The Fall

swore he's going to rocket
to the top, drive a red Ferrari,
have a mansion
and live in an uptown palace,
and hobnob with the beautiful
and rich.

he had no shame. 
just wanted the big time playboy paycheck.
brave, rash, and lucky,
he built great buildings
to match his sky high dreams.
became a touted figure.
his profits rose.
his daily oaths were kind,
but only for himself.
in the business world they said he had
hard knuckles and a square punch.
he left his mark. pissed off many but who cares.
in time, the competition's clever blows
took him down. he made mistakes. fumbled.
he lost in the courts.
back to earth he fell.
small, puny.
had nights of arduous sleep.
wife gone. kids aloof.
once high and mighty
cavorting with the elite,
now a solitary soul,
expostulating goofy excuses.

he picked over the wreckage.
another climb not possible.
he was alone in the sands,
in the muck.
hell is a sure shot
if he's not careful.
said he cannot muster the muscle
to fight the men who took him down.

but something filtered through his brain,
some hypertense activity,
something on the caring side.
he found a lady to take him out of his vault.
help him give away his worldly goods.
commerce, business, and satisfying
deals were still an insatiable hunger,
his fountain in life. 
a few years passed.
now modest on slim feet,
he scorns no one.  seeks fellowship.
reveres the imperishable good in others.
approaches the crowd with praise.
his pain is his strength.
he'll climb not as high. possess much less.
victory is good but it is not the sole feast.
his sufferings had a purpose.
he can ally himself with love.

.Tennis Anyone?

he was quick with his brutal backhand
and overhead stroke.
owned the court.
laughed but always cordial.
would pat his colleagues on the back,
stop, take time to teach.
so likeable, courteous, caring,
truly a good time guy.
he made us play to our best.
one day, mid set, he suddenly stopped
and said he'll return after lunch.
gave no reason.

at home,
curtains drawn,
he changed into work boots.
donned a black shirt,
Panama hat, cargo pants,
false sideburns, sunglasses
and a pasted on twirled moustache.

half hour later,
at B of A,
he passed a note.
got eight grand.
his unmistakable
planning, and timing,
paid off.

at home he washed.
changed back into his tennis outfit.
grabbed a few balls.
back at the court,
he raised his racket and said:
tennis anyone?
afterwards,
he bought us all lunch and new rackets.

 

 

Casino Heights

hot colors, bouncing lights,
joyous cries, slots, their patrons,
smiles, halos and fat dreams.
this, the last brokerage house for the beggar.
I was flanked on both sides
with silent, fixed-eyed, blackjack players.
all of us oath bound to make money.
I sank into my quiet concentration.
tackled my martini.
lady luck shine on me. sing. dance.
go naked.  touch my body.
be my good girl and color me green.
in an hour I had to cut my dreams in half,
the next hour, to a third.
the day was turning into dirt.
I continued
the dealer was lethal.

upon my rising the dealer asked
if I would be back.
I shook my head.
but I had an eerie feeling
I would return
to be ambushed again.
here, the prized bird of the day is a beast,
and how I love
to be held in its arms.

Halloween In Candyville

dead men's hollow-
enter at your own risk.
the sign says.
smashed plants lie by the door,
inside, in the dim light,
oo! the floor tilts.
"kill, kill, kill don't stop
till we cut away his throat."
an eye winks at us through a hole in the wall.
then more moans.
a man in a Tux waves us further in.
he leans on a cracked tombstone 
that says death is the light of day.
hurry not he says,
it's Jim. he's tricky.
on a shelf lies a skull
dug up years ago, so the note says.
his weird, wicked wife cackles.
says "drink. drink to your delight.
we need one more cadaver."
"fatten up. you'll make good fodder," she says.
bones dangling from the ceiling
against blood stained walls.
big deal.
then flashing fields of eyes stare down from the ceiling.
piled high killer pumpkins with spooky eyes
and big teeth glow.
you all would make good pumpkin pie I quip.
they utter "don't dare us!
we bite deep then swallow our catch whole."
we feel a breeze on our necks.
then near the backdoor,
out of nowhere "stop! stop!"
then the sound of chains,
then a crackling whip.
"I am the face of death,
the kiss that ends all.
follow me to your exit from life."
a goblin hones down. bellies up a laugh.

oh he's good, Jim is.
Jim Carlson,
each year his haunted house
is filled with moans, cries, laughs,
and murder.
ghosts and ghouls whirl, fly the wire.
prance around blood stained.

upstairs adults don Dracula costumes.
display long manicured nails
and malicious eyes.
dressed in black, they gather, sing:
"got the blood-thirsty blues"           
and "my coffin makes me itch."

at midnight,  we hear a resounding gong,
the house shakes.  Jim shouts "it's time".
then in his beat up unlicensed Cadillac hearse,
he takes each weary soul home.

come morning more moans and groans.
Pepto Bismal no help.
only Jim's wizard brew will do.

Imagination - Pure and Simple

I spin galaxies.
create black holes and rip apart stars.
I shaped the thighs of Orion,
sculptured the Earth, its sky
and gave its brawny creatures soul.
I am the cold daunting face of life.
out of me grew the saucy summer day.

when man came I tricked him.
teased him. cajoled him. pared his eyes for beauty.
with me he made machines.
I gave him golden swords to rule
and with them he flew around the world.
saw what he never thought possible.
did what he thought impossible.
I am his embroidered breath
and his morning delight.
with me he engineered his excellence,
built cities and highways.
wore a rich business suit and battled with hard pain.
I made him emperor of his waking.

I am the sky plucked clean of stars,
the wind and the handiwork of wild seas,
the country ride and its flower beds,
the strange eyes of night,
and a baby's cry.
I am the cosmos, its street lights,
its birth and mystical mixture.
long sought human satisfactions come from me,
I am the space between. I say catch me if you can.
but I am matter of fact too.
things die. so what.  I don't care.
I am the daughter of treachery and incalculable ruin.
peer into space and see my explosions.
yet I am the graceful Eagle, its brethren and E=MC2,
the moon's own little eye among stars.
I slip through man's fingers like
water slips between rocks. I am everywhere.
the orchard of life grows within me.
as clouds seek swift passage,
I wander through the throngs,
a wayfarer by day and night.
I am nothing but a whisper.

In The Backyards Of Bull Run
(Manassas)

in war there are a hundred reasons to live,
one to die.
they marched, sang,
their throats lean, muskets high.
they were not groomed for battle.
the spread of death came quick.

yet they became hometown heroes.
subjects of bedtime stories,
great oratories, statues
and museum exhibits.

we stroll these old slopes.
hear their frayed voices.
the mystic air cries.
we ponder. pause. listen.
life and death go hand in hand.
we move with an open eye.

soon we pass the Unfinished Railroad.*
finally a picnic spot.
honey,
pass the cheese please.

 

*The Unfinished Railroad is the name of a location
in the Bull Run fields where a battle took place. 

Wahkeena Falls
("Beautiful Woman" in Yakima Native Language)

bright, white and sassy,
she hops rocks,
dives beneath downed trees.
I watch her thrash to the ground.
catch her furious spray,
then lounge in her gypsy soft air
as she rolls out to sea
in her own patent way.

she endures each day with integrity.
her dance, speech,
and ancient aura
draw me in with sweet, protective kisses.
I walk in her wilds.
tossing around
in her centuries old rocks.
she is never out of sight.
she has a dancing stone bowl,
even an underworld.
I can smell her. 
she helps build my ship.
speaks like a companion.
my wandering mind rests
in her play, in her angelic noise.
in her authentic scent.
upon leaving, I always thank her.

in winter her lone body
rips out a rhapsodic roar.
spurious wind gusts bend her legs,
wring her side to side.
she hisses and howls
yet her droplets touch your face
like soft winter kisses.
I come each week
with the satisfaction of knowing
she is never somewhere else.