The Best Birthday Present I Ever Got

Friday afternoon
(my favorite time of the week),
September 27, 2002.

It took forever
to get the kids out the door
and into the custody
of their dad
for the weekend.

We sat on the couch
and I told her that
I had something
for her to wear.

Knowing my mind,
she asked if it was
lingerie,
or some other kind of
kinky sex costume.

I’ll never forget
her look of surprise
when I showed her
the modest ring
and I pitched
my modest proposal,

and I will always treasure
her reaction
because she’s too smart
to be surprised
very often.

She said “yes”

and that was
the best birthday present
I ever got.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com, the best poetry site on the internet.]

Mockingbird Laughter

She said:

“Your mom asked me

not to tell you

over the phone.

Just come home.

Ok,

but,

promise you’ll stay calm.

Are you sure?

Your father died today.

He was mowing

the lawn and he had

a heart attack.”

I couldn’t hear anything

after that

except the sound

of my youth

slamming shut

and the

mockingbird laughter

of Fate

forever silencing

my Answer Man.

The Cockroach Defense

Don’t hate me because

I’m beautiful.

Your police
use body armor
that is but a faint copy
of my birthright.
I have been
tempered in everything
designed to annihilate me.

We probably could triumph
over AIDS.

Don’t hate me
because I’ve dined
at the finest tables in Europe,
stolen morsels
from Dust Bowl sharecroppers
and have prospered
where your kind has perished.

We inherit the wisdom
to turn your refuse into manna,
a feat you’ve yet to accomplish.

And we thrive on waste.

We are efficiency personified.

And the only tool
in your arsenal
to defeat us
is an atavistic and angry
shoe crushing down upon us.

Don’t hate me
because I violate
the sanctity of your pantry.

Hate me because I defy
your greatest technology
with impunity.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com  - where poets can find compassion and other poets!]

Then the Twin Towers Fell (my September 11 story)

I couldn't leave the woman
I was living with
on September 10th.

It was the life I knew
and she needed me,
but I stopped needing her.

I had strayed
long before this,
and only my material things
were still there.

We shared a bed
but were not intimate,
we shared a life
but were disconnected,
we shared a house
but were not married.

She survived a lifetime of
sexual abuse and trauma
but the scars carved
unbridgeable chasms
into our life together.

After seven years
it had all become passionless,
dutiful,
and I cheated on her
which only added to my guilt,
fueled my obligation,
and strengthened my paralysis.

My soul cried
to be released
from the twin towers
of guilt and obligation.

The next morning
an airplane flew into
the World Trade Center,
and like others,
I saw the instant replay
as a tragic accident.
Then came a second plane,
then, a third at the Pentagon
and a fourth destined
for the White House.

Suddenly,
the world seemed disoriented,
knocked from its axis,
hurtling, upside down
in chaotic twisted disorder.

Shock and suspicion and confusion
went viral
because the terrorists could be anywhere,
or everywhere.

I saw the quick and unforgiving
nature of reality,
the fragility,
the precious lives
snuffed out
like cigarette butts,

and my guilt and obligation
seemed small and pointless,

and that motorcycle I was riding
in the fast lane
after midnight
without the headlights off,

pulled over

and I knew
I had to make
a change

and then the twin towers fell,

and one month and a day
after September 11th,

I left her
for the woman
who eventually
become my wife.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - Love that site!]

The Leaves Will Not Fall Forever

In Autumn,
memories come,
cascading predictably
like leaves
off the trees,

and as the years
add up,
the pile of leaves
at my feet
comforts me,
but also reminds me
that the leaves
will not fall
forever
for me.

I do not gather my leaves
to be pressed in a book,
or burned in a pyre,
or squashed into mulch.

I collect my leaves into
a brittle bed,
and gently lay myself
upon them,
savoring their scent,
their ticklish scratching,
thankful that
I can still do so.

Looking up
at the increasingly
naked branches,
I try not to worry
about how many leaves
I have remaining,

but rather
just enjoy
the ones I’ve been
given today.

[Written for #OpenLinkMonday at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads ]

Detour: The Twilight Canopy

This is not a mash-up, but rather how my brain processes music, hence my audio nom de plume, Noisy Therapy.  Name the samples, and win bragging rights. - thanks for indulging the Mosk

Sitcom

I experience sitcom reruns,

like chewing gum

that’s been chomped on 

so long 

that the original 

juicy flavor is gone.

I've memorized the jokes

the set-ups,

the pauses, 

the punch lines,

the musicality of 

the canned laughter.

They take me back 

to my childhood,

to the days before 

I had responsibility.

I wasn't a street kid,

but more a shut-in

who mostly listened, 

and the sounds 

imprinted themselves

on my soul.

They were comforting then

and they still are

comforting now. 

When I hear the voices of 

Fred Sanford, 

Archie Bunker, 

Rhoda Morgenstern,

Ralph Kramden,

I am

immediately 

transported back 

to my 

parents' house,

where it was

warm and safe and 

simmering pans birthed

comforting smells

and my parents 

were somewhere in that house

doing all the worrying 

for me.

I still love my sitcoms

but wonder whether

I learned the wrong lessons:

that I should try and be 

funny all the time 

every few seconds,

that I should look

for quick problem solving

as most can be resolved 

in 23 minutes, 

or in the rarest of cases,

over a two-parter.

But I know

if a dire situation arises 

and I must become 

serious,

I don't panic:

I just become Hawkeye

in the later seasons of M*A*S*H,

and suddenly

I become sensitive,

with appropriate sincerity,

intelligence

and remarkable wit,

generally, a simulacrum 

of an adult, 

and everyone believes me.

[Posted for @OpenLinkNight for www.dversepoets.com - the best site for poetry in the world.]