The Great Wine Disaster of 2022

A healthy pour

Red, a Merlot,

Full-bodied.

I knew the first taste

Before lifting the glass

To waiting lips,

And then

One awkward,

Thoughtless move

Sent the crystal

Lurching,

Slow-motion, yet

Too fast for old

Fingers to find

Purchase,

And wine went

EVERYWHERE:

The floor

Countertop

Inside cupboards

And drawers.

All over my khakis,

The ones with elastic

At the ankles

Harem girl style,

My favorites.

And saddest of all?

There was no wine

Left in the

Bottle.

Dancin’ with the Devil

Guns killed nineteen children

And the incumbent governor

Barely blinked

Aside from thoughts and prayers

Nothing’s been done since ten souls

Perished in Buffalo where

An 18-year-old went gunning for

Black people with hate in his heart

The devil danced

In Orlando and Sandy Hook,

Las Vegas and Charleston,

Columbine and Paducah,

Without blinking

Different faces

Different names

But the devil doesn’t care

And the gun cult extends a hand

For yet another dance.

Clearly, I Have Unresolved Issues

A dream:

I stood in a field

Surrounded by children.

One asked,

Will you mentor me?

I hemmed and hawed

Scratched my head,

Then, yes.

But know I don’t take this lightly.

We drove to a school

Children in plaid skirts and narrow ties

Crowded near.

This is my mentor,

The child said.

She took my hand and we walked

Through archways,

Across sports fields.

We sat at narrow desks.

I thought to ask her name.

Didn’t you know already?

It’s your name, too.

A cat wound our way

Demanded a petting.

The girl smiled.

I’ve named her after us.

Do You Believe in Magic?

That first touch, first kiss

First I love you

Still exist

Somewhere in the archives

Of my soul.

And surely that was magic

Just as the weight of a

Newborn baby in my arms

Is magic.

And sometimes I think

To myself, nobody else,

But you, I suppose

That it’d be a real shame

If all my magic has played out,

Gone to someone younger;

Someone who won’t realize what was afoot

Until wrinkles line their face and

Maybe then it’s too late.

But I tell myself, and you,

That is, those of you who understand,

Our days of magic are now

In the sunsets and warm embraces

Of a gentle love with whom

We’ve grown old.

Vladimir Putin is a Terrorist

Have you seen, though, the video of the Ukrainian woman?

The one who confronts a Russian solder?

She tells him to put flower seeds,

Sunflower seeds, to be specific,

In his pockets so when he dies

On Ukrainian soil

Some good will be left

Behind. And,

So his comrades will know

Where he fell.

The national flower of Ukraine.

Peace, people. Please.

Fire and Rain

James Taylor knew, didn’t he, the pain of

Thinking he’d have one more chance

To hold a hand

To say the words and hear theirs in return

To savor their embrace

Only to be denied these comforts

Forever.

Oh, I always thought that I’d see them

One more time again.

https://youtu.be/EbD7lfrsY2s

All I Want for Christmas

World peace, or at least a reasonable

Facsimile thereof.

An end to poverty and love enough to

Go around.

Hands extended in kindness, hearts warmed

In gladness.

Food and drink to nourish every single

Child on earth.

A home for every stray, a warm place to

Shelter from the cold.

Comfort and joy.

Comfort and joy.

Peace, people.

It’s a Miracle, Maybe

If I tell you I saw Rembrandt this morning, his face staring up at me from my bathroom rug, of all places, would you think me insane or would you direct me to the proper authorities?

Had it been the Virgin Mary I’d seen, I’d know exactly who to contact. Alas, it’s a long-dead Dutch painter.

On second thought, it might not be Rembrandt at all, but instead the steely-eyed conquistador whose likeness graced the walls of my childhood home during one of Mom’s theme periods of decorating.

Although, the image bears a striking resemblance to a hat-wearing woman from a famous painting, the title of which escapes my mind, except the visage on my bath mat clearly has a mustache, and the lady in the painting does not.

But, wait. It’s none of the above.

The closer I get the more I realize it’s likely Sigmund Freud come to call. Oh, the irony.

What?!

Peace, people.

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