Tomorrow

My father sat in his chair on the porch,

watching the kids run around in the grass.
He sat watching them, smiling
as they laughed and screamed while running past.

I thought to myself, get a picture
of him surrounded by the kids
but I didn’t want to interrupt their play
and now I wish I did.

Tomorrow, I thought, is the party
I’ll get a picture of them then
but moments later, he had a seizure
now I won’t get the chance again.

He gave a sound that will haunt my mind
until the very day I die
and then he slumped into his chair;
the kids began to cry.

We called for help,
and did our best to keep him alive
but I failed that crucial moment
and I watched my father die.

My father taught me many things,
and one last lesson with his last breath:
‘Tomorrow is never guaranteed,
remember today, and remember death.’

I should strive to pack in daily
what should be done each and every day
from hugs, and pictures, and I love Yous
ensuring great memories are made.

By casting away tomorrow,
and making a full life of today,
perhaps my kids won’t share my remorse
over things that I meant to say.

Conversations left not started,
not finished, and vital words not said…
Offering me nothing left
but a crushing sense of guilt and regret.

I can’t tell him what I needed him to know
I can’t ask him what I need to know.
and all because, like that picture,
I thought I’d do it tomorrow

Therapy

Drunk.
My aim
As I drink
Beer after beer
Seeking out that fog
To steal away the thoughts
That are causing me to drink;
So that I can not feel the pain
That twists in my gut like a dull knife
Twisting fast and furiously though its
Blunted at the edge and rusted through...
With this fog can I find relief...
So I seek that merciful mist
In whatever bottled brew
That I may find close by
And so wash away
What I feel now
If only
For a
Spell.

Ode to Taco Bell

I thought it air, 
I gave a push
and molten shart
shot from my tush
I clenched my cheeks,
Alas! Too late…
The dam, once burst,
I could not abate!
Like a duck I waddled
to the closest loo
The shat then spread 
as liquid shats do.
I waddled quick,
but the shat ran down
My pants, white khaki
Now streaked with brown.
A line of shat
left a telling trail
in my wake
to tell the tale:
One of misplaced faith,
a poor fool’s blunder-
How I ruined my day
and blew my skivvies usunder.

Holy Week

I sit in horror as I watch the flames
dancing around as they lick at her stones…
The smoke billowing from her sacred  bones…
Paris…the West…will never be the same.
And in the city streets, the moslems cheer
Declaring their bloodthirsty god is great
And that the infidels deserved this fate!
While all of France weeps, the moslems just sneer.
Suspicious, a fire on Holy Week...
I can’t help but wonder what they will say
To try to make the outrage go away...
Will we ever find the truth that we seek?
What scapegoat will they find to take the blame
For the fire they set at Notre Dame?

Rest Stop

I stopped by a rest area today,
Even though it took me out of my way.
I sat in the lot a moment or two,
Not really sure what I wanted to do.
Eventually, I just walked around
Taking in all of the sights and sounds.
I found a wooden bench by a old tree
Surrounded by flowers and buzzing bees.
And I sat down there, and I closed my eyes.

Memories swirled in my mind like a mist
Of times when we stopped at places like this
To rest, to play, stretch our legs or eat,
Or just to explore: a traveler's treat!
We’d talk to other folks on their own trips
Forming fast, yet fleeting, sort of friendships.
As all these memories around me swirled,
I opened my eyes, fell back to the world,
The present one...and I sat there and cried.

I sat on that bench near all afternoon.
Though I knew I needed to be going soon,
I couldn’t really bring myself to leave
When this patch of land was helping me grieve…
Finally, when I could no longer stay,
Without a good excuse for my delay,
I walked slowly back to get to the lot,
Abandoning there some of the pain I brought,
Finally feeling as though we’ve said bye.

1

Vindication

For twenty-two months, they hunted their prey,
Swore to the heavens there would come a day
when proof of his crimes would be brought to light,
and end, what they claimed, our nation’s plight.

They’ve roared in rage since after the last vote
“Foreigners and traitors upset the boat!
There’s treason afoot, and we must impeach!”
This was the sermon the medias preached.
In that time, the FBI fell from grace
from its once almost untouchable place
as pinnacle of American law.
Now, steeped in corruption, they’ve lost us all.

The medias once held honored positions,
have now become a source of derision,
having come together in the attempt
to sow among Americans contempt
Of President Donald Trump and his base,
seeking division class, faith, and race.
Fanning the flames and turning up the heat
encouraging folks to take to the street…

Then they gathered, their torches all lit,
This was the end! Oh yes! This would be it!
Their mouths watering for the coming treat:
The Grand inquisitor’s report:  complete.
The report summary: no collusion!
After howls of outrage and confusion,
Lo, and behold, my fellow red hatters!
Now we’re told the report doesn’t Matter!
They cry “Cover-up!”  and “Conspiracy!”
and accuse our leader of Tyranny.

But we’ve stopped listening to what they say,
for now its time to do things the right way…
Now it is our turn to investigate
those who have betrayed these united states.
Politicians, actors, or media’s voice
their treason the result of their own choice…
We’ll give them a trial that they are due,
Should take less than a month, not twenty two
before all of their crimes are brought to light,
revealed and removed as our nations blight.

Now is our time, to put it so bluntly,
To tell the world: This is MAGA country.

Haiku on a poet's role

Forgive me my words
If you find them abhorrent,
But they must be said:

We are expected
If we think ourselves poets
To be true to self...

Honest observance
To what goes on around us
Regardless the view

Should be put to pen
For our fellow citizens
To see as report

Of the times we live
Outside the realm of the news
For those that come next.

If you hate the works
That talk about what you hate,
Why not ignore them,

Instead of forcing
Poets to watch what they write.
Have we come to this?

Let angry voices
Write out their angry verses
And vent frustrations

And happy voices
Speak of flowers and the like
And read at your choice...

Our integrity
As poets and as readers
Demands nothing less.