Bobby Sands

Bobby Sands
didn't use his hands
inside that prison wall
Kevin Lynch
in an I.R.A. pinch
took his final fall
Francis Hughes
wore Republican shoes
all the way to his end
these H Block men would never bend!!
their fork and spoon
beneath the Irish moon
would eat no food inside their cell
they gave a battle yell
but they would not cry
no one wondered why
they would rather die
and let all hell break loose
while the Golden Goose
served a mighty fine beer
the local boys held no fear
looking down the barrel of a British gun
the Belfast boys refused to run
and the girls played dead
because of what their mommies said
about black-laced boots on a Londonderry street
kicking everyone they'd meet
the television news
and faces of reds and blues
shouting men and rifles fired
bombed-out cars and killers hired
shooting red-hot lead
dark skies and the newly dead
ballads sung with heavy heart
beginning from when The Troubles start
with no let-up no pause
fighting for the rightful cause
tame to wild
every Belfast child
knew
Bobby Sands
didn't use his hands
inside that prison wall
Kevin Lynch
in an I.R.A. pinch
took a final fall
Francis Hughes
wore Republican shoes
all the way to the end
these H Block men would never bend!!
their fork and spoon
beneath the Irish moon
would eat no food inside their cell
they gave a battle yell
but they would not cry
no one wondered why
they would rather die
and let all hell break loose
while the Golden Goose
served a mighty fine beer
the local boys held no fear
looking down the barrel of a British gun
the Belfast boys refused to run
and the girls played dead
because of what their mommies said
about black-laced boots on a Londonderry street
kicking everyone they'd meet
the television news
and faces of reds and blues
shouting men and rifles fired
bombed-out cars and killers hired
shooting red-hot lead
dark skies and the newly dead
ballads sung with heavy heart
beginning from when The Troubles start
with no let-up no pause
fighting for the rightful cause
tame to wild
every Belfast child
knew
Bobby Sands
didn't use his hands

on a sea of blue ink

and on a sea of blue ink
i saw more than your simple words
i saw more about how you felt
and how you stopped to think
about the hands in life you've been dealt
there were brave stories about your youthful glories
and salty tears about your younger woman fears
to the right i saw you running out of sight
from early in the morning until late at night
while in front of me i saw where you might want to be
my companion standing independent and free
reaching out with a strong hand
i held on but everything felt like grains of sand
escaping to the ground
i remained silent and kept listening for a hopeful sound
and when you really wanted me
i knelt on one knee
without hesitation or momentary reservation
like a baby to a lover
a spy out of the cold and out from undercover
two trees bending to the wind together
summer and winter regardless of the weather
what a day and the sun is still rising
i promise to be more enterprising
you tell me you're no longer in a hurry
and even if times are hard we shouldn't worry
and on a sea of blue ink
i saw more than your simple words
i saw more about how you felt
and how you stopped to think
about the hands in life you've been dealt.

the damn wheel

driving on the street
will we ever someday meet?
the windshield of my car
needs a thorough cleaning
does it signify any special meaning?
the radio static of a local channel
playing a Friday night football game
but it's always the same
droning commentator
or daytime moderator
a talking head looking to be stroked and fed
whether in bright sun or torrential rain
grabbing at every advantage for minimal gain
behind the closet doors or coming out
leaving home wandering about
down the quiet streets of a small town
a silly grin or a puzzled frown
under bright lights in center city
dull-witted or clever and witty
driving on the street
will we ever someday meet?
well, i got me a new Porsche
hot as a Mexican chili pepper
smoking wind blowdrying my hair
shifting thru the gears without a damn care
one hundred and twenty two
gaining speed but always looking out for you
at every tight corner i'm Little Jack Horner
eating my one minute oatmeal
hearing those terrible tires squeal
keeping my hands on the damn wheel
driving on the street
will we ever someday meet?

to silence the Sun

and in the end
there was no morning
no rush hour
no alarm clock
keeping time with a purpose
no life on Mars
there was only a passing silhouette dressed in virginal white
walking around a lonely apartment block
smart phone in hand
high speed data downloading
a compass needle spinning wildly
melting ice
but there was nothing of intrinsic value
to be found
on the front or backyard porch.
the sound was silent
colors were cold
language a barrier
a limp man swung past a mounted rider's torch
fell into a gigantic black hole
began to dance on the celestial stage.
but he seemed trapped in a broadway cage
when the play was held
an anxious audience sat in chairs
either alone or in nervous pairs
and wondered how this might come to a fitting end.
a brother and a sister and a close friend
walked on hard steps
tried to make sense
of a windowless fence
they saw
erected along the vast southern border
broken glass and sharp barbed wire
cemented on the top
where the sky was pierced
red blood seeped down onto the desert dirt
dried in clumps but provided no moisture
where the sun was hottest.
a watching man put down his book
he looked again at the rider and the horse
standing around
saw the man swinging still
a fresh grave included no name
major papers of the day ran the story
but mostly they distorted the truth
in order to silence the Sun.

a regional poet

you are the new regional poet?
fine.
i'm underwhelmed, of course.
regional poets are as common as
Labor Day farts after eating sausage grillers.
besides,
i found no manifesto in your syllabus
so there's no reason to be polite and
there's nothing to be gained by fawning over
little things, like YOU little twit.
so how'd you get here?
a friend in high places got you this
position, perhaps?
i doubt it was psychic power!
do you get the obligatory tan in the winter?
hey!  you don't need to pretend by squinting
one eye while scribbling on a table napkin
that you're a hot shit.
you're no hot shit.
can you even spell potato?
and i'll bet you're a drunk.
i'll bet you have a constant supply of unsalable
manuscripts, too.
what would any student get from your class, assuming
you have one.
a good idea?  nope.
you don't even dress the part.
i heard you once swallowed enough phenobarbital
to put you in a coma for a week.
sometimes rumors are the truth, you know.
your shoes are old.
you'll never fit in with the better members of
this faculty, which is most of us,
nor should you.
hah!  a pretender and a thief, i see.
or more like a guest come to the campus much like a swimmer to
the beach, to swim and sunbathe before being served a
lunch by a sculpture of a plastic fish.
and you're the plastic fish.
out of water.  lost.  not even interesting as you flop
and fail to impress.
you must realize that you don't speak our language!
you'll always be the stranger,
a not-very-polished outsider.
in this respect (and many more i can think of),
you are merely (hmmm...what's the term?)
a regional poet, if that.
and not published?  Hah.
you'll always be bourgeoisie!
and, MON DIEU, you actually hunt and fish?