A Hug for My Father

My father's never been much of a man for hugs.
My family's never been much good at expressing affection.
This doesn't detract from my love for my father,
The skilled man of labor who supported his family
With study legs and arms, a strong back and hands,
A truck driving, plastering, sheet-rock taping
Hod-carrier of a man, rugged as a workbench.
A  bulwark of a man, intimidating as a shop teacher.
I'd always been known in Hermantown as "Swede's son."
Not, "Junior," as he had been christened.
He once said that he wouldn't inflict the indignity
Upon a son of naming him "John Henry Hanson the turd."
His force of personality was a formidable enough hurdle
To surmount though.  Everyone knew and loved " Swede."
For too many years I considered myself a failure
Because I couldn't work like him, make friends as he did,
Or dominate a room by sheer strength of character.

Perhaps I've been the one who's never been much for hugs.
I've always kept my life and dreams out of his reach,
Unable or unwilling to share them with him,
Fearing that how different I was from him
Would only elicite his scorn or contempt.
I'd like to say  that I wish I could have made him proud,
But that isn't really fair to him either.  I may have.
But what is poetry but memories that have been cut away
From the ragged clothes of past experiences.
Selective snipping, editing of the loose threads,
Discarding the ragged swatches that just don't fit,
And upon reflection weaving the ones we choose
Into a patchwork quilt of selected images.
The choice of those that we deem worthy of remembrance
Varies with each of us.  Truth is so subjective.
Each of us wraps ourselves in a comforter
Of myth and delusion, suppressing disappointment
While magnifying the moments we wish to hold onto.

I see my young dad proudly displaying the gas station
That he's put together one Christmas morning for me,
With a ramp winding from roof parking down to the garage.
He'd taken the time to wrap each little car individually,
To prolong my joy in unwrapping so many surprises.
Taking delight in my childish excitement and glee.

I see a middle-aged man driving his young teen-aged son
On the kid's Sunday morning paper route.
Dad's old blue Dodge smelled of plaster and mortar,
Enough of a work car to allow "Brownie" to join us.
My chocolate lab companion would bound out of the car
Whenever I did, and run alongside me as I tossed
Rubber-band bound papers onto customer's porches
While my father waited patiently for us to return.

I see a slightly greying man who's driven a day
In his work car to spend some time with my family.
He'd brought his hod, trowel and other tools of his trade
In plastic buckets in the back seat, wedged between bags
Of cement and plaster, his smallest mud box atop it all.
He'd come to tuck point and stucco the brick foundation
Of our home. "It needs it," he explained tersely.

I see an old man now.  Too frail to take care of the home
He built fifty six years ago, the yard he landscaped,
The trees he planted.  To hear his voice quavering,
To see him wrestle to control his Parkinson's shakes,
And to see him have to use an oxygen tank to breathe
Seems a cruel invasion of of a proud man's privacy.
It's so demeaning; so humbling to grow old.
Yet I've never seen him succumb to despair.
Even when it would be so easy to.

Part of me would like to walk over and give him a hug,
To embrace him and to tell him how much he's meant to me.
Yet at this point in our lives I fear
That my act of love would be viewed as a "pity hug,"
A gesture that would make us both uncomfortable.
My father's never been much of a man for hugs.
My family's never been much good at expressing affection.

At the Gravesite of Ralph Greenleaf

The image etched eternally upon your stone
Shows you hunched over, analyzing your next shot.
You've chalked your cue, now follow through.
You believe you've got all the angles figured.
Seven scuttles into the corner pocket, then you sink
Sinister thirteen.  Now you're set to run the table.
No luck involved; just skill and positioning.
Yeah, you were great then.  Two grand a week;
Babe Ruth, Jack Dempsey and the Prez commanded
That kind of dough. Big bucks for a pool hustler,
Especially during the depths of the Depression
But you had it all then;  charisma, style and talent.

You brought showmanship into smoky pool halls.
Your petite Chinese bride, Princess Nai Tai Tai
Proudly narrating the action ,a billiard ball ballet
Of brilliant hues cavorting across the green felt;
Mirrors suspended above to magnify the motion,
Reflecting it as dancing kaleidoscopic colors.
As " Champ," you dazzled the rubes with your patter,
Charm and an amazing repertoire of trick shots.
You were "The Aristocrat of Billiards," so handsome
That Hollywood moguls wooed you with script offers.
Life's a blind draw though; You can't know ahead of time
What you'll go up against, or what will finally defeat you.

Just when your life reached that balance point
When to pick up a cue made you feel like a king,
The balance tipped from bon vivant to boozehound.
The liquor had become as much of a crutch to you
As a mechanical bridge to a player with no reach.
A bad break or two, then some nasty caroms,
You found you no longer had all the angles figured.
Behind the eight ball, you'd hoist another highball.
The booze you boasted helped you relax before
A tourney soon became your means to escape,
A substitute for confidence, consolation
For not winning, solace for not even showing up.

You ran through your winnings as effortlessly
 As you used to run a table.  At times some semblence
 Of your majesty shown through your dishevelled rags.
 Busted for vagrancy in Arizona, you proved
 Your identity to a skeptical Sheriff by sinking
Eighty-seven balls in a row for him.  This display
Of artistry amazed cowboys who had come to scoff,
This was your last lunge for the surface, though,
Before drink pulled you under.  When your Princess died,
Decades later, her last wish was to be laid to rest next
To "her Ralph."  To have retained such undying love,
Even to your bitter end, yeah....you had been great once.

Free Speech Zones (A Villanelle)

A poem dedicated to the heroes of OCCUPY,
Who are standing up to the evil and its minions

Soon despots can gloat, secure on their thrones.
We'll see the dark path down which we've been led
Now that dissent's confined to "Free Speech Zones."

They've picked their teeth with First Amendment bones
Their security measures fill us with dread;
Soon despots can gloat, secure on their thrones.

Who has the courage left to hurl more stones
At the uniformed thugs whose tasers we've fled
Now that dissent's confined to "Free Speech Zones?"

Too few resist Tyranny's chaperones,
Too mind-numbed to know that they've been misled.
Soon despots can gloat, secure on their thrones.

Listen, you can hear Miss Liberty's groans
"What a sad lot of passive wage slaves we've bred
Now that dissent's confined to Free Speech Zones."

When will we realize Freedom has fled?
Liberty's departed; she's left us for dead.
Despots can gloat now, secure on their thrones
Dissent's been compressed into "Free Speech Zones."

Popeye Gets his Ass-Chewed by a Personnel Director

Sit down, Mr. Sailor Man, we need to chat.
That's alright.  No need to take off your hat.
Please though, put that malodorous pipe away.
At King Features here, we mean what we say
When we call ourselves a No Smoking facility.
Certainly you ought to have the ability
To comprehend and respect company rules,
But you choose not to.  Do you take us for fools?
Do you  believe that as King Feature's top name
That you don't have to play by the rules of the game?
I'm awfully sick of your Neanderthal style.
I've watched you demean Alice the Goon for awhile.
She carries a torch for you.  Imagine that?
And she's tries so hard, she bought a pillbox hat,
A string of pearls and a brand new blue dress;
Though what she sees in you, I'll have to confess
I don't.  Your sexist comments will have to cease.
"She's gots more shades of ugly than bilge rats have fleas."
When she heard you say that, it brought her to her knees.
For all you know, she might have the soul of a Venus,
But you're part of a genus that thinks with its penis.
Let's face it, Popeye, you're a chauvinist pig.
Poking fun at Ms. Oyl 'cause her breasts aren't that big,
Then suggesting implants.  That was callous and rude.
You've got to be the most disgusting and crude
Employee that I have to deal with here,
And your atrocious grammar, oh dear!
What an embarrassment you've become to the firm.
I swear, you haven't the faintest of a germ
 Of an idea of proper pronunciation
"I yam what I yam," such vile enunciation.
"Strong to the finich," also grates on the ears.
I could consult with Professor Higgins, but my fears
Are that even he couldn't teach you proper King's speech,
I can already hear him cursing, and shouting with a screech,

"By Jove, this bloody rotter is impossible to teach!"

And your awful "table manners."  I shouldn't have to preach.
Perhaps I ought to cut a former Navy man some slack,
But when you greedily consume your spinach, you lack
The basics in manners. My God!  Straight from the can!
And you devour it in three gulps.  A Cro-Magnon man
Attacks his food with more etiquette and couth.
If you want me to tell you the God-awful truth,
\I'm having a can of your spinach tested as well.
The way it affects you, it's pretty easy to tell
It probably contains a spore or some mind-altering drug
That turns you into such an unacceptable thug
Why can't you be more like Bluto?  He's a decent sort.
He dresses well, is suave, and he knows how to court
A lady,  You could learn from him, he has loads of class.
He's sensitive to the needs and feelings of a lass,
Unlike you.  I don't think you've ever changed your shirt,
And take a bath once in awhile.  What would that hurt?
The one thing in the world that I can't abide
Is a man who denies his feminine side.

About this time the interview came to an end.
Please note the attachment I've also had to send...

    *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *
     Request for Workman's Comp Benefits

Popeye popped a can of spinach and loosed an angry roar.

"I've had all I can stands and I can't stands no more!
I've swabbed many a poop deck and know it when I see it,
And when I hear it too, and you'se is spoutin bullshit.".

I began to sense some trouble when his muscles began to swell
But when his fists turned to mallets I knew I was in for hell.
He knocked me down, broke my jaw, then without another thought
Grabbed both my legs and chortled as he tied them in a knot.
I'm on a liquid diet now and have some trouble talking,
And it will be awhile yet before I'll be up and walking.
I've got trouble hearing from when he rapped me on the head,
The shoulder that he pounded on, its nerves may now be dead.
Due to the beating that I took from this despicable jerk,
It might be quite a while before I come back to work.

You ask me if we should sack him.  I've given it some thought.
I'd opt for something severe.  The asshole ought to be shot.

Feral Cats

They arrive after dusk; they're waiting in the morning.
Their pleading eyes anxiously peering through
The deck door window that's smudged with nose prints
Petition me for the blessing of sustenance.
Their faith has become the responsibility,
That my conscience refuses to let me shirk.
They've become my congregation, my pride,
My flock, and I their faithful shepherd.

They come to me in supplication tempered
With fear.  Self-delusion would call it devotion.
I can reach out and sometimes touch them.  At times
One will respond with feline praise; a nudge,
A back arched with pleasure, or a faint purr.
If I reach out to try to pull them closer to me,
Into the warmth, the safety and a haven of a home,
They tense, their claws come out and they shy away.
Their's is a creed steeped in trembling terror.
The God whom they petition is a hulking giant,
Perhaps even a cruel diety.  Certainly one to be feared.

Perhaps this is the frustration that the God of man feels.
They don't understand that I want what's best for them.
They don't understand that mine is the way and the light.
They're too skeptical to make that leap of faith
That will lead them from a nasty, brutish and short life
Of feral fear to the warmth and love of domesticity.

If I were like the God of man I'd resent their free will;
I'd take their rejection as a personal affront,
Loathing them for the sin of feral freedom
That leaves no room for me in their lives.
I'd drive them from the safety of my deck,
I'd cut off their food supply, I'd sentence them
To death by starvation if they wouldn't accept me.

I'm far from being a God though.  Only too human.

Understanding their fear, pitying their need,
Forgiving them their limited comprehension
Rather than resenting their refusal to accept me;
I still only want what's best for them
And will do what I can to make their lives easier.

May some God someday be as benevolent to me.

Poem with an Attitude

I want to be the poem you wouldn't lend
To your younger sister to read,
The poem you wouldn't dare bring home
To introduce to your parents

A punk of a poem with a Mohawk haircut
That sports a dirty gray tank-top that says
"Don't mess with me.  I'm psychotic"
A poem with a pack of cigarettes
Rolled up in its right sleeve.

I want to be the poem that slaps you
Alongside the head and bellows

"SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME!"

I want to be the poem that declares Jihads
Against Kardashians, against the cast of Jersey Shore,
Against Fox News, corporate whore politicians,
And that most persistant of all evils, rhymed verse.

I want to be the poem that drives the fast car
With exhaust manifolds loud enough
To rattle nursing home windows.
I want to be the poem that runs Stop signs,
That won't slow down in school zones,
A poem that knows no speed limits,
The poem that flips off cops as it roars past them.

I'm the poem that doesn't want to work.
I just want to loiter on the street corner,
Smoke cigarettes and leer at women
As they cross the street to avoid me,
Being fearful that I might accost them.

I want to be the poem that sexually harasses you,
The poem that you lock your door against,
That you fear enough to install a chain-bolt lock
To make doubly-sure that I stay out of your life.

I'll find my way in anyway.
I'll rifle through your drawers, lift your diary,
Then sell your secrets to the world.
I'm the poem that will steal your money
Your books, your stereo and flat screen TV,
Forcing you to stay home with only me
Left to read for entertainment.

I'm the poem that longs to lead you astray,
The poem that will persistantly stalk you,
Relentless as an estranged lover,
Obsessively possessive,
A tad bit vengeful.
I want to infect your world like a virus
And swell into the cancerous tumor
That begins to devour you
Until you think of nothing else but me.

I want to be the poem that camps out in your head,
The poem that you'll keep repeating incessantly
When Alzheimers has your mind in thrall,
Droning my lines in a sing-song voice,
Your head bobbing to the rhythm of the verse.

You may have figured it out by now.
This poem is trying to seduce you.
You know you like the bad boys;
Byron, Baudelaire and Bukowski,
Poets with chips on their shoulders
The size of boulders and passions
Hot enough to make your heart smoulder.

I want to be a poem like theirs,
A two-fisted drinker of a poem
That swaggers into a bar and takes
Possession of it by sheer force of personality.

I want to be the poem that drinks Dos Equis.
I want to be the most interesting poem in the world.

I want you to notice me.

I want you to want me.

I want you to love me.

I want to be your poem.

Written After Viewing Another Evening of Armageddon on the History Channel

We’re adrift upon a frail craft on a flat earth,

Listening to the thundering roar of cataracts

That cascade over the rim into a fearful void.

Tis said that a dragon lurks there to feast upon

Crews of ships that plummet over the edge.

We need to cast our grapples toward the stars

Before we turn in a frenzy of madness

Like caged rats to lunge and claw at our neighbors,

But we’re powerless, as our ship

Drifts perilously closer to the rim.

We’re attempting to balance barefoot

On a razorblade edge of disaster,

Fearfully peering up at the rumbling volcano

That intimidates us with its imminent threat

Of engulfing us in fiery immolation.

Mired in impotent frustration,

Insanely groveling to blood-crazed visions

Even our best minds snap under the stress.

Goaded by his God of Chaos, a rooftop sniper

Has a pregnant Mary squarely in his sight.

We’re standing vigil at a death-watch

In a lunatic asylum’s intensive-care unit.

Labored breathing- - -erratic heartbeat- - -

Our life-line monitor is Cable Network News.

We listen, like lemmings, for the siren that signals

The start of our mad dash to outdistance our doom.

We’ve divined our fate from the entrails of vapor

That coil across the sky their message

Of irrevocable nuclear devastation..

Fields of mushroom flowers bloom over our cities.

Swarms of angry missiles sting the shuddering flanks

Of a frightened, fire-scorched earth

That quakes in convulsions of pain.

Splattered upon what few walls still remain

Are only enigmatic figures, shadows of life

That have been extinguished in a fury of fission.

New York- -Moscow- -Beijing- - -obliterated.

“Look on your works, ye mighty, and despair!”

But wait!  From beneath the ash and radioactive soil

From which man once coaxed his gardens,

A loathsome creature wriggles its way out of the death

To face the eerie loneliness of the radium green night.

What evolutionary process does this monster herald?

What cruel gods will it choose to fashion in its own image?

Will this foul beast reign in a world any more brutal

Than the end-times conjured forth by power-mad men?

     *    *    *    *   *   *   *

Cruel Devourer, let me post this poem

On our front door like a mark of Passover crimson,

That my family might be spared the horrors

Of this looming holocaust of annihilation.