by Phil Cross
Free us from the center of Hell!
You can hear them say.
Once Under My Thumb
As a child I spun that sphere.
Europe here, Asia over there.
And to dream of the adventures
I might have if I went to those places—
under my thumb.
But never did I dream to die in one of them;
with it not being an adventure to my liking;
but instead, one that was a misadventure
for me and may others who were there—
once under my thumb.
Our World
The day was cold.
The sun looked old.
But in the dew everything glistened anew.
The breeze was brisk.
The leaves danced and pranced.
Clattering as only they can do.
The stars faded as the sun forced out the night.
Yet there they remain—many older than she—
arraigned in their places though not in sight.
And here where gravity keeps man confined—
loathing for him to depart.
But part he must—at least in part.
It is argued from whence he came,
but not that he has brought her pain—
wounding and treating her with disdain.
Patriotism for What Sake
Here lie I—a patriot tried and true
with but a foot stone to mark my place.
I would just as soon have it that way
then to be marked in a spectacular way.
The cause for which I fought had no purpose,
except as a politician’s way to use me in their stay.
I wish I were not here with those of similar plight,
to hear them day and night, cursing God’s way.
And now the countries—once enemies—
are negotiating trade agreements and student exchange.
Having once been at one another’s throat
it is not now clear who is keeping whom afloat.
And those men we fought and killed—many true;
have, like us, become lost in a jumble of wars
in which the common soldier has become anonymous,
while victory and defeat continue to be synonymous.
Poetry for Its Own Sake
Is poetry a phenomenon
of a tangle of words for tangled brains
in an attempt to be provocative,
for those in need of abstraction?
Is it concocted by minds in agony or ecstasy
to better be kept private
for self disembowelment or delight—
not to be shared, nor speculated?
Is it but a pile of snow that melts and washes away
as words put into rhyme for their own sake—
where idiocy and genius meet at the end of a circle
with sense lost or gained around the circumference?
But, whether rhyme without reason,
or reason without rhyme
it matters not when properly minted—
whether stated explicitly or merely hinted.
Poor Me
It is raining here—but not over there.
It is raining on me—but not on them.
Here and me seem to be getting the worst;
while there and them get none of the burst.
It is the same with the sun—
or so it seems:
when it is shady here, but sunny there.
And bugs that bite seem to plague me sore.
What? Oh, what?
Oh what is next in store—
for poor me?
Precious Coals
She gathered coal along the tracks
on her way to school each day;
tucking them into her book bag,
to then be set safely beside her desk.
And on returning home after school,
she picked and tucked coals again,
and then when at home spilled them out—
as like gold for brothers and sisters to see.
For it was those precious gifts,
as though mother nature meant them to be,
that cooked their food, and kept them warm
at a time when others were not so blessed.
Rain Drops On My Window Pane
The first rain drops to arrive
perch on my window pane.
But next come others, and as if mating,
unite with those already there,
and then, as one, they meander downward—
to a rendezvous only they know where.
Or, is it rather that mother earth exerts her power
to pull them down into her bower;
then, when so inclined, sends them aloft—
for them, at another time,
to come down to perch and mate—
again and again— on my window pane.
Religion
A state of mind;
or, a state of fear;
or, a state of hope;
or, a state of reality;
or, a state of imagination;
or, a state of desperation,
in a world run amuck—
where distant shores
are but a missile away.
Remembered for Posterity
Oh, for a pen, paper, flask of brandy,
and a comfortable place to meditate
I could write and compose for all to behold—
to be remembered in posterity;
but not for my poems, nor for my prose;
but instead, for my audacity.
Retirement as Once a Way Of Life
Retirement—once looked forward to—
may not now be the thing for you to do.
When once most employers provided recompense,
many now do not, claiming it an unbearable expense.
Consequently, those so unprovided cannot afford retirement,
to spend remaining days best suited to their temperament.
Instead, they must continue until going out of gas,
so that getting old becomes a real pain in the ass.
Roots
How much we are like a tree,
striving to be all we can be;
reaching heavenward for all to see;
to display who we are so obviously.
While below the ground,
while so imperceptibly,
reaching down and around,
hidden from all to see.
Reaching out in all directions—
not only to hold us steadfast,
but also to gather strength
and vitality.
But there are times;
as when concrete and asphalt
impede the roots of a tree,
that we, as like a tree,
must find alternate routes
to become what we can be.
Saying My Prayers
I say my prayers every night.
Yet each day becomes no better.
I wonder if things are this way
because I say my prayers.
Perhaps if things were better
I would not need to pray.
Oh, how I long for that day
when I do not need to pray.
Set Me Free
Who hung those curtains before my eyes,
through which I find it difficult to see.
The pattern of which is monotony.
It is the only window allowed to me
through my mind's eye I can see,
denying me of diversity.
Pull them aside, I often plea.
Offer semblance of liberty.
Open them— Set me free.
Shoulds and Coulds
And so there you are—ruing what you could have done.
If only you should have done what you could have done.
But should and could are as dead leaves
blown about,
up side, down side, restlessly about.
Perhaps, there is still time, as new leaves appear,
that while still with life, before the end of the year,
you view each as a could instead of a should
to make them happen for your own good.
For if you again allow those leaves to die and fall,
you will be no better off than before—
again knee deep in shoulds and coulds
that decompose to become no more.
Spare Change Along the Way
They are there . . . everyday.
Hands out stretched along the way,
with vacant, yet piercing stares,
with no thought about worldly affairs.
Each in a microcosm of their own
by which experience can only be known.
Yet deep within every passerby lurks a fear
that a similar fate for them could be lurking near.
But even so, offerings are few and far between;
usually made by those who are new to the scene.
While those who abstain are likely to regret—
when recalling the despair when eyes had met.
Staying in Touch with God
Do you keep your god where you can see Him—
perhaps on a wall, dresser, shelf,
or hanging from your back view mirror?
What about reading about Him in a bible,
or religious publications?
Or to hear about Him at a place of worship
or on the radio or TV?
Or tatooed, to be conspicuously on display?
Or, in your , purse, pocket, or around your neck?
All of these are to remind you of your pledge of allegiance,
your worship—your belief.
But how effective have they proven to be?
Or, are they simply for show and ceremony?
Still Time for Last Respects
I thought they had died by now;
but no, they still live.
Holiday cards say so.
Every year, back and forth—
cards to them; cards to me;
as a formality.
Now, experiencing guilt,
I feel I should visit them;
but then again . . .
Does it really matter
when they are about to die
that I should not let the past lie?
To cause them to recall
all those events, to be re sung,
when we were all so very young.
Aunts, uncles, in the past,
with family, laughing and delighting
on spontaneous reciting.
Perhaps it is I
who does not wish to rekindle those days,
with images that guiltily bring to mind
those times when we were all family—
that I have thoughtlessly left behind.
Suburban Sprawl
Infestations of humans where nature once reigned.
Crawling and gnawing over hillside and plain,
dotting the horizon in frenzied pace,
gobbling up every bit of space.
Boxes and boxes in fancy adorn.
Stacked or in rows in monotonous form.
Habitation for those caught up in the flight—
serving as breeding grounds to further the blight.
Super Sunday
Here I lie beneath the leaves—
heaped up over me—
so cool, so soothingly—
making it a pleasant place to be.
It was to be a Super Day.
It should have been a Super Day:
a Super Day for me—
and for my New Jersey Jets
to become the champions they should be.
The game had ended;
when, in the kitchen, she taunted me.
I slapped her face with open hand—
not with fist: as usually so,
but she stumbled and fell, regardlessly.
It served her right for taunting me.
I turned my back and walked away,
when suddenly, I felt a sharp pain—
in the center of my back it seemed to be,
then staggering to the hallway mirror,
I saw a kitchen knife protruding from me.
When I awoke, I found myself here—
under the leaves—so peacefully.
I know not how she could have gotten it to be;
for I am too heavy for her to carry me.
So then, it must have been with help from somebody.
But I was still alive—I suspect she knew,
with full intent to dispose of me
to where I lie now, so peacefully.
Then darkness came—depriving me
of the feel of the leaves—so heavenly.
And now, I await to know my fate, so anxiously.
But don’t really know how it will come about:
perhaps a bus, or train, or vehicle of some sort
to convey me to where I am intended to stay;
perhaps on a planet, millions of light years away.
Or, shall I remain here, in this very spot,
until I am striped of flesh,
with only bones left to tell.
But even they, are destined to decay,
so that nothing corporeal will remain of me.
Suppose I had not been left to die in this spot;
but instead, where she did it to me,
then buried where I would instead now be—
in a box, taking longer to become free.
Or, would I have been cremated:
burned to ashes, fumes to the atmosphere
to circulate around the earth for eternity.
Oh, cursed Jets! See what you have done to me.
That’s the Rub
To be forsaken,
to be alone,
to be alive,
yea . . . that’s the rub!
The Beasts Among Us
Whether on all fours, or upright.
Skulking with eyes ever keen.
Stalking with nostrils sniffling the air.
Anti social, in need of a lair.
Ready to pounce on defenseless prey—
to steal, to rape, even to kill.
When caught they cop a plea—
to then regain their liberty.
If imprisoned they soon become free
to resume their savage ways.
But when exterminated they desist,
simply because they no long exist.
The City
Within canyons of concrete
everyone going, going,
going somewhere,
most in a hurry,
striding, stepping, weaving,
clustering at intersections,
then slingshotting across,
dodging traffic,
Autos, busses, trucks,
fuming, roaring, beeping,
stopping , starting,
cutting in and out.
Who lives here,
who visits here,
who works here,
out of duty,
out of necessity,
out of curiosity?
Beggars, well to dos,
saints and sinners,
young and old,
side by side,
sad or happy,
moving which way and that,
to and from.
The Final Tally
If there truly is no good or bad,
then to believe is of no consequence.
So do what you will as you please—
at any time, in anyway, to anyone.
But, if there is a top and bottom, and front and back,
and deeds are sorted out when payment comes due
without regard for race, religion, or political affiliation,
and the final tally made, a door will open
to go up the stairs, or to slide down to eternal damnation.
The Gist of It
To lie or not to lie—
that is the question.
From tip to toe,
from birth to death,
lying is commonly so.
Innocence or pride,
usually the reason—
from spanking to shame—
even when not to blame.
But if lying is impulsively done,
why blame the brain for a deed
when it had not time to heed?
Unless, of course—
there is no remorse.
The Human Condition
Cauliflower ears from cell phones.
Migraines from staring at the TV.
Bellies and butts from fast foods.
Brain dead from automation.
Lung disease from smoking.
In debt from credit cards.
Divorce from infidelity.
Et cetera, et cetera.
Dante’s inferno.
Canto I
The Lake of Gloom and Doom
As I sit on the shore,
assimilated into the clutching gloom,
here to renounce who I am and what I have been,
to be something other than body and skin.
To be as those shimmering vapors;
dematerializing from below,
to be carried aloft far and away,
where those like me are unlikely to stray.
Not revelation do I seek—
not a god, nor a savior,
from below or above—
certainly none to shower me with love.
For the love that I seek must come from within—
as the rising sun dispels the mist,
to change my lake of doom and gloom,
as though sweeping it tidily with a broom.
Now comes the cry of a loon,
as a knife cutting through the gloom,
aimed at my heart, I am in fear
it to be the last sound I will ever hear.
But that is not so the case;
