Green Wake: In Which I'll Visit But I Would Not Want To Live There

Green Wake is where I would not want to be.
Is it a town, or just a spot in hell?
Whatever, it is surely not for me.
That's not to say I won't just set a spell
And peek in on its doings - and I can
Through comics, which is really just as close
As I would like to get. No, Wiebe's your man.
He went there so we don't have to. A dose
Of god-knows-what, and he and Rossmo bring
Us news of that most dark, unpleasant place,
Where anyone, and nearly anything
May be a future frog, where any space
May melt you into nightmare forms, destroyed
By your own guilts and sorrows from the void.

Alas!

Alas! The streak is broken. I forgot
To write and post a sonnet yesterday.
Somehow I got home and, I guess, I thought
I'd written one at work. I cannot say
How much this disappoints me, when, as well
My readers know, I've gone to lengths beyond
What any normal poet would to tell
A story, share a thought or news, a fond
And friendly greeting. Something always comes
To lend me inspiration. Once I could
Rely on friends to nag me when I'm late
A-posting, but that never was a good,
Effective way to keep me to my vow.
I'm sad and kind of desolate right now.

In Which I Wish Atlantis FSM Speed (And Pay No Attention To The Tears)

Few things on earth excite me like a launch
Of big tin cans of people into space.
And often many tissues, for to staunch
My tears are needed; I screw up my face
And cry in pride and awe (and jealousy).
Today's was diff'rent, though; there's only two
More shuttle missions left, then we will be
A-paying fares to Russia. I am blue
E'en as I wonder with dear IsoBan
How can the generation who first tried
Not join me in deploring this odd con,
This bait-and-switch. Manned space travel has died
In my homeland, and with it my pastime:
"Winos For Souyeuz" won't be fun to rhyme.

In Which A Remedy Is Very Strongly Suggested

A fit of rage can happen in a snap,

When someone says the wrong thing, when a look

Makes you feel dumb or small, when all the crap

A day might offer happens, when you cook

As though the lid's too tight and pressure's built

Beyond what you can take, when you're about

To scream and yell, or tear your hair from guilt

Or a misunderstanding, when the shout

You need so to release cannot be heard,

When tears could come but shouldn't, when a cry

Would only make thinks worse, when vision's blurred

By angry tears or just exhaustion, I

Am there with you; Remember and take heart

It doesn't mean a thing that we're apart.

Challenger: Twenty Four Years Later

'Twas twenty years and four, this very morn

That Angie walked into our band classroom,

A note in hand, a tearful face to warn

Us that the news she brought was of some doom.

"The Challenger blew up" is what it said,

Her note. Our teacher gravely sent us on:

The library had TVs. All were dead.

That cloud - you know it well - said they were gone

E'en more than any anchorman's sad voice.

I still watch ev'ry launch with a tight chest -

Full knowing I could spare myself. My choice,

Though is to watch. This program's been our best

In my lifetime, though it went up in smoke

That day in Florida, when my heart broke.

In Which I Almost Give Up

A place I have found sweet threatens to turn --
I won't say sour, but there's a bitter edge
To my experience these days. Tears burn.
Remembering one to whom I made a pledge
Of endless love and friendship won't be there
Is hard, but harder still, I start to find,
Is when another denizen won't spare
A thought to why things change, becomes unkind,
And makes me feel unwelcome in my space.
I'm digging in my heels but there are times
When I just want to give up, turn my face
Away. But I would lose much more. To rhymes
I turn to put my discomfort in words.
I'm really just a chicken and it hurts.

In Which I Try Not To Think

My kitchen table's empty for the first

Time since the last I had a dinner guest.

My living room has also seen of burst

Of ordering, and it's all for the best.

Much empty space is mine to contemplate:

"'Twill help you clear your mind," my Erin said.

Perhaps it's so, but nothing will abate

The sound of longed-for voices in my head --

Though even they keep saying not to think

But just to be. I think I've no idea

How that is done. I do not want to drink

Or take a pill; I seek no panacea.

I really want to find a little peace.

But grief keeps stalking like a hungry beast.

In Which I Thank My Medicine Men

It takes strange tools to patch a torn-up heart,
Takes songs and tales and poetry and play.
Comes time for me to thank those who, in part
Have made or done the things which, I may say,
Have proven the best medicine for me.
Phil Rossi wrote a song that e'en before
The hardest blow came down did help me see
A light at tunnel's end. And there is more:
For Jeremy Shipp's novel did a lot,
As did a poem by Gregory Wright
He wrote just for me, to tell me I'm not
Alone, not even in the darkest night.
Thanks too, to my White Rabbit and John Ladd:
Chess therapy is good, too, when I'm sad.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Give Myself Very Good Advice

Once in a while, I find something so good

My whole life brightens up as a result.

Once that occurs, I find, try as I would

I can't contain the urge to just exult

In ev'ry moment, how things might have changed.

But patience counsels that I halt my song

Until some other things are so arranged

That I am not rejoicing in a wrong

That I'll regret for life. This kind of hurts,

Especially since I don't get to decide

Unless my choice is walking, which subverts

My ev'ry instinct; too much skin, I find

Is in this game. I tell myself, once more

That some things are worth waiting mutely for.

In Which I Am Chastened By A Scene At A Fast Food Joint

How old is he, the man we saw at noon,

A whisk broom and a dustpan in his hands,

A cannula connecting his nose to

A backpack tank of oxygen? He stands

Just slightly stooped, a hard-working rebuke

To how we haven't cared well for those folk

Who've toiled their lives away, then by some fluke

Of fate that's really more a bitter joke,

Though well-advanced in years, still find they're stuck

With no recourse but to take on such work

In fast-food clean-up, just to make the buck

Or two he needs to stay alive. The smirk

His supervisor gave us while this wage

Slave shuffled past still calls up rage.

IN MEMORIAM: David Foster Wallace (February 21, 1962 – September 12, 2008)

One year ago today, he broke my heart,
Though it was not the first time he did that.
In 1996, he tore apart
My brain. His tale of a filmed samizdat,
Addiction, tennis, school and Boston gave
Me dizzy spells e'en ere the weirdness hit.
It pains me that his humor could not save
Himself, but there are limits to what wit
Can do, footnoted or not. Greedy, I
Will most miss his non-fiction pieces, which
Could make the world a bit more strange. I'll cry
Again today for him. He made me rich
In stored enjoyment, and I thank him for
What he could give us. Wish there were some more.

Iran: Another Lump Sticking In My Throat

The nation I first learned to hate, at nine
Years old, when hostages were what I cared
About, is now in turmoil, with no sign
Of normalcy returning soon. I'm scared
For all the people who just sought to change
Their leadership and exercise their rights,
Now being shot and beaten if in range
Of government enforcers. Will these fights
And demonstrations end at all well? I
Am pessimistic. Ahmadinejad
Himself a hostage-taker, could defy
My expectations or could run roughshod
O'er hopes and dreams, as seems to be his plan.
His next steps will prove much about the man.

In Which I Rant Not A Little About Wildfires And A Six-Legged Cause Thereof, Even Though I Dig Insects As A Whole

I feel for Santa Barb'ra as the fire,
It edges closer with the worst intent
(If fire may have intent, this one's is dire).
Someday that will be me and mine. Ill-spent
Has been the time and resources to fight
Dendroctonus - the pine beetle, whose spread
Across the Med Bow Forest came to light
When I was just a sprat. Now trees are dead
And ready to catch fire, and when they do
Encampment and my Saratoga both,
Baggs too and all the little spots are through.
The timber industry, whose normal growth
And work could have prevented this outcome
Were killed off long before. It's beyond dumb.

Who Busted Out A Time Machine When I Wasn't Looking?

A baby down in Oz has died because
Her neighborhood was seething with disease --
Not AIDS, Ebola, swine flu -- I must pause,
And scream before I go on; pardon, please.
'Twas whooping cough that killed this little girl:
Preventable since 1925!
She was too young for shots herself, but (HURL)
The neighbor kids are why she's not alive.
Their parents were convinced that a vaccine
Would be much worse than death on needless scales,
And so this bug broke out again. "Obscene"
Is not a strong 'nough word for these sad tales.
Autism is a horror, yes it's true,
But vaccines do not cause it, K? Thank you.

This Lump In My Throat Won't Go Away Anytime Soon

The boys in blue don't stay home on snow days,

Don't get to choose who they help out or why,

No matter attitude, abuse or praise,

The job is clear: whatever goes awry

Must be redressed, at risk of life or limb

If needed. Accident, attack or fire,

Domestic fight, escape, or murder grim,

The boys in blue must suck it up. Admire

Or hate them as you will, you'll still get help --

Or if you're doing harm, they'll kick your ass,

While back at home, their kids and puppies yelp

And wives must give that dinnertime a pass.

So when some bastard shoots a working cop

It's right that civ'lization's at a stop.