Superman

The lesson is lost somewhere in a sliver of smile,
a winking laugh beckoning towards
more than a cliff
less than a while.
I’m left here in a telephone booth
with one leg stuck in Superman’s blue coverall.
When Lois Lane and you reach me in time to ask eternally, “Can he help?”
I shout “Yes!” (more or less)
“If someone will get me out of this damn phone stall.”

And that’s when the fun starts. Lois fogs my glasses with quick kisses
and your … hand … on my thigh is beyond relief.
“Wait!” I cry, and then it’s too late. I burst into the air and you and
Lois operate the gate.

“It’s Christ in suspenders with nails in his knees.”
a chorus reveals.
My laughter just peals and peels.

THE SUNSHINES BLUE . . .

On the day outside my mind,
           rides like wind flies and trains of inconsequence trade themselves for
                        thoughts as I wish for more than I can have or hold or even use in this
                world gone mad as a hatter,

In a world where anything can un happen, can re happen, can happen more or
              less with consequences and all the trimmings,
While we (you and I) still stay in a quandary, at a loss,
Up in the air like a coin star-crossed, our minds flipping, tripping

                        at all the evil dripping from the last bomb tossed.

Time and applied ethics
measure out the daze
while I have amplified
both inner and outer gaze.

A Wish

There is nothing scary about a wish, except that sometimes
it comes true. It’s as though, by sheer will power, we’ve changed
the rules
the future fraught with what we thought.
Getting our wish, we may have made someone else sad or angry or
count for naught.Wishes are selfish and dangerous and unfortunately a lot like hopes.
Hopes are what make us keep going. Hopes are dreams brought into the
Light of day. Hopes are games we need to play. Hopes are humankind’s
Real way to pray.
I wish . . . ?

 Inside this self on a wooden shelf,
lit darkly
and oh so dusty,
lies the truthful me,
the really me,`
the one that I could really be.

Have you 

ever thought
“A slice of you could
Grow a clone”
“Maybe two, . . .
Each with lives
They could grow
Alone?
you could sin
They atone.”
Have you ever thought . . . Ah well, from here on in you’re on your own

Puce

“Puce”
is what Bobby Joe
would yell
as we lined up
at scrimmage and
dropped down into our stance.
He meant
he was going to take
my guy on a
crossblock. I,
I was to get his.
Somewhere around
the second time
Bobby Joe yelled
my guy began bailing
out.
Bobby Joe, he just
retired from the FBI.“Puce”
Said Bobby Joe as
He laughed and then told me
He’s the one who stomped
My hand in our last football game.

“Puce” says Bobby Joe at our thirty year reunion,
As he smiles and seems so absolutely sure
That this is a war we can win.

As
Yellow Ribbons gather on the trees and,
Yellow ribbons garnish their sleeves.
As blood becomes the red
You spill in war
And colors are what
Dead eyes can see
No more.
So yellow ribbons
Wrap the trees while
Bombs blast the sand
To its knees
Countries begin to sew
Yellow ribbons to the body bags,
Let yellow ribbons become
Refugee rags,
And remember that dead yellow
Eyes can not see their
Own toe tags.

“Puce.”