Baby Boomers bawk when they hear Hip Hoppers spinning old tales of woe or of recent 
rich and new glamour while rapping,
Hip Hoppers sulk when they hear 'It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To' happening.
Baby Boomers say they don't understand this new generation's lingo,
But Hip Hoppers say they don't understand Boomers persistent need to play BINGO.
Boomers walk around reciting Elvis songs,
Hip Hoppers walk around singing Sisqo's Thong
Thong Thong!
But I don't want to harp on various differences,
In my time here with these few sentences.
I will say that because of the way that we were brought to these shores,
Our history has had to be told in verbal scores.
Hip Hop is keeping with that tradition and telling those that come after us
    that our history is not entirely rooted in misery.
Because Hip Hop has told us Bedtime Stories,
And 8 Million Stories.
Hip Hop has been many of our 40 Acres & A Mule and our Morning Glories!
Showcasing multi talented individuals and talk show hosts,
Producing successful tv shows with characters named  'Ghost'.
Hip Hop has protested and told us that
911 is joke!
Hip Hop has told us to Forget The Popo.
Hip Hop has warned us about 'White Lines' and told us not to take a toke.
Hip Hop has been boisterous and Hip Hop has been Abstract,
With QTip and Dela Soul stating 'people think they dis my person by stating I'm
    darkly packed but I point at QTip and he states black is Black!'
Hip Hop has ventured into Rock & Roll
Because Run DMC told us to 'Walk This Way" and Tone Loc exclaimed Wild Thing!
Lil Nas X took Hip Hop country which was Mo' Money, Mo'
Money...Cha Ching!
Hip Hop has told us to Stop The Violence.
Hip Hop has told us to Slow Down...Brand Nubian.
Hip Hop has stepped back in time with Wyclef Jean of The Fugees, 'We're Trying
    to Stay Alive',
Wyclef sampled the Bee Gees and it was a hit from the studio to The Bee Hive!
Hip Hop has created Super Heroes like Count Cool Out,
Hip Hop has been trailblazing with rappers proclaiming, I'm Coming Out!
Hip Hop has whispered with the help of the Ying Yang Twins.
Hip Hop has been hilarious with the help of  Dana Dane and The Digital UnderGround
    and DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince.
Hip Hop has been down right provocative and sexy with the likes of Salt
    & Pepa and Lil Kim,
These women have helped to keep Hip Hop fresh and femme!
Hip Hop has been informative telling us To 'Go See The Doctor',
I believe that Hip Hop has served as our nation's proctor.
Hip Hop has been theatrical by way of Doug E. Fresh & The Get Fresh Crews,
    'The Show.'
For over 50 years Hip Hop has been the way to go.

Thirteen years ago, I was reincarnated
as a cat with lush black fur and 
emerald eyes. In my waning years,
loved and cradled by a doting
young woman, I purr.

I eat chicken liver pâté for lunch,
have a choice of baked tuna or salmon, 
or grilled cod balls for dinner. On birthdays 
and holidays, I prefer sardines. 
Incidentally, the goldfish bowl in
the living room is out of my reach.

Saturday nights, I get high on catnip.

In winter, I snooze fourteen hours a day
on a feather pillow by fireside.
Spring, summer, and fall, window seat
to myself, I watch for cardinals, listen for
blackbird song to chatter at the little freaks.

For recreation, I roll a mound of yarn
with excellent paw and eye coordination.
In the pantry for the hunt, I bat, lift, 
drop a darn varmint, crawl on my belly
and pounce, immobilizing it with a final blow. 
I gift the critter to the lady of the house.

Time for another nap.
It's a cat's life, a dog's envy. 
Next leisure life pending . . .

red clouds
sunrise unrolls
on the canal
 
red zinnias
outside our cozy home
a coyote
 
crowd sourcing
in the river's bend
red maple leaves
 
gray cloud cover
slides across the dawn...
warmth of red oak leaves
 
solstice sunset
the thin red glow
slithers away

Deeper than a hole to China, 
her words cut through underbrush 
of my preoccupation like whiskey 
on an open wound. The phrases stung 
and burned till I wanted to leap into 
the nearest water hole and let the crocs 
finish up where her comments left off, then 
slither down the slimy banks of the bayou, 
pull the mud in after me; 
sweet surrender, the end of my line.

Orphan blood pulsing my veins.
In my bones, marrow of waif.
 
My DNA is stained with your secrets, Mother, 
your unspoken past passed down to me 
without Grandfather's story, how on a road 
curved homeward, his parents died,
how William, barely four years old, huddled with 
their bluing bodies in wreckage through the night.
 
Orphan blood in Grandfather's veins.
In his tiny bones, marrow of waif.
 
While you lived, Mother, I would never know
that abandoned child abandoned children of his own,
William's sons each to a separate orphanage,
two daughters sent to a maiden aunt,
and you, left in the care of your eldest sister,
deserted again by her early death.
 
Orphan blood in your veins, Mother.
In your bones, marrow of waif.
 
So this, the gift of your silent keeping:
life constructed in ordinary absence of shifting, 
homeless words; pain hidden in pockets 
of a cotton apron, buried beneath 
hymns of Solid Rock and Anchor Holds, 
hummed as you scrubbed the red linoleum, 
pinned shirts to a sagging clothesline, 
set forks to the left of our plates, 
knives and spoons to the right. 
 
You offered ordinary life, 
grace, spoken over six bowed heads 
at every evening's meal, sluicing stability 
toward unborn generations. 
Were you looking downstream then, Mother?
 
No orphan blood in your grandson's veins.
In his bones, no marrow of waif.


(Published in Common Ground, 2020)

When he rose to read the Torah
in his dark suit, she thought
of the suits they left behind
with yellow badges on the sleeves.
Glass would be found in the food bin
and their cats died one by one.
She remembers how proud he once stood
before the train ride and rations.

Though they walk in the open air
with slow step, they CAN walk in open air,
and sit in parks and feed geese
by children with toy boats.

Looking at her from the altar, he sees
not grey hair and thick glasses,
but a girl with dark brown hair, smiling eyes
and the one he chose above all others
to cherish forever.

On the last day I saw him
he no longer knew me.
Barely recognizing his son
was even harder to comprehend 
than his now 100 lb. frame.
The sweet smiling face of
the retired Navy Lieutenant Commander
still shined on the dying man 
in the hospice bed, a surreal experience.
His battles with cancer were over
and peaceful. The morphine
swept him away in his sleep.
Now my husband struggles with the loss
of his father. I struggle myself with the
loss of a father-figure. The Taps played,
the tears flowed, the flag given to his only
son sits on a shelf, looking down on us. 
A legacy to be honored. 
A smile to be remembered.


(Published in Distilled Lives 6)

The social network — what a wicked scam!
I'm studying with friends, Maurice and Pam,
endeavoring to pass the math exam,
examining the parallelogram
and doing everything we can to cram
online. But messages from friends and fam
are so distracting. Others come as spam
that slow me down by eating up the RAM.
As waves of images begin to jam
my screen, and study time becomes a sham,
I tell my friends it's time for me to scram.
No need to draw myself a diagram,
I'm lazy as the bum I think I am,
without a dram of perseverance. Damn.

                             A mistress she is
                       disguised by her
                     charisma stage
                   a silent of act move
                  with the flirtatious
                 play by the alluring sign
               with deceitful words
             from a luscious lip
             for a seductive taste
            under her magical spell
            from a display
            of a mischievous portray
           A fragile heart seeking
           to fall for her prey
           trap in a drama of betrayal
           by the blindfolded sight
           a conscious of mind
            comes to alert for
            awakening call
            to cease for lure

Two people walk on either side of a road—
both of them scarred and weathered by loss,
both of them moving forward,
not with a particular destination in mind,
but because they can,
because they don't know what else to do.

Gradually, they drift to the road's center
one arm brushes another,
an apology is muttered,
shy smiles exchanged.
A conversation begins.
They talk of music, food and travels,
of work, children and grandchildren.
They speak of their absent beloveds,
and of two years navigating the deep alone.

This middle ground is a tender space,
this new friendship warm with possibilities.
At first they are cautious with each other,
careful not to ask too much
or make assumptions.
But the scars of loss soon remind them
that life is a transitory, precarious gift,
sweetest when shared.
They don't know what to do with this yet,
but, bowing to uncertainty,
they turn and open themselves to each other.

Quiet to the core
an act of contemplation,
concentration sets worries free.
Only this moment, only this act,
only this being-here-now.
Ironic how slowing down 
and careful repetition
invites a union 
of body, mind and spirit,
a preparation for wholeness.

First day in Johannesburg,
sleeping late to shake off
the slouching jet lag beast,
wandering down the 
streets to an African Craft Market
full of stalls of carved
canes, wooden elephants and
handwoven baskets, as well as
colorful scarves,
drums and paintings
from all over this vast country,
each vendor welcoming you
to view his or her wares
with a friendly word
and a persistent manner.
Back up and outside for 
a breath of fresh air,
we spotted a Woolworth's
with a rustic café,
sat down at a long wooden table
and ordered tea, hot chocolate,
cokes and some hamburgers while
watching the world and people go by,
thinking later that really good french fries
are a treasure a family can always share,
and that the few Woolworth's department
stores of dim childhood memories—
fun "five-and-dime" places that had 
shiny things and tasty candies for kids to buy
(and a small curved counter diner with a hot griddle
and worn swivel stools in the back)—
seem to have vanished without a trace
back home in the States,
but here in Johannesburg, something with
the same name (but owned by a different company)
has emerged in a modern, hip and upscale way, 
like a rare, thought-to-be-extinct animal emerging suddenly
from the jungles into the bright high sun
wearing a snappy tuxedo, a confident grin and pair of
beautifully polished leather dress shoes.

It's early in the morning
I'm trying to clear my thoughts.

I've only had one cup of coffee
not ready to face the day.

I know you've got 10,000 words while
I've only just a few.

But the day is just beginning
and I'm still half asleep.

I don't need a running replay
of last night's evening news.

Just want to listen to the music
and try to plan my day.

Oh, please don't think me rude
for wanting a bit of peace and quiet.

It's not that I don't want to listen
it's just much for me to stand.

I know it is just your makeup
and long conversations are your due.

But sorry, I'm a man
and don't really have a clue.