My Mother, The Beggar

i made her dinner

she said it was good

but complained about 

the absence of a glass of milk

then she said,

“But i guess beggars can’t be choosers.”

born on a farm in middle of winter

almost smothered to death by her mother with a couch cushion

but then her dad came in the room

up at five to milk the cows

bullied at school for smelling of manure

given to the first man who asked 

at sixteen

smacked around

five children

poverty

dutiful

did as she was told

she never made a choice

now the children are gone

husbands dead

overwhelmed with decisions

i said,

“Beggars can be choosers,

but if they don’t choose,

they’re beggars by choice.”

we ate then in silence

she watched tv

and changed the channel

Projectors

We are projectors,

the world is the reel.

Feed in the film

and feel.

Winter Field

a green field yellowed

the struggling branches

two finches dance around each other

limb from limb

the quiet conversation muffled

on a wind from the north

the creak and moan and chirrup

the snow laden clouds roll in

Night Forest Church

dancing through the trees at dark

splashes of light flickering

branches make a stained glass frame

over a high orange flame

History Bourne

look you, mortal bent

nothing new, all is lent

standing on the shoulders

of the shoulders and

the shoulder of the shoulders before

this is human

the hope for the clearing

the open

the door

make haste before

the setting of the sun

the running clock of your

creation

oh man oh man

oh son of a whore

the only women in your story

are those in your store

bend now and twist

your game’s run afoul

a fowl in the henhouse

the fox on the prowl

its yellow eyes gleam

like the heart of a sun

the fire in the breast

same as in the

human

she walks through the sand

sword in hand

waiting for the dripping blood

to land and 

from that holy cycle

hellish is 

man

Humbled

the old goat wrote

and baa’d as his throat

was coated with a coat

of bloated oats

and grain going straight

to his brain 

the main chain laid lame 

but the words still came

you can’t blame that flame

when nothing changed

and the same fame seeking 

ego-leaking

unshowered and reeking

beast realized least of all

was his name

Three Faverolles

three chickens sat

white and fat

in a grass green barnyard

clucking and bobbing

stupid and tame

waiting for the farmer to

throw them the

meal

seeded in the needed feed

was another of their number

dead for no reason

but fleas on his head

and they clucked 

with pleasure

as they fed fed fed

Second Missed Day

Missed again ...

I am upstate taking care of my mom ... But I'll post two poems tonight.

Thanks for reading.

Be good to each other.

After Christmas 2021

the sugarplums danced and bowed

the stockings were taken down

there was quiet again 

after children’s laughter

as darkness descended

and an anxious midnight crept

upon the house

the day after Christmas

is always the beginning of a journey

toward slightly darker days 

even as they brighten

driving into the last glimmer

of an essence thinning year

kiss the ones you love beneath

the withering mistletoe

and remember the flame

carry that home

Selfish Hours

seeking quiet, 

time alone, 

pursuing nothing in particular

a thought amounts to nothing unspoken

unheard

these selfish hours took half my life

and I, the vampire 

fed on time,

cannibalizing the strength and awareness of 

my own youth

to what end

same as all 

the rest

sacrificial solutions 

unknown thankless jostling 

to set the future

the comfort of loved ones

protecting the right of others 

to spend selfish hours

in quiet enjoyment

dawdling over coffee

a video on a phone

lost in book

is any time wasted time

when no time 

is owned

in those final hours

before sleep

that no one else can claim,

what solace shelters us

as we step alone

into the night none can share,

but the last warm hand

covering

our hand

A Life

elbow deep in deleterious muck

reaching for the ring that got stuck

somewhere between departed and decayed

tripping over trepidation dismayed

the stumbling block is something more

than just lazy listless or bored

when beloved little things become a chore

you’re over your head, so head for shore

kick off your kicks get in the cage

pull down the curtain set the stage

the blinders made for focus make you boring

don’t spend the waking half of life snoring

sun comes up, sun goes down

what goes around comes around

but those are the meanings not the means

the credits of the film are not the scenes

not all, but most of life is what you will it

so take that life of hours and fill it

Haiku: I'm Sick

Aches came on slowly.
Heavy head pounding. Eyes close.
Shivers and fever.

The Black Theater

The ancient city sprawls out in a maze 

of wood and stone. The streets belch forth hot steam

and smoke that irritates the people's gaze,

and leaves their vision hazy as a dream.

But one sharp place resists the haze's hold.

Strange lines of people stand before its doors;

a theater painted black whose travellers bold

will wait for hours to enter in its pores.

Inside the many rooms, some of them know,

of doors disguised as closets damp and dark,

but enter one and find themselves aglow

within our sunlit world by heavens' spark.

The evil ones who’ve tried to make their way

in through the pathways to this world of ours

with greed for power trying to hold sway

have so far had their plots fall flat and sour.

Beware and rue the day that they succeed,

for twisted monsters seek a way to spill 

into our world to hunt and nightly feed

upon our happiness and bright goodwill.

The theater black stands on the other side.

Remember this when nightmares haunt your sleep.

Now rumors say something with claws has pried

its way through, and in closets loves to creep.

Pale shriveled skin as though it soaked for days

in rat infested swamps of rot and waste.

With yellowed teeth and eyes, it sets its gaze

upon the sleeping souls it wants to taste.

If you get out of bed tonight, be sure

to check your closets and beneath your bed,

for wiggling toes make for enticing lures.

Or just sleep with all the lights on instead.

Through The Final Gate

pass through the final gate

into the darkest night

of those who’ve gone before

returned reporting light

a trick of human core

and biochemistry

or god and heaven wait

and no one else will see

First Missed Day

Apologies. I did not post a poem on December 20th, 2021 ... I suppose I was bound to miss a day sooner or later, but this is the first time in four months, and at least I have a reason.

For anyone who read yesterday's poem, you might know that my dad, after a long struggle with cancer and a compromised immune system, died on Sunday the 19th. 

You can imagine that I'm feeling pretty distracted ...

Nonetheless, I will post twice today and will label them both "Poem-A-Day". I am returning to my hometown the day after Christmas to help my mother who is struggling with health problems of her own. 

I will strive to keep writing and posting every day, if for no other reason than it should help me process everything that's happening.

Be good to each other.

-MS

Four Fathers

The only one I really knew died 

this morning, sleeping with

a cool frayed cloth upon 

his aged crown, while

my mother sang

him to his rest

at home in

peace.

The one whose last name I bear

was an abusive drunk, who,

when I was seven, choked

on his own beer vomit,

and died unconscious,

on a dirty rug, in an

empty house,

alone.

The one I knew through a story

gave his 23 chromosomes

and slunk off like a cat –

Schrödinger's – both

dead and alive, but

no one can look

in a box that’s

not there.

None 

were examples 

to draw from for 

my own sons. I know 

I have to be awake and alive, 

present to all the things they want 

to share, and share alike with them my 

love and excitement to be their dad, and be here.

Acolytes

we are all acolytes

even the heretics

none are exempt

belief is pandemic

whole lives spent

in unconscious worship

the human way made 

easy systems for comfort

quick resource access

or pointless denial

two million years

of four and a half

billion with

five billion left

give

or take

in this scope life 

is unbearably short

so take this span

and run run run

bursting with joy

bursting with sorrow

relishing witnessing

feeling believing

loving or hating

to the end

only you will know

and carry that flame

into darkness

Transcend

she was warrior

she was hunter running

she was chief and mother

honored worshiped

what long resentful memory 

has man to grasp

passing with words

what legacy

binary

resources outside assembled

making expanding 

man

embody inside created

sheltering sacrificing

woman

they are instead what they choose

free to be xem xyr xe 

themself

Drowning

Mustering all her strength,

against all shouting instincts,

she swims down,

puts her feet 

on the bottom of the pool

and pushes off.

Rocketing up,

lungs burning,

she breaks the surface –

she knows – one last time,

and screams,

Help.

Resentment

resentment finds a harbor in the heart

it settles into that seaside shanty

sparks a spitting smoking fire in the hearth

and guards the door, a mirthless vigilante

steel your will take up arms and drive him out

for it will soot each vent and envelope

in panic pestilence will never rout

and sooner burns its host and every hope

Blood Sucker

Empire breathed its last gasp

then rasped again

incorporating parasitic life

from its discorporating corpse

vampire from the ruins of war

leeching the globe

for blood money

Bacchanalian Mind

The making and not

the partaking of the repast

satiates me more

than the feast ever could.

When my mind is full 

my belly can take care of itself

on its own time.

When I am done with mindful joy,

and drunk on artifice, 

I like to trip over the realization

of my hunger.

My relaxation to some is work,

but to me work is all vexation.

Come, my friends!

Let’s busy our hands in creation

while our minds inebriate

and grow fat.

Creepy Crawly

watcher waiting in your web

thorax bearing prickling hairs

four pairs of spindly legs to wind

in winter watch the blood tide ebb

no wriggling forms entangle there

no panicked wing no puff of breath

in darkness shrivel down to death

forever six eyes fix and stare

Compromise

There’s nothing wrong with compromise,

a difficult, but necessary skill.

The contortionist practices for years

and learns the art.

Stretch and fold and wrap.

If the physical body can bend this way,

just imagine.

Twain

Sam Clemens said, "I was dead 

billions of years before being born,

so I don’t fear death.

It doesn’t leave me forlorn."

And I guess that’s a good way

of confronting the void,

but if I died tomorrow 

I would sure be annoyed.

Building A Home

I watched a string of videos about a guy 

who built his own house off grid 

out of whatever was laying on the ground 

It was amazing to watch him

from the realization that led him

toward his dream of buying land 

to building floor and frame

working at it almost every day 

until its full realization

and I got to feeling pretty poorly 

about myself and my lack of ability 

at building tangible things 

so I turned to paper 

and with my words

I cobbled together a castle of golden sandstone

shimmering in the desert sun

with gleaning yellow towers rising 

into the azure sky

but dunes have reclaimed all 

but the tallest tower

that in the ghostly cold of a moonlit night

juts from the sand casting its monolithic shadow

and it’s overrun by a cursed mummy

and his zombie minions who shamble through

its darkened dusty corridors

and i can’t live in it

but now it lives inside me

and now also in you

Pealing

no amount of shouting 

can reestablish lost control

no slap can end violence

no scream can satisfy silence

no acreage of property

can kill the greed of the landlord

no amount of gold

can fill the holes in the world

but you just stand there not speaking

and I can hear you

ringing like an alarm bell

Late Spring Run, 1996

running warm asphalt oceans

black surface smell of tar

shining in the sun

breathing up heat haze

heart pounding feet pounding

sunlight on shoulders

first to the top of the hill

pine shadows cooling

going down feels like cheating

not because of the ease

rather the sunlit golden field

and smell of wild flowers

have me flying

while the others are stuck

talking television shows

breathless down 

on the pavement

Hearts and Mines

The heart of each star may be a diamond,

and when whole atmospheres are made of them

they are worthless.

Saturn, and his son Jupiter,

have a wealth of crystal blades.

To near them is to suffer,

as though sliced by a billion knives,

a death whose value is overestimated

by a factor equal to the number of lives 

spent in pit mines.

By the lake,

water red as blood in the setting sun,

a man kneels with a shining ring,

and asks to own the heart 

of another.

Risk Free

The double jump of a heart

suspended by a string over a 

precipice

I threw it out of the house

because I didn’t want to fight

and now it’s hanging over the balcony.

1982 and the Cosette’s were disbanded

wool skirts 

Now doing dishes 

scrubbing hard to get the cheese off

and wishing she had never left

Tokenish this whole place

and then you get older and realize

everyone’s busy trying to be someone else.

You could have been yourselves risk free 

the whole time.

Love Of My Life

Rib tickles, 

flat on the floor back cracks,

cracked fingers and toes, 

pulled and popping ankles,

squeezing pimples bearing sebum, 

ripping farts in bed;

these are some of my wife’s 

favorite things,

or sometimes 

what make her squeeze her eyes tight,

cheeks turning red,

tears running through the lines,

laughing so hard 

she almost pees.

Cuts

I am not an emperor, nor a pharaoh,

but I was born caesarian, the same

as Caesarion that day in June.

My mother said as much and showed me

the vertical scar on her belly.

So many mothers died or were in 

danger of dying from childbirth

when they cut them open to save the child.

Saved for what? From what?

Don’t say life. That condition of body

is the default setting for centuries

of fictions that hold power in place.

For labor? For gold from the earth? For whom?

She is not Cleopatra.

The poison injected long ago

remained at her throat.

And now, all these years later,

my mother is dying

and again, I am being born.

Soon there will be a cut,

vertical in the earth,

and again, I will be spared.

Buried alongside her anti-Antony,

it could be any grave in this earth,

but it will be hers;

she who daily died to save me for this life.

This life.

Mine.

Resources

It was three hundred sixty-five million years

between the lowly life of Laurentian algae

and the gas-laden black shales of Fredonia.

Rumors of the Seneca and Iroquois

setting fire to water

led to speculation

about biomass, gasses, and fractures.

From ritual to resource in a few hundred years,

but within twenty-five, they had to search again.

Crack ground with no care for the creek.

Just lights for Lafayette,

church windows for Christmas.

Meanwhile, under the hemlocks,

the water flows over the shale 

to the silent glacial lake,

dead fish on its surface.

That Which Is Undone ...

That which is undone

remains lurking beneath the stream

of thoughts, hunting in the forest 

of dreams to strike with its

diseased mouth and running eyes;

claws that tear at your heart,

beating you awake in panic,

birthing you whole into 

another undone day.