poem

Goodluck Jonathan

Hands down, Goodluck Jonathan has the best

name of any premier, leader or head

of state, even taking into account

Ghengis Khan and his brother Don.  Sever

good from luck, slip in a comma, you have

a blessing fit for an astronaut, bride

or groom.  The part we don’t say, you’re going

to need it, provides context and a sense

of urgency to a rote, otherwise

tepid aphorism.  No doubt Goodluck

Jonathan knew that going in.  If it

works in Abuja, why not here, why not

Have A Great Day Romney, or Don’t

Take Any Wooden Nickles Newt

or Stop To Smell The Roses Rick or

my personal favorite, Sometimes You

Feel Like A Nut Ron?  With any luck No

Drama Obama will keep his job and

I’m sure Goodluck Jonathan would tell him,

"I wish you the very best of luck my

friend, you’re going to need all you can get."

Critical Review

What The Critics Are Saying!

A great guy.  If by great you mean not quite as ridiculous as any of the past or present Republican Presidential candidates. 

Cleveland Plain Dealer

Natty dresser would be going a trifle too far.  Much too far, we’re afraid.

The Guardian, London

His innate talent is exceeded only by his ability to speak fluent Mandarin.

ArtNews

If you see this guy struggling to change a tire by the side of the road on a cold, rain swept night, lightly dressed, keep right on going.  For good measure, aim for that big puddle as you pass.

Christian Science Monitor

His shape?  Something akin to a pear only more lumpy, like gravy in panty hose.

Men’s Health

We’d love to get this guy in the ring, go a few rounds, break a few bones, wipe that smirk off his fat face.

Mixed Martial Arts Monthly

We wouldn’t even wait for him to die before we started in on his toes. 

Cat Fancy

He’s inspired a pan-species reevaluation of the dictum, Man’s Best Friend. 

Dog Lover

If he were a video game, the game would be Pong played on a black and white Philco. 

Gameinformer.com

Watching him eat is like watching a sink hole consume an entire block of mash potato apartment buildings. 

Etiquette Hell.com

I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes,  you’d know what a drag it is to see you. 

Bob Dylan, Positively Fourth Street

In his case, there must be a loophole somewhere in the Hippocratic Oath. 

The New England Journal of Medicine

He makes us want to wash our hands three-hundred times over, or vomit, or both.

Obsessive-Compulsive and Bulimia Today,  June, 2010

We’re keeping a drone over him 24/7, just waiting for the green light.

CIA Digest

A complete simpleton.

Simple

Tap his phone?  Why?

Rupert Murdoch Tweet

I knew he was standing behind the door the day I was handing out all those goodies, but I wasn’t about to say anything. 

God

Poem

Art Appreciation

A thing I like to do is read the Times

Friday edition Saturday, early,

cup of coffee in my favorite mug,

the one without a handle, late to the

party in section A, a grim gala

in the best of times.  I stay long enough

to be polite, blending easily with

the small clutch of glum souls that orbit the

obits and Paul Krugman.  Art and Design

next and not a moment too soon, where the

news is about Damien Hirst, his three-

hundred-plus Spot Paintings hanging in ten-

plus galleries in eight cities on three

continents excluding Antarctica.

Perhaps Emperor Penguins just won’t buy

all those painted colored spots on snow white

canvas.  Savvy birds, they mingle in their

frozen gallery and murmur softly,

pleased by the simple landscape rendered in

monochromatic tones, dressed to the nines,

indifferent to the latest flavor. 

I

Haiku

Hemlock Spruce

Wrestled, planted, eye

to eye, you loom now, festooned   

in lights, I stand bathed. 

Rose

Rose

I never saw things from your

point view.  You never said as much but I could see

it in your eyes.  That and the maddening prescience you tried

to hide, distracting me with

feigned puzzlement, a neat sleight of hand

turned with an economical tilt of the head, a prick of the ears,

a trick I’ve been working on when I’m all

alone.  You’d laugh, a fly on the wall, to see me

descend the stairs on all fours to growl at the mailman. 

A complicated piece of choreography, one

you always managed with aplomb and a ferocious

sense of dignity woefully missing from my performance. 

I’m afraid I haven’t yet got the hang

of overturning the kitchen trash can and

scattering the contents throughout the house

and no amount of practice will improve

my hearing.  But if you happened to walk

in right now I’m sure you’d smile to see me asleep

on my back in a patch of warm

sunlight, legs going, dreaming of fields

of rabbits and elusive tennis balls and your undying love. 

Poem

Darkness Falls

Lights are winking out in towns and cities

on either side of the Mississippi,

the banks so dark Huck and Jim would have no

trouble hiding their raft among the stands

of bulrushes before lighting out for

the territories, now as then, unlit,

and dirt poor.  When the sun goes down we will

go for a walk downtown, glowing island

in the middle of a sea of dark streets,

minor characters in a cash strapped

run of Our Town.  The Stage Manager (Paul

Newman in the role) will announce us then

usher us off stage-right to make room for

Constable Warren, patrolling the pitch

black night.  Times were simpler then and could be

again by the looks of things.  I’ll hold your

hand as we push on into the velvet

night, a torch in the other, burning pitch

held high to light our way home where

we’ll bolt the shutters and boil our water

and huddle, waiting for the sun to rise. 

Poem

Legacy

Clothes Make the Man, your slogan, although Laugh

And the World Laughs With You or If You Want

Something Done Right Do It Yourself are both

applicable.  You wouldn’t object to

First Impressions Count but might be chagrined

by The Man Who Has His Health Has It All. 

You Can’t Take It With You is true enough

judging by the contents of the closet

you left behind.  You Can’t Make A Silk Purse

Out Of A Sow’s Ear, your concise, pithy

fall back position from efforts to teach

me to dress for success.  The last straw may

have been the visit to Hughes and Hatcher,

your haberdasher of choice.  You searched the

racks for a smart sport coat suitable for

a nine year old while I gawked at the birds

and monkeys captive in the two story

glass terrarium at the center of

an orbit of slacks, shirts, suits and ties.  The

monkeys were nonchalant as they sized me

up, indifferent to aphorism, smug

beasts, naked, alive, swinging from the trees.