Battle Of The Bulge

misty winter wonderland morning

laying in a foxhole

at the bottom of the world

but somehow it doesn’t seem deep enough

the beautifully rhythmic pitter-patter of machine gun fire

the battle rages on

while the snow falls so peacefully

blood in the snow

snow in the blood

snow on the pine trees

standing like silent sentries

jeeps making tracks pretty little patterns in the snow

grinding tank mechanical death approaches

crunching the snow beneath its treads

burned out buildings burning forlornly

BOOM BOOM BOOM

walking on eggshells through the forest

twig-snap twitchy finger

POP POP POP POP among the pines

like multiple corn poppers

wind picking up

artillery raining down

frozen feet like chunks of concrete

ain’t roasting no marshmallows by the fire

Freight

lazy too hot do nothin’ day

on a nothin’ going on July cooker

except for the hu-mid-i-ty

and the metal fan driving the Indy 500

a speed phenomena going around in circles

humming an old blues tune

trees applauding the sudden presence of a breeze

dog strummin’ his guitar to year of the cat

howling at the late afternoon moon

between sips of drinks

from a cold water metal bowl on an uneven wooden floor

that has the groans of an old man sitting down

and creaks and squeaks in the hallway

heard in the downstairs bedroom

where you can find the cool no matter who was down there

screen door slam the soundtrack of summer

train whistle a county away

it’s more like a blast—a blast from the past

freight or passenger I wonder to myself and nobody else

the rumble shakes and quakes the windows

I stare out the front one

looking through the dirty screen of seasons past

and over the stalks of corn

the window held up by a stick of old wood that doubles as a lock

ah, it’s freight, coal mostly

with a few graffiti sprayed boxcars along for the ride looking sad

no caboose—they’re rusting away in some freight yard

forgotten by many, unknown to many more

gone are the old men of the railroad

like my grandfather before me

Damn, I never asked which one he worked for

Bad Back

when you got a bad back like me

it hurts to stand for that national anthem

I don’t wanna stand for in the first place  

when this song plays, you have to stand up to show ‘respect’

idiotic symbolism that means nothing

it hurts to sit for Sunday dinner

it hurts to lay down

an old worn and torn recliner I got from the thrift store

is the best friend I got now

I can’t join the Army or Navy  

though I didn’t get that urge until I was too old anyway

I’m not much for following orders

it would have been insubordination and court martial city

I can’t work anymore

I can’t play golf anymore

I can’t go bowling anymore

I’ll never climb Mt. Everest or K2

I can drink, that’s not a problem thank ya thank ya

I can eat some barbecue ribs and coleslaw

I can read what I want, read what I feel

Writing poems isn’t a problem

I know some people got it worse but

I think about when it didn’t hurt

running around, playing baseball football hockey

bending, reaching

the only reaching I do now

is for days now out of reach