Old School Poems...

Election Day

I know I should. I want to raise my voice.
Who attends my political party?
Determining the country’s fate by choice--
I wish it did not have to be dirty.
One promises a program called Bush Moon.
The other contradicts himself instead.
November nominates impending doom.
It seems we must all love blue, white and red.
Participants make you think they can fly.
But soon they start the futile missile rain.
I’m wary of on whom I can rely.
Hope for a leader who will break the chain.
And until then I’ll pray for surrender
to keep this melting pot from the blender.


“Gentle Dauphin, I am called Joan the Maiden”

St. Michael and St. Catharine selected a pristine maiden
to consummate a Divine mission.
The diminutive backwoodswoman
clothed herself in pallid menswear
and bore a sword from Robert de Baudricourt.

The godly auditory hallucinations’ provocations
led the maiden to the vanguard of 6,000 men.
Fortitude among the French forces intensified
following encounters with this virgin feud master.

Innumerable grueling duels later,
the war of ten decades was countermanded
by the defeat of the elite English.

Joan of Arc tramped into camps
to urge mercenaries to attend basilica
and mend their broken commandments.

Marching into the fray, she slew no adversary,
but carried a white banner ornamented with the depiction
of God blessing the fluer-de-lis.

In the end, Phillip “the good” apprehended the innocuous conqueror
before Saint John’s Day.
The resplendent spirit was reduced to ashes
for fallacious accusations of heresy.

Dismayed spectators of the scandalous soirée bellowed,
“We are lost. We have burned a Saint.”
The lips of the lifeless prey seized their last breath. “Jesus,”
became the resilient steward’s terminal susurration.

After an epoch, the church acknowledged their ignorance,
admitting the child’s innocence. Joan of Arc emerged
as the Maid of Orleans and an omnipresent peasant as St. Jeanne d’Arc.


Friday, 4:26 PM

He peeks around the curtain,
bright green eyes searching for his sister
amid the colored dots of faces.

“These thousand tricky tongue twisters trip thrillingly off the tongue,” they all recite
in mime.
Twisting and turning his tongue, Justin prepares for his journey to Oz.
To his left, an imbecile stuffs his costume with straw.
To his right, a pig-tailed young lady kneels to soothe her yapping Scottish terrier.
Justin’s opening night debut leaves him searching for breath and composure as he rehearses again and again the lines of Tin Man.

Across town, a young woman, who has the most beautiful green eyes,
almost as bright as her brother’s,
passes the bowl to the left, to Matt, coughing and smiling.
Her sweaty apartment leaves the air in no condition to enjoy their game
of counting dominos’ dots.
“Ding-dong…dong.” Along with a knock.
“Oh, shit! Hide the bong!”
She unlocks the three latches to create a crack wide enough to peep.
Her heart beats quickly as paranoia runs through her veins.
She sighs as she realizes it is only the air conditioner repair man.
“Yes, sir, Boss, I just arrived” replies the benevolent Mr. Fix-It man into a rustic walkie talkie and then strolls inside the hazy apartment.

Behind his sturdy oak desk, Mr. Boss slams down the phone, and leans back in his chair as he closes his weary green eyes.
He thinks of his wife and her afternoon agenda, calculating the ideal time to meet up for a lecherous afternoon rendezvous.
He frets for a split second about the hazel shirt he left lying on top of their floral duvet,
he wonders if it reeks of her perfume once again.
Worry free almost instantly, he picks up the receiver and dials
the young blue eyed blondie who bares a perfectly placed mustang tattoo under
the freckle of her left thigh.
Minutes later Boss gazes around his gray drapes in delight at the sight of the tiny black mini skirt.

Mrs. Boss picks a hint of lint off the black wool of her skirt.
She diverts her compassionate emerald eyes to the empty seats on her left and right.
She busies herself with the gold theater program, running her fingers across her son’s embossed name, peering around and behind her,
willing just one of them to show up for his sixty three minutes of fame.
Boss follows the yellow brick road and then miraculously finds her way home.
She jumps to her feet and claps her hands loud enough for three
during Tin Man’s curtain call.
The Tin Man bows and smiles as if he has no heart.
But, backstage, if only for two ticks of the clocks’ second hand, his bright eyes become dim.


This poem is so old it has no title...

I CAME UPON A BIRD
IT CROSSED THE STREET SO BRAVELY

WOW, SHE’S GOING PLACES
YET, WHEN THIS BIRD

TRIED TO FLY
SOMETHING KEPT HER
DOWN

WHAT IT TRULY WAS,
I’LL NEVER KNOW

BUT I’LL ALWAYS ASK MYSELF
WHY OH WHY

COULDN’T SHE LET GO?