Hale-Bopp

Rotating like a spinning top
turning like the hands
on a non-digital clock,
streaked across the sky
the comet Hale-Bopp.

Ice, gas, dust hurled from afar,
appeared at times
to be a shooting star.
As approaching the sun
its luminous glow
had an aura-like haze
of a rainbow.

Thirty-nine hailed it
a prophetic sign,
declared it a marker
to leave  earth behind;
meet with the higher maker
known to be a canister taker.

Did not Christ give up his body
on the cross,
when He said, "thy will be done"
to His heavenly boss.
Yet in three days
Christ defeated death -
according to scripture
He regained life's breath.

Did Doe and his crew
expect the same-
man a spaceship
without a given name,
will it be said that they died in vain.

Needless to say
they were fanatically eccentric,
yet, pulled off a stunt
fatalistically horrific.
They had neither spiked hair,
nor pierced earlobes,
they wore Nike shoes
and purple robes;
ate applesauce, dropped phenobarbital
each died on a bunk
behind silent mansion walls.

Supposedly, they were
the cream of the crop,
placed their faith
in galactic slop,
found in the likes
of the comet Hell-bopp.

Fifteen Minutes

It's become a deadly game,
Mayhem and Murder is the name,
go berserk and terrorize
for fifteen minutes of fame.
It doesn't matter, time or place,
one picks to occupy that space,
gender, age's not a question,
neither is one's race.
A shopping mall or school classroom
can instantly come the site of doom,
when commandeered by a cowardly thug,
whom should have died in the womb.
Psychopathic addicts going wild,
killing woman, man, child;
then escape from facing the music,
ending one's life without a smile,
to terminate the deadly game
of fifteen minutes of fame.

Life

I've heard it said more than once,
Perhaps a dozen times,
expressed in pale, prosaic prose,
and oxy-owlish rhymes,
by poet and philosopher,
optimist and skeptic,
kibitzer, biographer,
pessimist and cynic -
the wealthy-laden;
poverty-ridden,
social scientist and critic,
charlatans, profiteers -
the wise and not so wise,
hustlers, racketeers,
barren and circumcised -
that regardless of who you are ,
life isn't fair -never has been,
it's just the way things go,
sometimes yes, most often no,
you reap what you sow -
filthy rich, rolling in dough,
stone-broke, penniless, dirt poor,
is determined by the hand of fate
When she knocks on the door.

Life isn't fair - never will be
it's just the way things are,
born with the Midas touch, a silver spoon,
or wishing upon a star,
is like the unexpected hand
caught in the proverbial cookie jar.
Life's a split second in space and time,
a measurable pit, an finite climb,
albeit a doer of evil or righteous deeds,
the double-jointed hand of life
offers few guarantees.

Life isn't fair,
it's a two-edged sword,
a Janus-faced catch 22,
half of conjoined twins,
temporally loaned to you.
So live and be merry,
and, surely, if you must -
do what you doubt and trust,
bond with life's ups and downs,
for life's a series of leaps and bounds
Life isn't fair and at the end of it all
is ashes to ashes and dust to dust

Paper Horses

(Song inspired by Drew Lesso's music)


I see paper horses
on construction paper,
galloping, prances in paper corrals,
paper horses in paper stalls,
eating paper grass and hay -
women are made of glass,
men are made of clay.
I see paper horses
on merry-go rounds,
paper horses circling me,
paper horses on carbon paper,
matted paper, computer paper,
recycled paper, drafting paper,
I watch them eat paper grass,
I watch them as they play -
women are made of glass,
men are made of clay.

With paper scissors,
I cut out paper horses,
thorough breed and quarter horses,
Clydesdale and Arabian horses;
place the on paper party plates,
tack them on my paper walls;
pencil in flowers and grass,
watch them mate and play -
women are made of glass,
men are made of clay.

I see paper horses in my dreams,
in stockades and slaughter houses,
abused, neglected paper horses,
paper horses killed en masse
while circus horses feed on hay -
women are made of glass,
men are made of clay.

Militia Men

(1)


Her body, ravished and torn,
Repeatedly violated by militia men,
One after the other.
They thought not of their mother,
whom she could have been.
War can bring out the worst
in some men.
While some turn their heads,
ignore unwarranted atrocities
inflicted on families -
especially women and children.

(2)

Her body, bloated with child,
and without knowledge of the father,
she thought, why bother giving birth to it;
surely, other women felt the same,
though no fault of their own,
struggled with collective shame,
to accept or disown,
a child not of their choice,
no reason to rejoice.

The stigma the child would bare,
often crossed her mind.
would he know or care
that life has not been fair.

(3)

She cuddles her child in protective arms,
determined to keep him safe,
sacrificing her needs to ensure,
he won't become a waif.
She prays far into the night
that when her son becomes a men,
regardless of the wars he'll fight,
he'll respect the role of women.

Lights Out

The weak link
is the twisted bolt,
the stripped screw,
the bent nail,
the frayed rope -
used and spent
like Judas' take,
then asking Jesus,
"Is it I, Lord?"

Escalators to heaven
and Babel,
resurrected by Otis and Boeing -
mushrooms over Hiroshima,
ruptured in black holes.
Lights out on a swollen face,
two black eyes.

My First Poem

I do not care
should lilacs fade,
I'm more aware of dandelions,
and weeds that sprout
from ghetto curbs
instead of sprawling oaks
and pines...

Albeit, I can relate
to Roman Hills and Grecian Shores,
though dirt and grease of ghetto streets
are closer to my breathing pores.