatures that cause human woes

Nosferatu and Dracula always wear black

Darth Vader and Lord Voldemort

Plus scary good guys, John Wick, The Dark Knight

James Dean, other rebels of his sort

Black stands for mystery, power and death 

Why I’m drawn to this color is odd

In truth, I am more of a lime green guy

But for fantasy, black’s my facade  

Letterology: A Book Of Divination For Our Troubled Times

Numerology gets more applause and acclaim

A source of wisdom for two thousand years

But Letterology, a wellspring, if you are seeking

to unravel the psyche, to calm rampant fears 

Letterology interprets the letters from one’s name

In my case, for example, the initials D-C-L 

One probes their meanings in the sacred texts

One’s life course, one’s destiny, Letterology will tell

                  D-C-L: The Readings

D is the image of an Army helmet

          Of a bullet, a quonset hut, a coffin’s end 

The sound of D is duh-duh-duh-duh

          The din of a jackhammer dismantling concrete

D stands for demon, degenerate, depraved

          Also dilettante, dullard, doofus

 Thus D is the Dark side of D-C-L

         And D is in the first place, the foundation, the core 

C is the image of a cup of hot chocolate

          A happy smile, a bowl for chrysanthemums

C sounds like cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh

          The soft song of cicadas at twilight

 C stands for capable, confident, clever

          And chatty, congenial, cordial, chipper

 C is the Creative side of D-C-L

  But sadly C is stuck between D and L

L is the image of a dead end road

          A broken twig, a clock just past midnight

L sounds like luh-luh-luh-luh

          The gibberish of an infant babbling in his crib

 L stands for lazy, lethargic, lackadaisical

          For loony, light-headed, lopsided, lumpy 

 L is the Lamentable side of D-C-L

         L waits in the last place, the guardian of the end

What should I make of this unsettling reading? 

All hope for the future is with the letter C

D-C-L should change his first name to Cramer

When C’s in the first place, one is happy and free

An Oedipal Dream

When my father departed 

to join the war in the Pacific 

I was appointed the man of the house

Sacred protector of my mother, my sister

even though I not yet reached seven

One day as we sipped lemonade in the garden 

a large hairy man with golden eyes 

charged toward us on his horse

It was Kublai Khan himself

He leapt from his fiery steed 

unleashing his double-edged sword

“Stay behind me”

I shouted to my loved ones

“I need no help”

A bronze saber magically appeared in my right hand

A shield in my left 

We engaged in furious battle

for an hour 

for two hours

Finally I saw my opening

Darted in, swung, slashed off Kublai Khan’s head

It fell with an empty thud at my feet

I hadn’t suffered a single cut or bruise

This moment, I realized, was the reason

I had been chosen to take my father’s place 

My Story. By Jack.

My mom and I cherish our cozy homestead

But last week she told me, “No money”

“We’ll have to sell Old Bess,” Mother said

Such a shock, that sweet cow is our honey

We left for the market, much to my distress

On the way I met a scraggly old man

He offered to trade magic beans for Old Bess 

I was thrilled, an encouraging plan

Back home I showed the magic beans to my mom

But she screamed, “You didn’t get our money???”  

I did my best to stay peaceful and calm

But she yelled at me, “This is not funny!”

I ran upstairs crying, crawled right into bed

Out the window went the beans, such a shock

I woke up at dawn with a feeling of dread

But there, in our yard, a huge stalk

I tossed on my trousers, my shirt, and my shoes

Up the bean stalk I started to climb

Two miles high, such astonishing views

In the distance, a castle sublime

Standing in the doorway, a tall lady giant  

With one big red eye on her head

I tried to act likable and compliant

One wrong step, I knew I’d be dead 

Suddenly loud crashes came from the yard

Her husband strode forth, some sixteen feet tall

His face was all ruddy and jagged and scarred

I raced to the closet at the end of the hall

The giant chanted, “Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum  

“I smell the blood of an Englishman

“Be he alive, or be he dead

“I'll have his bones to grind my bread!”

That creature sat down and reached into a keg

He pulled out a mangy white hen 

In seconds that hen laid a golden egg

Worth at least sixty shekels and ten

I stayed in the closet till the giant fell asleep

Then the hen and I raced down the walk

I think that dumb bird must have made a peep

For the giant saw us climb down the stalk

We scampered down that stalk as fast as we could

With the giant following closely behind us

I grabbed my axe, began chopping the wood

I could hear the big brute scream and cuss

At the very last second the stalk tumbled down

The giant cried out in grave fear

Then he crashed right down upon his bald crown

Giant’s end, we were now in the clear

Our hen supplies a golden egg every day

The first one, I bought back Old Bess

Mom, me, Bess, Hen — all contented I’d say

Is this a happy ending?  Well, yes!

Jack and Jill: An Afterword

Jack and Jill went up the hill

To fetch a pail of water

Jack fell down

And broke his crown

And Jill came tumbling after

(Anon., 17th century)

Oh Jill, sweet Jill, how could you?

How could you push me down that hill?

I banged my head, I bruised my toe 

A bumpy, frightening spill    

Oh Jack, dear friend, I feel for you

But you were pawing at me 

I pushed you away to protect myself

Then you tripped on a rock, you see

But we climbed that hill to kiss and hug 

There’s no water on top of a hill

Why would you go there if not to kiss?  

Girls’ moods befuddle me still  

No water on top of the hill?

So why did we bring your pail?

I held your arm to rescue you

Then I too tumbled down the trail 

You held my arm to rescue me?

here i feared you were doing me in 

Oh Jill, this fills me with such relief 

The thought of it makes my head spin 

Oh Jack, you are such a silly boy 

But you mustn’t grab girls by force

If you ever in life hope to get a kiss

Please stop being boorish and coarse 

O.K., Jill, I’ll see you soon

O.K.,  Jack, see you later  

The Goose That Laid Golden Eggs

Jack at the Giants’ Castle Door:

These monsters are awfully scraggly and huge

But their goose laid a large  egg of gold

If I could just steal her through subterfuge

We could buy back our cow that I sold 

The Giantess peeking out the kitchen door:

Look at this darling boy at our house

He is clearly in love with our goose

I won’t even check with my ill-tempered spouse 

I’ll just give her to this sweet papoose 

The Giant, looking in the window at Jack:

Who is this evil one here in our castle

Who is stealing our goose’s golden eggs?

It’s time for a brutal, no-holds-barred hassle

I’ll rip off his arms and his legs 

Jack, racing out the door with the goose:

Oh no, the monster giant is after me

I’ve got to climb down this bean stalk

He’ll tear me in pieces if we don’t get free

Let’s go, Mrs. Goose, please don’t squawk

The Giant, coming down the stalk after Jack:

You’ll never get away, you naughty young thief

I’m eighty times bigger than you

I’ll teach you some things about pain and grief 

What awaits you, you haven’t a clue 

Narrator:

Jack raced down that stalk like a rifle shot 

With the lumbering giant in pursuit

The boy grabbed his axe, gave it all that he got 

And the stalk crashed to earth with the brute 

Aaaiiieeehhh!!!  Crash!!!  Kerboom!!!  Aagghhh!!!

Jack’s Mother

Oh Jack, that dead giant fills up our whole yard 

But look, a golden egg from your goose 

Never again will our life be so hard 

Let’s buy back our cow and vamoose

Epilogue

Jack and Jack’s mother 

and the cow 

and the goose 

(and even the Giantess)

lived happily ever after 

THE END OF THE STORY

Murder in the Swiss Alps: An Ekphrastic Poem

René Magritte, “The Menaced Assassin”

The scene: The Swiss Alps chalet of 

  Mademoiselle Camille Gautier 

  heiress to the Marchand Deschamps winery fortune

Newly occupied, the rooms remain sparse 

Mademoiselle, age 29, unclothed, 

lies motionless on her red chaise lounge

Her limbs, relaxed, akimbo 

Her scarf draped casually across her shoulders

Mademoiselle’s throat, severed to the spine, 
     blood oozing from her lips

Her lover, her killer, Valentin Lacroix, is about to depart

At ease, nonchalant, impeccably dressed

Bag packed, hat and coat resting neatly on the chair 

He pauses at the gramophone

And listens one last time to a favorite aria

Unruffled, Lacroix shows no remorse

Having falsely imagined Camille’s infidelity,

He has extracted the ultimate revenge

Hand in pocket, gripping the weapon, he listens nostalgically 

To the song that the lovers once shared

Three brothers, the triplets Girard from the village,

Peer in from the balcony

Have witnessed the entire tragedy

Impassive, unblinking, they remind us that evil deeds

never escape the public’s unrelenting eye

Unknown to the assassin, Mademoiselle’s father

  doubting Lacroix’s character and intentions 

has hired two St. Moritz detectives, 

the twin brothers Gaspard and Gabin Fournier

to follow Lacroix and gather the facts

Lurking in the foyer, Gaspard has his club, Gabin his net  

At song’s end, the Fourniers will entrap the assassin 

Perhaps clubbing him to unconsciousness or worse 

The violent death of Camille Gautier 

offers many truths to young and old 

Life is a precarious, unpredictable affair

Momentous behaviors result from folly and delusion

Men act with violence, brutal men murder women

Love and hate, seeming opposites, are inseparably intertwined