Three Hard Poems

Winter Smoke


We don’t know for sure what woke us—
(Perhaps my dead mother’s voice)
Cold moving winter smoke seeping
Throughout the house, hard to breath,
The world about to leave us…
They wanted to burn our house down—
With us in it—hollowness in their hearts;
My wife screamed for me to wake up.
And she killed the fire with a broom and towel.
I wanted to help, but I seemed helpless.
My children and son-in-law are killers.

No: 2692 (5-16-2010) Dedicated to Zaneta and Mike H. CE (2005)


Corner Bars

It was twenty-five cents a game
underneath lights and ceiling fans;
in the corner of the bar some drifted
in loops and spirals.

Jukebox music playing (Rock and Roll)
drunkards playing pool, not a clue.

It was always possible to beg a drink.
Play a game of eight-ball,
Nothing new in those old corner bars.

No: 2691 (5-16-2010) CE (1960s)



Natural Habits of my Neighborhood
(1960s)



Sometimes we used our fists, or a bat, or some thick stick, board; sometimes the back handle of a rake. I grew up in a tough neighborhood, which would step on snakes (a trader) never mind the small talk, or make faces—the good ones, were useless. It was all about being tough and brave.

In this city’s neighborhood near Oakland Cemetery called “Donkeyland,” past a Structural Steel Company and Railroad Yards, snakes are sneaky people—we didn’t have many of them, they were seen as a dull, pale harmless critter (but deadly at times) glistening we could almost read in their eyes—recognize without reading sometimes the black rat snake in them—

I had to become one hard boned teenager, with biceps like iron. The snake never bit me; it raised its head a few times. I was young, new in marriage, even in the marriage-bed (then she ran away for another). A good story though, how I escaped the neighborhood. I took a train from my Midwestern city to San Francisco, and disappeared, just like that one day.

No: 2690 (5-16-2010) CE