Posts for June 19, 2026 (page 5)

A poem made for a quest, written in character.

All journeys must end and the
last step is called faith. Like the faith 
we have in those that fight the good fight.

The bravery at the clash of sword
and staff, mace and dagger
against a mighty foe cannot go
unanswered. These are the
cconsummate heroes, who took
up arms until they couldn’t anymore.
And as adventurers in kind, we 
take up for those who cannot
take up for themselves.

So everyone raise a glass to hail
those that came before. We shall
sing songs of their valor and cunning
for generations to come. Hail
and well met!

i imagine you working
a long, stupid shift. probably bartending,
probably serving drunk tourists—white matter old men
with a vengeance, and they’re all drooling,
piss smelling red faced.
i’m laughing hard you can’t hear it,
and well anyway,
we score and we score again.
i don’t watch sports,
i feel it’s propaganda
brain rot radiating tv static,
read the statistics. 
but on occasion i do enjoy picturing you, and you’re still so dreadful and annoyed.

My mind’s sharp-eyed birds

Are circling, circling

A living, breathing thing of such prettiness

My far-flung flock awaits a signal from me

Myself, a type of wounded-wing warbler

Wing her back to me

Time for rest

And a new nest

We’ve trekked and thrown 27 holes, and now
satisfied exhaustion yawns and stretches out
the conversation’s lull–

bonfire sparks drift up, wink with stars–

across the field, sleeping bags wait in tents.

Then Troy Boy shouts    
            Either let’s talk about something intellectual or let’s wrassle!

It’s like a call to arms for these men who grew up together–

two, three friends jump him, campchair collapsing sideways,
they tumble into the dark, laughter growls from the tangle
of hands and arms and legs grappling on the ground–

and the response a wordless, exuberant reflex–

hook arms around necks, pull together heads
smelling of woodsmoke and sweat,
and hold on to one another,
hold off the end of the day.

There is an identity you see
In you and in me

Set up through roles
Your very own play

This is your choice
Everyone has a voice

Step forward into the light
Downstage, do you like your part?

There are options, other choices
Noting where you’ve been

Where are you standing now?
Front and center, the light is yours

The truth is you left me so long ago
and the calls and the texts don’t make up for it,
and the memories of cool evenings by the lake
and listening to Glenn Millers Orchestra
and playing Hello Dolly on the kazoo,

It means nothing now that we don’t talk anymore-
not about what’s really important
or what’s really on our minds,
about how our children have left us behind,
no longer asking us for our advise.

Oh, Argentina, you’ve become
a closet full of Christian Louboutin shoes,
their red soles unblemished.
Amanda Marcos must live here
With such beautiful feet
unbound and unbroken,
never touching the street.

I cry for you, Argentina,
your crown shines against the blue
of the sea and the sky
and all the while, gulls fly by
with their gullets full of fish,
and you and I are torn apart,
digested and unfinished.

First and Last:

Right here,
where I live,
passing cars and trucks
are red, black, and loud.
Today’s humidity:
heavy, thick.
In the middle
of this neck
of our woods,
I wander up to the barn,
where a rat snake
slithers the frame.
Does she live
in the loft?
Among leftover
hay bales?
And campaign signs, retired—
most local,
sad sighs,
with Harris/Walz,
Biden/Harris,
Hillary for 2016—
with a shotgun hole
blasted through.
And Obama/Biden,
then Andy
& Jacqueline.

A tailpipe backfires.
I flinch, and think:
what will they do next—
to my Coleman
and Booker—
when they arrive?

I wish to be elsewhere
this Juneteenth.
Chicago? 
Where I could forget.
For maybe, at least,
one single day.

I have written on you before.
What new thoughts could I coax
from a half-forgotten folder of memories
a decades old wound?
I knew you less than a third of my life-
1994-2003.
I feel guilty, cheated, and angry
indignation pouring out of me
a savage flood indiscriminately
carrying structures
man-made and natural
to some new and muddy destination.
I don’t often ruminate
on how different my life might be
but if more of your love
was able to shine through me
what kind of man might I be?
Would I love easier
speak more softly
extend forgiveness, an “I’m sorry”
more quickly?
Would you bask in the glow
emanating from my young ones?
Would they bask and dance in yours
as I once did?
Could you calm the storm within them
that I, in my great shame, bequeathed?
There is no guarantee
even if your liver hadn’t failed
that you would still be here.
If you were
we could wish you a happy birthday
sing the song
and break bread together.
As is stands,
like the last twenty three;
I miss you
I love you
my special one, you’ll always be. 

I find it hard to say the word
husband.  

Still. After all these years. To say the word
husband  

says more than I can keep up with
sometimes—  

the revelations made in the split second it takes
to pull the tongue off the roof of the mouth,  

the momentary pang of fear
that the label will have consequences,  

barbing the wires of personal progress
muddled in thought regressions.  

And, yet, partner or spouse, which is adequate,
feels, sometimes, inadequate,  

giving myself a pass
instead of owning something earned,  

caving into the fear
that I was never supposed to have  

the kind of joy
that comes from saying the word  

Husband
because I can.