The Poem about Pain

Fuck
the pain
doesn’t stop
not ever
someone
somewhere
always feels it
the stubbed toe
the big hard shit
the dismembered right arm
the broken heart

life
is hard

Helen of Juliet

I was a barefoot hobo when we first met—
surviving on raisins,
brussels sprouts, and rocks.
Who could've ever imagined
that one day I’d be
strolling down the boulevard,
wearing these fabulous red shoes
purchased from the T.J. Maxx,
arm-in-arm with my Helen of Juliet?

The Silent Haiku

The phone does not ring,
and so he sits at his desk,
and dreams of the moon.

The Poem at the Edge of Love

They came from opposite worlds.
He was going one way
and she another.
And when they met
at the edge of the cliff...
They looked.
They saw.
They did
not
fall...

in love.

Though they did love each other.
For that moment.
And then they went
back to their respective homes.
Alive.

The Poem for My Friend Scott

Once upon a time,
in the land of Soviet Russia,
Stanislav Petrov
had to work a double-shift
because someone else
had called in sick.
His job was to monitor
a satellite screen—
and should things get sticky—
push the RED BUTTON.
This was back during
the second Cold War,
right before big hair
made it really big.
It was also the day
after my 12th birthday,
when I was still small enough
to squeeze through my milk chute.
Well, on this particular day,
the man’s screen turned blood red,
and an alarm loud enough
to raise the dead blared—
apparently those pesky Americans
were sending five missiles
straight at Russia,
and Stanislav was one touch away
from sending the world
into a nuclear war...
and perhaps oblivion.

But he kept a cool head.

He analyzed the situation
and realized it didn’t
make much sense
that the US would attack
with a mere five missiles,
so he decided to trust his gut,
and he

didn’t

push

the

red

button.

He saved millions of lives
and possibly the Earth’s future.
I’m sure glad that fine Russian scientist
didn’t panic that day,
otherwise I might have died
with my ass stuck in a milk chute.

The I'm Still Relatively Young Poem

I’m still relatively young.
I’ve yet to have a heart attack,
though friends would only be
moderately surprised if I did.
I have a career,
but who’s to say I can’t
switch horses in midstream?
(Bob Dylan, maybe.)
Married? Kids? Checkity-check.
Are my wife and I done having them?
Definitely probably not sure no.
Unlimited future?
Existentialism is best left
to the youth of today.
Do I fear the youth?
Only relatively.

The What Follows Rejection Poem

Sunshine avoids me today,
but the coffee grinder
asks if I can come out to play.
So I do.
But it is no toy
and now my finger is bleeding.
Clearly I am without a clue
my friend says,
sewing my fingertip back on.
I flex the digit repeatedly —
good as new.
I thank her for kindness,
her timing,
and, most of all,
for offering me that
thing no less practical
than a screwdriver.