Saturday, May 25, 2013

Dearest Mother


Dearest Mother;
I’m getting bumped and jostled as I try to write,
I apologize dear Mother if my penmanship’s a fright.

The trench is getting crowded; soon it will be time for us to go.
Every man will cheer and go over the top, when we hear the whistle blow.

My Buddy Joe’s foot fungus is healing up just fine.
We got to spend five days in Paris.  Dearest Mother … I drank some wine.

I hear the distant rumble of thunder, as the Sergeant tightens up our ranks.
The men just loved your cookies. They all send along their thanks.

I have so much to tell you, but precious time is fleeting.
The Krauts are pretty restless, but we’ll give them quite a beating.

I have to put this away now.  It’s time for us to join the fight.
I love you dearest Mother.  I promise, I’ll finish writing this tonight.


This is all I have of my son Johnny. He’s buried near the Somme.
Before they buried my dear Johnny they found this … his last letter home.

Friday, May 17, 2013

Mid-life Crisis Fool

He’s got a blue Lamborghini,
And a red-hot second wife.
He dresses so sharp
He could cut like a knife.

I think he’s 60,
Or maybe 65.
I saw him yesterday
He was out for a drive.

He’s growing his hair
Down to his knees.
He had the Lambo’s top down.
It was 30 degrees.

He’s havin’ a mid-life crisis
On that we can agree.
He’s spendin’ all his money
Thinks he’s better than me.

He thinks he impress people
By acting real cool.
But all the people know,
He’s just a mid-life crisis fool.

Sunday, May 5, 2013

Jimmy’s Song                                                                                       

From the depths of hell you call out to me.
In the middle of the night, your voice
singing that stupid song invades my dreams and wakes me.
At the high noon of day, you haunt my mind.

This cannot be.  I went to your funeral.
I saw you lying in the satin lined box of your mortality.

Yet I can still hear you. Even now.
In every waking moment.
Your voice,
your shrill, sandpaper on my nerves voice.

It calls my name. 
It spits at me,
it steals my rest, and my sanity.

Need I dig you up to reassure myself
of the finality of your rest?
What the hell are you trying to say to me?
What message from beyond
could be worth this incessant torture?

I did not kill you.
You drank yourself to death.

I simply did not take away your keys.

Oh God forgive me.
I did not take away your keys.