Time Well Spent

I saw my crepe hands reaching for a grandchild,

my crepe skinned arms wrapped around her small

waist, just one hug, just one small innocent gesture

before the wind and rain wash me away. Not a giant

step for a last, eternal bonding. So innocently she smiles

at her dry, wrinkled pap. For years now the clouds

have been gathering with tentacles of crashing horses

bearing down on my lungs and limbs. Soon my child

I’ll be seeking autographs from Jesus and Mary, two great friends.

The Golden Dance

Saw you last night walking the girders,

Golden Gate, not golden, not for you.

Metal diving board, a death trap for the sad,

I never knew and now my delusion comes true.

I am so sorry life has been cruel to you.

It’s been cruel to many before. I will never

feel those arms around me, those lips pressed

wetly against mine. What did you think I could do?

Did you see wings on my shoulders or sandals on my feet?

You’re gone, now I’m lost, I am sadder than you now.

Sad is the only word I can use, my eyes speak with my destiny.

Poison Leaves

At this moment life is a child

swaying in its attempt to walk

without falling to its knees and screaming,

Help me daddy.” Daddy left for Tulsa.

He’s dancing with a reaper,

carelessly throwing breath to the wind.

His lovers will die before Autumn leaves

touch the summer scorched grass.

Is it time now daddy?

I cannot say Apocalypse. My lips are blue.

Time

Damned if time is waiting for you.

Whatever time means

just numbers on a piece of paper,

manmade hope and loss of memory.

We invented time and time disappears

without thought of you and I.

The world turns and with each turn

we gain a gray hair, a toothache,

wrinkles, somebody named Jesus,

his buddies God and something called

the Holy Ghost. All of whom fit into

an SUV, preferably a Toyota. For them

there’s no such thing called time.

We are the only creatures forgetting,

planning, hoping, and wishing for time.

My Last Prom

I found you dead on page six

obituaries. I knew those eyes.

I stared longingly many times

as my breath caught in conflict.

I loved you but I didn’t, not really.

Eighteen, dumb, no grasp on aging,

maturing, war was waiting, and loving

you was a leisure I couldn’t pay so I left you

in a storm, dirty pool, wrong headed.

I’m sorry. You’re dead, I am spirituality

gone, stone drop from sanity. I am gone.

Reaping

Every picture strikes a chord, a scenario

of years long gone, long hidden.

I’ve forgotten my forefathers, hard

working farmers, victims of Depression,

war, disease, lost friends. You’re gone.

Soon, too soon we follow our own parade.

Someone said once “one day older,

one day closer to the end.” I ask the end of what,

the end of a hard day’s work, shoveling stalls,

reaping fields of wheat, or reaping the dead

from wars declared by the rich, the arrogant,

narcissistic kings living in gold and silver

while their followers sleep in hovels declaring

victory over their hard days, slavery never sleeps.

The Perfect Funeral

Dark, cool room

flowers on both sides of her coffin

quiet classic country playing.

her favorite Patsy Cline hits.

“Mother” written on a bouquet of red

like a saddle on a brown maple stallion.

Maybe Bertha was riding Trigger to heaven,

no one said, I wouldn’t ask. I was twelve.

Sporadic cackles rang through this veil of death,

old ladies’ laughing I thought peculiar.

Finally a man of the cloth, reminded me of a Sloth,

stood up and started the flames of Hell,

my bow tie tightened and sweat poured in harmony

with the old man’s words..

What a perfect funeral I heard a woman say.

I scurried to the Men’s Room to give a child’s only gift.

Bus Ticket to Heaven

Death it seems to me is just a movement,

a bus stop in Cleveland I don’t know,

just a crowd of faceless faces

waiting for another ride.

Browns, Blacks, Whites,

pimps, whores alike

just waiting for another bus

to St. Louis, finally St. Peter’s.

Cinderellas won’t ride a night tram,

no night coach for them

strictly Amtrack’s club car

taking a double decker to heaven.

Imagine death if you can

sweep the dirt

chase those skeletons,

take the last bus out of town.

It’s a two-way trip for some,

for others a two year warranty.

God loves you but if you come by bus

check the final destination on your ticket.

Arty’s Story

Each morning it’s “off to work love.”

Each time I am lost, never could live without you,

pity me Lord, my body now frail

without a will to continue this trip

across the Milky Way, it’s just too much.

I can’t bear this loneliness, lungs struggling,

this heart’s dragging me here and there.

“Doing good Arty,” the nurse says somberly.

“You’ll be running about in no time.”

Where too, I wonder and to whom or what,

a gurney maybe rolling slowly to man’s self built hell,

sifting sands of my time on earth?

A hole no doubt, a wooden box where it’s ‘off to work love.”

Bonnie or Johnny

Nazi lover with cheekbones high and smooth

will you still love me in World War Three?

Will fascist boots break my neck for a color?

Someone wrote human kind are dead, moving dead.

We have lost our daddies, friends try to bring them back.

Daddy went home. He and momma are smoking weed

in the neverlands of purgatory, heaven, hell, maybe paradise.

We don’t know now do we dear? What’s next? What’s not?

Could be cold, could be hot. Could be Johnny or Bonnie

flying in from Montgomery on a six-string or a smooth slide.

We know Nazi girl that no one knows the sound of black boots like us.