Barbie (For Claude) When Claude bought his house, His wife had room to unpack Her collection of Barbie dolls, And I tried to imagine them In their infinite, pink variety. Not just plastic, model-slim, Rodeo Drive Barbie’s, But real life Barbie’s, With other possibilities. Soccer mom Barbie With her SUV and a stack Of good report cards. Trailer trash Barbie With a few extra pounds, A broken tooth, And screaming, plastic kids. Dumb as dirt Barbie With her jaw hung low. Kept woman Barbie With lots of jewelry, And a half dead rich guy To play with In a tiny wheel chair (Sold separately.) And then I got creative. Barbie in her 80’s With an accessory botox kit, Barbie with her own tanning box, And Barbie with tattoos And little piercings Not suitable for children Under eight. Anchor woman Barbie In her TV studio, Her face and make-up melting Under the little hot lights. Third World Barbie, Complete with little sacks of meal And kids that would fit In your pocket. Fitness Barbie, Gleaming and wet From her exertions. Of course there were Barbie the doctor Barbie the lawyer Senator Barbie Barbie the corporate CEO With her tiny Leer Jet And all the feminist promises Of power and style. Barbie the bowler, Barbie the figure skater Miss America cheerleader Barbie Barbie the movie star Barbie the cowgirl Barbie the lesbian. Amputee Barbie Acne Barbie, With a jar Of Barbie cream. Barbie the bag lady With tiny dirty socks. Barbie the prison inmate Barbie the virgin Barbie the wife Barbie the mother Barbie the adultress Barbie the whore Complete with little Anatomically correct Sex toys. Barbie the hairless cancer patient With wigs like thimbles. Barbie on a mortician’s slab Barbie the surfer Barbie the nudist Sold without accessories Except for tiny flip flops And a purple mask. And I thought to myself Who is Barbie anyway? Is Barbie a soldier Returned from war Struggling to fit in? Why does she smile No matter what? Barbie the waitress With a tiny four a.m. alarm And sturdy shoes. Barbie strung out on meth. Barbie in drag Lady Macbeth Barbie. Why doesn’t Barbie Just slow down? Grandma Barbie With fake teeth Mastectomy Barbie Divorced Barbie Welfare Barbie Battered Barbie. First Lady Barbie, Radical Barbie, Realtor Barbie. Junior High Barbie, Dressed like An overstuffed sausage. Hairless Barbie Jungle Barbie Taliban Barbie The Widow Barbie. Morning-after Barbie. Barbie with too many choices. Barbie with no choice at all. Like a matryoshka doll, Dreams nesting inside dreams, Barbie unveils herself, Smiling, Smooth, Hard.
Jun 30 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Barbie
When Claude bought his house,
His wife had room to unpack
Her collection of Barbie dolls,
And I tried to imagine them
In their infinite, pink variety.
Not just plastic, model-slim,
Rodeo Drive Barbie’s,
But real life Barbie’s,
With other possibilities.
Soccer mom Barbie
With her SUV and a stack
Of good report cards.
Trailer trash Barbie
With a few extra pounds,
A broken tooth,
And screaming, plastic kids.
Dumb as dirt Barbie
With her jaw hung low.
Kept woman Barbie
With lots of jewelry,
And a half dead rich guy
To play with
In a tiny wheel chair
(Sold separately.)
And then I got creative.
Barbie in her 80’s
With an accessory botox kit,
Barbie with her own tanning box,
And Barbie with tattoos
And little piercings
Not suitable for children
Under eight.
Anchor woman Barbie
In her TV studio,
Her face and make-up melting
Under the little hot lights.
Third World Barbie,
Complete with little sacks of meal
And kids that would fit
In your pocket.
Fitness Barbie,
Gleaming and wet
From her exertions.
Of course there were
Barbie the doctor
Barbie the lawyer
Senator Barbie
Barbie the corporate CEO
With her tiny Leer Jet
And all the feminist promises
Of power and style.
Barbie the bowler,
Barbie the figure skater
Miss America cheerleader Barbie
Barbie the movie star
Barbie the cowgirl
Barbie the lesbian.
Amputee Barbie
Acne Barbie,
With a jar
Of Barbie cream.
Barbie the bag lady
With tiny dirty socks.
Barbie the prison inmate
Barbie the virgin
Barbie the wife
Barbie the mother
Barbie the adultress
Barbie the whore
Complete with little
Anatomically correct
Sex toys.
Barbie the hairless cancer patient
With wigs like thimbles.
Barbie on a mortician’s slab
Barbie the surfer
Barbie the nudist
Sold without accessories
Except for tiny flip flops
And a purple mask.
And I thought to myself
Who is Barbie anyway?
Is Barbie a soldier
Returned from war
Struggling to fit in?
Why does she smile
No matter what?
Barbie the waitress
With a tiny four a.m. alarm
And sturdy shoes.
Barbie strung out on meth.
Barbie in drag
Lady Macbeth Barbie.
Why doesn’t Barbie
Just slow down?
Grandma Barbie
With fake teeth
Mastectomy Barbie
Divorced Barbie
Welfare Barbie
Battered Barbie.
First Lady Barbie,
Radical Barbie,
Realtor Barbie.
Junior High Barbie,
Dressed like
An overstuffed sausage.
Hairless Barbie
Jungle Barbie
Taliban Barbie
The Widow Barbie.
Morning-after Barbie.
Barbie with too many choices.
Barbie with no choice at all.
Like a matryoshka doll,
Dreams nesting inside dreams,
Barbie unveils herself,
Smiling,
Smooth,
Hard.
When Claude bought his house,
His wife had room to unpack
Her collection of Barbie dolls,
And I tried to imagine them
In their infinite, pink variety.
Not just plastic, model-slim,
Rodeo Drive Barbie’s,
But real life Barbie’s,
With other possibilities.
Soccer mom Barbie
With her SUV and a stack
Of good report cards.
Trailer trash Barbie
With a few extra pounds,
A broken tooth,
And screaming, plastic kids.
Dumb as dirt Barbie
With her jaw hung low.
Kept woman Barbie
With lots of jewelry,
And a half dead rich guy
To play with
In a tiny wheel chair
(Sold separately.)
And then I got creative.
Barbie in her 80’s
With an accessory botox kit,
Barbie with her own tanning box,
And Barbie with tattoos
And little piercings
Not suitable for children
Under eight.
Anchor woman Barbie
In her TV studio,
Her face and make-up melting
Under the little hot lights.
Third World Barbie,
Complete with little sacks of meal
And kids that would fit
In your pocket.
Fitness Barbie,
Gleaming and wet
From her exertions.
Of course there were
Barbie the doctor
Barbie the lawyer
Senator Barbie
Barbie the corporate CEO
With her tiny Leer Jet
And all the feminist promises
Of power and style.
Barbie the bowler,
Barbie the figure skater
Miss America cheerleader Barbie
Barbie the movie star
Barbie the cowgirl
Barbie the lesbian.
Amputee Barbie
Acne Barbie,
With a jar
Of Barbie cream.
Barbie the bag lady
With tiny dirty socks.
Barbie the prison inmate
Barbie the virgin
Barbie the wife
Barbie the mother
Barbie the adultress
Barbie the whore
Complete with little
Anatomically correct
Sex toys.
Barbie the hairless cancer patient
With wigs like thimbles.
Barbie on a mortician’s slab
Barbie the surfer
Barbie the nudist
Sold without accessories
Except for tiny flip flops
And a purple mask.
And I thought to myself
Who is Barbie anyway?
Is Barbie a soldier
Returned from war
Struggling to fit in?
Why does she smile
No matter what?
Barbie the waitress
With a tiny four a.m. alarm
And sturdy shoes.
Barbie strung out on meth.
Barbie in drag
Lady Macbeth Barbie.
Why doesn’t Barbie
Just slow down?
Grandma Barbie
With fake teeth
Mastectomy Barbie
Divorced Barbie
Welfare Barbie
Battered Barbie.
First Lady Barbie,
Radical Barbie,
Realtor Barbie.
Junior High Barbie,
Dressed like
An overstuffed sausage.
Hairless Barbie
Jungle Barbie
Taliban Barbie
The Widow Barbie.
Morning-after Barbie.
Barbie with too many choices.
Barbie with no choice at all.
Like a matryoshka doll,
Dreams nesting inside dreams,
Barbie unveils herself,
Smiling,
Smooth,
Hard.
When Claude bought his house,
His wife had room to unpack
Her collection of Barbie dolls,
And I tried to imagine them
In their infinite, pink variety.
Not just plastic, model-slim,
Rodeo Drive Barbie’s,
But real life Barbie’s,
With other possibilities.
Soccer mom Barbie
With her SUV and a stack
Of good report cards.
Trailer trash Barbie
With a few extra pounds,
A broken tooth,
And screaming, plastic kids.
Dumb as dirt Barbie
With her jaw hung low.
Kept woman Barbie
With lots of jewelry,
And a half dead rich guy
To play with
In a tiny wheel chair
(Sold separately.)
And then I got creative.
Barbie in her 80’s
With an accessory botox kit,
Barbie with her own tanning box,
And Barbie with tattoos
And little piercings
Not suitable for children
Under eight.
Anchor woman Barbie
In her TV studio,
Her face and make-up melting
Under the little hot lights.
Third World Barbie,
Complete with little sacks of meal
And kids that would fit
In your pocket.
Fitness Barbie,
Gleaming and wet
From her exertions.
Of course there were
Barbie the doctor
Barbie the lawyer
Senator Barbie
Barbie the corporate CEO
With her tiny Leer Jet
And all the feminist promises
Of power and style.
Barbie the bowler,
Barbie the figure skater
Miss America cheerleader Barbie
Barbie the movie star
Barbie the cowgirl
Barbie the lesbian.
Amputee Barbie
Acne Barbie,
With a jar
Of Barbie cream.
Barbie the bag lady
With tiny dirty socks.
Barbie the prison inmate
Barbie the virgin
Barbie the wife
Barbie the mother
Barbie the adultress
Barbie the whore
Complete with little
Anatomically correct
Sex toys.
Barbie the hairless cancer patient
With wigs like thimbles.
Barbie on a mortician’s slab
Barbie the surfer
Barbie the nudist
Sold without accessories
Except for tiny flip flops
And a purple mask.
And I thought to myself
Who is Barbie anyway?
Is Barbie a soldier
Returned from war
Struggling to fit in?
Why does she smile
No matter what?
Barbie the waitress
With a tiny four a.m. alarm
And sturdy shoes.
Barbie strung out on meth.
Barbie in drag
Lady Macbeth Barbie.
Why doesn’t Barbie
Just slow down?
Grandma Barbie
With fake teeth
Mastectomy Barbie
Divorced Barbie
Welfare Barbie
Battered Barbie.
First Lady Barbie,
Radical Barbie,
Realtor Barbie.
Junior High Barbie,
Dressed like
An overstuffed sausage.
Hairless Barbie
Jungle Barbie
Taliban Barbie
The Widow Barbie.
Morning-after Barbie.
Barbie with too many choices.
Barbie with no choice at all.
Like a matryoshka doll,
Dreams nesting inside dreams,
Barbie unveils herself,
Smiling,
Smooth,
Hard.
When Claude bought his house,
His wife had room to unpack
Her collection of Barbie dolls,
And I tried to imagine them
In their infinite, pink variety.
Not just plastic, model-slim,
Rodeo Drive Barbie’s,
But real life Barbie’s,
With other possibilities.
Soccer mom Barbie
With her SUV and a stack
Of good report cards.
Trailer trash Barbie
With a few extra pounds,
A broken tooth,
And screaming, plastic kids.
Dumb as dirt Barbie
With her jaw hung low.
Kept woman Barbie
With lots of jewelry,
And a half dead rich guy
To play with
In a tiny wheel chair
(Sold separately.)
And then I got creative.
Barbie in her 80’s
With an accessory botox kit,
Barbie with her own tanning box,
And Barbie with tattoos
And little piercings
Not suitable for children
Under eight.
Anchor woman Barbie
In her TV studio,
Her face and make-up melting
Under the little hot lights.
Third World Barbie,
Complete with little sacks of meal
And kids that would fit
In your pocket.
Fitness Barbie,
Gleaming and wet
From her exertions.
Of course there were
Barbie the doctor
Barbie the lawyer
Senator Barbie
Barbie the corporate CEO
With her tiny Leer Jet
And all the feminist promises
Of power and style.
Barbie the bowler,
Barbie the figure skater
Miss America cheerleader Barbie
Barbie the movie star
Barbie the cowgirl
Barbie the lesbian.
Amputee Barbie
Acne Barbie,
With a jar
Of Barbie cream.
Barbie the bag lady
With tiny dirty socks.
Barbie the prison inmate
Barbie the virgin
Barbie the wife
Barbie the mother
Barbie the adultress
Barbie the whore
Complete with little
Anatomically correct
Sex toys.
Barbie the hairless cancer patient
With wigs like thimbles.
Barbie on a mortician’s slab
Barbie the surfer
Barbie the nudist
Sold without accessories
Except for tiny flip flops
And a purple mask.
And I thought to myself
Who is Barbie anyway?
Is Barbie a soldier
Returned from war
Struggling to fit in?
Why does she smile
No matter what?
Barbie the waitress
With a tiny four a.m. alarm
And sturdy shoes.
Barbie strung out on meth.
Barbie in drag
Lady Macbeth Barbie.
Why doesn’t Barbie
Just slow down?
Grandma Barbie
With fake teeth
Mastectomy Barbie
Divorced Barbie
Welfare Barbie
Battered Barbie.
First Lady Barbie,
Radical Barbie,
Realtor Barbie.
Junior High Barbie,
Dressed like
An overstuffed sausage.
Hairless Barbie
Jungle Barbie
Taliban Barbie
The Widow Barbie.
Morning-after Barbie.
Barbie with too many choices.
Barbie with no choice at all.
Like a matryoshka doll,
Dreams nesting inside dreams,
Barbie unveils herself,
Smiling,
Smooth,
Hard.
This Be The Verse Philip Larkin
Jun 30 2011 Filed in: Philip Larkin
This is the poem by Philip Larkin that Richard and I were trying to quote last night. He wrote it in 1971.
This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
You Know Who You Are
Jun 30 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
You Know Who You Are
The smartest man in the room spoke up
With quotes from a famous book,
His listeners listened as hard as they could
Their ears were expecting audible food.
But sadly their heads just nodded and shook.
For all that they heard was--gobbledygook.
The smartest man was mystified,
As every face bore a troubled look
When he tried to explain whatever he said
The big words sailed over each puzzled head
For every listener mistook
His shining pearls for--gobbledygook.
The smartest man shuddered,
His voice quaked and shook.
For nary a listener understood
A word he said. A terrible mood
The atmosphere took,
As the room resounded with—gobbldygook.
And so the man who was terribly smart
Discovered that conversation was art,
That his wisdom articulate, forceful, and vain
Was not understood, unless he spoke plain.
And so polysyllables he forsook,
And no longer spoke—in gobbledygook.
The smartest man in the room spoke up
With quotes from a famous book,
His listeners listened as hard as they could
Their ears were expecting audible food.
But sadly their heads just nodded and shook.
For all that they heard was--gobbledygook.
The smartest man was mystified,
As every face bore a troubled look
When he tried to explain whatever he said
The big words sailed over each puzzled head
For every listener mistook
His shining pearls for--gobbledygook.
The smartest man shuddered,
His voice quaked and shook.
For nary a listener understood
A word he said. A terrible mood
The atmosphere took,
As the room resounded with—gobbldygook.
And so the man who was terribly smart
Discovered that conversation was art,
That his wisdom articulate, forceful, and vain
Was not understood, unless he spoke plain.
And so polysyllables he forsook,
And no longer spoke—in gobbledygook.
The Two Wise Men
Jun 30 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
The Two Wise Men
Two wise men
Were arguing about life.
“Life is like a mountain,”
The first one said,
“For at first time moves slowly,
As you climb the mountain,
But as you climb down,
Time goes faster,
Just like life.”
“Life is like a valley,”
The second one said,
“For when you enter the valley,
Walking is easy,
But as you leave the valley,
Walking is hard.”
And then they argued
About whether it is better
To stand on a mountaintop,
Or in the center of the valley.
“You can see a long way
From a mountain,”
The first one said,
“But in the valley your vision
Is surrounded,
And you see nothing.”
“It is cool and verdant
In the valley,”
The second one said,
“For a valley is nurtured,
And teems with life.
The mountain top is cold and bare.
It will not sustain you.”
Then the two wise men
Looked around
And realized they were standing
In the middle of the desert,
And decided neither of them knew
What they were talking about.
Two wise men
Were arguing about life.
“Life is like a mountain,”
The first one said,
“For at first time moves slowly,
As you climb the mountain,
But as you climb down,
Time goes faster,
Just like life.”
“Life is like a valley,”
The second one said,
“For when you enter the valley,
Walking is easy,
But as you leave the valley,
Walking is hard.”
And then they argued
About whether it is better
To stand on a mountaintop,
Or in the center of the valley.
“You can see a long way
From a mountain,”
The first one said,
“But in the valley your vision
Is surrounded,
And you see nothing.”
“It is cool and verdant
In the valley,”
The second one said,
“For a valley is nurtured,
And teems with life.
The mountain top is cold and bare.
It will not sustain you.”
Then the two wise men
Looked around
And realized they were standing
In the middle of the desert,
And decided neither of them knew
What they were talking about.
Angel Wings
Jun 30 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Angel Wings
What if angels
Really have wings
Like a hummingbird,
Beating so fast
You can’t even see them?
The artists have the pictures
All wrong.
For angels hover, after all.
A crow cannot do that,
Which makes me wonder
Why you never see an angel
With the wings of a crow,
Or maybe a peacock’s,
Worthy of the angel’s splendor,
Or fabulous colored wings,
Like birds in the jungle,
Or butterfly wings,
With exploding reds and greens,
And yellows and oranges,
Fit for an Easter sunrise.
But no, it’s always
The wings of a dove grown large,
Great clouds of wings,
Fit to stuff the pillows of gods.
The wings are clean,
But boring as a stormless sea,
Perhaps it’s a forecast of heaven,
A little too boring for me.
What if angels
Really have wings
Like a hummingbird,
Beating so fast
You can’t even see them?
The artists have the pictures
All wrong.
For angels hover, after all.
A crow cannot do that,
Which makes me wonder
Why you never see an angel
With the wings of a crow,
Or maybe a peacock’s,
Worthy of the angel’s splendor,
Or fabulous colored wings,
Like birds in the jungle,
Or butterfly wings,
With exploding reds and greens,
And yellows and oranges,
Fit for an Easter sunrise.
But no, it’s always
The wings of a dove grown large,
Great clouds of wings,
Fit to stuff the pillows of gods.
The wings are clean,
But boring as a stormless sea,
Perhaps it’s a forecast of heaven,
A little too boring for me.
The Secret Life of Jesus #917
Jun 30 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
The Secret Life of Jesus #917
Jesus decided to see a shrink.
He was having flashbacks
And bad dreams, and thought
He might have PTSD.
The shrink used hypnosis
To unlock repressed memories
Of long ago trauma,
Filled with suffering
And the wickedness of God.
It shed some light
On his addiction to love
And his wrath
In the face of evil.
Jesus thanked the shrink
And decided it might be time
To pay his Father a visit.
Jesus decided to see a shrink.
He was having flashbacks
And bad dreams, and thought
He might have PTSD.
The shrink used hypnosis
To unlock repressed memories
Of long ago trauma,
Filled with suffering
And the wickedness of God.
It shed some light
On his addiction to love
And his wrath
In the face of evil.
Jesus thanked the shrink
And decided it might be time
To pay his Father a visit.
The Secret Life of Jesus #461
Jun 30 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
The Secret Life of Jesus #461
Jesus was hurting,
Dying for his Father’s sins.
His mind wished
He was far in the future,
Lying on a gurney,
Drifting off into
A less gruesome death.
But our parents have
Plans for us
Just as his Father
Had plans for Jesus.
After all, if a father
Can’t make plans for his Son,
Then what’s a father for?
Jesus was hurting,
Dying for his Father’s sins.
His mind wished
He was far in the future,
Lying on a gurney,
Drifting off into
A less gruesome death.
But our parents have
Plans for us
Just as his Father
Had plans for Jesus.
After all, if a father
Can’t make plans for his Son,
Then what’s a father for?
White Flowers
Jun 30 2011 Filed in: MaryOliver | Poem
The lead poem in the photo book of Stephens Mothers artwork.
Note + Oliver Poem : Stephen
Jun 28 2011 Filed in: Poem | MaryOliver
Hi guys,
Thanks for coming to the house and for such a great meeting!
I was looking at a poem this morning and thought of Ed and Tom and decided to send you one from Mary Oliver - one of my favorites.
I have a feeling that Ed won’t receive this as I get bounce-backs from his email address is that true for you guys?
The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.
~ Mary Oliver ~
Thanks for coming to the house and for such a great meeting!
I was looking at a poem this morning and thought of Ed and Tom and decided to send you one from Mary Oliver - one of my favorites.
I have a feeling that Ed won’t receive this as I get bounce-backs from his email address is that true for you guys?
The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.
~ Mary Oliver ~
The Secret Life of Jesus #585
Jun 03 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
The Secret Life of Jesus #585
Mary kept this scrapbook
Under her bed,
Full of clippings and remembrances,
Of Jesus’ early years.
He found her reading it one day.
There were pictures of Himself as a kid,
Riding a donkey, having a good time
At the wedding feast in Canaan.
Newspaper articles about
The commotion he caused
On one of his visits
To the temple.
A lock of his hair.
“How come you never showed me this?”
Jesus said. And Mary just smiled.
“I was saving it until you got older,” she said.
You’ll appreciate it
When you’re an old man.
Mary kept this scrapbook
Under her bed,
Full of clippings and remembrances,
Of Jesus’ early years.
He found her reading it one day.
There were pictures of Himself as a kid,
Riding a donkey, having a good time
At the wedding feast in Canaan.
Newspaper articles about
The commotion he caused
On one of his visits
To the temple.
A lock of his hair.
“How come you never showed me this?”
Jesus said. And Mary just smiled.
“I was saving it until you got older,” she said.
You’ll appreciate it
When you’re an old man.
The Secret Life of Jesus #657
Jun 03 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
The Secret Life of Jesus #657
When Jesus was in his twenties
His friends were all getting tattoos,
So one day, after too much wine,
When He had a bit of the devil in him,
He decided to get one Himself.
There were so many choices,
He had trouble selecting a design.
Something discrete, He thought,
Maybe a tiny
Star of David.
But the man at the tattoo parlor
Told him to go home.
“You’d just regret it,”
The tat man said,
“If you ever decided
To change your religion.”
When Jesus was in his twenties
His friends were all getting tattoos,
So one day, after too much wine,
When He had a bit of the devil in him,
He decided to get one Himself.
There were so many choices,
He had trouble selecting a design.
Something discrete, He thought,
Maybe a tiny
Star of David.
But the man at the tattoo parlor
Told him to go home.
“You’d just regret it,”
The tat man said,
“If you ever decided
To change your religion.”
Lee Crook
Jun 03 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Lee Crook
Lee Crook was young and strong and earnest,
Newly wed with a new child,
He sang praises to his future
At church every Sunday.
But he had a job surveying
An Alaskan beach
In stormy weather.
A wave slapped him off the rocks
Into the cold sea.
He clung to a log growing colder
As a man ran across the peninsula
To find a boat.
The floating log was not enough.
His warmth gave out
And he slid meekly and quietly
Below the dark water.
The boat arrived but could not save him,
Helicopters flown by brave men
Could not save him.
He washed up later on a beach,
His face consumed by sand fleas.
I stared at his cheap coffin
And watched his widow weep,
Even as she smiled, convincing herself
Her husband was an angel now,
Convincing herself she should be happy.
All I could do was be silent,
Keeping dead words about a dead God
To myself.
“He’s gone and that’s all,”
I thought to myself.
Lee was just plain gone.
Lee Crook was young and strong and earnest,
Newly wed with a new child,
He sang praises to his future
At church every Sunday.
But he had a job surveying
An Alaskan beach
In stormy weather.
A wave slapped him off the rocks
Into the cold sea.
He clung to a log growing colder
As a man ran across the peninsula
To find a boat.
The floating log was not enough.
His warmth gave out
And he slid meekly and quietly
Below the dark water.
The boat arrived but could not save him,
Helicopters flown by brave men
Could not save him.
He washed up later on a beach,
His face consumed by sand fleas.
I stared at his cheap coffin
And watched his widow weep,
Even as she smiled, convincing herself
Her husband was an angel now,
Convincing herself she should be happy.
All I could do was be silent,
Keeping dead words about a dead God
To myself.
“He’s gone and that’s all,”
I thought to myself.
Lee was just plain gone.
Adoption
Jun 03 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Adoption
I’ve decided to befriend a dead person.
I will pick out a cemetery at random
And a tombstone at random
Preferably a very old one
With a barely readable name,
Perhaps a woman who died young,
Or a man crushed
In some unspeakable accident
Or a sainted nun, who died in her sleep.
Befriending the dead costs us nothing.
They can die no more
And will always be there for us.
They will never ask us for money,
Or uncomfortable love.
They will never deny us forgiveness,
Or say a critical word
Or yawn at tales
Told too many times
Of lost love
Or our travels ends.
Perhaps I will adopt more than one.
A man can never have
Too many friends.
I’ve decided to befriend a dead person.
I will pick out a cemetery at random
And a tombstone at random
Preferably a very old one
With a barely readable name,
Perhaps a woman who died young,
Or a man crushed
In some unspeakable accident
Or a sainted nun, who died in her sleep.
Befriending the dead costs us nothing.
They can die no more
And will always be there for us.
They will never ask us for money,
Or uncomfortable love.
They will never deny us forgiveness,
Or say a critical word
Or yawn at tales
Told too many times
Of lost love
Or our travels ends.
Perhaps I will adopt more than one.
A man can never have
Too many friends.
Schadenfreud
Jun 03 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Schadenfreud
Where does it come from,
Our willingness to tolerate
The suffering of others?
Whence comes the pleasure
Of our cruelties.
Whence comes the indifference of
The multitudes.
Does the sufferer own for us
Some part of ourselves
We’d rather not think about?
Does putting the pain of others
Out of sight and mind
Somehow spare us
An unwelcome fate?
The Iroquois would torture
Their victims with fire,
Prolonging agony and pain,
Falling easily to sleep
To the sound of cries and screams,
And so we take picnics to hangings
We watch victims at the stake.
As if it will make us live longer.
And not give us very bad dreams.
Where does it come from,
Our willingness to tolerate
The suffering of others?
Whence comes the pleasure
Of our cruelties.
Whence comes the indifference of
The multitudes.
Does the sufferer own for us
Some part of ourselves
We’d rather not think about?
Does putting the pain of others
Out of sight and mind
Somehow spare us
An unwelcome fate?
The Iroquois would torture
Their victims with fire,
Prolonging agony and pain,
Falling easily to sleep
To the sound of cries and screams,
And so we take picnics to hangings
We watch victims at the stake.
As if it will make us live longer.
And not give us very bad dreams.
Driving West Through Colorado
Jun 03 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Driving West Through Colorado
The distant mountain in front of us
Was barely moving,
Giving us the sense
Of going nowhere.
And maybe we were.
Until we stared
Out a side window,
At speeding fence posts
Barely discernable,
The road beneath our wheels reminding us
How fast time was really moving,
How the future was best observed
With peripheral vision.
And then the mountain was on top of us,
Swallowing us like minnows,
Thoughtless morsels
In the belly of a yawning fish,
We never saw coming.
I think about that trip to the mountain
Now and then.
About metaphors for life and death,
And the passage of time.
But mostly I think,
When I think at all,
About what lies
Beyond the mountains.
The distant mountain in front of us
Was barely moving,
Giving us the sense
Of going nowhere.
And maybe we were.
Until we stared
Out a side window,
At speeding fence posts
Barely discernable,
The road beneath our wheels reminding us
How fast time was really moving,
How the future was best observed
With peripheral vision.
And then the mountain was on top of us,
Swallowing us like minnows,
Thoughtless morsels
In the belly of a yawning fish,
We never saw coming.
I think about that trip to the mountain
Now and then.
About metaphors for life and death,
And the passage of time.
But mostly I think,
When I think at all,
About what lies
Beyond the mountains.