You visit
without warning
unlike a gentleman
come to call
my heart races
with terror
when you wend my way
you can make
the mightiest fall
I wish I could stop the
flutter in my chest,
the fear from things
unseen
Anxiety,
I don’t like you
please pack up your bags
And leave!
It took an old man from Georgia
whose skull was cracked
by the cudgel of prejudice
on “Bloody Sunday,” 1965,
to force the speaker down
even if he would not hear
The speaker called the sit in
a “publicity stunt,”
debasing the act with
a catchall phrase
We are not blind,
Mr. Speaker.
We are not deaf.
You will not silence
the will of the just,
the pure-hearted.
We see through
your icy smile
You have blood
on your hands
(Venus of Urbino by Titian)
I am a humble pussy cat
my fur is red and white
I’m not a Renaissance painter’s dream
or a swordsman of great might
I lived with my owner till she died
then they put me in a cage
I lived there forever, it seemed
I wondered if I’d be saved
Now I have lots of furry friends
and good (diet) food to eat
scratch posts and mouse toys to play with
my world is quite complete
So don’t forget–it’s never too late
for good things to happen to you
don’t ever give up, be steadfast
and your dreams can come true
Jesus in the Glass Elevator (E. Herd)
Have you had enough
of gold Jesus in the Glass Elevator
looking down at you
Have you had enough
of shiny TV correspondents
bloviating on the blessed lives of celebrities
before you brush your teeth
Have you had enough
of lawns that keep growing
that you can’t afford to upkeep
what’s the grass for anyway?
Have you had enough
of 15 flavors of Triscuits, including:
Original
Cracked Pepper & Olive Oil
Reduced Fat
Hint of Salt
Rosemary & Olive Oil
Dill, Sea Salt, & Olive Oil
Roasted Garlic
Fire Roasted Tomato & Olive Oil
Garden Herb
Rye with Caraway Seeds
Why fifteen?
Have you had enough
of too much
enough of hearing “amazing”
when it’s not
enough is enough
They put me on a diet
that I don’t like one bit
Mom and Pop want me to slim down
they want me to be fit
Karl lets me eat his food
if they put us together
since they started to feed us separately
I’ve been in quite a lather!
I meow at the top of the stairs
to let Mom know I need food
She ignores my pleas, I rub her legs
how can she be so cruel?
She walks to the human litter box room
why don’t they use ours?
I lunge and nip her ankle
as she goes to take a shower
She turns to look, I run away
She says, “What was that?”
Why, silly, it’s predator vs. prey
A game well-known to cats
Of course, I’d never eat her
She’s much too big for me
but if she thinks I can
I might get more of those treats
I was inspired to post this after reading Rebecca Lemke’s story in The Neighborhood.
(Mom and me, 1966)
When Skelly comes home
she’s all skin and bone
Mom screams when she hugs her,
“Are you trying to be a eunuch?”
No, I can’t say that
was my intent.
Mom let’s go, fast.
It’s not about you (for once),
Mother.
It’s all about me
needing control
finding it the only way
I can
sculpting my body—
you have no part in that
Running and starving
takes discipline—
it’s not for the faint of body
or heart
Don’t touch me
I bruise easily
“You must eat some casserole,”
Mom says.
Skelly heads to her room,
suitcase in hand
“I’m going for a run.”
“Why? You’re so thin.”
It’s has nothing to do with that.
(google image)
It’s sleet in an April storm
it’s the homeless 22-year-old
outside Grand Central Station
with a sign,
“You don’t know how humiliating this is . . .
I just want to go home.”
you want to turn away
but can’t
the thing that got away
it’s not spoken of
in polite conversation
what makes conversation polite?
It squeezes you
boa-like
it stops you
in your purposeful tracks
It muddles your dreams
it asks you why
you abandoned it
what could be more important
than
the you that got away
Friday
Fri-i-day
at the bus stop in the rain
a tall can of beer remains
emp-ty
unlov-ed
cigarette butts on the grass
as if thrown at the can
such vio-lence
Genesee
oh, Genesee
how they mistreat
you
at least the flowers
don’t abuse
you
You’re still standing tall
from winter to fall
no matter how bad
you taste
Genesee
oh, Genesee
This poem sucks.
The ritual of it
Stations of the Cross
at Blessed Sacrament Church,
watching King of Kings
and The Robe,
shopping at Macy’s or Alexander’s
for Easter outfits
Mom’s Easter baskets
ribbons on the handles
curled with scissors
she learned to do it as a
gift wrapper at Macy’s
My prize possession
was that sailor suit
my brother and I
clowning for the camera
replete with being
we
lived in our own world
sometimes that was good
In pink coat,
white stockings
and gloves,
Mom
ballerina-like,
graceful and
lovely
sometimes hard, too
The munchkin years
I can’t recall
this photo or this outfit
my dress too long
but we had our baskets
we were going places
Rick and me
(photo: David Robert Bliwas)
It was a time
when I thought
smoking cigarettes on the roof
with Janine
was a sin
Janine was my “cool” friend
She wore tight tops
and sat on men’s laps
Catholic girls in Jackson Heights
didn’t do that
I swore I heard someone coming
so in my haste
to tamp it out
ashes fell and bubbled
a scar on my knee
We ducked but
nobody came
I was so afraid
of sin, always sin,
but she wasn’t
She had no fear
She was cool
but never mean
(photo by me)