Tuesday, December 22, 2009

For The Holidays

No tree fills the house
with the scent of fir, or
carpets the floor with
fallen needles.

No lights hang from
the eaves or the holly bushes.

The Messiah has been played, once
but no others; they may or may not
in the next couple days.

My love and I are both off work
the day before and the day itself;
mom asked what we have planned,
and she said “Oh, read, eat,
be quiet at home,” and then
she smiled and winked at me.

The forecast calls
for sunny and cold,
a perfect Texas Christmas.

We will not go out, nor
stay up late on
New Year’s Eve, and
the next day I will go
hunting up in Quanah.

Now, it is quiet and
the sky is grey, waiting.
Critters strewn about
the bed and couch,
paws cover faces.
Wind tossed Oleander
scratches at the window.

Uncle Fran died two days ago,
as so many do this time of year.

Perhaps, in my fiftieth year
I have caught a whiff
of that melancholy.

Monday, December 21, 2009

Waffle House, 10:45 a.m.

Where are we getting’ that toilet,
Lowes or Home Depot?
Home Depot, I done tol’ you
and it IS gonna be a present.
It’s gotta be a present, I know that;
you’re gonna put it in the floor too.

It’s been seven years they been married.
It has not been seven years.
It’s been seven years they been married.
It has not been seven years.
I am a’ tellin’ you it has been seven years,
I know it.
You know nothin’ of the kind;
it’s been five years, and I got
proof on account of the dates
on them pictures I took.

Muriel says she wants to get a gun.
Now that ain’t no surprise…
She says she wants to go up to th’ range
and get her one, ‘cause he’s got one.
She just wants a gun so’s she can shoot him first.
Be that as it may, she wants a gun,
jus’ like his.
She does NOT want a gun just like his;
He has him the forty five automatic of
nineteen and eleven –
that gun is too big in every way.
Well then she wants one like that in .38
She does NOT want one like that;
she wants a small revolver and
she aught'n to be smart enough to know.

Well, she wants a gun, that’s all I know;
are you gonna finish your bacon?


Murkan Airlines,
with a wink and a nod,
hauls congress to and fro
for the Holiday Break,
the first order of business being
what to call it?
Christmas is too Christian
and if we serve one,
they’ll all want free drinks.

Guzzling sweet crude and
blood diamonds, the Grand Poobah
flashes a greasy smile,
wipes his lips on his lackey’s paycheck
and rumbles “Ain’t nobody serves ‘em up
better ‘n’ Halliburton!”

Back at Gawd-R-Us,
everybody’s lost their shirts
in Texas Hold ‘Em.
It’s game over man;
Diversity catches the
midnight train to Georgia,
laying low in the mail car.

Town hall meeting is cancelled
due to protest by The Organization of
Those Who Don’t Give a Shit,
seeing as it violates their
constitutional right to ambivalence.

Burglars United beds the Brady Bunch
hoping to get bullets labeled as antisocial.

Bernie Madoff, out for good behavior,
skunks Bernanke in a game of one-on-one;
dusting off his jacket, he quips,
“Enough of this politeness shit,
let’s get down to brass tacks.”

The Me Generation wakes from their slumbers,
yearning for the dry look;
Studio 54 reopens in celebration.

Below the hullabaloo,
Mother Theresa rolls over in her grave
slaps her forehead and mutters
“Christ on a crutch,
what if I was wrong?”

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Canus Lapus

Hangin’ with Pop,
slimmer and
half the weight
of either cat.

Sprawled full length
there’s still plenty of room
for the laptop.
Head hanging ten
off one ankle,
back feet bathed in
warm computer air.

Black and white fur
against crocheted
white blanket.
One eye closed,
one on the bird feeder,
an ear cocked
tracking the kitties.

Now and again a rise,
a big yawn and
a good shake,
then a muzzle stuck over
the top of the computer,
just to make sure Pop
is paying attention.

Saturday, December 12, 2009


Kurt Vonnegut said,
“I tell you we are here
on earth to fart around
and don’t let anyone
tell you different;”
true enough, but
there is more to it.

Let there be peace.
Let there be peace on earth.

More than a day
or a season wherein
we sing words that
perhaps we do not heed:
They are not just songs
of auld lang syne
they are words to live by.

Let there be peace.
Let there be peace on earth.

Politicians speak of war,
economy, and law;
pundits of a better way:
Zealots know the only way,
if one is to be saved.

Let there be peace.
Let there be peace on earth.

I tell you that we
are all here to care
for one another
and for this earth
and don’t let anyone tell
you different.