Hot Potato

After calibrated measure,
for my company's pleasure,
he dropped me like a hot potato,
when talk featured the husband, my hero,
so in the pursuit of training,
the guy, he went sprinting,
to greener pastures in the crowd,
See how green he is, how eager, how proud.

Camp

Summer camp,
sweltering swamp,
spotted, a rainforest cafe,
fight the hordes for that latte.

Bad News

The three year old yells, yells, yells,
he seems to do this very well,
I tell him the neighbors will call 911,
they will take away my only son,
He pauses because this wild claim may be true,
Then throws away his other shoe,
"I have bad news too," he says as he runs,
"the bad news is that I'm not having fun."

Status Quo

No drama Obama,
pack BP off to Havana,
else do something strange,
throw a tantrum for a change,
pace or race us, or negate us,
at least on a podium you outlast us,
tell us how we like to live,
go on say it as it is,
we cannot reduce our dependence,
and profess to maintain independence,
and thus remains the status quo,
tell us what we must know,
that the more things change,
the more they remain the same,
and that is what seems strange.

Allegiance to Art

The three year old says the Pledge of Allegiance,
and will not listen to reason,
says his teacher taught him to recite by heart,
one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for art.

Itsy bitsy

Went looking for a bikini,
everything seemed so teeny,
between a full cup and a half measure,
lay the stressful pursuit of leisure.

Interruption

I think I lost my phone today,
must have happened when I was out at play,
I put these words to a U2 song,
to it's tune I sing along,
What happens when life disrupts
and makes a routine's end abrupt,
and in five minutes I learn to live,
without need, want, and the desire to give,
then I find the phone in my car,
and I begin to call everyone near and far.

Memorial On Grass

The three-year old stares at the revolving paper pinwheel,

looks at the paper flowers inside the rim of steel.

“That teddy bear has fallen over in the grass,”

“why are the pictures of kids there outside of class?”

I have to ignore him, there is nothing to say,

We’re at the stop light, we must be on our way.

“But I want to go there, that place looks like fun.”

“It’s a sad place,” I say, “and definitely not in this sun.”

“But…but…but…I want to go there, there are kids and a park and a bear.”

The red light is not green yet, I have a burden to share.

I tell him then that all is not well,

with these kids and their pictures decorated with pieces of shell,

that the place may look happy but in fact it is sad,

because these children don’t live on the earth anymore and no one should be glad.

The grownups made this place here so no one would forget,

the pictures of two teenagers whose lives became regret.

I can tell him about heaven and hell but I don’t know what I believe,

to tell him less is a better relief.

“So where do they live now?” he asks and the light turns green,

“I don’t know,” I say because I really don’t know what I mean.

“Where are their moms then? Are the moms very sad?”

“Their moms are very unhappy, their loss is very bad.”

“Why don’t you know where the children went?”

“I don’t know everything, I can’t know everything” I begin to vent.

We drive home in silence and I don’t know why,

but these words come to me from Anna Karenina, from a character who is shy.

And Tolstoy took these words from the Bible, and made this character speak,

And I recall these words in my mind for my son who is not meek,

“Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes.”

Through this reverie I hear a piping voice asking if I will again bake cakes.

I say, “No, not today, why don’t you just play with your all your cars?”

He says, “Mama, you know, I think those children, they must be on Mars.”