The Man in the Middle

He’s the man in the middle,

the one in between,

neither built like a rock

nor a twig, but he’s lean.

You might overlook him;

he stands out of sight.

He will keep to the shadows,

but can handle the light.

He’s cautious and cunning.

He can battle the best.

He can soften the rock,

drive the twig to its nest.

His senses are stunning;

he’s always aware.

No one controls him.

He won’t fall for a dare.

Never question his honor.

Never step on his pride.

Befriend him, defend him,

and he’ll stand by your side.

He’ll fight for your honor

as well as his own,

but don’t try to crowd him;

he needs time alone.

He’s not chauvinistic

yet plies chivalric art.

He’s the man in the middle;

he’s the one in my heart.

c2008, revised 2011

Sure is a shame politicians are never the men in the middle. Countries would be a whole lot better off if they were....

In the End

In the End

In the end they'll all be dancin',

    

          all them ones that didn't die.

Sure, they'll take some time for glancin' at the fires in the sky.

They might even stop to wonder what it was that kept them free

From the lightning and the thunder...

          and all that nucular debris.

Oh, they won't find any answers.

They'll just shrug and shake their heads.

'Cause all them happy dancers?

          they're just dreamin' they ain't dead.

In the Woods this side of Mackinaw

*First published by Everyday Weirdness (everydayweirdness.com) on April 26, 2010.

In the Woods this Side of Mackinaw

In the woods this side of Mackinaw
Just south of Lake Superior
—better known by Ojibwa
as Longfellow’s own Gitche Gumee

stands a cedar that remembers
craftsmen building lean canoes
or rains of soot and forest embers
—one by one her brethren fell

while she alone grew wider, taller
branches firm and sure and wise.
“Mother,” saplings came to call her
and deer and elk, young creatures all.

And then the children of the craftsmen
climbed up high; she held them close.
She guarded but could not protect them
from growing up, from growing old.

The shamans say she made entreaty
to the ancient spirit realm
to shield these young from pain and need —she
asked to bind them whole as one.

Now to this day they share her spirit
rooted deep and firm and true,
and if you listen close you’ll hear it:
calls to “Mother,” laughter, too.

It’s said their blood flows deep inside her.
It’s said their giggles fill the air.
It’s said no axmen dare defy her
—many such have disappeared

swallowed whole, if you believe it;
or bound inside, as some have sworn.
It all depends how you perceive it:
the cries and curses breezes shar

amidst the laughs and calls to “Mother”
carried from the forest’s heart
so near the shining big sea water
where ancient secrets stand apart.

The Tricksters' Beds

*First published by Everyday Weirdness (everydayweirdness.com) on July 12, 2010.

The Tricksters' Beds

Somewhere east of Omaha
beneath a garden carved in stone
things from lost millennia
with empty sockets, yellow bones
still live in dreams we cannot share
play ancient and forgotten games
that taunt us, catch us if we dare
to dance across their hallowed planes.

I bid you now, and hear me well:
tread not upon the tricksters’ beds;
don’t give them fodder for the spell
yet swirling through their shattered heads.

No Exit and No Return

*First published by Everyday Weirdness (everydayweirdness.com) on March 29, 2010.

No Exit and No Return

It sits along the turnpike
west of Youngstown—
but you'll never reach it that-a-way.

There is no exit—
no return.

It's just a field, abandoned,
and crumbling barn.
One bold farmer fought to have his day
but night consumed him.

Others learned
to leave it be as cursed land
where creatures dwell—
beasts that harvest anguish and dismay
sown from fertile dreams—
stolen, spurned
or lost, forgotten, left to rot
much like the barn.

The air is thick with death, decay
and deprivation.

Fires burned
and yet a certain stench remains—
uncommon smell
of things too dark for human eyes,
things one farmer tried to see.

He
should have turned
away before the voices
seeped inside
his head, inside his thoughts.

He prayed
too late and stayed too long.

Now
there is no exit, and
no return.

Best Forgotten

*First published by Everyday Weirdness (everydayweirdness.com) on May 10, 2010

Best Forgotten

Buried somewhere north of Vegas
hidden under cleansing sage
lies a man who's best forgotten.

Fallen from a fit of rage
he left too many lost and broken
others only cold and bare
were forced to watch in empty terror
haunted by his crimson glare
at things not meant for mortal vision.

Humans find no kindred souls
in what resides beyond the curtain
where only devils dare to go.

You’d best forget you’ve heard this story.
Forget the path unto his grave
if only for your own survival
—you’re one too many souls to save.

Winter Skeletons

Tired eyes alight on brittle branches,

a cold reflection of a common fate,

winter skeletons in flight on desert plains

longing for indifference;

and in the quiet of that frozen waste

are locked the lonely echoes of the lost.

Their silence screams 

too lonely to be lost 

too chained to be adrift!

Like empty dreams they scratch the shattered panes

to unleash forgotten truths.

Tired ears awaken in that stillness

a symphony, those fragile chimes,

icicles against an angry wind 

that strips the branches

bare.

Ancient Roads

I walk ancient roads
reading codes meant for other eyes
words drawn from distant skies
left to crumble in the dust

     left to crumble, not to die
     for somehow I would stumble on the truth
     harsh lessons from my youth
     lending stregth to weary hope...

Lending strength to help me cope.
There is so much to learn
even as I burn with unspent fury.

     So much lost to pay the cost
     of love remembered

Of love surrendered
to keep me bound to ancient roads
reading codes meant for other eyes
words drawn from distant skies
left to crumble in the dust....

     Left to crumble in my hands
     through scattered sands
     where wisdom hides away.
     Even time might not betray
     the knowledge hidden there

The knowledge that my dreams have shown.

There is more to life than here,
more than what is clear
to shielded eyes.

     So I search
     and it is worth
     the lives remembered
     the time surrendered

Shows me why I walk ancient roads
reading codes meant for other eyes
words drawn from distant skies
left to crumble in the dust.

    

Reality Shows

Sure, bumps in the night can cause quite a fright
but is anything really as scary
as reality shows where so-called “average Joes”
are perceived to be just “ordinary?

It can make you go fetal when that guy who ate beetles
just because it might make him a winner
moves in down the street and invites you to eat
but refuses to say what’s for dinner!

Perhaps in the shower you’re the man of the hour,
even Elvis would listen in awe,
when you open your lungs and a masterpiece comes
as you sing out your heart ‘til you’re raw;

But trust me in this, you’re less “hit” and more “miss”;
the term “tone-deaf” was coined just for you –
or so they will say when they vote you away
and your dreams and your dignity too.

It is really that bad? Are we really so mad,
so completely bereft of our wits
that we can’t help but squander our pride and our honor
for one moment of glamour and glitz?

If Shakespeare were here, with his pen he would spear
to the heart of what’s real and what’s fiction –
or perhaps he would smile and begin to beguile…
stay tuned to watch Will’s Real Addiction!

 

 

 original c2007 & revised c2008, DM Kraft

Screen Capture

Lo, brave soldier, I bid thee capture the screen,

that bright glowing and too oft strobing affliction of daily disdain.

‘Tis a beast born of Bacchus, no doubt,

feasting on words with gluttonous frenzy

so it can vomit in code.

 

Aye, that monster is a messenger of the netherworld,

imperial domain where data presides

with a language of zero and one,

transcending human thought

and mocking consciousness of self

with forums that have forgotten mighty Rome --

arenas where anyone can be a lion,

and peasants, once flogged, now blog instead.

 

‘Tis an empire of the ether,

built on debauchery, depravity and

ego.

 

Lo, brave soldier, capture that screen.

 

Fall not for its trickster ways, for

Kokopelli has formed a kinship with Loki,

and Bacchus has blessed the union,

so when they tempt you with their treasures,

remember the dragon is never far from its hoard.

Aye, point, but do not click until your keys are well ordered;

and then capture that screen using the Power

with a Point.

 

Soon our tapestries will tell a new tale sewn of lasers

and digitized for bolder color --

no more need have we of needles to prick arthritic fingers.

 

Lo, brave soldier, capture that screen, but spill not thy ink.

It is more precious than blood.

Out of Hibernation

Where rainbows recline along fog-laden hills

and slip under swift flowing streams,

where icicles drip into heavenly spills

to revive a dry thirst for lost dreams,

a sacred asylum from binding regrets,

a time and a place for rebirth,

a spiritual passage, a chance to forget,

rekindle new hope, renew worth,

like a daffodil raising its head to the sky

in spite of the lingering frost,

there, rooted to freedom, one heart learns to fly

there, the burden of winter is lost.

A Bubble in Tim

Wrapped in white cotton 

a piece of the world

is trapped in a bubble in time.

The sun has no hold.

The rain has no flow.

It is simply a moment, sublime.

Songbirds, symphonic

sing trebles and trills

to an undertone cicada buzz.

Seagulls are squealing,

crows squawking gossip

of the world as it should be, or was,

while I sift through silence,

my heart spinning tunes,

hearing music and humming along,

for the sake of this instant,

for the sake of this bubble,

for the sake of life's own precious song.

A white, cozy blanket

has covered the world

and taken me under its wing.

There's no better tribute

to give for this shielding

than to join in the chorus and sing.

Mother Nature's Sigh

I never thought the world would end

with a single, simple sigh.

Mother Nature coughed and then

she breathed her last

and died --

the big bang from the other side

perhaps; and perhaps you’ll wonder why

I survived

and you as well to read this recollection.

I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Hell?

Or Limbo, or Perdition?

Or Purgatory

where you go when you are in transition

to see just where you’ll get your fit

and final benediction?

Well, then.

There you go.

And here then so am I.

All that’s left

of Earth’s last breath

and Mother Nature’s sigh.

Stars Dancing

stars dancing in a cloudless sky

patterns of light in scattering flares

spilling life forgotten

fading

filling primordial pools

 

drip drip drip

 

I sniff the frigid air, take

just one breath and crystals form

 

a single cloud dancing in a starlit dream

 

Star Birth

deep in a shadow rich with indecision
a new revision  another life grows                     

out of the grit

it sprouts in a fountain of swirls
            a shower of stars
as it sifts through a twist in the tidal pull of time --
           
testament to something deeper

            still

I Touched the Hand of Evil

When just a boy

the seedling sprouted bracken

twined in rot.

And spectacled men sought him out.

Rolling up the sleeves of their crisp

white shirts and standing ready

to exhume answers with the tender touch

of hands grown soft yet

sure as the stroke of a pen

                   they asked him

What do boys grow up to be?

Men, said he.

Good, very good, said they

jotting notes in blots of ink.

And Girls, they asked him next

What do girls grow up to be?

Oh, said he, and sure he was

certainly as sure as they could ever be

and just as certainly never as soft.

Girls grow up to be punished.

And as he grew his hands

neither tender nor soft

unearthed answers of a different sort

solutions buried under bracken

twined in rot

and blood.

And his grip like bracken

twined around a young girl’s throat

firm and sure as they choked her life away.

Yes. If girls grow up to be punished

his were a punisher’s hands

sure and firm

dark with graveyard dirt and nails

as yellow as the devil’s teeth

too thick too long untrimmed and

primed to catch scrapes

of flesh and blood --

his own mechanics’ grease.

         Yet he had no pride for engines.

He favored the trunk

a space big enough to hold someone

ready to be punished.

In between he handled coins

and crisp dollar bills.

The dollar bills I gave him.

The coins he gave me.

And in that transaction

so like yet so unlike any other

on any given day

I touched him

his grave-stained hands

his yellow deviled nails.

Yes.

I touched the hand of evil

the punisher

the bracken twined in rot

and the throats of four young girls

who never grew up at all

•  In memory of the young victims of Leslie Allan Williams, and in gratitude of the Oakland County (Michigan) Police, who arrested Williams in time to save the life of victim #5, and God only knows how many others.

Killed between 1991 – 1992:

• Kami Marie Villaneuva, 18
• Cynthia Jones, 16
• Michelle Urbin, 16
• Melissa Urbin, 14

The Dark Employs a Heavy Hand

The dark employs a heavy hand

adds pressure by degrees

then waits.

That’s all it has to do.

It’s enough to break the best of us.

The rest of us long beaten to the ground

see the soil packed firm above our heads.

Our fingernails crack from scratching at granite.

Hear the dark. Smell it. Taste its poison

an hallucinogen

nothing more.

We beat ourselves.

We draw the weight

wrap it around our bitter bones

carry it down into our own dungeonous dreams

expecting rescue when there’s no one left

except

the rest of us

the best of us too burdened to respond

because the dark employs a heavy hand

adds pressure by degrees

then waits.

That’s all it has to do.

The rest is up to us.

The Bough Breaks

f  a  l  l

                                   i  n  g

simply falling and the ground has
ceased to be the air is a rush
of sulfur and ozone razor
blades charged unspent
captive ions that

        h  o  v  e  r 

on the edge like revelations or
the craggy crash that has me

bracing

for an end and it’s endless
still I’m falling simply
 

                      f  a  l  l

                                  i  n  g
 

and   the   devil’s   breath
is just    o n e   great

 i   n   h   a   l   a   t   i   o   n

disconnected

a leaf caught in the wind
cast out by the tree
driven from the land

adrift and alone

tomorrow beckons
but without power
I am trapped in today

there is no hope
save time

                  and time has stopped

I Live Waiting

floating like a seed drifting

through time through space

trolling the currents of fate

breezes that carry me to places

I'd never thought to go

driving me to do things

I'd never dreamt to do

sometimes setting me down

where I sprout tentative roots

that reach out, explore, wonder

but I am not an oak

not yet

perhaps not ever

secured to no single spot

I live waiting

Child of the 60s

This is a revised version of a poem originally published in my book, Somewhere on the Edge of Words (still in print). Written in honor of all who served in Vietnam, I post it now in the sad belief that a child of this era should be as soul drenched as I was back then, for all our American boys serving in Iraq and Afghanistan.

A copy of the original version was left at the Vietnam memorial Wall in Washington, DC, in October, 2000, before any of us had any clue of the new tragedies yet to come.

 

 

A Child of the 60s

 

 

A child of the 60s

I toddled about on wobbly legs as the world stumbled

and a president died.

 

And they all cried

all those people on the news and in the Life

magazine that lay untouched on the coffee table.

 

I touched it.

 

I ran my hand along the cover

my chubby baby fingers examining a widow’s black veil

a flag covered casket.

 

Without knowing what or why or how

a nation’s tears came down as

 

rain upon my soul

 

drenching me to the very core.

 

Then there was war.

 

It was an old war a cold war though they said the jungles were hot

and deadly.

 

And our boys died.

 

American boys died.

 

I looked to the neighbor boys there in our cozy little corner of cookie-cutter suburbia

and wondered if they too would die

 

somewhere in a hot green jungle

 

in a green and red Technicolor jungle like the ones I saw at night on Daddy’s Zenith

 

jungles as far away as the little cabin up north that took an eternity to drive to

 

where I could hear the bombs go off at night

as our boys learned how to fight playing

games at Camp Grayling.

 

Games.

 

But I knew it was real
 

as real as the musty sheets Mommy set under my chin

when she tucked me in to protect me from the distant thunder that was not thunder

and boomed its way into my dreams

reminding me to pray

as I did every day for our American boys.

 

A child of the 60s

still tasting the salt of my nation’s drying tears

I was confused by the anger that festered on the evening news

so many different views when all that really mattered

all that should matter was our American boys.

 

A child of the 60s

I saw my nation stumble and all I could do was reach out my hand

my tiny useless child hand

in the impossible hope that

somehow it might be enough to guide one boy home.

1969

*2009 marked the 40th anniversary of the first man on the moon. This poem was my tribute to that milestone. I hear their voices all of them calling from across years like so many shooting stars slipping in on 8millimeter film the edges brown burnt from flying too close to the bulb to the sun with Icarus in a galaxy of milk I hear them in the whisper of brushing leaves sand sifting in the dunes rolling in the wake of a sleeping bear giggle of the girl I used to be toes in the surf in the great saltless sea I pick up a piece of smooth shale see it skip like the man on the moon the black and white picture lined with static despite rabbit ears and foil and all of us holding hands skipping over generations the gap forgotten the hippies and Marine brush-cut men and boys and women in kerchiefs and me a tow-headed little girl in thrall to a TV with bad reception skipping over images like a needle across vinyl the record warped from a flood of great saltless tears when heaven wept and I slept dreaming dreams of Martian sand

Bye-Bye Mr. Corporate Pride

(a retelling of Don McLean’s American Pie, and a commentary on today’s state of affairs.)

 

A long, long time ago

I can still remember

When my leaders seemed to give a damn.

And I knew if I gave my all

Then I might climb instead of fall;

And maybe I’d retire with a plan.

But February makes me shiver.

Soon newspapers won’t be delivered.

Budget cuts and layoffs.

401s won’t pay off.

I can’t remember if I cried

When I saw more colleagues cast aside.

I’ve just gone numb down deep inside

Because the dream has died.

 

And bye-bye, Mr. Corporate Pride.

Pushed my Chevy to the levy ‘cause the gas tank ran dry.

Now the middle class is drinking whiskey and rye,

Singing this’ll be the day that I die.

This’ll be the day that I die.

 

Once hippies sang of peace and love

But religious zealots shot that dove.

A great divide has taken hold.

Now do you believe in mind control?

Will a holy war save your mortal soul?

And does the book of Human Rights have loop holes?

Now you claim you’re a religious fool,

But your words are just a jester’s tool.

You’re actions don’t reveal

That you’re heart shaped words are real.

When your mentor joined the unemployed

And could no longer help you became annoyed;

You treat him just like a hemorrhoid

Now that the dream has died.

You started singin’

 

Bye-bye, Mr. Corporate Pride.

Pushed my Chevy to the levy ‘cause the gas tank ran dry.

Now the middle class is drinking whiskey and rye,

Singing this’ll be the day that I die.

This’ll be the day that I die.

 

Now for decades we’ve been riding high,

All reaching for that piece of pie;

We could smell it, touch it, taste it too.

We all tried to live like kings and queens

In castles well beyond our means,

And CEOs grew fat on me and you.

Oh, but while we all were looking down

Employers stole our fragile crowns.

Foreclosures took our homes

‘Cause we couldn’t pay our loans.

And while board rooms called for gains “today”

They let tomorrow slip away;

Now we’re the ones who have to pay

And say the dream has died.

 

Bye-bye, Mr. Corporate Pride.

Pushed my Chevy to the levy ‘cause the gas tank ran dry.

Now the middle class is drinking whiskey and rye,

Singing this’ll be the day that I die.

This’ll be the day that I die.

 

Deflected, dejected, insurance claims rejected

Health care costs are frequently inflected

Their rising and infections’ spreading fast.

We’re landing flat on our backs

As these bail-outs call for some ready cash

But the bankers, on the sidelines keep their stash.

While a stimulus is up for votes

We find ourselves in tattered coats

That can’t keep out the cold

As our lives are bought and sold.

As the workers try to get our yield,

The lenders still refuse to deal

And nothing is left for us to steal

And now the dream has died.

We are singin’

 

Bye-bye, Mr. Corporate Pride.

Pushed my Chevy to the levy ‘cause the gas tank ran dry.

Now the middle class is drinking whiskey and rye,

Singing this’ll be the day that I die.

This’ll be the day that I die.

 

Oh, and pre-retirees are in last place

A working group that’s lost in space

With no time left to start again.

So come on, Barrack be nimble, Barrack be quick.

The economy is deathly sick

And we can’t go on; we need this thing to end.

Despite Bin Laden and his trail

We knew this country could prevail;

And then came corporate Hell.

It’s worse than terror’s spell.

When flames outshined the morning sun

A brand new era had begun;

But who knew Bin Laden could be outdone?

And now, the dream has died.

Now he’s singing

 

Bye-bye, Mr. Corporate Pride.

Pushed my Chevy to the levy ‘cause the gas tank ran dry.

Now the middle class is drinking whiskey and rye,

Singing this’ll be the day that I die.

This’ll be the day that I die.

 

I went out for a bite to eat

From the local diner, down the street,

Looking forward to a slice of apple pie;

But the place was dark and empty.

I should’ve known they couldn’t stay.

When the plant shut down the town began to die.

The other shops had closed as well.

No one to buy, now no one to sell.

It’s just the way of business;

Trim some jobs, outsource the rest.

And the churches, mosques and temples, too,

Each try to tell us what to do,

But who can say just what is true

Now that the dream has died?

Now we’re singin’

 

Bye-bye Mr. Corporate Pride

Pushed my Chevy to the levy ‘cause the gas tank ran dry.

The middle class is drinking whiskey and rye

Singing this’ll be the day that I die.

This’ll be the day that I die.

 

We’re all singin’

 

Bye-bye Mr. Corporate Pride.

Pushed my Chevy to the levy ‘cause the gas tank ran dry.

The middle class is drinking whiskey and rye

Singing this’ll be the day that I die.

 

Strawman

See you here, this empty carcass,  
Void of all except the bones, 

The shell exposed has dulled the spark of 
Madness as the corpse atones 
For all the suffering he gave us 
All the agony he’d sown 
Through savage pride and wretched acts of 
Greed that tore us from our homes. 

And so we gutted him in darkness, 
Found his heart as hard as stone, 
And chiseled it to bear the mark of 
Brotherhood he’d never known. 

Now all take heed the power forged as 
One above all others shone; 
Like wildfire he soon engorged us. 
Like firemen we save our own.

Politics

Creeping in like a snake, seeping in for the sake 

of maneuvering fate and obsessing
over trivial things, over casual flings 

over tightening strings -- over dressing

Oozing in like dark sludge out of drains left unplugged
letting budgets begrudge who needs feeding
Seeking rite over right over sight in the night 

while our heroes, our white knights lie bleeding

Undermining resistance, redefining assistance 

superficial existence impending
and progression's rejected deflected infected 

by some bureaucrat thief's under-spending

Rendered blind deaf and dumb yet sublime with aplomb
Look, our leaders are gunning for glory

Relativity's a ruse
Space and time are confused
Laws of physics abused

End of story

What Can You Do?

What can you do when you can do nothing? When the nothingness surrounds you until it drowns you in a well of wasted thoughts and wasted dreams and wasted chances never seen, when never becomes forever becomes whatever you have or had or could ever possibly hope to achieve   or believe--   Bold deceiver, this nothing.

Downsizing

It starts at the summit when finances plummet
       and bosses toss ballast away

Your company pride takes a sharp, sudden slide
       as a lifetime of work loses sway
Your abdomen churns as your loyalty's spurned
       yes, you come to accept it’s one-way

You’d settled in cozy and thought you were rosy
       because you’ve worked hard night and day

But you’re no more and no less than all of the rest
       so you’ve no greater hope you can stay

You answer to rumors with a bleak sense of humor
       then close your eyes tightly to pray

But the air blows in colder …
       there’s a tap on your shoulder …
              Your position’s no longer in play.

They give you a box,
       take the keys for your locks
               and the past twenty years fade to gray…