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.

The Poem About the Injured Lion

The songbird delivers the message —
a friend is in pain.
I want to pluck
the thorn from their paw
but I know I’ll only
bring them temporary relief,
because they live in the forest,
and the floor is awash with thorns.
And besides, I can’t touch them
because continents separate us,
and I live in my own wilderness,
with my own pride.
I can only hope the sun
will find them,
warm their mane,
and light their way
to a beast who will walk
the path with them.
And then they can pluck each other
whenever the need or desire arises.

The I Wear My Trousers Rolled Poem

Everybody’s so cool,
I can’t stand it.
That’s how I know
I’m old.
That and the fact
that I get up every night,
in the middle of the night,
every night,
in the middle of the night.
And I repeat myself.
Plus no one’s listening
to what I’m saying anyway.
Not even me.

Love Drunk Poem

We were drunk on our love.
Actually, we were just drunk.
Okay, we were drunks.
Turns out,
we were never in love.

Say What?

Britney's being attacked again. And this time she has to share come culpability. Apparently, she's pulled a Milli Vanilli and lip synced a concert -- a trend in pop music that might be as prevalent as steroids in baseball, but less damning on the goods, if you know what I mean.

Nonetheless, Britney appears to be in her biggest trouble yet. She's lost the ability to say or think anything that is her own. She can't even count on herself to get her mouth around the words and the notes that set her on this great trip in the first place.

Personally, I think she should get back on How I Met Your Mother. Good times.

Or she should meet Vince in Vegas. The language of loves requires no words.

Greeting Card That's Not

Let’s take a walk,
so I can hold your hand,
and feel your arm brush
against mine.
And you can give me
that playful slap of yours
when I say something
that maybe I shouldn’t.
Or we can be serious, too,
and I’ll tell you something
that worries me,
and you’ll make it better,
in that way you do.
Then we’ll stop.
Kiss. Kiss again.
Walk on.
Me and beautiful you.
In sweet love.

Everyone Rips on Cleveland

Everyone rips on Cleveland —
it’s the easy thing to do.
Everyone rips on Cleveland,
‘cause they like to play the foo’.

Everyone rips on Cleveland
as if her people weren’t real.
Everyone rips on Cleveland,
'cause our souls are forged with steel.

Everyone rips on Cleveland
because everyone is better
than all us saps in Cleveland,
our self-worth locked in a fetter.

Everyone rips on Cleveland
from their perches way up high
Everyone rips on Cleveland —
it gives their simple minds a high.

Everyone rips on Cleveland —
they think it’s pretty cool.
Everyone rips on Cleveland.
Let them eat their stool.

Mama Cat

While walking down the hall
of a greeting card company
I passed a crateful of kitties
being carted away for their close-up.
There were eight in all,
plus their gray mommy
who was wrenching her head
in every which-way direction
making sure her youngins were safe
from harm —
from the humans
ooing, awing, and loving
all over her offspring.
And of course they were, safe.
(The admirers were women who make
birthday cards for a living, after all.)
But mama just kept looking over her shoulder,
her eyes wide, alert, watching.

Because, you know,
a mother always worries.

The Poem About the Razor's Edge

The Irish Barber
had an assistant
who liked to talk
to his wife
as he cut hair
with a special shiny
straight razor.
And as talking
became arguing,
shaving became
butchering,
and I left the shoppe

short a half-pound
of flesh.
But up one bad haircut.

The Poem About the Nest

When the winds of change
are so great
they knock a bird’s nest free
from the safe and cozy hold
of a downspout
elbowing against a house,
what does the bird do then?

She gathers twigs, of course.

Haiku #5

Hot and sticky day,

heart as free as a child's,

every day summer.

Haiku #4

The white crescent moon
cradled the sky in her arms.
One earthling noticed.

Haiku #3

As Mondays wear on,
the fog in my sleepy brain
grows denser, thicker.

Haiku #2

Truth is as fleeting

as a perfect summer day

in lovely Cleveland.