Cactus on the Acropolis

When I was in Greece many years ago, I was surprised to see cactus growing on the Acropolis.  It is a plant associated with Westerns and cowboys in America, so I began to mix classical Greeks with American cowboy movies in my mind.

                                                     The Cactus on the Acropolis

                                           makes me imagine tumbleweed as well
                                           blowing across the stone orkestra
                                           of the ancient theatre of Dionysus
                                           where Aeschylus and Aristophanes
                                           circle each other and then square off,
                                           six guns slung from tooled leather belts
                                           wrapped round their gleaming white togas.

                                          You know, Kid, character is fate
                                          Aeschylus sneers,
                                          his hands hovering over
                                          his revolvers’ shiny pearl handles.
                                         Cerberus barks in the distance.
                                         Those saloon girl Muses peek out
                                         from behind the marble pillars.
                                        Thetis drags her young son Achilles
                                        by the heel off the street to safety.

                                      Smile when you say that, Butch,
                                      Aristophanes replies
                                      and spits at his opponent’s feet.
                                      The Muses gasp; Thetis clutches
                                      Achilles close to her chest.

                                      The tragedian just stares
                                      at the dark spot in the dust
                                      and then looks his enemy in the eye.
                                      This town ain’t big enough
                                      for the both of us he snarls.

                                       Neither one of them sees
                                       the sniper on the roof.

Poet-Teacher Conference

While waiting to talk to a poetry teacher about my poems, I suddenly realize I felt like a parent right before a teacher conference about his or her child.

                                                               Poet-Teacher Conference

                                                          I must say, it is a delight
                                                          having your poem in class.
                                                          Very bright, very clever, very creative…
                                                          but he is also quite easily distracted
                                                          and sometimes jumps from subject
                                                          to subject without getting his work
                                                          done, pursuing every stray image
                                                          as if it were a rare butterfly
                                                          drifting past the classroom
                                                          window and then leading him
                                                          to airplanes or old friends or
                                                          god knows what.

                                                         Also, I’ve had to warn him
                                                         about casting himself as the
                                                         class clown. Fun is fun,
                                                         but poetry is serious
                                                         business, and a well-wrought
                                                         couplet is worth more than
                                                         a verbal hand fart. Still, your
                                                          poem is quite popular with
                                                          the other verses- if popularity
                                                          counts for anything. I just wish
                                                          he would stop “borrowing”
                                                          things from them. I can’t tell
                                                          you the number of metaphors
                                                          I’ve caught him “borrowing”,
                                                          and then he claims they were
                                                          his own to begin with
                                                          before he returns them
                                                          all bent and mangled.
                                                        
                                                         I think he just wants to fit in,
                                                         which is understandable at his age
                                                        -after all, he is only a first draft-
                                                          but he must realize his own
                                                          full potential and make
                                                          all this facetious imitation
                                                          the road not taken.

Undiscovered Country

Here's one downside to having dog: you outlive them all except, possibly, your last one.

                                                         Undiscovered Country

                                                 One-by-one, my dogs have run ahead
                                                 as scouts to sniff at rank mortality.
                                                 They’ve shown me how to grow
                                                 grey and stiff and deaf - and doze all day.
                                                 As pups, they took pride in giving me
                                                 the sticks they scampered to fetch,
                                                 while I took joy in their giving,
                                                 but once they staggered into a deeper sleep,
                                                 they could bring nothing back to save me
                                                 the twitch and whimper of my own dreams
                                                 or the darkness of that final fetching.

Exit Stage Right

This is based on a friend's anecdote about how she discovered her character on stage.

                                                             Exit Stage Right

                                   The young actress first found herself on stage
                                   standing in front of a fake kitchen sink
                                   as she instinctively chose the best
                                   potato for her imagined husband
                                   in Anne Frank’s secret garret.

                                  Later, the not-so-young housewife found herself
                                  surprised by the small potato in her hand
                                  she had been absentmindedly peeling
                                  for the man who was not the husband
                                  she had imagined -- and realized
                                  it was all an act.

Slug Fest

Srping is here, and so are the slugs.

                                                     Slug Fest

                                        The stale beer attracts the slugs and they drown.
                                                                                thegardenershelper.com
                                
                                  Lured by the promise of free drinks,
                                  this army of traveling stomachs
                                  bellies up to Milwaukee’s Best
                                  and drowns itself --
                                  and whatever sorrows
                                  bare, unaccommodated
                                  snails may have --
                                  in a watery bier,
                                  unwept
                                  and without a head.

Key Change

I have more keys than I know what to do with.

                                                       Key Change

                                       My car, my house, my classroom.
                                       These I recognize, but what about
                                       those other familiar strangers-
                                       jagged profiles stamped with
                                       authoritative names:
                                       Master, Liberty,
                                       Best, True Value?
                                       What was precious
                                       enough
                                       to lock away,
                                       but now remains
                                       unmemorable?
                                       What else
                                       has slipped
                                       my mind,
                                       along with equations
                                       I used to balance,
                                       lines from my
                                       high school
                                       play,
                                       and phone numbers
                                       of places
                                       I used to
                                       call
                                       home.

April Fools

This was written on a cold day in April, unsurprisingly enough.

                                                      April Fools

                             Spring seems like a practical joke today.
                             We sunbathed over the weekend, but now
                             cherry blossoms fall like snow in the cold wind
                             and pale pink petals cover the street,
                             confetti from some parade that has already passed.
                             The weather might warm by Easter,
                             but today winter has risen from its tomb
                             to remind us of the other side of resurrection.