PLAYING WAR

Sharpened sticks, homemade bows, arrows,
shields made from leftover plywood,
like an episode of the Little Rascals.
Forts made from unsplit logs, sheets,
refrigerator boxes, if you were lucky,
and all the kids came out to play
in the backyards with no fences.

Sunday afternoon movies on channel 48,
The Flying Tigers, The Sands of Iwo Jima, Fighting Sea Bees,
The Guns of Navarone, Audie Murphy, Sergeant York.
Plastic Tommy guns, Colt 45 water pistols, toy Winchesters,
jam the barrel in the dirt, cock the handle, pull the trigger.

Hiding behind rows of rhododendrons,
crouching in a little room made by a patch of lilacs,
grabbing your gut, pretending to be shot,
“You got me, dirty Kraut”.
Rolling down the hill, eyes closed, playing dead for three seconds.

Plastic helmets scribbled on with crayons,
trying to copy the helmet your friend showed you from his Dad’s closet.
Full of stickers, an eagle, skulls, sayings, flags, insignias.
And when you went home and asked about that war,
they changed the subject, the same way they changed the channel
when helicopters, men on stretchers, flag draped coffins
interrupted the weather reports and sports updates.
Six year olds had no need to be concerned with such matters.

On rainy afternoons, we lined up those little green men
with their permanent fighting stances, blank stares on plastic faces.
Both ends of our grandmother’s kitchen floor were covered,
knowing that you must spread them out or they’d too quickly
get wiped out by a rolling tennis ball, the toss of a clothes pin
or carefully aimed rubber bands and it was a long time
before we understood what was happening in Southeast Asia.

Photo-http://smilingwithdaisy.blogspot.com/2008/05/onmylist-you-might-be-mom-if.html

THE CLEARING

two miles straight up hill, but cool breezes wait for us,
at the top the wind shakes the leaves.
You know you’re close when you see sunshine and light blue sky.

Shimmering shadows fall on the packed hard dusty trail
of the Carolina mountain top, like sunshine on a lake.
Gray t-shirt soaked with sweat, a reward for your long hike,
cooling you down, setting your body back to its balance.

Chestnut Branch Trail leads us to a clearing,
laurel wraps around the edges, suddenly the breeze stops,
like someone found a switch, silence for a few seconds.

Then insects fly by as loud as World War II fighter planes.
A bird sings sparingly, no more than five notes at a time.
Someone hits the switch again and the breeze revs up,
gaining momentum, all sounds are louder up here.

Now the bird sings more often,
a little bird joins in with a sweet song
it lasts so long that you can’t count his notes.

Black ants, yellow jackets, blue butterflies,
strangely spotted caterpillars crawling
by our footsteps as the mountain laurel
hangs on to blossoms for one more week.

Storms make the trails soft, slick from

the washing of leaves, twigs, and sand to one side.
A ray of sunshine follows the trail, depositing
a spotlight on the clearing, above the log
where we sit to rest, to take a picture.

WEBS

intricately woven, finely crafted,
not catching any flies or bugs.
But it does capture the sunshine
bleeding through the canopy.
Today, even the weeds look beautiful
A mountaintop where two trails cross
and the only fitting souvenir would be
a rock from the edge of the path.
“After all, it's the only way to take
the mountain home with you.”

FRIDAY KNIGHTS

This is the place on Friday night
where the Black Knight, though a little gray
meets the White King, rain or shine.
Tonight it’s rain, the gulleys and trenches
alongside Route 1 are overflowing
with muddy water and old newspapers.
Enter the White Bishop, tall, slender, wise.
He’ll eat tuna salad on whole wheat,
sip fluorescent colored green iced tea,
slurp spoonfuls of French Onion soup,
every time he orders it, his mind wanders
to his mother’s kitchen as his sinewy
liver spotted hands strangely grip the handle
of the cheese crusted, brown speckled crock.
He’ll wait his turn at his table, checking out
a much younger woman who the men seem
to be more than casually acquainted with
and one could use their overactive imagination
to create a scenario, where the three chessmen
gather every Friday night to compete to see
who gets to take the woman home
after the matches are complete and
after she finishes her struggles with Algebra II
for her latest night course at the county college.

PHOTO- http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Chess_set_of_the_USSR.jpg

THAT'D BE YOUR COUSIN

Green metal thermos,
dented silver cup for a lid,
crumpled “Big Orange” hat
splattered with paint,
tattered, thread bare bib overalls,
with a pointer dog logo on front,
faded bluish green tattoos,
skeletons, naked ladies, an eagle.
Tall, lean, tan, wrinkled, chipped teeth,

scraggly long gray hair on his collar.
Drinking a “Meller Yeller”,
eating a “bloney” sandwich,
buying the daily “Nutty Buddy”.

Hobo clothes, a red ball nose,
big floppy shoes, a VW for twelve,
visiting the children’s ward of the hospitals,
bringing smiles from the sad clown.
Growing ‘backer in the front, cows in the back,
acres of ‘maters with his kin.

Living in Japan, where he met his wife
A long stay in California,
so that explains the Oakland Raiders jacket.
The long hard road of life
took him around the world

and back, in a battleship.

Finally at home in the foothills,
with his ear to the race on the radio,
with his eyes on the river and mountains,
always had time to tell his story.

Artwork, logo - http://www.pointerbrand.com/

I DREAMED AGAIN

about my hometown,
the one I fled twenty years ago
on that Christmas morning.
I keep dreaming about that place,

don’t know why, what it all means.

My son says it’s a call to me
to come back to help them
like in the comic books when
superheroes awaken from a
dream and rub their heads
before jumping to their feet
and returning to boyhood homes
to save it from thugs or thieves.

“Oh come on,” says my wife.
But I think he’s right about
this message being sent to me
in my sleep through time and space
calling me home to help.

THE PLACE I WENT TO COLLEGE

called me and acted very nice.
Of course they wanted something.
A donation, cash, a gift from me.
Small talk and false interest in me.
“When’s the last time you visited
your university community?”

Maybe next year is what I say.
More talk about all that the fund
for scholarships would enable
and then a pause before she
intends to ask me one more time.

I’ll tell you what, that sounds
all well and good to me, but
nobody ever helped me and
no one ever gave me a thing
when I was trying to make it
at our university community.
Took me nine and a half years
to get an undergraduate degree.
But now I’m all set, even went

And got myself a masters degree.

So do me a favor, tell one of
those big shots over there,
at my university community,
about my story. They need to know.

A long pause and then she says,
“Sorry that I bothered you tonight.”
Sorry that you bothered me too.

CAT'S GOT A MURMUR

In his little ticking heart.
Who ever heard of that?
Back in the days when you
had four or five running
wild in the backyard,
How many of them had
conditions or diseases
attacking their bodies?
Fortunately they got
run over by a neighbor,
an oil truck or us too.
No vet bills back then.
Just the soft purring,
mouse catching freedom,
without shots or pills.
Living in the wild of
that old back yard.

TOO MANY QUESTIONS ABOUT FLIP FLOPS

Entering hotel lobbies, traveling DC’s busy streets
going to work with thin pieces of rubber and plastic jammed
between toes, flopping at heels, making that flipping sound.
How many of them will fall out of them as they walk?

Long flowing black hair, smooth tan skin, perfect body.
Asian girl in a sharp red dress for today’s meeting,
looking hot and like she means business at the same time,
until you look down to the floor, red and white flip flops.
What were you thinking girl? You ruined the rest of it.

Receding hairline, expensive sunglasses, fat white geek
in his early thirties, khaki shorts, pinstriped Polo shirt,
untucked, still trying to be as cool as he was in college.
What was you thinking dude, looking in the full length mirror?

Will she get her little pinky toe caught in the escalator?
Even better, will he drop his designer luggage on his big toe?
(not that I wish anyone bodily harm) and I certainly
don’t want the place where I am seated this morning
with my four dollar cup of coffee to be overrun
by overworked police officers or thrilled EMS workers.

Those aren’t acceptable, even if you did pay too much for them.
Wear them in your house or when you go to the beach.
I just want to say, When the hell did flip flops become shoes?

Artwork: http://www.nowheremangraphics.com/glog2007.php#september_15

MISERABLE MAN, EASILY IRRITATED

MISERABLE MAN, EASILY IRRITATED
Indecisive people, selfish people
standing in the middle of the bread aisle
staring blankly at sixty three types of bread.
Folks talking on cell phones next to me
in the waiting room of the doctor’s office.
Parents who don’t watch their children at the diner,
women who speak repeatedly of bargains, shopping, spending.
Mini vans with Disney movies playing on the headrests,
fans of certain sport teams who believe the championship,
Super Bowl, or World Series is a lock or guarantee every season.
People offering advice on money market accounts,
IRAs, tax free municipal bonds, insurance policies.
Co-workers quoting Prevention magazine giving tips on
healthy eating, easy ways to trim your waistline, low-carb recipes for the summer,
healing properties of the cranberry, green tea, white tea, red wine, and fish oil.
Citizens who follow Oprah’s latest book recommendation,
relationship advice from Dr. Phil, the top story on Entertainment Tonight.
“You’re so judgmental” says his wife.
“Well, if I ever become like any of those people, beat me with
a wiffle ball bat like a Dora piñata at our niece’s birthday party” he replies.
“Oh God” is how the small talk ends.

DAYS START TO GET LONGER

but still way too cold,
can’t stand two shirts,
the sweater, the sweatshirt
to sit at the kitchen table.

Waiting for the days of Summer,
denim shorts, flip flops,
raggedy orange pocket t-shirt.
Walk into the backyard
see if a tomato or hot pepper
has formed, light the grill,
cook the family’s meal.

Test the water in the pool,
still too cold for a swim,
plug in an old clock radio
and if we’re lucky, the score
shows the Phils beating the Mets.

Turn over burgers and dogs,
holler in the house, five minutes.
Get the condiments on the table.