Every year in April, I try to do the thirty poems in thirty days challenge. Sometimes it’s easy. Sometimes it’s not. This year, I started slowly, but I started. Today I invented a new kind of Haiku and I present the following 30 Haiku of Invasive Thoughts. I now consider my oath to do 30/30 fulfilled.
1. April First full moon Casts knee-deep moonlight and laughs. Trump’s a piece of shit.
2. Baseball field’s greening With a prickle of North wind. Trump’s a piece of shit.
3. Peepers and tweeters Sing long into the darkness Trump’s a piece of shit.
4. Can anything be More joyful than your breast curve? Trump’s a piece of shit.
5. Almost cut my hair But remembered why it’s long: Trump’s a piece of shit.
6. Remember when we Were young and still loved living? Trump’s a piece of shit.
7. Tartans are protests. My tartan is plain, simple. Trump’s a piece of shit.
8. Clarabell the Clown Had wild, crazy orange hair. Trump’s a piece of shit.
9. Red sun peeps over The misty blue horizon. Trump’s a piece of shit.
10. Sunday comics died. So did Saturday cartoons. Trump’s a piece of shit.
11. Cold frog sits in mud, Frowning at all sitting near. Trump’s a piece of shit.
12. It is now April. So why call it March Madness? Trump’s a piece of shit.
13. My love throws signals, Pheromones drift to your brain. Trump’s a piece of shit.
14. We, literally, Use “literally” too much. Trump’s a piece of shit.
15. At seventy-five I’m still lusty, just slower. Trump’s a piece of shit.
16. Send me dirty pics. They just might help clear my mind. Trump’s a piece of shit.
17. I’ve been dieting. Do calories pay tariffs? Trump’s a piece of shit.
18. Hit baseball batsman Grunts an expletive loudly. Trump’s a piece of shit.
19. Fires out west, floods here. Tornadoes rake the alley. Trump’s a piece of shit.
20. Mackinac Island, The crown jewel of the Straits. Trump’s a piece of shit.
21. Of all the women I’ve known, The one I love the most… Trump’s a piece of shit.
22. Dog sleeps more than me But wakes with a whole-heart love. Trump’s a piece of shit.
23. Beating out a bunt Feels better than a stock crash. Trump’s a piece of shit.
24. I work like I am An Indian Elephant. Trump’s a piece of shit.
25. Bluebirds adopted The house I put in the yard. Trump’s a piece of shit.
26. He walks his old dog. They both wince on a bad hip. Trump’s a piece of shit.
27. The best of teachers Learn far more than they can teach. Trump’s a piece of shit.
28. The gift of patience Was given in my absence. Trump’s a piece of shit.
29. Can ice cream be bad? I mean evil, not just old. Trump’s a piece of shit.
30. I believe in truth. I believe in plain language. Trump’s a piece of shit.
PS I used Clarabell’s image without permission. I really hope it is in the public domain. But if it’s not, and they arrest me, remember: Trump’s a piece of shit.
I didn’t get to the protests on April 5, 2025. I was sad about it, so I looked at all the pictures from around the nation and saw a protest sign that prompted this song. This is my offering in lieu of pounding the pavement. It is a parody and I have no singing voice, but good protest is not based on a person’s singing voice. Here are the lyrics: StupidCallousFragileRacistSexistNaziPotus Even though the MAGA clowns appear not to have noticed. Blowing up the constitution really should have showed us. StupidCallousFragileRacistSexistNaziPotus
Dumb little liar, dumb little lie. Dumb little liar, dumb little lie.
It started back years ago when Trump was in New York. He’d rent to white folks easily despite their line of work. Black folks found it harder to get through Trump’s front door Until the US Government sued his ass and more.
Dumb little liar, dumb little lie. Dumb little liar, dumb little lie.
StupidCallousFragileRacistSexistNaziPotus His call for tariffs in the world is really too too bogus. To drink enough to ease my pain will only cause cirrhosis. StupidCallousFragileRacistSexistNaziPotus
Dumb little liar, dumb little lie. Dumb little liar, dumb little lie.
He rode an escalator and MAGA went ape shit. They gobbled up the steaming pile of all that he did spit. It didn’t matter if he spoke the truth or a big lie, They ate it up and spit it back and screamed “Zeig Heil! Big Guy!” StupidCallousFragileRacistSexistNaziPotus Protection for plans of war is really quite atrocious. All the stress I’m feeling’s arteriosclerosis. StupidCallousFragileRacistSexistNaziPotus
And now he’s crashed the market and killed my pension plan. I guess I need a cardboard sign and a great big old tin can. But it won’t matter much because I will be dead, Or locked up in a foreign cell… Or locked up in a foreign cell, eating mouldy bread.
The day Isla died There was a sighting of A Yellow Cardinal At an Upper Michigan backyard feeding station. It made headlines here. People were amazed And cited the odds of 1 in a million Genetic mutation.
Isla had no genetic mutations. But a quick search shows The odds of stillbirth Are about one-half percent; Higher for Hispanic and Black babies, Less for Asians, But about 1 in 200.
After 28 weeks gestation, the odds improve: Only about 3 in a thousand are lost, And after the 37th week we call them “term stillbirths.” They are rarer still. 2.1 per 10,000. (.021%)
Three months ago, Vinnie died, Also in the 37th week, Also a term stillbirth, Also absent genetic mutations. Another .021% event. Vinnie was my daughter’s son. Isla was my son’s daughter. Both gone before they got here, In one season.
What are the odds of that in one family? Roughly we calculate. .021 times .021 Equals .000441: About 4 in a million of it ever happening.
I cannot calculate the possibility Of one family losing both Within 3 months, But if the data we use is annually reported, You can divide that by a quarter of a year. Now we can find that 1 in a million statistic. The odds that would happen in one family are incalculable.
The headlines are rarely a couple of stillbirth obituaries And no one is amazed.
They are starting to go now, Like the rockstars; A bunch checked out early, Not exactly a poets’ 27 Club But a spike on the graph, for sure. And now, we are starting to drop. Turds from an elephant’s ass Is the only metaphor that comes to me.
This week, another one. Last week too. It doesn’t seem to matter, The fire and the ice both end. Wind has forgotten how to blow In Chicago and everywhere. I wonder at next. I look at the actuary’s lists. I know I’m on there somewhere. Probably pretty soon.
I love who is still in this tent With me. Let me say that deliberately. But the sense of this era seems to be a growing choice Between mourning Or being mourned.
If you are reading this And you are a poet, Let it serve as a cautionary tale.
If you are reading this And you are not a poet, I take this moment to bid you a conscious adieu. Maybe read this poem again in a few years Or next week.
All I have learned of death, I learned from a dog When I was 14.
His name was Nic Like St. Nicolas Since he came to us on Christmas.
He was either a runaway Or a drop off. Skinny, frostbitten ears But polite and smart.
It took a year to learn him, His tricks, His ways.
He loved winter And hunting rabbits. If it is really true all dogs go to heaven, He’s certainly hunting rabbits As I write this. (I don’t know what that says for Rabbit Heaven.)
It was snowing, I had been given new snow-shoveling duties Near the highway.
Nic saw me shoulder the shovel And head out the driveway. I can’t really blame him for thinking About rabbits.
But the guy who was driving that Low Pontiac, And who didn’t stop When I chased Nic, Sliding on his back down the highway, Him I still blame.
I got to Nic and picked him up in my arms To bring him back into the house, But it hurt him too bad. He mouthed my hand But did not bite me in his pain. And so I lay him in the snow Where he finished. I kept the flakes from falling on his face. It was the only thing I could do.
I dozed in front of the boob tube. Best sleep I get anymore. I’d been watching a documentary About wrangling, fighting and war.
I dreamed I was on my deathbed And my lapsed Catholic wife Prayed that the Catholic God Would forgive my non-Catholic life.
In a twinkling it was over And I was in the sky with Jesus and Mary and a million saints But I could not figure why.
And there were the Pearly Gates Where no one stood alert. But everyone was speaking Latin And wearing long black skirts.
“There has to be an error,” I offered to those around But Hitler’s Pope, Pius Twelve said “You were lost but now you’re found.”
“I don’t want to be found, sir. I’m not a Catholic, you see.” “It happens sometimes,” he said with a shrug. “Administrative error,” said he.
But I’m not of the laity. And I never knew a deacon. Only one Priest in all my life. Why I’m a Catholic cretin!
No bishops or archbishops. I have no clue about their miters. And Cardinals all dressed in red Are only birds, not holy fighters.
No matter, said the evil Pope. If I get in, so do you. Just consider it affirmative action. Now take your seat in the pew.
But I don’t know the songs! Or when to stand or kneel. I don’t know how to pray and I don’t know how to feel.
I don’t know why there’s incense And I don’t know why there’s gold I don’t know why I can’t talk to God Instead of a priest through that little hole.
And guilt over killing Christ… I didn’t do the deed. Call and response makes no sense In a time when we all can read.
It took almost three centuries To sort the divine hullabaloo. And just when the ordeal seemed hopeless Some habited nun fixed the SNAFU.
I woke from my nap with a gasp. A preacher was on the TV, Asking me to send him money. A downpayment on eternity.
Forgive me, sir, if I pass this chance To give to the Creator of night and day, ‘Cuz I don’t want to go to Catholic heaven. Just let me Requiescat in pace.
No person ever loved me more than my Grandmother. And I don’t mean that as something that lifts me up. I mean that as a testament to the goodness of Grandma.
The depth of my love of steamed eggs, or alternatively, custard pie Are mere substitutions for the depth of my love for Grandma. But Grandma died while I was in Marine Corps boot camp in 1969.
Her seventh heart attack did her in and it mattered not to the Corps How much I loved my Grandmother or how much she loved me; I was not permitted leave during boot camp for this or any reason.
After, Grandma came to me in boot camp, though she didn’t bring custard pie. Something prohibited me from climbing the rope on the obstacle course. Despite my intent and will, I could climb up only about ten feet and stall.
And there hung I, between Heaven and the drill instructor, Who promised unpleasant consequences if I came down before I went up. Long minutes hanging in limbo before succumbing to the DI’s promise.
Eventually, through a trick of faith and some personal instruction, My feet and hands learned the trick. I became more of a man and more of a Marine. But the truth of my heart was, I asked Grandma to help and she did.
Long after the Marine Corps, after the war, I fell asleep driving home alone one night. Of course, I don’t know if I slept a moment or a minute, I was jolted awake by a strike (more than a nudge, less than a slap) in the small of my back.
Awake, aimed exactly for a cement bridge abutment on the freeway, Probably about a half-second before impact, Grandma’s dusting powder scent filled the air in the car.
There is more to say here but I will leave it between Grandma and me.
With age, things change: Skin thins as if by evaporation. Gums recede. Color leaves the hair. The skeleton shrinks In size and density. We are gradually less.
At the end, we cease, As far as we know, In this corporeal world. We set aside our bodies, Like last year’s model. We set aside physical interaction.
But that is all obfuscation. It is a trick of language to say We did something And then say We don’t do something.
For the dead, there is still so much to do.
There is the going away, Likened to some journey that changes us. And if we go away, We must be going to some place. Another place, not like this place. For what good is an afterlife, If it is merely another iteration of this life? Why go to all the bother of aging and dying Just to wake up in another here?
There are always tests to see if the dead are worthy.
Ancient Egyptians had Ma’at, Simultaneously Justice and Truth, And Goddess. If the heart of the dead Balanced on a scale against her feather, The dead could pass to the afterlife. If it did not, the dead received utter obliteration. It was all about the state of the heart.
Hebrews, Christians and Muslims all measure the good of the heart And promise obliteration if there is not enough.
Today, as a cultural species, we don’t need religion to practice the concept of obliteration. We begin before physical death. The soon-to-die begin to lose autonomy. It happens as if by evaporation, The value of a full person evaporates. We take their positions. We take their possessions. We take their permissions. Once they actually cease, There is so little change in the world. It’s like they were always a memory.
Death took my grandson Two weeks before his birth.
I flail, seeking to understand, Not loss, For the poet knows all there is to know of loss (if he’s paying attention). Rather to understand All that was given.
Is the mother of a dead child Enriched by her new insight?
Is the father of a dead child Prepared to comfort his wife While pretending his own loss Is smaller?
Is a sister or a brother, Bludgeoned into silence, Incapable of understanding? Of doing anything that might heal?
All the women grieve their own losses. And reconceive the trove of their losses in another’s. It is the unfathomable lot of women To bear the reminder In the wonder of what might have been.
It is the duty of the old poet To teach about living a life of poetry To the young poets.
First, find a young poet. There aren’t very many, Although there are thousands Who stand up on stages And hurl swear words. Some of it is actually poetic.
But a poet soon learns that rage Is a shallow pool. It feels great, All fire and invective, But those poems are largely disposable.
Hate, likewise, has its appeal. And, likewise, often has a short shelf life.
But the lasting poems Dig through the anger of a life And the living. It excavates all the hate And drills down into the pain; The despair.
There is lots of hate, Probably more anger. And those are fine stones Upon which to whet your craft.
Poetry craves, Not just the poetic utterance, But the poetic silence as well. Without the silence, It is the clacking of the keyboard. Without Death’s utter refusal To answer the questions, There is no need for poems.
