Every day spurting red 

over our world.

Is it blood?

It is blood.

If I did not see the blood

I would chew red meat,

quaff red wine,

don purple gilded robes,

clothed in luxurious privilege.

But news–you put the blood in my eye,

stir my blood to rage,

red on red.

I will fight to the death,

paint you in an ever corner,

never whitewash like Sawyer connived,

no trading of pocket doodads

for false hopes and panaceas,

nothing clever in what I do,

just grit and spit.

News will not leave me alone

or let me forget–the blood.



I remember my mother disappeared slowly.

Once, a bit before she died, whispered that to me.

I hardly noticed, like the sweet poem she wrote,

lies, face down, in the back of my drawer.

She sat silent at our loud-talking dinner table,

dominated by our sons, loquacious mother- in-law.

Now I understand as we become more ghostly,

move slowly into the background of our childrens’ lives,

when visits happen less frequently now,

as if we were furniture, present but never much used.

Sometimes I see my children sitting around the table

laughing and joking, my wife and I passed on. 

No one notices as if we never existed.

Once in a while I say hello to my mom’s picture

as I pass her in the hallway. Hello, I smile.

Thanks for inspiring this confessional  poem.

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