The generals

 The generals say 200,000 soldiers 

died, as many have been wounded.

He does not say how he counted 

100,000 twice 

or how sure he is the dead 

and partial dead 

are evenly divided between 

Russia & Ukraine.   

He says Autumn has turned 

the solid ground to mud so tanks 

with sons and lovers all will sink & 

that makes further slaughter 

tough.  

This seems the time to call a truce 

but the generals want their sides

to hunker down 

and wait for earth to freeze 

and then begin to kill again, 

with much more ease.  

He never lets out a wish, a sigh

for peace, the peace of doves drifting 

to the ground. 

If it were me, I‘d  ask for that—

a quiet season for those still living 

men and boys.

I would send them home to autumn 

on their lawns of gold.  

I wonder if the fighters love their lives

as much as I love mine—I would never choose 

death in any season, 

most especially not in the Zen 

of Autumn skies.    

The already dead —all 200,000 

known, loved, now wept for —

have made the low beds 

they now must sleep in.  

No recanting, too late to demand a truce—

tho if there were a God, they could.  

The sunken tanks as useless as their bones

and TV viewers who cheer the generals on

will never have to see teeth gleaming in the mud 

under an autumn sky made hellish 

red with death,  

A pair

A pair of fancy sneakers

can make a boy of 12 float up 

into the clouds & feel the outstretched arms

of screaming fans.  

None of the other kids I raised 

complained about Payless shoes 

but this last child would rather walk barefoot

across a live power line.  

So, because he’s very shy, 

because he pleads for a taste

of the world’s love, 

I agree to buy a pair of Jordans 

that cost more than 

the monthly payment 

for my Honda CRV.  

Then he wears them every day 

until the sole splits from the foxing.

You could say he fell in love 

with his shoes 

without which he would return 

to his old life 

as a ghost. 

The shoes make him real. 

They bless his life. 

Or something like that.  

But any moment now 

he’ll see the love the world gives 

won’t come this easily again.  

All who have sought it know 

the world’s passions wear thin. 

Thinner than the soles on his 

sneakered feet.  

.

Two old women

Here by the beach, two women

eat fish tacos 

at the next table

as the sun sets 

& the breeze plays with their hair.

 

They must be 85 but still dining out, 

still smiling, sipping. 

Whatever has aggrieved them, 

whatever has left 

their hearts blind or broken

has not destroyed them.  

 

Here they are, saying little

but feeling this earth just

enough to fill ne more page 

in their diary,

enough to knit one more poem 

with a morning latte, 

about how a stranger smiled at them

as they watched the sun

turn the sky blood-red and 

slide behind them.