THE BROKEN HOME

The fuse box was flickering, it needed updating.

The faucet came off the sink, it needed changing.

The light switch snapped, it needed doctoring.

The cord of the fan came out, it needed rewiring.

The kitchen window cracked, it needed replacing.

The heater stopped working, it needed refurbishing.

The water meter was inaccurate, it needed correcting.

The cable was always pix-elating, it needed upgrading.

The slop sink had a crack in it, it needed mending.

The hot water heater was leaking, it needed patching.

The sewer line was clogged again, it needed snaking.

The wiring wasn't up to code, it needed revamping.

The cabinets were stained, they needed refacing.

The closets were cluttered, they needed reorganizing.

The hinges came off the gate, they needed tightening.

The living room was uninviting, it needed redecorating.

The dining room was full of ants, it needed spraying.

The wood floors were scratched, they needed polishing.

The furnace was the original, it needed removing.

The fence slats began to rot, they needed mending.

The landscaping looked messy, it needed revitalizing.

The mailbox fell off the rail, it needed re-affixing.

The lawn was full of bare spots, it needed reseeding.

The weeds grew in the patio's cracks,they needed pulling.

The driveway was cracking, it needed resealing.

The front porch was gray and aging, it needed painting.

The storm door was sagging, it needed adjusting.

The siding was moss covered, it needed power washing.

The shingles were aged and worn, it needed re-roofing.

The costs rose and the bills piled up, it was never ending.

The family’s bank account emptied, they needed lending.

WAITING ON THE CLOSING

I didn't think it’d be possible to love this

little blue house in this old neighborhood.

Close together, so much alike, built in ’51.

Our first home, a good place to get started.

Then we’d move on to bigger and better.

In springtime we’d take rides to get a look.

We’d drive slowly, up and down the street,

catching a glimpse of the white picket fence,

bright yellow forsythias, tall and mighty oaks.

Never thinking about all the leaves we’d rake.

I think that’s a lilac bush, I remember saying.

An array of slate rocks served as a walkway,

grape hyacinths on the lawn, a hydrangea row

alongside the three car driveway- a good spot

to learn how to ride a bike or to play basketball.

With porch lights shining, inside the family

who sold the house, packed boxes, we hoped

they hadn't seen us, but wished we could've

gone in to measure windows, to see where we’d

place the sofa, once the lawyer closed the deal.

CHINANSKI, MISUNDERSTOOD

“What matters most is how well

you walk through the fire.”- Charles Bukowski

Mention your name and they smirk, grunt, or groan.

They say that all your poetry is about getting drunk,

getting naked, getting arrested or all of the above.

Dirty old man addicted to whores, whiskey, horse races.

But I know you better than that. I've read your books,

took the time to find out about you and when I heard you

explain how hateful your father was as you took the film crew

to your boyhood home, into the hallway by the bathroom,

I cried as you, in your sixties held back your tears describing

how he whipped  you with a strap, all his anger put on you.

What he left on your heart, what you felt your entire life.

To be degraded, belittled, insulted. It stays with you forever.

And when I picked up your book from the shelf one night,

I felt your pain, your suffering. I consumed your poems,

your books, the films. I wanted to find out everything

about you. Your work turned me to the poetry of others.

I wrote too, I never stopped and I walked through the fire.

A WEEK ON THE OUTER BANKS

They run to the shoreline holding hands-

a man, a woman, and their two children.

Each one can’t wait to get their feet wet.

It’s the first day on the beach in Carolina.

They’ll stay out past dark with flashlights

as the ghost crabs scurry across the sand.

They’ll swim past midnight in illuminated

pools and drink too many ice cold Coronas.

They’ll get up early for coffee on the beach.

They’ll stare at the sunrise and hunt for shells.

They’ll get down on their knees to build fancy

sand castles with plastic buckets and shovels.

They’ll stare at the ocean, judge the waves,

strap colorful boogie boards to their wrists.

They’ll attempt to have a game of paddle ball.

They’ll throw cheese doodles to the seagulls.

By the third or fourth day, things will change,

less people get up early and less stay out late.

They’ll dress in white shirts and khaki shorts to

take family photos for their Christmas cards.

They’ll feel rich, blessed, and lucky to be here.

Some will start to think of the long ride home.

Some will say stupid things to each other, like-

“I wonder what the poor folks are doing today?”

TEST QUESTIONS

Last night I dreamed of long,

rectangular plastic pill boxes.

Seven little lids with black letters

for each day of the week to make

sure you’re taking the right ones.

His phone call had me worrying

about my test results, my future.

How much can you tell about me

from two vials of dark red blood

and a Dixie cup of my warm piss?

Would he be able to predict that

I have just a few months to live?

Could he find testicular cancer,

a diseased liver or kidney failure?

Would he predict clogged arteries?

Maybe he’ll give me pills, like on TV-

Zocor , Plavix , Lipitor, or Avodart?

Maybe he’ll tell me buy a treadmill,

use fish oil, eat Honey Nut Cheerios,

or to take a little orange baby aspirin.

Would I understand what I had to do

or would I just break down and cry,

regretting all the things I’d done or

would I be angry at myself for all the

things I could’ve or should’ve done?

SUNDAY IN THE PARK

The best way to succeed in life is to

act on the advice we give to others. ~Author unknown

Sun on my face, birds on every branch,

bulbs sprouting, green grass emerging

before our eyes in this patch of nature

wedged between busy state highways.

All feeling the same way, the same joy,

blessed by whoever we pray to, but today

we worship blue skies, and magnolia trees.

Here together, but alone, not a word said,

barely a nod as we stroll past one another.

On days like these, I wish we could talk to

each other. I would tell them what I know

what I see, what I think and how I’m feeling.

I’d tell a Dad, be patient with your boy as

they try to fly a kite with not much wind.

I’d tell a Mom in tight fitting jeans to go slow

on her bike, don’t worry about your weight

from where I’m standing, you look mighty fine.

I’d tell a guy walking with headphones to take

them off, listen to children laughing, jays calling,

the swings swaying and the little dogs yapping.

Turn off your phone, walk a trail, read the signs,

identify the trees, admire them, know their names.

I’d tell young parents- let the kids shed their coats,

let them run wild across the fields in the sunshine.

Let them pickup sticks, turn over rocks, look for bugs.

I’d tell another guy by the swings not to say it’s time to

leave and keep pushing until they say they want to go.

I want to ask them all to not scold their babies about

muddy sneakers, grass stains on knees or torn shirts.

I’d remind them how cheap band aids are and how

soap and water is most plentiful in this great country.

I want to offer to take a picture for the one family,

because Dads need to be in some of the photos too.

I’d tell an older couple it’s cool how they still hold

hands after all these years as they walk the path.

I want to tell a lady she’s reading an awesome

book and how it’s much better than the movie.

I’d like to tell the elderly couple that I know what

they’re thinking as they watch a girl dig in the dirt

or when they smile as a boy throws his football.

I wish I could advise the teenager under a scarlet oak

not to worry about what she’s writing in her notebook

or what people will say if they read it. Write it down and

always have some extra pens with you is what I’d say.

I want to wave to a Mom with a plaid blanket spread out

for a picnic lunch. I’d tell her that in forty years her kids

will remember days like this one and they’ll miss it too.

DAY OF THE DEAD

“What have I become, my sweetest friend?

Everyone I know goes away in the end.”

- Hurt, Johnny Cash (written by Trent Reznor)

Lately, every day feels like it’s the Day of the Dead.

I always wonder what it’d be like to drink one more

cup of black coffee with him from a chipped mug on the

porch as the sun goes down. I find myself thinking about

nights before supper, listening to her stories as she makes

biscuits or I imagine riding with him in his white pickup truck

around the fence line of his cattle fields, looking for calves.

Some days it feels like I’m watching a movie called, My Life

and each time it’s shot with different camera angles or lighting.

My favorite scene is when I’m seated with her on the boardwalk,

eating a sugar cone. Then there’s the one where I’m covered with

an itchy stadium blanket and he’s making a fire as we get ready

to watch the Saturday night hockey games in the “back room”.

Another great episode is set on the highways of New Jersey

and New York, we’re laughing about the 100 degree heat,

the hard work, our basketball games and getting easily lost.

Some days the regrets start up, I think you know what I mean?

It’s usually the unanswered invitations, the wasted moments

or the simply because the list is getting longer and the dead

are accumulating as I get older and I don’t like feeling this way.

Lately I’ve been thinking of others too, and this worries me.

Some days I stop to recall the old lady on the beach who

used to give us all candy, or a girl from elementary school

who was found dead, floating naked in our town’s river.

My Sunday School teacher’s granddaughter, she had a hole

in her heart or a high school classmate who feel asleep at

the wheel and never made it home from the third shift.

I wonder if others are haunted by the memories too.

I wonder if they’d confess too or if there are days when

nothing triggers thoughts of the ones who have left us.

Will there be a day when I won’t think of them or will I

keep shaking it off with a sigh, a laugh,or will I always cry?

THE GOOD MEN PROJECT

Honored to be referred to as a "Good Man" and to be interviewed by Cameron Conaway for The Good Men Project. Follow the link http://goodmenproject.com/man-to-man-interviews/an-interview-with-a-good-man-larry-lawrence-theamericanpoet/

ODE TO HIGHWAY 13

“Sometimes they ask him what he’s thinking about when he’s driving”

I know we’re going the right way when

in the middle of the night we cross the lit up

bridge, it’s a miniature version of the one in

Boston, strange masts, cables in the center.

Johnny Janosik Furniture and The Monster Mile

tell me I’m on vacation and on the right road.

Pickup trucks loaded down with watermelons,

vegetable stands with tomatoes and peaches.

Brick churches from another century are planted

on the highway alongside rows of crepe myrtles.

There’s Machipongo Seafood, plenty of Wawas,

and Mason Dixon for cheap cigarettes and hams.

Farmers on tractors, a different kind of traffic jam.

Rundown school buses filled with migrant workers

ready to work in Eastern Shore tomato packing sheds.

We’ll smell the chickens of Perdue and Mountainaire.

I’ll accelerate past eighteen wheeled bird cages with

feathers flying, lots of clucking, it’ll be their last ride.

I’ll laugh at the Dreamland Mobile Home Park sign and

know that my sleeping family wouldn’t find the same

irony in the big billboard or its slogan, A Touch of Class.

Speed traps in towns with Native American names-

Accomack, Pocomoke, Nassawadox and in counties

with fancy English names- Kent, Sussex, and Worcester.

We’ll see High school car washes, plenty of yard sales,

and a church group selling “authentic Carolina BBQ”.

There’ll be at least one accident, asleep at the wheel?

We’ll see roadside shrines to whole families who died.

Signs for beaches we’ve never been to before make us

wonder why not go to Rehoboth, Dewey, or Ocean City?

We drive on to the Chesapeake Bay Tunnel Bridge,

looking for the blue signs with the white seagull logo.

Fleets of mini vans with luggage racks, bikes, fishing rods

slide south from New Jersey, New York and Pennsylvania.

The Jersey Shore is just a memory now, a pile of snapshots.

Been cheating on her for years and they’ll never go back.

Tourists trade places each Saturday on Highway 13 as they

head in two different directions with two different moods.

Perhaps I just drove by a guy from Pittsburgh and his family

that stayed in the very same house that I’ll stay in with mine.

I’ll use the same bathroom, lay my head on the same pillows,

take the same photo of the sun rising above dunes and waves.

LAST NIGHT ON PLANET EARTH

“in case of rapture this car will be unmanned”

- bumper sticker from the 70’s

Instead of going to the family’s New Year’s Eve party

they laid in bed, under the covers watching fireworks

on TV as the Millennium arrived across the time zones.

He waited for confused computers to cause malfunctions,

havoc, mass destruction- maybe the end of the world.

Number two was about to appear in the thousands place,

catchy slogans, media hype, a wave of fear, but in the end,

there was no end. Just a basement filled with generators,

flashlights, firearms, fuel, rolls of duct tape, cases of water,

cans of tuna, and boxes of granola bars bought from Costco.

This time, roadside billboards quoting scripture went up,

messages swirled across the internet, people at work felt

a need to talk about it, radio shows called in the experts.

Somehow, he began to consider, maybe the end is near?

Last night, he was all alone, but took himself out to dinner.

Feeling like a death row inmate from the movies, he ordered

a Philly cheese steak with fried onions that filled his plate and

he had no worries of cholesterol levels or high blood pressure.

As he shook on the salt, he admired the difference in the flavor.

He sipped his Diet Coke and said a prayer for all he’d been given.

POETRY WITH THE KIDS

(memories of moments,strung together in Tankas)

what’s up with all the
poetry? is what a boy
in the back row said.
Makes you choose precise words and
finish in less time. That’s true.

rhyming is Old School
a fourth grade girl announces
as I introduced
limericks, quatrains, couplets.
Man, free verse is where it’s at.

rappers and rock stars
sit at kitchen tables with their
own rhyming dictionaries
forcing themselves to find words
that rhyme with cheese and mustard

Kilmer, poet from nearby
wrote Trees, killed on World War I
battlefield in France.
A young student says plainly-
Should’ve stuck to poetry.

THE SERIAL READER

The play’s the thing is what you could say about
my early reading habits, Sam Shepard, O’Neill, Mamet,
Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams, August Wilson,
Neil La Bute lined his shelves, filled his book bags.
Ten years of nothing but scripts, screenplays,
one act plays, American Theatre arrived monthly.
I dreamed of writing a play, seeing it produced,
finding my script on a shelf at the book store.

One day I picked up a Civil War book, Killer Angels.
I turned away from the plays for three years.
I moved on to the American Revolution, World War I
and II. Finally he read the Vietnam War. Five years passed,
captivated by war books, buying the all the best-
A Rumor of War, Dispatches, The Things that They Carried.
I lost track of time, but knew when my mission was over.

It happened to me again, a change of reading habits
when I stopped near the Drama shelves, reached out
and pulled a book from the shelf. I was drawn
in by poetry, a name I’d never heard before-Bukowski.
Words flowed from the page; the book had a different feel-
What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire.
Line by line I read, relating to the poet’s words.
I got suckered in by poetry. I told everyone how
my life had become poetry, writing, workshops, classes,
festivals, readings, a blog, published in a dozen places.

Each night I park myself in my big brown chair to
crack open the latest find from the internet or bookstore.
Now I joke that I’ve got to be careful not to pick up
another kind of book, it may lead me astray and test
my loyalty to my loved ones. I read nothing but poetry.

MEET THE POET

~for Martin Espada

In a circle we sit, some star struck
by the man whose written seventeen
books of poetry and still more to come.

When asked about a daily time for writing.
he said, “I don’t do anything every day.”
He speaks of poems being work shopped
to death, occurrences of epiphanies and elegies.

He tells us he’s a poet, but a professor too.
First and foremost though, he is a caregiver to
an 18 year old son, who eats a lot, grows too fast
and a wife, who is permanently disabled.

When I hear his booming voice,
the sincerity and truthfulness of his words,
it is then I see the sadness in his expressive eyes,
and I imagine him a poet, no matter what he’s doing.

I see him in the aisles of the supermarket
selecting tomatoes and artichokes while
reciting the passionate odes of Neruda.
First in English, then in Spanish.

I see him walking his three dogs in the
pristine and proper Town Green of Amherst.
I imagine him stopping for a moment in Spring
to share a stanza of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.

And when he is preparing the salad and placing it
on his little round kitchen table for his family,
he smiles and announces to them, “Alabanza”.
Then he sits to eat, with his loved ones, just like us.