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.

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.