Lonely Sailor

Someone said
A writer writes because he has
No choice.
That it's like breathing,
An involuntary response to
Holding a freshly sharpened pencil
Or sitting at a keyboard,
A disease.
Writers peck at immortality
Recognition
Flirt with fame
But mostly must be focused on
The next elusive paycheck
From teaching or milking cows.
They write because it's what they do,
Hoping to corral large inspiration to convey small truths,
At best.
Writers yearn for a single gentle reader
Who will say she understands
Even if she doesn't.
Oh, poet,
Lonely sailor,
Lusting for a wind gust
Or a pod of dolphins to show the way.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: anoldent

In Servitude

A very small child came to my house last night
Holding out his bag
Begging for candy
Threatening trick or treat.
He wore black pants
White dress shirt
Skinny black tie
And a sparkling plastic Mitt Romney mask.
He looked up at me
Staring through vacant black eye holes,
Appearing just as spellbound and drugged
As the last missionaries to ring my doorbell.
The child's parents stood smugly on the sidewalk,
Arms folded, proud of their kid's costume
Their idea
Their message to the neighborhood.
No 7-year-olds ask to mock a presidential candidate on Halloween.
None clamor to pose as a Mormon.
They long to be Superman or Spider-Man or Harry Potter.
But this boy, in servitude, was forced to do his
Parents' bidding.
I smiled at the boy
Threw chocolate in his bag
And waved to his parents, pathetic and weak.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Lights Out

I have the only generator on the street.
When the lights went out last night
The neighborhood went black
But for my house,
Because I thought ahead,
Making the modest investment
After the last blast.
Do I have to control for other people's stupidity?
Everything happens in cycles.
Repetition is a driving force of nature.
My frozen food stays frozen.
Television brings images of local devastation.
Wife's hair blower
Blows.
My house has sadly become the local meeting place,
Everyone drawn to my illuminated lawn,
Not disguising their jealousy,
Hate in their eyes.
Marvin from the next block asks if he can charge his phone.
Now the schools are closed for a week.
My children rejoice.
I consent to hosting an all-neighborhood slumber party for the kids.
They're in the back room playing old-fashioned board games,
Which I was smart to save.
I look out my front window
Shotgun by my side,
Waiting for someone to come steal my power.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: 1997

Harpies

Sandy is soaking the country
But my dog wags his tail
To say he wants his walk,
Impatient.
We head into the night
Led by a clear full moon
That conveys harpies
In advance of Halloween,
Half woman half vulture
Clinging to shadows and rooftops
Watching me.
We approach a certain house
That spooks my pet
He whines and pulls on the leash
Trying to get away.
He doesn't like the decorations,
Mock spider web,
A creepy monster propped by the front door.
I tighten the leash and
Move closer for a picture.
I raise my phone,
The creature moves its arm
I'm certain.
A billow of spiked air blows down my neck.
I hustle to the next house,
Eye on the moon,
Movement in the bushes.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: Poem Fix

Pie

Somewhere in Kansas
I felt my eyes closing,
Stopped for coffee and pie.
I pulled off the access road,
Parked my rig,
Walked the few yards back to
The small cafe and its
Broken neon sign.
I sat on a stool
Ordered jet black java,
Lemon meringue,
Engaged the owner/cook in conversation,
Ed.
We talked about long hauls
And life in his small town.
It's not all it's cracked up to be, said Ed.
I guess.
A lotta folks think I have it made,
Owning my own place,
Out of the rat race, so to speak,
This place isn't so bad.
He sounded desperate to convince me.
I hadn't the heart to tell Ed the meringue was bad,
Tough and rubbery,
Egg whites over beaten.
It made me gag.
Ed asked if I was OK.
I sipped the coffee,
My eyes began to water.
I coughed
A piece of the pie landed on the counter.
It's not the pie, he said.
It's never the pie.
We're famous for our pie.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: Renee Comet

Rorschach Test

I stand on my hotel balcony
Smoking a cigar
Gazing across 29th Street at an open window in the next building.
A man sits at a desk
Wearing large black headphones
Staring at two wide computer screens.
He sips from a water bottle
Looks up and sees me
We lock eyes for a moment
Nods in my direction
Returns to his work.
When I think he's not looking I snap his picture with my phone
To memorialize the distant connection
He sees me and shakes his head.
He says something.
To me? To himself?
I give a friendly wave with my cigar.
He rises
Loosens his pants
Turns around and places
His naked fleshy butt against the window
Where it flattens into a Rorschach test
That isn't hard to interpret.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: Poem Fix

Too Much Coffee

Gordon lets something slip that makes my job seem
Untenable
Unbearable
Three cups of coffee and I
Can't think anymore
Body tipped on caffeine and adrenalin
I feel like the only person alive
Moving in slow motion past people who have
No clue.
I consider the balcony
Shut out the world with ear buds
Momma Miss America
Glorious drums and frightening reverb defining life
I fall into the flow outside and grab a building to steady myself
How can I not feel pretentious?
The singer asks what's the use of worrying
He answers: no use
Son of a bitch
Can't even use the f-word in this poem
Hurts so good
Crushing
Too much coffee
Too much

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: Poem Fix

Never Let No One Man Worry Your Mind

Carl won't tell me what's wrong
Leaving me to guess why he's quiet about
Everything.
I make things up.
Something to do with work
Or the airports he lives in,
Dissatisfaction with his job,
The traveling and car rentals,
Those tiny hotel pillows.
I ask him but it turns him angry,
Incredulous.
Nothing, he says.
Maybe it's me
Something I said
Not making him feel special,
I don't know.
Does he have girlfriends in all those cities he visits?
I search his laundry for clues,
Check his phone for wayward texts or emails when he's in the shower.
I find nothing.
This leaves a growing distance between us.
He doesn't see it.
I give him extra love
And make the lasagna he likes
Because I'm going to explode.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

The Empire Builder

My train is an hour late.
When I finally board
I sit by a west window
And keep an eye on the Hudson,
The low clouds
Touching the trees and
The grand isolated homes on the other side.
I imagine a lonely woman inside one of the larger white houses
Sitting at a breakfast nook
Gazing out at the water and
My train speeding south.
I try to connect with her telepathically
Wanting to feel what it's like to be wealthy
And wake up in a quiet estate
Wearing slippers
Fetching the paper from the gravel path,
Working the crossword over a cup of fresh coffee
As the 280 from upstate passes
And wondering why her husband has come home late
Three nights in a row.
The train stops short of the Rhinecliff station.
Something's wrong.
I get off and walk the rest of the way
Looking for something better.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image: David Hermeyer and Samuel Wantman

Sock

Louise says she can still make money
With her body,
That it's a resource that refreshes every day.
You promised, I remind her,
You said you were through with that.
I made her an honest woman
Determined to satisfy
Make her my own
Be good to her.
But her past is overwhelming,
Hanging over us,
She can't let go.
We met that way but I press,
Asking if I don't please her
If my love isn't enough.
She says I'm too much,
Demanding,
Stop working so hard at it,
Reminds me that we're not married.
I think about her all day while I'm
Draining transmissions and repairing flats,
Brooding,
Wondering if she's fallen off the fidelity wagon,
If I'm being selfish.
At night I find a stray sock under the bed.
Not mine, I'm sure.
I want to confront her with it but am afraid
It will decide things.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image:Poem Fix

There Are No Seasons Where I Live

There are no seasons where I live
No snow or turning leaves
Months of silver depressing clouds
Blizzards.
There are no earthquakes where I live
No gaping holes that
Swallow cars
Collapsing highways.
There are no hurricanes where I live
No rising tides
Bursting levees
Floods forcing us upstairs.
There are no tornadoes where I live
No spinning skies of death
Leveling homes
Snatching farm animals.
But here, where heat was born,
We swim in tiny blue oceans
Stay indoors
Love each other.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image: Fallschirmjager

Vacated Blood

One by one
As the children leave
We linger over their faces on the wall
And empty rooms that paint pictures
Of their energy and noise
Parties and locked doors
Struggles and freedom.
The youngest turns 16
And moves downstairs
Not away from us
But for us
A gift
A merciful halfway step
So it becomes familiar
Easing into emptiness.
I call my dead
Understanding where his heart hurts
Fill him up with a strong dose of me
Hoping the world will return the favor
That one day
My vacated blood
Will dial me with news of the day, too.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image: Poem Fix 

Reincarnation

Fermented wet sock smell emanates from
My dog's mouth
Playful
Jowls dripping thick viscous drool
Half smiling
Satisfied after dinner
Ready for
Throw the ball or
Catch me 'cause I have the bone or
Find the itchy place on my neck
Happy
Metronome tail
Later he will collapse in my room
Gift me with burned egg farts
Look at me like I've betrayed his soul
Beg me to figure out his
Past life
When he was my master

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image: Poem Fix

Why Did the Turtle Cross the Road?

My father asks me why the
Turtle crossed the road,
A riddle to test my memory
Because he's presented the same joke
Dozens of times.
He knows he has posed the challenge before,
Often starting with
I might have told you this already,
Which is almost always true.
The real puzzle is whether I should
Stop him,
Or halt him early enough.
If he gets too far into the brainteaser
I don't have the heart to
Interrupt,
So I pretend it's fresh,
Throwing my head back
Laughing loudly and
Slapping my leg.
But I often jump in quickly to say,
Yes, you've told it
Many times
Don't you remember?
It's infuriating to hear the same riddle
Over and over,
Told the same way
And now so ingrained in my mind
That I dream about the damned turtle,
Following it to its ordained destination,
Helping it avoid cars.
Such honesty makes him sad.
I always regret it.
I should give him the joy of telling a fresh joke,
Let him have his silly old riddle
And allow the tired turtle
To cross the road
To get to the Shell station.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image: Damien Naidoo

Another Small Death

They are ten billion in debt
So they take my solitary black mailbox
And its small red flag
Bringing us a community monolith
A grey hunk of metal with
Numbers, doors, keyholes.
This is another small death for our community,
Along with tall cinder block walls
Separating us and our yards.
The new mailbox keeps the postal carrier away from our homes,
No Mr. McFeely or Cliff Claven waving to us
No speedy delivery or
Curbside service.
Single mailboxes take too long.
Efficiency is demanded
Fewer stops
Of funky mail vehicles with steering wheels
On the wrong side.
This is what progress brings
And more.
Who needs Saturday delivery?
Central mail give us a
Chance to meet,
Which we do,
Forced,
Nodding to each other as we
Collect our small stack.
But we don't look at our neighbors
Retrieving our mail,
Avoiding the politeness of
It's a beautiful day isn't it?
We fetch our mail with
Superficial smiles
And frowns for junk mail from junk metal.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image: Poem Fix

Pinus Ponderosa

The tall aging pine trees
Are talking to each other.
They huddle,
Debating the weeds and mesquite,
Competing for sun,
Taking pride in crowding out the small starters far below.
They ask if their brothers have felt the chill,
If their bark has been colder than usual,
If they think it's true that the clouds seem somehow darker than yesterday.
They brag about keeping their cones longer,
Reaching higher
Finding more moisture
Fending off woodpeckers.
They inspect each other for dangerous beetles, ants and untamed sap flow,
Commiserating their helplessness against them.
The wisest of the trees tell stories of human hands and animal tails,
Predicting that one day all trees will have such helpful appendages,
But for now
Their community must wait
And find satisfaction and art in singing with the wind.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image: Poem Fix

A Second of Fortune

I too
Make a contract with the darkness
For a single moment of
Absolute and complete
Contentment
Always there in front
Just out of reach
Falling away in the distance
Somehow impossible to attain
That idea of perfection and knowledge
Basking in something close to
Love
Or something resembling love
Disguised as love
Just once
Which isn't too much to ask
Or far too much.
A universal right
To absorb a second of fortune
Of all cylinders firing
Go with Goethe
Or departing unfulfilled
A shame
Pitiful waste
A deal with the devil
Or die trying.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image: Richard Roland Holst

Mermaid in Texas

That's not what you do.
Yes it is.
You'd have got in trouble for it and wouldn't be sitting here right now.
Well I am.
I don't believe it and I can't be convinced and I'm not some dumb hick just 'cause I'm from this part of Texas.
I didn't say you were a hick.
You did kinda say it.
It doesn't matter to me what you think and I only told you because you said I couldn't top your story about the mermaid which, I must say, does not hold water.
I saw what I saw.
You saw a mermaid in Texas?
I most certainly did and you can't prove I didn't.

But you can't prove you did.

That's the same as your story and there's no one to vouch for you.
Of course there are, only dozens of girls.
Then tell me again how you do it.
You don't remember what I said?
I remember just fine but I don't take the word of a stranger in a bar the first time.
If you say so.
I do say so.
Like I said I call for room service and when it arrives I look through the peep hole and if it's a woman and she's not too ugly I take off all my clothes and open the door naked.
Totally naked?
Buck and brightly so, in my birthday suit.
And that's how you get girls?
Half the time they smile and then I smile and invite them in, but if they don't smile and they get  scared then I tell them I just woke up and hadn't realized I wasn't dressed--I'm a great and convincing apologizer--but those room service girls are always so willing and grateful.
Well you told it just the same so maybe I shouldn't doubt you as much.
And the mermaid?
Well she couldn't be anything else and she's all I got.
Then, sir, I shall allow you possession of your water nymph.
My what?
Nothing, good man, nothing at all.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image: Sabine Baring-Grould

Two Americas

Both are blinded
In the gluttony
Hedonism
Sour odor of cigarettes and bourbon
On the Strip.
Jewelry laden
Plump couple
Balding
Clown makeup
Leggings and boots
Holding hands
Oblivious,
Eating from bowls of frozen yogurt
Topped with fudge and Butterfinger crumbs.
They push past a
Shriveled old man
Sitting in the corner at the
Sports book
Coughing
Counting his coins and
Sucking his cheeks,
Praying that Detroit will score
One more run
Before he heads to his apartment
Behind the pawnshop.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: Poem Fix 

Bugs

I sulk in the backyard
Fuming over injustice
And not getting anywhere with
Anything.
It grows dark,
No moon to offer faint outlines of objects,
The blackest night I can remember.
I turn on the small outside light above the back door,
Which casts a dim glow over the small patch of grass,
Comforting to feel a sense of place.
I curl up on the warped plastic lounge chair,
Startled by the bugs that slam into the naked bulb.
Relentless, moths and beetles coalesce from the ether,
Appearing from nowhere
To attack the light.
They charge the faux fire,
Magnets,
Flailing their sturdy bodies
Over and over,
Bouncing away, buzzing, dizzy,
Then back again for more
Until their tiny energies drain
Or their soft parts stick to the light and sizzle.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: Poem Fix