A Ballad of Annie Oakley

August thirteenth, AD 1860

A sweet baby girl, Phoebe Ann Mosey

Born on a farm in Darke County, Ohio

Eight children, two bedrooms, a farmhouse quite cozy

By age seven Annie hunted to help bring in money

This child was a natural with her firearm

Taking her kill to the general store dealer

Eight years, she’d paid off the mortgage on the farm

Spring Eighty-One, to the south in Cincinnati

Marksman Frank Butler arrived with his act

He bet fifty dollars with hotelman Jack Frost

“I’ll beat any shooter, and that, Sir’s, a fact!”

Jack Frost and Frank Butler rode up to Darke County

To Frank’s amazement, a five-foot female

His opponent in shooting live birds 

They took turns, each targeting twenty-five quail

Twenty-four rounds and the two were dead even  

Neither marksman had missed even one single shot

On his twenty-fifth bird, Frank made his sole error 

And Annie then won the whole fifty-dollar pot

Frank later admitted, “She took me fair and square”

Head over heels, he thought Annie so dear  

Adoring his poodle, she gave Frank a chance

The stars were aligned, they were wed in one year

They moved to Cincinnati, found a house in Oakley

That’s where Annie obtained her famous stage name

She joined Frank’s act in Over-the-Rhine

The start of her journey to world-wide fame

Several years later, Frank and Annie moved on

Joining Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show

Seventeen years, North America and Europe

Queen Victoria, the Kaiser, and King Umberto

Annie’s marksmanship was other-worldly

She shot dimes and playing cards tossed in the air

Hit targets behind her while looking in a mirror

Snuffed a burning candle and put out its glare

Annie Oakley left the show in Nineteen-O-Two         

She fought for women’s rights, for daughters and sons        

Gave money to orphanages and charities

Taught fifteen thousand women how best to use guns

Annie died in Darke County at age sixty-six 

Pernicious anemia, that was her lot

Frank stopped eating food, died eighteen days later

Darke County, still together in their family plot

Father's Day

Oh Father’s Day, you foolish scalawag

Barely one step ahead of Columbus Day 

But lagging miles behind 

Groundhog Day

or Fat Tuesday or National Pizza Day 

Mothers Day, of course, is another matter 

Mothers deserve their own special day

since the rest of their year is 

such a raw deal 

My thinking, of course, might be

out of date 

since it was formed in the nineteen-forties 

The dads in our crowd, 

just back from the war, 

turned their families into military platoons

Dad were three-star generals

Moms, second lieutenants 

The children, buck privates at best

Just one rule obtained:

Obey every command from on high

Do it quickly and perfectly 

Never ask why

Never talk back

The dads had jobs in the factory or the firm

Bringing home the money 

Thus excused from the menial household tasks 

Moms did the cooking, the cleaning,

the bringing up of the children, 

changing their diapers, washing behind the ears 

Although fathers were in charge of discipline

At least the bodily sort 

Usually with a belt or a ruler

Things we learned from our fathers:

Rich people are superior 

Never show weakness

Stand up, don't slouch 

But here I exaggerate

My father did have a fun side 

He took me along 

to chop down our Christmas trees

and pulled the toboggan behind the car 

Best of all, we went to my uncle’s

drugstore after hours

and created whatever 

we wanted at the soda fountain 

Butterscotch, peppermint, fudge ripple

But I can’t remember 

if I ever got a hug  

Those, of course, were the bygone days

Thirty years later

My dad became a grandfather

I give him credit

He grew to be a much better 

grandfather than a father

Engaged with his grandkids

Interested, affectionate, chummy

Times change 

People change with them

Nowadays there are many more reasons
     to celebrate Father's Day 

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

Dicey Discourse: A Triolet

She says my hearing’s getting worse 

It’s true I miss a thing or two  

But still this makes me feel perverse 

She says my hearing’s getting worse

Which makes it slodgy to converse 

I hear most parts (I’d say that’s true)  

She says my hearing’s getting worse

It’s true I miss a thing or two 

Crescent Beach

We check in at two, head straight for the beach 

At the top of the dune a new world bursts into view

White sand for miles, like a blanket of snow 

Facing us from the west, the vast expanse of the Gulf of Mexico

Blue-black in the distance, lighter shades in the middle  

Then pale green as it arrives near the shore 

Rhythmic sounds of waves and beach colliding 

The horizon, a perfectly straight line from north to south

Separating/connecting the sea and the sky

Sunshine, gentle breezes, bathers enveloped in warmth 

The beach is dotted with bright blue umbrellas

A long-legged bird prowls the water’s edge 

Locked inside seashells, ancient crabs dig burrows in the sand 

Two pelicans pass overhead, oblivious to the intruders below

But pushy seagulls scavenge for humans’ cast-off crumbs 

Waist-deep in the ocean, fishermen patiently hunt for unseen prey

I step into the water, a chill greets my ankles

Slowly, gingerly, I gradually reach waist deep 

Icy needles jabbing at my skin

Finally I grit my teeth, plunge into the oncoming whitecap 

Brrrr, such body-shock… 

I wave my arms, bounce up and down

But then, like a miracle, the water warms to my skin 

Eventually I succumb to the waves, letting them carry me back to the shore 

Katja is napping in her beach chair

Her cheeks already turning reddish-pink 

Tiny sails in the distance, kite-surfers flitting across the waves

Bicyclists and joggers use the hard sand as a roadway

Inside a giant sand castle, a small boy adds still one more turret 

A young couple throw a baseball, two girls gather shells 

I read a few chapters, solve one Sudoku puzzle, fail on a second

So warm and peaceful, I drift off too 

Dreaming of younger days on the beach in Wildwood

We break for supper, return at eight

The sun, just halfway through its twilight extravaganza 

Wispy clouds, brilliant yellows, oranges, and reds, a lavender backdrop 

A crowd has assembled at the water’s edge

All facing west, enamored of the show 

The huge red ball touches the horizon, then slowly disappears into the sea

Curtains drawn, the audience departs, the beach goes to sleep

The ocean shore — a world we rarely experience

So opposite from our mundane Midwestern environment 

And we, in these alien surroundings, are turned into different beings

Better, happier beings, more together, more in tune 

Will we hold onto those blissful moments? 

The Royal Wedding

We’ve watched every Super Bowl since Vince Lombardi 

The finals at Wimbledon, the French, the U.S. Open

Other galas too: the Oscars, the Tonys, the Kentucky Derby

Even Miss America till Bert Parks retired 

But nothing comes as close in elegance and grandeur as (you know it) 

The Royal Wedding! 

Arguably the number one extravaganza on Earth 

Even our closest friends don’t suspect  

But my wife, we believe, has a touch of royal blood

A mere teenager when her family traveled through Canada 

Numerous strangers approached her on the street

“You look exactly like our beloved Queen,” they’d say

Elizabeth was in her mid-twenties at the time

My wife, a fourth cousin?  A long-lost half sister? 

We’ve always included the royals in our family

Princess Di, practically a sister-in-law  

We see every movie by Helen and Kate

Binge-watched “The Crown” on Netflix

Are glued to the BBC at Buckingham Palace 

But the Royal Wedding, that’s another story 

Few things in life get more real  

The media, of course, a feeding frenzy

Pre-wedding festivities from dawn to dusk 

Then the wedding day itself, Four a.m. till Eleven

I DVR’d the entire lineup 

NBC, CBS, ABC, FOX, E!, PBS, LIFE, HBO, CNN

Weeks of viewing pleasure for my spouse  

Mid-summer, it will take, to absorb it all  

No alarm needed, we woke up at six 

Prince Harry, Prince William, ambling into the chapel

Fine military regalia, Harry’s neatly trimmed beard

Then Megan Markle in her Hollywood splendor

Tiara, white gown, a forty foot train

A bevy of flower girls, tousle-haired page boys

Prince Charles himself walks the bride down the aisle  

There among the onlookers, Oprah, George C., and Elton John 

And, of course, the Queen herself, looking stately in chartreuse 

Sweet glances, quiet laughter, Harry’s slight signs of nerves

The gospel choir singing, “Stand by me”

My wife sheds a tear at the holy vows

A kiss on the steps, the carriage ride, the adoring crowd

Seventy-five thousand strong

Red-uniformed cavalry, twenty-six noble stallions 

Suddenly it’s over, this fairy-tale wedding 

The end of royal marriages for two or three decades 

We’ll probably be a hundred two by then 

But Prince Philip looked surprisingly fit at ninety-six

That leaves royal 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