A Bell Above the Door

He smiled a smile

that would never stop;

A rictus grin

beneath a silver mop.

 

He was upon me

before I cleared the door,

and he was every salesman

I ever had before.

 

He wore gold-rimmed glasses,

scratched around the screw,

probably where he’d repaired it

at least a time or two.

 

His shoes were black and shiny

but worn about the toe;

probably from leaning on the counter

awaiting the next customer to show.

 

He greeted me with a laugh

and all I could smell was smoke;

A cigarette break most likely,

eking from his throat.

 

There were flakes upon his shoulder

He probably wished his shirt could hide,

and there was the onion-scent of sweat

staining his sallow hide.

 

He glad-handed me of course;

His attempt to breach my bubble.

And judging by the moistness of his palm,

he was praying there’d be no trouble.

 

He showed me things I did not want

and things I could ill afford.

And, when he felt I would not buy,

his expression became quite bored.

 

I studied him

as a cat beholds a finch,

and I saw that his melancholy mood

revealed an open trench.

 

There was no luster in his eyes

nor pallor in his cheeks.

It was like he’d given up on life–

or at least, he had this week.

 

He clicked his pen impatiently,

hoping for a different fish,

but the bell above the door

denied his heartfelt wish.

 

He checked the time,

then with a sigh,

he prepared himself

for one last try.

 

Why I relented

I do not know.

Was this miserable creation

part of an elaborate show?

 

Or, did I empathize

upon spying the band

of faded flesh

upon his hand?

 

Where once a groom,

he’s now expatriated,

filled with guilt

and overwhelmingly self-hated.

 

It’s easy to fall for this

if you understand the fury

that grinds our moral fiber

into a sorry slip or slurry.

 

He was every salesman

I ever had before,

but to the sorry sod who sold me,

I was just a bell above the door.

 

The Shroud

The snowflakes fall

in a withering descent,

blanketing the ground

and the garden fence.

 

The Cardinal’s perch

on laden twigs,

while squirrels play

in Winter’s wig.

 

Beyond my window

through the screen,

I sadly listen

to nature’s keen.

 

It’s sad and sorrowful

this new world in white,

where all things warm

feels Winter’s bite.

 

Like frosted fairies,

the snowflakes fall,

tickling the skin

that makes them thaw.

 

My daughter’s swing,

the trampoline,

the pure white flakes

shrouds everything.

 

The blizzard comes,

pretending it brings paradise,

so we will dance like fools

in a world of ice.

 

But someday soon,

there will be too much,

and Winter’s sprites

will share their touch.

 

And, we will freeze,

becoming hard like stone

lest the sun returns

to warm our bones.

 

We who watch

from our soothing fires

admire the arctic cocoon

that makes us liars.

 

Paradise must exist

before there’s fallen snow,

or the hoar frost upon our windows

becomes the frost upon our souls.

Git’chem Got’chem (A Poem for My Daughter)

Dark little creatures,

who under the bed creep.

Please don’t steal my voice,

and please don’t grab my feet.

 

I get into trouble

when I jump into bed,

because my daddy is afraid

I’ll bump my head.

 

He told me a secret

I probably shouldn’t repeat.

It’s about a crazy little critter

with great big feet.

 

It lives in the bed springs

of every child’s bed.

Its an itty-bitty critter

with a huge nose on its head.

 

The nose flips, and it flops,

so it can barely see.

But, it still chases away the monsters

who want to harm me.

 

And, it doesn’t matter

what monster you are–

whether a goblin, a troll,

a snip or a snar.

 

It will tease you, and taunt you

and play clever little tricks,

like tying you to the house cat,

while it pokes you with sticks

 

It might braid your tail

to the hair in your ears,

or call you silly names,

while it dances and jeers.

 

You’re not even monsters,

while it is around.

You can’te even hurt me

or make me frown.

 

So, tremble with fear,

and know it is watching,

then be very afraid,

of my Git’chem Got’chem.

___________________________________________________________

Why this poem?

The Git’chem Got’chem is a fairy tale creature I created to get my daughter over her fear of the dark when she was.

The creature lives in the children’s bedsprings, but instead of fighting with the monsters, the creature is a prankster.

It draws mustaches on the sleeping children or dips their fingers in warm water while the children sleep. It rides the cat or the puppy around the house in the middle of the night, and annoys the monsters to no end.

The monsters don’t come around because they’re afraid. They don’t come around, because the Git’chem Got’chem sets traps for them and annoys them to no end.

The Git’chem Got’chem is goofy looking with big feet, a mustache that he drapes behind each ear, and big nose that wobbles around, making it hard for him to see, but he’s fast, and he’s clever.

The one under my daughter’s bed I named Carl. The one under my bed was Scary Mary (she uglies them to death). I tried to personalize the little creature to each person I told the story to. I used the stories of the Git’chem Got’chem to make my daughter’s friends laugh during sleep overs, and it has been well received.

I told my daughter if she wanted to find out if she had a Git’chem Got’chem, then all she had to do was leave a peppermint on her night stand for it to find. You see, the Git’chem Got’chem’s go absolutely crazy for peppermint. Each night after she went to sleep, I would sneak in to her room and eat the peppermint. My breathe smelled minty for weeks. I even went so far as to dip one of her dolls feet in water soluble paint and put little feet print leading to and away from the peppermint wrapper.

She completely bought it. It was a masterful con.

It worked. She hasn’t been afraid of the dark since. I hope you read this and use it to get your child over their fear of the dark as well. I hope you use it, and I hope your child finds as much joy in the story of the Git’chem Got’chem as my did.

Good luck, enjoy, and sweet dreams.

Recycled People

She was winking and twinkling

And dancing on diamonds,

Sweeping through the room,

Like she still had a hymen.

 

Greater than thirty,

The years she’s been alive.

She’s eight fingers in the wine

In a back street dive.

 

Reality don’t exist here.

The smiles are just for show.

She’s performing before jackals

Whose drinks are getting low.

 

She rolls into their arms,

Purring like a cat,

Teasing them with whispers,

While giving their cheeks a pat.

 

Men know it’s just the wine,

Because there’s no joy in her eyes.

She’s played the game too long

And all that’s left are sighs.

 

She might say yes if asked

And slip away with one.

Though she dreams that it’s romance,

She knows he’ll pay her when they’re done.

The Concept of a Zero

In all the universe,
Nothing so confounds,
Like the concept of a zero,
Making geniuses look like clowns.

It’s called the point of origin,
A place that hides our gods.
It’s not a void in the ether
Encased in cosmic rods.

It’s a place of never was,
Surrounded by what is.
A place without dimensions
Where reality shares a cosmic kiss.

No math resides within,
And physics does not exist.
It’s as perverse to man as infinity,
And because of it, our minds resist.

To an intellect it’s Hell,
It’s something we can’t explain.
It’s that point between all matter
That’s troubling to the brain.

But, we call this ‘never was’
Much to simply, a zero
And pretend that it’s a place
Where Heaven hides its heroes