Eloise Jane 2.0

  Eloise "Weezy" Jane turns two today.  Our little lady warrior is often mistaken for a three-year-old.  She is B-I-G, in stature, personality, and heart.  She feels big, and the lives in her orbit are bigger for it ... Version 2.0 speaks complete sentences, will hug a crying child ("She sad, Papa"), falls down daily (hourly?).  This child's legs look like she lives alone in the woods.  Eloise relishes moments when her big sister, Iyla Grace, plays with her ... Happy Birthday, Lady Eloise!  

Last Poem

Someday

they'll read

these poems,

wondering

what sort of man

he was

before he became

their father.

I hope

they recognize

more of themselves

than they do

of him.


**First published in The Austin Chronicle

Eight-Ball

Max observes the woman at the bar,
drunk and stumbling.

Her makeup is "excessive".

Her outfit, "tasteless".

Her bra, "too tight".

She flirts with the bartender.

It distracts Max's game.

"Don't you think that's sad?"
he remarks, 

missing the side pocket.

"Look at her!"

She's a considerable woman

wrapped in glitter-encrusted leggings
and a low-cut blouse 

which scarcely contains
her enormous breasts.

The blouse is too short to cover
the expanse of her midriff.

A belly ring jingles when she laughs.

"It's disgusting, " Max protests.

"No one wants to look at that."

He looks at it.

He cannot stop looking.

I nearly sink the eight ball, 

corner pocket, 

leaving Max an easy,
cross-table finisher.

A handsome couple enters.

They order drinks, 

scout a booth near the jukebox.

She adjusts her off-shoulder sweater
while laboring over song selection.

He picks lint from his gaberdine jacket.

She touches her makeup 

with a pocket mirror,
sips her beer as if it were coffee.

"She's a solid 10," Max says.

"I like the big one," I say

as he draws the cue 

for his shot.

A Nice Young Man

I guessed right off by the fanciful demeanor
and baroque, manicured appearance.

Barbara Streisand albums displayed in the parlor
were a give-away.

He taught special-needs children.

  

His mother left him the estate,

and he transformed it 

into a Bed & Breakfast.

I know men like him 

who fled to the city in their youth, 

liberating themselves from the stranglehold 

of rural intolerance.

Yet here he was:

        fledgling entrepreneur,

       hospice volunteer, 

       director of the Presbyterian choir,

as rooted in the red soil

as the Cottonwood tree that shaded 

my bedroom window.

I wanted to ask why 

a handsome gentleman living alone 

in the dust bowl of America
had not turned his heels 

in search of companionship.

Then he produced a photograph 

of daughter and grandchild.

"The blessed outcome", he declared,
"of an awkward, high-school affair.

Don’t the Lord fashion fortune 

from our folly?"

He excused himself for the evening.

I lingered on the stairwell, 

straightened a crooked picture,

signed the guestbook inscribed

with a verse from the Book of Psalms:

"I praise you because I am fearfully

and wonderfully made;     

marvelous are your works, 

my soul knows it well." 

In the morning, 

he set a table of fresh berries and scones, 

poached eggs, 

coffee,
crème brûlée 

in homemade raspberry sauce.

Our Grandmother, 

for whom we traveled many miles 

to celebrate a birthday,
remarked that our host 

reminded her of the nice young man 

who designed
her home interior remodel.

"You're thinking of Cousin Jerry,"
her sister replied.  

"Such a charming boy he was.

Shame he never married."

**First published in Hole In The Head Review

Iyla Grace 5.0

  Iyla Grace 5.0 is available today.  The release includes alphabet and numeric character recognition, restaurant self-ordering feature, a penchant for theatrical storytelling, and an endearing affection for her little sister ... Happy Birthday to my little Buddy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Workweek Headline

I can bear the dead-eyed stupidity

of rush-hour traffic,
endure mindless rage

from embattled commuters.

I can take orders from crackpots

and charlatans,
suffer the drudgery of office politics
and the bruising march

to another payday.

I can do that, I tell you.

And I can face the terror
of the ordinary citizen

and his ordinary ways.

Have I not withstood it

these many years?

So, if it's not too much to ask,

my Darling,
would you kindly acquit

a few dirty dishes in the sink,

loose change in the laundry,
forgetting to report

that your mother dropped by?

Because I am starved

for a tender, graceful touch,

My Love, 

else this tinderbox existence

could ignite in a desperate

and calamitous folly:

MAN GOES BERSERK.

SHOOTS TWENTY IN OFFICE BUILDING.

WIFE STILL BITTER
HE LEFT THE TOILET SEAT UP.

**First published in Pearl literary magazine

Eloise Jane 1.0

  Eloise Jane is out of beta and venturing her first steps into the world.  This child is a warrior.  Big stature.  Big voice.  She demands to be seen and heard.  Eloise squeals when I encounter her, calls me "Pa-Pa" (melt).  Preferred means of transportation is walking, else "up" on my shoulders.  She is generous with affection, giving and receiving ... Our house is full of love, laughter, and noise.  Happy Birthday, Lady Eloise.