Opening Day

Baseball’s back, it’s truly spring.
Crack of bat and fastball zing.
Diamond dirt and outfield green.
It’s a time-remembered scene.
Pleasant memories of youth.
House of David. House of Ruth.
Ground out, pop-up, long fly ball.
In the stands or off the wall.
Called third strike right on the black.
Three-oh green light, back, back, back.
Bullpen up and working hard.
Can they keep him in the yard?
Rookies, vets and walk-off hits.
Knucklers and big catcher’s mitts.
Batter’s up and life is good.
Hear that horsehide meet that wood!

Suck It Up

I ain’t got no weapon of mass destruction.
Spend my time just preppin’ for deconstruction.
The first world’s grown real fat and needs a great reduction.
What’s needed’s not inflation but a massive suction.

So suck it up. Don’t pass the buck.
We’re out of luck if you don’t give a fuck.
Deflate the rich. Yes, life’s a bitch.
We’re in the fast lane headed for the ditch.

Third world’s in a hunger state and lookin’ for assistance.
Megaliths upon the throne are puttin’ up resistance.
Money and monopoly have been the rules of play.
Now it’s time to tell the fools this is a brand new day.

So suck it up. Don’t pass the buck.
We’re out of luck if you don’t give a fuck.
Just share the wealth. To hell with stealth.
The time is prime to work toward global health.

Inca Stains

We have killed magnificent people
and mounted their heads on walls.
We have extinguished entire species
and dropped monster bombs on enemies.
We have kept the serfs under control,
but they are restless and grumbling.
We have drugged and raped our planet.
We have made icons of warriors
and martyrs of men of peace.
These stains are the prison tattoos
of our body politic, the most dangerous
gang in the world.

Crazy Quilt

Don’t make fun of the boy with a gun.
He hangs about the bazaar every day,
rescuing abused American Girl dolls,
that he takes home for target practice.
Sometimes he whispers secret verses
into their cold hard ears.
At school he is afforded a respectful distance.
He once wrote an essay about painkillers.
He’s not allowed in gym because of loafers.
In his dreams he’s always riding horses.
Even now he sleeps, at peace,
beneath a Snoopy quilt.

An Image Undestroyed

There’s a portal in the midway
that’s leaking secret gasses.
Extinct birds in the center lane
are taking language classes.
While coronets are exorcised
and passed out to the masses,
the list of devastations
can be read with x-ray glasses.
There’s a pedal in the dance hall
that controls the singer’s motions,
a buzz about the school of doubt
that drones across the oceans.
A subtle breeze that aims to please
is packaged into potions.
But rediscovered photographs
preclude all escape notions.

Forced March

No fox in the hole. Ecological hunting
has trimmed the fur from this vale.
Vague bones kicked up by marchers
are collected by the children as toys.
Manufactured sound has disappeared.
Question marks of smoke
punctuate the sullen distance.
Food is whatever is in the mouth.
The hard times forecast rumble
in the belly of a beast unleashed
by dire misunderstanding.
Somewhere there is an oasis
of healing and imagination.
But right now it’s just carcasses and sand.

Votive

Why’s the hot seat so damned cold?
Why’s the new world seem so old?
If politics are bought and sold,
where’s the truth we’re told we hold?
What’s the purpose of elections
when the money makes selections?
If the system needs corrections,
who will insure our protections?
Question marks proliferate
in a country once called great,
suffering now greed and hate.
Answers must be our mandate.

Moon Mulling

Burning photographs does not destroy the past.
Our history is etched inside the bone.
The smoking world outside our eyes was never made to last.
The song of time gone by is just a moan.
That black cloud on the mountain will circle for us soon.
The pattern of the storm has been revealed.
For every day we look away, there disappears a moon.
Our eyes are closed. Our fate is likely sealed.

Blue Notes (For H.)

Leg pain in the upright bass.
Back ache of the sax.
Flat feet tap the odd drum beat.
Grooves engraved in wax.
Jazz is music’s elder statesman,
dizzy possibilities,
history’s record of the great men
seeking out skeleton keys.