Gully’s Return

Oi, me achin’ head!

nor suffer the throbbin’

‘tis robbin’ me life of a ball.

Oi, hush ya the drama!

ha’e no pity for that

a screech of the cat in me skull.

Oi, laugh and be light!

wipe off the frown on yer face

know yer place in the scheme of it all.

Oi, give me a hug!

‘tis you I’ve been missin’

for kissin’ your lips cures it all.

I’ve been the Tom astray

wanderin’ ‘yon ‘twixt here and away

but you are me hearth and home

and from you, me heart will never roam.

Push me Clara

Push me Clara, push me high
Push me Clara, up to the sky
I’m going to fly like the geese in a vee
I’m going to leave home and soon be free

Push me Clara, push the swing
Push me Clara, so I can sing
I’m going to sing like the speckled wren
I’m going to sing ‘til they loose me from this pen

Push me Clara, push me strong
Push me Clara, it won’t be long
I’m going to run until I can’t no more
I’m going to run to a new home by the shore

Catch me Clara, catch me now
Catch me Clara and keep your vow
Don’t tell Daddy until I’ve gone away
Comfort Mommy, I’ll be back again some day.

Rum Running

Push away from the dock with a weathered old oar.
Row as hard as you can far away down the shore
It’s early in the morning with bacon on your breath.
Don’t think about troubles nor worry ‘bout death.

Tie on up to Camellia as she bobs in the lee
out of sight of the village and the people to see.
If the law comes a snooping just smile a How Do,
‘cause if they start lookin’ then your freedom is through.

The captain is a fair man who runs a hard boat
and the first mate, Roger is a clever old goat.
When the weather is fine and the sails are flappin’
you won’t find a single mate down below decks nappin’.

In the belly of the boat hides the rum filled hogs
and the crew work in fear of the revenue dogs.
Takin’ three fat kegs makes your skiff float low;
pray the sea stays calm or to the bottom you’ll go.

Hoist your sail to the sky.  Make a run for the shore
where the fog and the law are dueling to score.
Dig a hole in the sand in the back of that cave
get on out before the tide or remain in your grave.

When you need a little money and the rent is due
runnin’ rum for living will help you, ‘tis true,
but the price to pay if you’re caught is high
while the hypocrite judges hold their cups to the sky.

In the Morning

In the morning, I will let out my trusting dog.
He will grin in devotion walking out the door.
Then I will let him in and feed him.

In the morning, I will see the children off to school.
They will kiss my cheek.
They will thank me for the cookies.

In the morning, I will bid my husband farewell.
He will rush out with his coffee.
I will wave to him as he gets into his car.

In the morning, I will call an old friend.
We will talk about our families.
We will laugh about our lives and wonder.

In the morning, I will play a melody on the piano.
The cat will sit in my lap and purr.
He will chase a mouse into the basement.

In the morning, I will brew some tea.
I will sit upon my patio and watch the robins.
They will tug worms from the rain sodden grass.

In the morning, I will do the breakfast dishes.
I will make the children’s beds.
I will put away their wayward toys.

In the morning, I will walk to the café.
I will stop to smell the roses.
I will chat with the baker and pet her dog.

In the morning, a car skipped the curb.
A drunkard has taken away so many things.
I will never again do and see so much,

in the morning.

Abandoned Home – Haiku in 8

Scratching of dry leaves
swirling on the parlor floor –
door swinging open.

Giggles have echoes
while mice scurry in frenzy –
whisperers unseen.

Cracked portraits of men
and women in fine attire –
a sense of watching

Creaks on the staircase
moaning from chilly hallways
high shutters banging.

Girl’s dresses rotting
moth holes changing their flowers
into peppered cloth.

A crib swings squeaking
as a mobile spins above
in the room’s still air

Bats in the attic
a little boy’s hobby horse
unseen hand rocking

Where the fire starts
no one will ever be sure
now the house is gone.

A Teachable Moment (or I Told You So!)

If you hadn’t the time to remember
with all of your senses amuck
then try not to whine to distraction
when your head’s in the banister, stuck.

If the pizza is bulblin’ and steamin’
but impatience is part of your plan
don’t complain when your mouth is in ribbons
nor rebuke when I scold you again.

If your fun is to run with some scissors
and you trip over something unseen
you’ll recall how I thrice told you not to
and I wasn’t just tryin’ to be mean.

If the dog growls when you start to tease him
and he tries to escape from a fight
don’t follow him under the table
lest he rip off your face with a bite.

If you drive with your arm out the window
and rudely gesture to people you scoff
don’t scream in such hideous horror
when a passing car lops it right off.

Awakening the Skin

Clackitty clack clack
Laying in a bed of sour straw as the moon hides behind the frozen hills.
The door on its rails sliding unstuck as I lie reclining near steaming offal.
Clackitty clack clack
My body is brown from summers in the woods catching squirrels,
black hair adorning my bare skin better than a queen’s fine robes
Clackitty clack clack
The steer stand back against the wall showing terror in their large wet eyes
with the torn carcass of their brave brother set between us.
Clackitty clack clack
I shiver, not from the cold, but rather an ending of the ultimate thrill,
of running through farmland and forest as queen of all I smell.
Clackitty clack clack
My body shakes in hunger, not just for meat, but for the power.
Here it has left me with the moon behind a mount a maiden unaged.
Clackitty clack clack
All men like cattle cowered in fear behind their doors but one.
One was brave enough to court me in my wooded sanctuary.
Clackitty clack clack
Now I bear his child and must flee from hearth and home – naked.
For my curse is now his with rage to stir those serene waters.
Clackitty clack clack
How many centuries could I have lived in peace and harmony?
How many legends of skin walkers could I have outlived?
Clackitty clack clack
Eastward we ride to the slaughter houses where the steer will become fast food
and I will terrorize another disbelieving generation of softened fools.
Clackitty clack clack
Now the world is my prey for the sin of waking me from social slumber
and into the changed land will I run like this train – relentless and unstoppable.
Clackitty clack clack clack

A Universal Beauty

There is beauty within the universe –
this shadow of the glorious past,
embraced by those who will follow us
though we might never enjoy its pleasure.

The hoe and the rake break our backs
while the wind steals our crop away as dust
and the maidens we married years ago
shrivel in the merciless Sun.

Our children run without shoes
while the cobra awaits — a patient fiend,
for a final misstep to give him an excuse,
and a place to sink his fangs.

Men done with labor throw dice
trading fortunes with chance
and the skilled cheater,
like the cobra, goes unseen.

Then the madam dragonfly arrives,
setting herself upon my sunburned shoulder.
The village rejoices at this sign,
for the monsoon will begin on her wings.

First comes the clouds,
roiling with potential in the distant sky,
we hurry to get the seed in the ground,
even as fat drops of rain begin to fall.

The drum, drum, drum of rain on the tin roof
while my family watches the fields flood
and we hear the monkeys in the trees
bickering in their soggy discomfort.

Lightning strikes tree and man alike,
an actinic fury unrivaled by any human act,
and then comes the thrumming sound
of the cyclone’s ladies-in-waiting — tornado!

How can we hide from something so hungry?
How can we flee along the road-turned-river?
We are spared by the fickle maiden turning –
north she goes to eat the village there.

The sunshine returns and we welcome it,
as if our past loathing never was,
while the leaves cast rainbows
with jewels as pure as a child’s soul.

Flowers grow on the roadside
and find their way into little girls’ hair
while boys tease monkeys
with mangoes on a stick.

Young women watch unmarried men,
returning from soggy fields
with muscles bulging from hard labor
and consider who they will capture.

With the first harvest comes celebration
with dancers as lovely as star-shot flowers
and even the tiger stays away,
as sorrow would bring disgrace.

There is beauty within the universe –
this shadow of the glorious past,
let us embrace what we can find
and save a portion for generations to come.

Weep for the Fallen

Who will cry for the fallen,
while the blood of friend and foe lies drying in the sand?
Who will weep for their fate,
while the waxy pale faces of the doomed lie gasping?
Who will remember them?
Will military fanfare be enough to quiet the ghost?
Who will calm their mother’s grief?
Will you pray for the fallen and those left behind,
or is your faith hollow from years of neglect?

Do you have the courage to pray for all of the dead,
and not just those on your side of the trench?
I have looked into the ghastly eyes of death
and have seen myself staring back.
I have scolded death himself,
taunting him for coming so close and having missed me.
I have seen the last gasp, the rattle, the curling agony,
and I know life’s fragility.

Say a prayer for the fallen soldiers and those
caught in the talons of national eagles.
While a starving dog will never eat his master,
rulers will never hesitate to consume our young.
Lift up your eyes to heaven and don’t blame God,
because such misery is entirely our doing.

Christmas Reproach

Here we are opposite Adam,
with Christ’s birth in the center,
in the nexus of human time.

Three learned men followed a star
seeking out a King foretold by prophecy,
not a conqueror, but a prince of peace.

A child in the line of King David
born by a maiden given to the temple
kept chaste in the house of elderly Joseph.

God, seen by human eyes
touched by mortal hands
healed, fed, and blessed in return.

This Holy day is not about Santa Claus
a fiction built on consumerist greed
but about that center in time.

Saint Nicholas of Mira would grieve
if he knew of the effort men have made
to turned away from the truth.

The shoeless Bishop would weep
at Black Fridays and shopping mobs
all in the name of avarice.

Look into an infant’s face
and you will see God
unpolluted by learned sin.

Here we are opposite Adam
with Christ at the center,
are you ready to see the other end?

Christmas Moments

The tree is aglow with reflection and light.
It brightens the mood and casts out the night.
It smells of the forest with needles so green,
of mountains and meadows and places between.
The children, they play in the snow with a sled.
Their cheeks are all rosy with winter’s nip red.
They dash about happy with snowballs a’flying
Breathless they tumble without any crying.
The stars they are twinkling up high in the sky,
while I’m drinking eggnog as Yule sparkles fly.
My socks are so toasty I think they might burn,
so I pick up the poker and make the log turn.
The gander is roasting with dressing inside,
and the kitchen is filled with a connoisseur’s pride.
The whole family chatters as they take seat,
and Grandfather prays before we will eat.
Christmas is beauty with kindness and joy,
and not about wanting some plastic toy.
It’s not about money, avarice, or greed,
but rather compassion and love others need.

A Warrior’s Cycle – Haiku in 11

In the morning mist
between the green bloody mounds
a warrior does weep.

He weeps for his men,
those he has sworn to protect
for he has failed them.

Sithe’en hears him
and embraces his sorrow
in a green mantle.

The crows will come soon
but the dead are immortal
transformed by faerie.

Apple and pear stand
where warriors once battled
slain by axe and sword.

Armor is caught up
captured by bark and brown wood
the Green Man’s defense.

Demi-fey kiss them
dancing among their flowers
when spring brings new life.

Sidhe rest beneath
in the dappled summer sun
guarding hidden doors.

Mortals take their fruit
plucking each orb with great care
during the harvest.

Snow and biting wind
make them relive their battles
with clashing branches.

The warrior rests
after years of harvest peace
beneath his brothers.

Sunrise in Pennsylvania

A leaf floats on still water,
as jeweled dew hangs suspended,
and the forest awakens with a yawn,
pantomimed by the mouth of a bear.

A hundred covert eyes watch,
while mouse, mole, and wise badger,
hold court in the tumbled leaves,
and the pink sky peals away the night.

A flutter in the twitter tree,
where starlings sit on leafless twigs,
discussing the night in shrill voices,
to swirl as a school into the sky.

The lowing of a milk cow,
beyond a split rail fence,
as a girl with her pail arrives,
rubbing her sleep-filled eyes.

The last hoot of an owl,
as her disheveled chicks jostle,
soon they will fly the night
silent killers of furry smallness.

The bear shambles off to hide
from guns, dogs and bigger bears
disturbing a dozen pair of raven
who take to the sky, mocking.

The life-giving orb appears triumphant
firing rays between damp branches
and lights the heart of a rooster
who crows in jubilation for this new day.

A Fall’s End

Leaves tumble down
tumble down they do
thrown to the ground in slow motion
they go as fast as a train
through the eyes of an ant.

Lemon yellow leaves long and thin flutter
around and around in a pinwheel descent.
Red maple leaves hang on the still air
generations of tiny things could live there
before a final kiss of the ground.

The sycamore paves the forest in gold plates
a nest for snuggling chipmunks and squirrels.
A long needle twirls down from the lofty pine,
an amber rosin blanket
tucking in the shrubs for the winter.

A hare nibbles on spent summer flowers,
hanging dry, still, dead – grey as her fur.
The carrots in the garden are gone,
hidden away in the cellar,
food for mouse and man.

A red vixen peers out of her hole,
between the roots of a lofty chestnut,
amid the spiked nut casings and
brown, brown waxy leaves.

The chilled air is winter wet
soon the snow will come
the land will slumber deep
robed in white, not unlike bones.

A fat bear ambles by hives a’tilt.
Beekeeper is gone as are the bees.
A rubber ball and upturned rake lay
unemployed and unwanted as so many stay.

Finches eat seeds and huddle amid branches
while a cat’s tail whisks in anticipation.
Somewhere a dog barks and breaks the peace.

The moment is lost
as the first flakes flutter down
to blanket the wood.

A Soldier’s Letter

We lie in our fighting holes,
in the sweltering Afghan night,
arrayed like the graves our enemies dig.

We dream of home’s simplicity,
of girlfriends and mothers waiting,
yellow ribbons on countless trees adorned.

Rude war interrupts our sleep,
as mortars thump in the near distance,
walking closer like an invisible giant.

A boy with a box died today.
He wouldn’t stop and put it down.
It was a doll for his youngest sister.

Sometimes I wake up shouting,
but I am not the only one with nightmares.
The lieutenant issues pills to make them go away.

I am an unwilling killing machine,
for I need the G.I. bill to pay for college,
so I can escape the ghetto my government made.

Corporal Xerxes lost his legs last week,
to a Taliban man with a grenade launcher,
the Captain had to order us to stop return fire.

I’m going to heaven when I die,
as my faith in God has not yet been shaken,
and because I have already been to Hell.