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.
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.
In life, my mother said she longed to travel. So when she died Her children took on the task Of delivering her ashes to random and various locations, Widespread as possible.
I traveled on an airplane With some of Mother’s ashes In a zip-lock plastic bag In my hip pocket. I was conscious of her presence As I sat in that narrow seat.
And I set them free In the shadow of Haystack Rock At Cannon Beach.
She entered the sea And turned it milky gray On the first incoming wave, Then drifted out a few feet And returned wider on the next wave. And then, like some kind of ethereal sea bass Might flip its tail, She splashed at me and was gone.
The dead have always had more to say To me than the living. They do not stutter Or say “um.” They do not approach their subject At an angle. Or hide it in figures of speech. Nor do they screw up facial expressions To convey empathy. The dead have no empathy.
They say, “Death has no mercy.” And “The dead care less for the living Than the living care for the dead.”
It is just like how we measure All of the events of our life differently Than those things which happened Before we were born.
Ghosts are only people Confused by growing transparent. I had a great-grandmother who didn’t know She was a ghost for nearly a decade. Her hair grew gray, Then wirey-white, Then transparent limp-gray again. Her skin thinned Until that which marked what was part of her And what was the rest of the cosmos, Became indistinct And it barely mattered.
She lived in a time that had passed. She spoke to other ghosts And asked about the living. She had lost track of her time. When she finally died, Mostly it was a relief.
The dead begin gathering immediately after midnight. The bridge over the river carries a steady stream, Mostly the old, But rarely a small child, Occasionally a wave at once, Chattering excitedly. The ferry is a pleasant myth. They sort themselves by birthdate Along the other shore, Children in front, Low, to see and be seen, Parents, Grandparents, Great-grandparents, Rarely the Centenarians, High on the bank. They wait there all day While more arrive. Some wave to someone or something On the Living Bank, But most on both shores can’t see much. The sun sinks. Color bleeds from the earth. The dead fade translucent.
Trauma has come to the Marsh home this fall. I could count them for you, but I won’t. It was enough for me to forget about writing 30 poems in 30 days until reminded on the 18th of the month.
So, here is my effort. Not a happy one, but it’s where the creative juices are right now. This will be 30 poems about death by the end of November. No images on these posts to attract your eyes.
Offering #1
Book of the Dead 1
In the last light of early evening The newly-dead gather on the other side of the river. They shout things back to us on the living bank, Things that matter to the dead. “Take care of your lungs.” “Grief is a sharp stick.” But the living do not hear them, Jumbled when whisper-shouted together. The living have gathered inside anyway, Like every day, Preparing food and turning on lights. These are things the dead have forgotten.
