Licorice and Water

The Poet gets drunk on licorice and water

At first it is only a loose tongue and a small waver

But after a sip and a few more black bites

He fumbles with a small bag and brings out a tin whistle

After a few bad notes, he whips out a tune

Before unheard, unknown and now unforgettable

He throws in a second tune better than the first

And passes it on to the firefighter

Better be careful, he’s high on chocolate

I Fobbit or Sergeant Fobbit

‘Fobbits suck,’ I read this

every day as I close the

door of the port-a-john.

Nice to know I suck. Although how

this kid would know, I can’t tell.

I joined in ’87 when I was 17.

Being young and stupid I followed

my recruiter’s advise and

trained in the chemical coir.

I quickly learned that war is

            at it’s best when it only

            features blood and bullets.

Nerve agent and mustard gas

            make those old things seem

            quaint and desirable.

My war plan expanded to saving

            my guys from Cold War

            weapons of mass destruction.

I knew that if I was ever called

            to do my job, it would be

            hell for those few that survived.

And hell for me picking up the

pieces. And likely, doing my

job would be the end of me.

I taught and trained with no

            thanks and no help. Commanders

            and first sergeants shut me down.

The Gulf War came and quickly

            went. My brief moment of

            importance died.

And finally my time was up,

            I got out. I swore I

            would never do it again.

Then 9-11 came, and I though

            maybe I was wrong, but the

            time didn’t seem right.

So I stayed out.

Iraq came back, and I looked

            again. But still, even

            with chemical need,

I stayed out.

2006 and a well placed brochure,

            things had changed and

            I was needed back.

Two years later I stood in Afghanistan, with

a promise from my first sergeant:

I would not leave the wire.

So on this fob I sit, and old

            Fobbit. Doing a job I’m not trained

            for, and not needed for.

But young man, when things come

            down, and you find you’re

            not as hot as you think.

I’m the old, wise sergeant that

            is ready to reach down and

            pull you out of the mess...

You made.

Fall Spirit Fair

He hid in dark, surrounded by

bright yellow and orange, dusky

burgundy and purple

Full breasts and stomach threatened

to tear her shroud of gossamer

and lace

From the shadows he followed

from a distance he plotted

‘Till she left

peopled paths and wandered a dark

alley. He moved quickly and

from behind,

pulled her down Plucking at black

wrappings he tore the gossamer

and ripped the lace

Pinning her arms and body, he

forced a lurid kiss Which she

accepted

with an open mouth Arousing

him to disengage, but his lips

were sealed

To a burning, drawing pain.  And

when the woman released his

lips

He found his mouth drawn tight

leathery and thick. Arms floundered,

his hands

coming up to explore his face

She lovingly found a hand, he

screamed in pain

As her lips and teeth drew from wrist

and fingers And gave in return

pain and

a lessening of life force Then

moved up the arm and to the

next hand

And on to all remaining

limbs and parts ‘Til all that lingered

whole was

brain and neck and heart

Caressingly, her lips found his

throat and placed themselves

Carefully,

for their final draw, who’s pain

encompassed fully Both Mind and

Soul. 

So much that even when she left

his corpse To dance among the crowd

laced shops and rides

With her shredded clothes flowing and

bobbing behind her.  He still screamed

with his mind

and thousands of others like him

Screamed pain back, engulfing him in

misery that

only found comfort As each new

casualty joined the ranks Of

seething leathery minds

Dust Motes

Shift in the air

Flying through the night

On their way to

Who knows where

They sparkle twinkling

In my light

Destroyed Joy

The unopened sunflower bud

Lay ripped and shredded

Useless on the ground

My work, my hope

Joined the dust

Instead of reaching for the sun

And sharing its bright light

With friends and passersby

My joy lies victim

To vandals

Dance

Dance with the beauty

            She will only last the night

Dance in the starlight

            She will fade in sun’s light

Dance barely touching

Embracing will hasten doom

Bagram October

A black day, late in October

I hear a cat mew

I look for it in surprise

For felines here

Are rarely seen and never heard

I turn back to my writing

The report is soon due

And I hear the cat again

Mew

The a third time it calls

More insistent than before

I push aside my computer

As I hear a thump from outside

I open the door and find face down

A man that I am sure I know

I rush to his side and try

To turn him over, but

His body is too stiff

I reach a hand to check his pulse

And find it blank

Then shift enough to see his face

Still and stretched with fear

I see my commander dead

I turn back, to run inside, report the death

But the once loose door is now jammed shut

And as I pull and pry

I hear now softer, but

With more menace

A single

Meow

Little Aliens

Little aliens under my floor

spread their voices

and

reach out

with spindly bowed arms

prying at the plaster

and

with broad flat teeth

pick at the nails

making little children

scream with fear

and

bringing adults to

catatonic bliss