Sonnet

A Soggy Walk on Mother’s Day

I see the shape of you in a tree up ahead, 

curved and gray.  You lean, your shoulders forward

and your knees bent.  The dog sees you too.  Leaves spread

behind you like plumage — proud, grounded bird.

The dog’s vision is keen.  He knows it’s not you. 

His ears drop and his pace slows.  I follow his lead.

Rain soaks through my shirt, and my shoe

squeaks.  I think of my mother, this pressing need 

for meaning, my feet heavy as lead.  

You cross the street and pass under the tree.  The dog

sees you and and strains on the leash.  With dread,

I think of the distance between us, the fog.

The day is gray and you’re too far ahead.  

You don’t look my way, and my mother is dead.

more national "dulness"

NC just passed an amendment that refuses to legally recognize any marriage that is not between a woman and a man.  I am depressed, disgusted even despondent with the hypocrisy and ignorance that such a decision represents! Most of the self-defined "conservatives" that push such agendas — in NC and nationally — don't seem to recognize the disconnect between their belief in smaller government and their approval of  a constitutional directive that gives the government the right to dictate the most private and personal decisions of hardworking, tax-paying citizens!  Not to mention that this amendment is a blatant violation of the separation of church and state, as it governmentally imposes a set of moral beliefs — just one of many interpretations of the supposedly "Christian" Bible — on a population whose sexual preference affects nobody but themselves and their partners. 


(Although this should NOT be at all relevant, homosexuality is about biology, not morality! Morality involves choice, and even if sexual preference were "optional," this decision belongs to nobody but the individual!)  

That someone would want to involve themselves in the bedroom affairs of strangers is beyond me! This is the real perversity — a type of voyeurism, and a malignant type at that! Throughout history, the most heinous persecutors — criminal folk like Hitler — all gained momentum and steam from their own demons; the more vicious their objections and focus, the closer to home the objects of their contempt.  Hitler was born of a Jewish mother, was he not?  And who wanted to know about Clinton's liasons anyway?  Kenneth Starr, perhaps, but not me!  Not even Hilary wanted to know.  Starr and his lynch mob must have been, or are very "naughty" themselves to put such rabid energy and focus on the "naughty" doings of others!  I shudder to think what goes on in their bedrooms, although there is no way in hell I am going to inquire, let alone dictate in this regard!  Imagine if these pervs had put their relentless and rabid energy toward the public schools, or poverty in our country — something that is all of our business — what they might have accomplished!

Alas, I am once again ashamed of my "homeland."

Sigh

Piped music leaks into the air.

Like the sinister hiss of a punctured tire,

the sexless screams warn of love 

waning, the lyrics falsetto and fixed

in time.  Grown men squeal stories 

of failed affairs, unfaithful partners, 

their own fault obscured by limited range

and the muffled domain of headphones.    

The “Oh Woe Is Me” and “I Been Done Wrong” — 

barely a whine in a room meant for romance — 

mute the real longing slipping from his lover’s lips.

Songs of sorrow, his lover sings, her mouth

moving in synch with the imposed agendas

of powdered boys, pierced ears, noses, and penises.

Maimed, malfunctioning, or dead, these singers 

memorialized by wannabe rock stars, 

women, anywhere-but-here kind of guys 

(most of them balding with guts that belie 

the glory days of high school or betray 

years of lazy-boys and beer).  

“Back in the day” he says to his lover.  She

stifles a yawn and unwraps another bon-bon.

Hunkered down in rolls of fat, she folds 

into the corner of the couch and longs 

for something to happen.  Anything:  a change
of channel, another romance 
to arrive by mail, maybe an earthquake.  

Watching the principal calm a child while my son plays violin for fifth graders

White-knuckled fists
and a list
of tasks not yet accomplished --
orders, ideals, a wish
lingering at the close of each day --
making torment of dreams, the bed in which you lay.


Who, if not you, will reach these kids?
Rocking side-to-side, hands raised like bids,
the day metered by taps,
clapping.  Laughter saps
such resolve, rattles your stable approach
like a slap stills tightly stretched strings.  A reproach,


but who can resist that smile?
And why?  Single file
and silent, they march -- like soldiers.
They sit facing the front.  Soon, their teachers
will be strange, voluntary answers
taboo, and you will be a memory.  Your successors


will be oblivious to the torments
of these kids -- tying a shoe, the negligence
of parents, ten minutes
till lunch, time ticking like a pulse.  Bits
of kid -- hair tufted and at attention,
a shy grin -- will haunt your abscission.

Furry ball of fury . . .

Meet Louie, a consuming ball of furry fury.  Since these pics were taken, Louie has at least doubled his weight, and his repertoire of tricks has more than doubled as well.  The size of his crate, the quantity of food, the amount of . . . well, never mind.

It is a joy to be loved by this sweet, eager-to-please beast, especially while living in a den that is rapidly becoming too big.

Louie Louie Louie Lou-I ♪