WILD TURKEY

Old biker, shirtless in the parking lot
more hair on his back than on his head,
tip toes like a cartoon spy in his flip flops.
Black wraparound sunglasses, faded tattoos,
he sneaks up behind the cars and mini vans.
Camera in hand, a strange sight for us to see.

He snaps photos of a wild turkey in the grass
on the edge of a hill, begging for food from
a pale skinned couple from Ohio, I suppose
since they’re wearing red Buckeye t-shirts.
They sit and stare at the four foot tall bird
with his rugged good looks, and toughness.

He has the demeanor of a survivor, who walks
tall and makes things work on this mountain.
If you asked all of the tourists watching him
they would say that now they understand
how he could have been the one selected
to be the symbol for our country, long ago.

HILLBILLY

The last group, it seems.
The only ones, for that matter.
They joke and make fun of your
heritage, culture, and history.

Moonshine stills, little brown jugs,
words misspelled, crudely written
on makeshift signs, shacks for homes.
Outhouses with crescent moons
on the door down in the holler.
Shoot at strangers in the woods.

Tattered overalls, colorful patches,
red and white checked dresses,
oversized clodhopping brogans,
worn out work boots, shoeless.
big floppy black hats full of holes,
corn cob pipes, pig tails in hair,
gap toothed, bad teeth, missing teeth,
no teeth, crossed eyes, big bug eyes.

Marrying your cousin,
messing with your sister,
second grade education,
one room schoolhouses.
Lazy, sneaky, thieves, cheats.

Snake handling in church,
holy rollers with tambourines,
fainting, moved by the spirit,
baptized in a muddy creek.

Possum and raccoon to eat,
iron skillet cooking huge biscuits,
banjo picking, dulcimer playing,
Wildwood Flower singing.

Seven dogs on the porch,
worn out sofa on the porch,
whittling on the porch.
Flies on your face, too lazy
to shoo them off or away.

Maw and Paw calling
fourteen children to dinner
at lunchtime and supper at night.
Loaded down jalopy pickup truck,
backfiring, bouncing along, no shocks.

And all of this came about
because they wanted -
to live in the forest,
to respect the land,
to worship their god,
to be with their families,
to stay out of the wars,
to not own slaves,
to make what they needed,
to eat and drink what they wanted,
to keep what they worked for,
to keep to themselves,
to ignore questions of strangers,
to not answer to others rules or laws,
to have the right to be left alone.

A STRENUOUS PATH

A paved road, zero point five miles,
how deceived he was to think this
short afternoon hike would be easy.
He noticed benches lining the path
every ten to twenty yards and how it
seemed difficult to breathe walking up
from the crowded parking lot full of
cars from Alabama, Ohio, and Kentucky.

An elevation of about a mile and a quarter
stole the valuable oxygen and made his hike
a slow paced, static trip with creaky knees,
burning thighs, a gaping jaw, a heaving chest.
A scene where all the walkers are convinced
to think about following the simple code of
healthy weight loss,-eat less,get more exercise.

At the top awaits a winding spiral walkway,
park founders didn’t have the nerve to place
a tower at the end with a set of a hundred stairs.
In the domed tower, a reward awaited the hikers.
Cool breezes, like the ripest of fruit just picked,
like drinking fresh brewed coffee in the morning,
like eating a hot biscuit straight from the oven.
Whatever you decide to say, it is a pure feeling
that made one woman point to a wooden bench
and tell her husband, “Sit down, take it in, enjoy it”.

With spectacular views, tourists politely bother
each other to take pictures of them and as they
trade cameras, an old lady repeatedly reassures
them,“It’ll make a really great Christmas card.”
Some take a moment to study the famous smoke
on the mountain tops of this National Park, a few
wonder how many more hemlocks will die before
those little bugs from Asia will get under control?

I think about all the ones before me, who stood at
the top of this tower, feeling alive, safe, and lucky.
One man says how close he feels to God up here.
But the wisest one in the bunch, sets us all straight-
“I do know one thing, nothing left to do but go down.”

CURSIVE

In second grade he couldn’t wait to unlock
the mystery of longhand, cursive, handwriting.
He looked forward to hours of continuous circles,
lines to push up, lines to pull down, rows of loops
and don’t forget the 45 degree slant of the page.

A Papermate pen, shiny silver, a two heart logo
on a pocket clip, Prussian blue, on the bottom.
He took pride in showing everyone a huge bump,
the callous, the disfigurement caused by the grip
of the writing utensil, an instrument for recording
ones ideas, to share, to express, to give an answer.

And each year his efforts did not go unnoticed or
in vain, he reached his goal of “Perfect Handwriting”,
receiving, what else- a piece of paper with perfect
printing on it, “Best Handwriting, Fifth Grade, 1978”.

Now as his hand aches from clutching a pen,
you can barely tell the a’s from the o’s and so on,
he wishes that he had one of those certificates to
hang on his wall, next to his desk where he types
on the keyboard of a computer every day, every night.

DAMN IT

is what he shouted as he smacked his thigh
and splattered someone else’s blood all over.
After swatting the first mosquito of the summer,
he no longer could relax and enjoy his new
folding chair on the small concrete back porch.
He sat, waiting for the next bite,unable to
enjoy the gift of the cool breezes in mid June.
Planning his next killing was all he thought of now.

HYDRANGEAS

need lots of water, that’s why
they gots hydra in their name,
is what a garden center worker
said to me and I replied makes
sense, never gave it much thought.

Instead what I was thinking about
was how they formed a thick hedge
of blue and purple flowers, a clustered
snowball of tiny delicate blossoms.

In my youth, I walked up Columbia Avenue
past the Victorian mansion where Boston ferns
hung on a porch lined with white wicker chairs
and a grand hammock, never ever occupied.

In the yard, Saabs, Volvos, and Peugeots from
Maryland and Virginia sat on a crushed clamshell
driveway, while the guests laughed and played
croquet on the lawn, waiting a dainty bell to
signal them all to come for four o’clock tea.

Strange to see them living a lifestyle from
the past and one day walking by, I told my
grandmother that I planned to have a hedge
of hydrangeas too in my yard when I grow up
and she replied, We always had them too at
my mother’s house, down on Washington Street.

REMEMBERING YOU,COUSIN

You placed me in a beer box and
we made a sled out of it and slid
down a snowless hill in Newburgh.
We lined up green plastic Army men
on the red rug of Nana’s kitchen
and you explained to me how we
would throw a clothes pin back and
forth until the last man was standing.

You took me to the movies to see
Barbara Striesand’s What’s Up Doc?
and being a five year old, I cried from
boredom and wanted to go home.
We played wiffle ball and Frisbee on
the Decatur Street beach and for
years we climbed among the jetties
and pilings in search of crabs, starfish.

We rode in your primer scarred Pontiac
to the baseball fields on Lafayette Street
where we hit and caught softballs for
hours in the hot sun of August, playing
the roles of Schmidt, Carlton, and Luzinski.

Years passed, our families grew apart,
we lost track of one another, but always
spoke of how we should go see a Phillies
game together, I’d call you, we’d get tickets
meet up at the stadium, have a few beers,
talk about growing up at the Jersey Shore.

And today, I am here, too late to meet you
at the ballpark, instead I am here for your
memorial service, too broken up to read
what I have written to honor our kinship.

A PURPLE STINGRAY

with a silver metallic
looking banana seat,
long whip antennae
with a Day-Glo orange flag
from the bank to make sure
you didn’t get run over.
Old Maid cards clipped to
tire spokes made a magic sound
as I rode around the block and
began to sing the few words
I knew from the Archies song,
“honey, honey, sugar, sugar”.
I sang, and bounced a little higher
on one certain slab of pavement
disrupted by maple tree roots.
At age seven, it had to be one
of the happiest moments of my life,
riding around the block alone
on the purple bike that I haven’t
seen since she sold it at a yard sale.

THE KING'S HIGHWAY

The deli is empty now, just me waiting
with an empty chip bag, a straw wrapper,
an oval platter with a puddle of pickle juice.

Rain falls steadily on one of America’s last
main streets, where all the stores are up and
running, open for business regardless of the
headlines about our ever struggling economy.
This is a place where so many have so much.

My mind wanders from the reason I’m here.
I listen closely, song lyrics come from a back room.
I begin to wonder where they got the old juke box
glowing first yellow, then pink, then neon blue like a
huge lava lamp, an avalanche of songs from childhood.

Frankie Valli, The Commodores, Love Train by The O’Jays
all old now, just like me. Strangely they’re all happy songs
bringing back good memories. Today I’ve decided to be
alone for a while, to think about why or how you are gone.

PHOTO-http://www.flickr.com/photos/squirrelhugger/33955150/

SACRED

Looking out the back window,
I wait for the coffee to brew.
I hear your hammer and chisel
chipping away on Sunday morning
and wonder what happened to
silence, the serenity, the sacred
feeling that was attached to the day.
The day for boys to wear neckties,
shiny shoes, and navy blue blazers.
A day for girls in black Mary Janes
to wear a Polly Flinders sailor dress.

Last time I was at church, I saw some
with flip flops on, while others wore
football jerseys and sweatshirts.
And if I said something about this
they’d reply, “At least I showed up,
Jesus doesn’t care what I’m wearing.”

In between the masonry work and a
neighbor with severe smoker’s cough,
I can hear bells ringing in the distance,
Saint Ambrose Church up on Route 18.
Calling us all to remember the Sabbath
and to keep it holy, like when we all
memorized it in catechism class to get
a gold star next to our my names on a chart.

BLUE BOTTLES

At the foot of miniature mountains,
there’s a place where they haven’t cut
trees down yet because nature is saved
for wealthy folks who can afford to keep it.
In between all this is a private golf course
surrounded by made to order mansions.

There are still corn fields too, on either side
of the county road, deer stand on the edge
of yards and Canadian geese never leave.
And when we ride a little slower, a glistening
blue shines in the blazing hot sunshine of August
and I ask you to pull over to examine this roadside
oddity that makes me smile and scratch my head.

Blue bottles fastened to a fence post, each of their
necks slid over a large roofing nail pointed upward
to make a strange piece of art or maybe a place
where drunken teenagers hung out ,then tried
to be funny, but who ever heard of someone
drinking so much Riesling wine, just to get an
empty blue bottle to hang on a fence post?

I imagine that I’m like so many other drivers
going this way and just before Cherry Valley Road,
I think about buying white wine in a blue bottle
tonight after work, so I can place it on a stick at
my house to start my own blue bottle tree next
to the Black-eyed Susans, Salvia, and coneflowers.

Image from Google search-http://shutterchick.com/category/musings/

BIRDSONG

How could she swear that the birds
were singing just for her today,
as she planted red geraniums in
huge plastic pots that resembled pottery.
Sunshine, pleasant breezes brought
a peaceful moment for her and the birds.
Then she doubted and wondered if they
were actually content or even singing.
Perhaps the robin complained about a
shortage of worms, hopping sporadically,
distressed over the uncertainty of a
next meal or the possibility of starvation.
Maybe the cardinal’s song was really him
mourning the death of a fallen baby
from his nest in the dogwood tree,
helpless feelings of a grief stricken parent.
The squawking of the crows, a method of
ridicule in order to bully little sparrows
who first found crusts of bread scattered
on the old neighbor next door’s lawn.
But it was the shouting of a lone blue jay
that reminded her of why she liked
these birds best, because there was no
doubt of their intentions or emotions.
Simply stated, a warning to her cat-
stay away; get ready for a peck on the skull.
It was then that she realized how ridiculous
she had been for thinking that these songs
were more complicated than just a
simple song, sung by beautiful creatures.

THE KID FRIENDLY DENTIST

Video games, a playland castle, Brio trains,
ultra modern looking waiting room, painted
with swirls, textures, perhaps a faux finish,
contrasting colors, purple and burnt orange.

Stylized Snoopy ,geometric kid’s designs hang
on the small walls dividing the work spaces and
then there is one great room with four primary
colored chairs all lined up, a tooth repair factory.

Women hygienists, who look like somebody’s mom
wear plastic face shields, latex gloves, lilac Croc clogs.
The lone dentist, in a polo shirt drifts around the area
seeking out cavities, handing out advice on techniques
for flossing, proper brushing, a possible need for braces.

Kids Bop, Top 40 tunes are piped through the office,
songs by young troubled guys with guitars soothe
the young patients, who get to choose special flavors
of tooth cleaner, cotton candy, bubble gum, basic mint.

A team of office workers, all nice looking girls, with glasses,
pulled up hair, tanned skin, most on the verge of being hot,
but the matching work shirts emblazoned with a silly dinosaur
properly brushing his teeth and the khaki pants seem to ruin it.

Butterflies, lizards, and fish mobiles swing in the breeze.
Outside the Canadian geese swim in the man made pond
with three fountains spraying skyward in the morning sun.
Everyone is happy, especially the parents with insurance.
No matter what they did to make the visit a pleasant one,
the polisher, drill, and hook that drains the saliva, still all
sound like medieval torture instruments inflicting pain, slowly.

A SINGLE LIGHT BULB

dangled from the twelve foot ceiling
above the bed in the little cottage
rented from an old friend’s family.
The door flew open, chain yanked,
she exclaimed, “Get the fuck out of
bed, we’re pregnant.” And in her
hand, the Clear Blue Easy stick with
the plus sign, no doubt a true test.
He is the one, who always denies,
questions, can’t believe anything
and says don’t say anything just yet.
Minutes later she is on the phone,
with her mother, overjoyed and sad
all at once, overwhelmed to tell the
woman she loves the most, how
she will be a grandmother soon.
First the news is told in English, then
the conversation turns to Spanish.
He sits on the bed, retracing their steps
to the “blizzard of the century", a week at
home, snow piled almost three feet high.
Their world was suddenly and completely
set in motion with the pull of the light cord.
He wonders how many other couples are
having this same moment and conversation.

IMAGE-http://technabob.com

MORNINGS FOR ME

Roll over to the sounds of birds,
I plan to lay and pick out the distinct
sounds of each creature, because
you can’t do this in the winter with
the windows all sealed up or in the
summer with air conditioners running.

Just past six thirty, get to sleep late today.
My wife’s black cat has just begun walking
all over me, poking, urging me to get out
of bed for feeding time, I blow on the
little animal’s face and ears to make him
go away, but this cat knows persistence.

Sunshine, bird music, and the cat struggle
has awakened my son’s small black dog
who begins the click-clacking of toenails
on linoleum floor in the kitchen below.
It is time for him to bark, yelp, and beg
for his breakfast as well, no way now to
avoid this mess I have to deal with again.

Two plastic purple containers get taken
to the side porch, tiny triangles bounce
off the ceramic dish and little nuggets rattle
a shiny metal bowl, these meals end fast.

The dog goes back to bed and the cat finds
today’s favorite spot to drape himself.
My wife rolls over upstairs and the boy
breathes in his bed in a tangle of blankets.
I open the windows and doors for fresh air.
I retire to my soft brown chair, put my feet up,
grab an ivory colored afghan and sit alone,
wondering what kind of bird sings that song.

THROWN AWAY

Disagreements were short, never amounted
to much, perhaps back then they knew not to
get angry with each other in front of children.
Every so often though, he spoke of travelling
to New Mexico, but dreadful sand, desolation,
a blazing sun, made her vow to never return.

It was different for him, in the service, training
the men, preparing them for the Pacific front.
Organizing sports teams, the officer’s club with
a young Hoagy Carmichael playing the piano,
having a beer with baseball’s Hank Greenberg.

As the memories flowed, he’d bring up
a missing memento and wonder how she
could just throw out his most cherished
photo from the war, him standing proudly
with the now infamous B-29, flying fortress.
I can’t believe you threw out that picture
of me standing alongside the Enola Gay.

Each time she grew angrier, refuting that
she threw it away or even knowing where it was.
She’d remind him of the two years of separation
and always ended the discussion, by telling him
it wasn’t so happy a time for them even after
they were able to get “on the base” housing and
bring their daughter to finally meet him.
And when the girl said, “Mommy, who is that man?”
He spoke of how it made him cry to hear those words.

THE RIDING LAWNMOWER

did not cut the grass the same way as the push lawnmower,
even though they were both John Deere, but you liked the way
it looked better with the smaller one, so you had me spend
extra time and effort manicuring your lawn for you, raking it,
placing it in the royal blue wheelbarrow, and dumping it
into the waist high brush in the field at the edge of the yard.

When you gave the order to cut the lawn, it’s getting too high.
I protested weakly, mentioning that today was my birthday,
after all, maybe I could get the lawnmower out tomorrow.
Tomorrow it’s going to rain, get your lazy ass out there, don’t
give me your looks, or I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.

And now, each year on my birthday, I try to cut my grass,
in my yard, and I smile as I think of how miserable you were
and how we all turned out thirty years later, so far away now.

WILDFLOWERS OR WEEDS

The clock pushed him out the front door.
Frustration and worry greeted him on the porch.
After the rain fall, it is one of those days when
he can’t tell if he needs a jacket, or not.
Placing his hand in the air, he expected to solve
his dilemma and that slight pause made him
notice a cluster of soft papery petals, violets
growing wildly by the weathered picket fence
peeling again, cracked paint, it has to go.

Wildflowers or weeds, intricately simple creatures
planted accidentally here, just like him, he thought
of how another birthday looms, how his mother’s
follows two days after, how long ago they spoke.

Flowers and spring weather, seem to remind him
of her when he struggles to remember a time
unmarked with resentment or hassles, he decides
there may have been a moment after all, when it was
just the three of them searching the woods together
with little pointed trowels and brown paper bags,
the kind the grocery stores always used back then.

She took her children on a hunt for the flower of May,
Lily of the Valley was the prey to harvest and grow
under the windows on the side of her mother’s house
where no one usually walked, where shade mostly fell.
And just before the bags where filled, a sleek black
racer slid over the fallen branches in the patch of woods.
It sent them running and squealing towards home, filling
them with a strange mixture of fear, delight and regret.

CHIEU HOI

Let me win your heart and mind
or I’ll burn your god damn hut down-
inscription on a GI Zippo lighter, ’68 Vietnam.

When I saw a little battleship gray rowboat
propped up against your mother’s garage,
I wondered what it said on the bow or stern,
whatever they call the back end of a boat.

You explained that you were in the Navy
and spent a tour of duty on a river boat
going up and down the little waterways
with a crew attempting to spread good will
to the Vietnamese people, handing out
pots, pans, five gallon jugs of cooking oil.

A gesture of friendship to the local people
of the tiny villages on the banks of the rivers.
The words meant Open Arms, kind of like saying
we’re friends, but no matter what we did,
they’d never trust us, too much had happened.

GROWING UP WITH MURDERS

Sawed off shotgun, double barrel turned loose
on the low income housing project manager
who dared to evict, who cared for his tenants.
I think it’s time to move is what the mother said.

She was lying on the front lawn with a hole
in her head, made her boyfriend angry they said.
Sure does have a hard head, bullet didn’t kill her,
but it killed him, after he put the .38 in his mouth.
It happens anywhere, when people are in love.

Good neighbors, a nurse, a retired postman but
they stopped being friendly, chose not to speak.
Their son got shot by his ex-wife through the
window of his trailer and they couldn’t deal with
the heartache or the shame of losing him this way.

Teenage boy, Jimmy always seemed in trouble and
when his girlfriend needed money for her dope,
they approached some poor old man on the corner
and demanded his wallet, but a struggle took place.
A shovel cracked the old guy’s skull open and off
to jail they went, just a few blocks down Atlantic Street.

He’d never seen a person that color green before
and didn’t know how they’d get the stains out of
the rugs, after a whole week of lying there, rotting.
Seems that the Burger King manager had a boyfriend,
he loved him too, that’s when they found out about “gay”.

After all those years watching SWAT on television,
a real group of marksmen positioned themselves
in the Hillcrest Tavern’s upstairs window on Broad St.
When the inmates ran out of the county jail,
they dropped them on the front lawn, instantly.

Mike, the kid who always reeked of nicotine and
wet sneakers, had not been in homeroom all week.
And when we read the Evening News, it explained
the reason for his absenteeism. He was locked up for
killing his Grandma over $60, he needed to get high.

And now when he sees all the killings on the news,
he says, “What’s this world coming to?” even though
deep down he knows that it’s always been this way,
for years and years, no matter what town you live in.