Regrets

Let us speak, the poet says,

of desire and death:

Driven over half your life

by the one,

waiting the remainder

for the other.

Days when the music was new

and bright,

before your days of old

and dim,

remembered, not as they were,

just how you wished

they could have been

before

choices.

Regrets? Regrets. Regrets,

"But then again, too few to mention"

– Paul Anka, 'My Way'

Blondie and the Black Sheep

                          in memoriam  -

Marilyn Louise Perkins Crittenden, 1939 - 2015

lost in our own town

          no way home

where's the school

          can't stay home

where are my clothes

           won't be at home

mother left, father alone

           couldn't keep you home

brother said yes, lucky me

           but never your home

you couldn't, you wouldn't stay

           pain is no home

kindred spirits, you and me

           home wasn't home

outsiders, we anchored each other

           home without a home

solace knowing our non-existence

           defined our home

paths separated over the years

           each found a home

and now you've gone

           home.

Rants produce discomfort

rant I do

with scant regard

for the slant

on the cant

mine are

just a chant

aslant to an ant

or a pant

for want of a breath of fresh air

against

asshole to zealot

rant I do

Objectivism

I write what I see, what I feel, vibrations

in my world, observations

examined through my lens—

the bottom of a whiskey glass—

afternoon by afternoon and early evening by early evening,

calling a spade a fucking shovel regardless of class,

but let us not discuss that form of warfare (although it may be

time to reexamine the usefulness of

the guillotine

and sharpen the blade).

I wish to throw lines like spears

piercing the bubble of ignorance

created by the political dance and corporate stance

of clueless heartless capitalists, enabled by their 30-pieces-of-silver bought toadies,

who

don't realize that if, indeed, Atlas Shrugged,

the sky would fall,

on us

all.

My lens reveals

a wildfire out of control, burning the acreage of our heritage,

smoking our horizons, obscuring what lies ahead,

but we know. Don't we.

Elegy for Mother of Father

Who was Violet Ruth Earle?

her blood courses through me,

I have been compared to her–

not exactly a compliment

where I come from:

bad seed, anyone?

Adopted under clouds

of innuendo no one knew

from where, from what, from who

she was.

Whispers followed her into

marriage with Ben yet it

lasted a quarter century until

she walked out on the man–

left him with the kids–

to party with Jack;

at least she knew Jack–

shit, I don't know who

I am without knowing who

she was.

She thought

Ben's bible thumping

wasn't much fun;

she was

so I'm told

and wanted more–

who ever had too much fun?

Ben played chess, collected

stamps, sang in the choir,

hung out in the church of our fathers:

all sterling pursuits, yet

Pilgrim's progress sounds

light in the fun department.

She knew

Jack had the letters of transit;

she could get out of Casablanca.

August 6 1945 Hiroshima

6 August 1945 Hiroshima

Rain

in Maine.

Summer's at the Lake,

calm,

the Lake's surface gray-scale

pointillism.

Little Boy does a dive

from the sky

While the Great Artiste

measures

Colors: orange, red, yellow,

mushroom.

Ripples spread across

the Lake,

Driven by a light breeze

from the West,

Summer's at the Lake,

rain in Maine.

August 9 1945 Nagasaki

Hot across the Plains, the Middle Atlantic,

into New England, 81 degrees

At the Lake.

Fish hiding deep behind Kineo.

Today's an encore.

The Little Boy surprised with

his energy;

But the dive to the river failed

to force the issue.

Call in the Fat Man:

Cannonball into the pool, ripples

breaking slanted foundations,

Tsunami of fire to the edge,

while the Great Artiste

Records all the variables.

Hot weather, corn is high,

the smell of football in the air,

Homecoming, Thanksgiving approaching:

to the victor, the spoils.

Winter is coming.