Not Prose

I would never have the audacity to refer to the following as poetry…but it isn’t prose. Sometimes there is not a long story there; just a thought, a feeling, or a fragment of memory. It needs to be said. It needs to be written down. So…i do:

Trumpty Dumpty

Trumpty Dumpty Climbed up the wall
Trumpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the GOPs  horses and
And all the GOPs men
Couldn’t Put Trumpty together Again



I walked out of a bar

I walked out of a bar…Not very far
And there was a Monkey on top of a car

Why was he there?
I don’t really care but
he was combing his hair while he sat in a chair
singing a song  that I’d heard somewhere
but I just couldn’t place it…
…I started to drum on a can

The monk looked my way and said, “Groovy.”
I said, “Far Out.”
And we continued to play.

We were having some fun
when a cop with a gun came along.
He watched for a while; got into our style
and pulled out his harmonica to join in the fun.

When he started playing along
we attracted a throng of people from the bar
as well as the folks who owned that car.

A man with guitar got into the car (outside of the bar),
but he got back out so he could be a part of our scene
which was both groovy and far out (and little obscene).
His friends started to shout (they thought they were singing)

Oh Me
But it was only a moment before some girls came along
to rescue our song with some close harmony

The monkey looked down at me as if to say, “what have we done? —
Man, this is OK.”  Then he grabbed his balls and he fast ran away.

When I woke up this morning, I would never have dreamed
any of this would have happened today.


Number One

Number One
Crawling through the dark tunnels
Pressed tightly against one another.

Asian girl
I can’t even see her face but I am falling in love
With her smelll and the way her Khakis slip
Gracefully into her


At 60 the envy that I feel is real;
But it isn’t what you’d think-
Even what I thought it would be.

I don’t envy young men their youth
Their promise, or the money they might make.
I don’t envy them their muscles or health or certainly their lack of
Their sense of style leaves a great deal to be desired And frankly most
of what they say and think just makes me tired.

But the sex-
the women they attract;
And will taste in those early years.
The miles and miles of sex ahead of them
and often does,
bring me to tears.

It’s not like I’m a starving man
With nothing in my life
No one in my past –
I’ve had my share of love.
But can you ever get your fill?

of women, yes! Oh yes! Yes! Yes!
But sex,

legs and bushes – eyes and breasts, …

When I was young I would have laughed at this.
Women are not playthings…
Mothers make us think this stuff!
Give them respect and love them true.
But then … What’s in it for you?

and pain.
all that promise of sex is down the drain.
Gone with the exchange of a ring; the crying of a child;
a pet, a house, a car or simply… the passage of time.

Suddenly you aren’t worth a dime – To her.
Unless she isn’t yours
And  for some odd reason wants in your drawers…
Or at least she makes
you think…she does

And for a moment you let her make you think
This might be the one that
changes everything for me!
– it never is.

If I told one of those happy young lads on his way to getting laid,
What was in store for him.
That this one was just like all the rest (at best)
He would laugh and call me “old man”
But would he listen?

Would I ?

I’m not listening now.

On Awakening

consumed by fear of inadequacy
I face the endless days and nights alone
wrapped in a fragile cocoon of
ancient dreams and fading memories

Winter Moon

walking home alone
the last full moon of winter
reached down from above the city
and said look, look up
at me,

from between the buildings
the cold, bright beauty stared down
while I stood in the dark and watched
the clouds drift by in clumps
the elegant goddess claim her space in the night sky
watched the night grow colder

As I watched, I wondered
if you too were watching
from wherever you stood
or lay
most likely you were inside sleeping,
but what if you were watching
at the same time as I?

we might have been sharing this spectacle
imagining our hands clasped
fingers entwined
warm bodies lightly touching
breath making little clouds in the air above us

I wondered how that would feel
how I would feel at such a moment
and you…

would it remind you of a long ago night
in another place
with another man
under the same moon
feeling close
feeling safe?

only to have your heart broken
and send you running
to the arms of another country
searching for something
to mend your soul

would it remind me of a long ago night
atop a ship at sea
with another woman
under the same moon
feeling close
feeling something?

only to have my spirit broken
and go stumbling
through days and nights
searching for something
to mend my soul

do we dare to find out?

how much is there to lose for each?
how much to gain?
how many moons
are left for us to share?

do we dare?

A Meaningful Life

Oh, God
I need my life to be about something.
I hate that it’s not
about  anything.

I wake each day to a list of meaningless
chores I have decided must be complete
before I can be

But they are nothing.
simple tasks
a monkey could do if he was so inclined.
he would not be.
they would waste his time.

But I do them, anyway.
because I must
pass the time.
and try to make structure
from nothing

I miss my life.

I can’t even remember when it left me
Or I left it
suddenly it was no more and I was sleepwalking
pretending to accomplish

And now years later
There are no accomplishments
just stuff that eats away my time.
as the clock ticks on

The sun rises and sets

And I wait

For meaning
Or crisis
or death


Something to define
Why I was here at all.

And the phone rings
So I might as well answer it.

Scraps of Paper in a Box

Scraps of paper in a box
Stashed away for eternity
or a while…Whichever comes first.

Scraps of paper, yellowed
Stained with tears and sometimes blood
Filled with memories of horrors
gone, but not forgotten.

Scraps of words;  mundane enough
That changed the lives of
Many then, many now,

even some that came after
and  never felt the sting
but were changed in minute,
immeasurable ways-


scraps of paper
now retrieved
as life is winding down;
and days are spent
mostly in reflection.

Casually discovered
among  crayola and construction paper
memories of decades past.
Among  birthday cards, report cards, valentine cards
3 by 5 cards stained with scrawled words…

“He came home at 4AM., Twenty-two dollars in his pocket.”

words that brought eruptions of  pain; visions of struggles
sounds  shouts and screams and cries.
Thuds and crashes; Groans and whimpers.

Flashing images of knives and guns and broken glass
Upturned furniture and cold pizza
dripping down walls.

The feel of cuts and burns
Slaps and fists,  Broken glasses,
broken teeth,  ripped clothing,
pulled hair


Lifetimes of silence.

Scraps of paper

scraps of lives

Lifetimes of hatred

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