Dick Moss

Wrinkles of her face Tell a survival story, An overcoming Contours of her time, Medals of her bravery Tracing heart’s ley lines Crow’s feet mark the sands Of time that have eroded Under constant waves Her old-soul eyes deep Pools of memories both fond And wrenchingly sad Ghost signs of her years Of failures and successes Float across that face Long-distance patience Drew the care worn on her skin, Furrows of her brow Ride a sled downhill To feel a bit of her love, That bottomless lake Experience brings An allowance for foibles But an impatience Too, unwillingness To accept made-up nonsense Humans daily churn I’d like to lay down In those contours, pull a fold Over me and snooze

High school reunions Can be a bit daft but I Made an exception To attend this one So I could sit and commune With a few old friends Fifty years ago We were marking the nation’s 200th birthday Fifty years before That was 1926– Goddard’s rocket launch Lindbergh had yet to Fly solo cross Atlantic, Great War meant the first Time has a way of Rushing past us, a headlong Race through history We’ve been out in world Longer than the Berlin Wall Or Cold War lasted Apple Inc. was born The spring we graduated— Web still a wet dream Star Wars would not hit Theaters until the next year— Yoda four years off Born to Run released August before senior year— Some of us still rock Rocking on canes, true, And some few rolling in chairs— Others became boss Yet we can still look Across the room and make out The teens we once were More of us may need Glasses to do so, and haze May cloud that picture But inside many Of us still lurk those teens Who knew everything

Book-of-the-Month Club And Columbia Records Both had my number Not to mention loads Of my part-time job money During my teen years I was a child sucker Of the advertising age, A marketer’s dream A magpie on hunt For the next new shiny thing That could change my life I got some pleasure Out of those books and albums But were they worth it? I’m not a good judge, Being susceptible to The next big sales pitch But do I buy that Capitalism’s evil? No—also not good

Bank robber embraces His plight, genuflects and Chambers a fresh round Echoes of guns past Shoot across vaulted ceiling— Comets crossing sky Fury’s sirens wail— Mars flashes red lights, bathing Dreary scene in blood Convict wannabe Clutches tight his rosary, Asking mom for help Sniper in dark blue Sees target appear in scope, Tightens the trigger

Lake Peigneur’s eddy A monster whirlpool with a Salty disposition Oil drill went somewhere It shouldn’t—as drillers will— And punctured a mine Eleven barges, A tugboat and 65 Acres of land lost Sucked into the mine By the big vortex’s force, A supreme hickey A once shallow lake No longer has fresh water And boasts hidden depths Conservation laws? We don't need no stinking laws! Who needs oversight?

Choose from our array Of color choices, plus squid Or octopus ink Garamond? Maybe Baskerville without bringing That bloody hound dog Font size? Picas and Points to consider—make it Big for the old folks Glossy stock or bond? Newsprint if we need to save On publishing costs Folio, letter Foolscap or A4–take chance On reader preference Would you like that in A quire, ream, bundle, bale? Or paper tiger?

How can spirit bear? What can the real spirit bear? Can spirit bear it? My spirit bear comes Through the woods on softened steps Yet breaking branches Ursine essence spins Fantasies from wetland webs Into other worlds Mysticism lurks Just beneath root-veined surface Of the forest floor Black bear with white coat Bares its teeth—is it ready To eat or to smile?

When earth shadows moon And the dark umbra shines red Eclipse my old head Old-time band plays spoons In a trundle bed of pine Scents and taste of love Our senses can’t find The life we dreamed of when young Beyond our longings Can we strive for good Or are we ever condemned To settle for less Striving as we might To spear that shining brass ring With our puny lance Winter’s coming on Nature’s turning its corner— Cold will soon descend But eclipses don’t Last long and seasons will turn When earth tilts its head

Boy in iron lung— View limited to head turn, Cracks in ceiling tiles Old man stops walking, Sits in arm chair watching tube And birds at feeder Trailer park children Running within their ragged Circle of wagons Harried mother’s world: Family and work distilled In glass of Chablis Harried father’s world: Work and family distilled In glass of whisky Young woman limits Herself by never seeing Beyond basic needs A young man limits Himself by never seeing Beyond his base wants Some existences Revolve around just keeping Ahead of the cops Some around the next Bout of community angst Or moral concerns Some existences Revolve around the pursuit Of yet more dollars But some people find A different plane of being In books and poems Others get revenge Through music, dance or sculpture, Crafting their own worlds Art is more than joy Or something to marvel at— It molds perspectives And it can create Alternate universes In which to survive

We did our part today. Exercise your right as citizens. Vote.

Vampire shied away When I swung garlic garland Under his nose hairs Skeleton ran off After I aimed my shotgun At his two left feet Witch watched in horror As her broom broke in pieces On gritty sidewalk Then the three goblins Tee-peed my front yard and threw Three rotten pumpkins I accept these as My due for not handing out More sweet cavities

I’ve read several of Kazuo Ishiguro’s books, including The Remains of the Day and Klara and the Sun, but Never Let Me Go had escaped me until now. Wow. Just wow. I wish I had read it before I read Klara and the Sun, because I can just see how one led to the other. Never Let Me Go should be required reading for anyone involved in the A.I. debate. It’s a master class in relying too much on technology — in this case, medical technology, but the lessons are universal. It’s not so much the technology itself that’s the problem, Ishiguro seems to be saying, it’s how humans incorporate it into their society. He’s asking not just what does it mean to be human, but what does it mean to treat others humanely? I also really admire Ishiguro’s ability to tell a truly heartbreaking and disturbing story through a female point of view. That’s not easy to pull off. If he faltered anywhere, I couldn’t spot it. This one’s a keeper.

The first dead body I saw as a reporter Was in Virginia Cloudy afternoon On cusp of spring in a park Of rickety homes On a dirt path lies Bundle of clothes wrapped around An empty vessel Hilt of a small knife Sticks out of a narrow chest That no longer breathes Police stand around Kicking up dust from the path— Coroner is late There are no colors Everything’s muted—even Blood is turning black A cop says victim Was playing poker with friends Until they were not Heads shake at the thought Of losing your hopes and dreams Betting on the cards Not condescending— Although it would be easy To see arrogance In the face of law, Overseers with badges— I didn’t sense that More that the common Notion of life as precious Was pierced with knife, too

Walking home from bar On Halloween’s Eve I chance Upon a black cat It passes before me On a desolate roadway, A furry omen It came from a field Of decaying pumpkins that Look mauve in the dark A static spark winks In fur near the feline’s head Leaving fetid wake It scampers toward An unlit cemetery And then disappears An ossuary With its lid ajar appears, Gargoyles on its side Delirium or Serendipity? Who knows? Not me, I’m obtuse I lay down in it And curl up into a tight ball For sleep of the dead

Spotted lanternflies Invaded with a vengeance, Attacking trees, crops Milkweed can mislead, Drawing them off their mission— Its sap makes them ill Monarchs, however, Turn milkweed’s toxins into Their own defenses Oft looked down upon, Milkweed dons its cape and mask To become Nature Man

I stumbled across a post on Facebook about a feud between Kurt Russell and Barbra Streisand that caught my eye because it involved the First Amendment, a subject near and dear to my heart. The “article” didn’t involve many specifics — it was mostly about people’s reactions to this supposed incident. I wanted to know what set the whole thing off, and found other sources but they were all relying on the same material. I asked Yahoo AI as a last resort and at first it answered relying on the same bullshit I had been reading. But when I asked it specifically what Russell said that precipitated the dispute, Yahoo AI admitted it was all “social media mythology,” which is an interesting way to put it. Let’s be careful out there, especially in an election season. Not everything you read or see is true. Ask questions, especially if you find holes in what you’re consuming. We’re weaving a web of lies that are going to cocoon us in ignorance if we aren’t careful.

Have you ever been Lost in a cold sea of words, Fingers miss right one Then you play the chat Over and over in your Indulgent manner Substituting just The right word to tip balance And make her sing out With joy at your feat But instead you used wrong word, Ending in whimpers Thousands of replays Aren’t enough to overcome Reality’s miss If only we could Go back and edit remarks To delete the pain It’d be nice if My ego stepped in to help And would stop heckling

Do they have a mercy rule in the World Series? I’ve been rooting for the Brewers, but I thought it would be a close series. Nope. The Rays aren’t dead yet, and maybe they’ll turn this around, but it’s not looking good for them.

Digging up glad bulbs To keep them warm for winter— It makes them happy My old trowel makes A satisfying sucking Sound breaking the dirt Something more needed, So I drop the trowel and Dig in with fingers Shoving the dirt up Under my clean fingernails— Soon my hands covered Why do I so like Playing with the earth’s pieces And getting dirty? Likely a vestige Of my early sandbox days In kindergarten Or could it be a Lingering affinity For farming the soil? Like my ancestors Did in the not-so-distant Truck farms of the past Puttering about In the garden is a chore But not a burden It’s a sign of hope, Knowing that today’s work won’t Show until next year I learned the hard way With a Dahlia bulb I left In its cellar box Poor thing tried to grow In the dark, dry conditions— I didn’t do my part I’m glad the glads are Glad, safe in their cardboard box Sheltering from cold Gardening may seem Like a dull game, but it’s a True survival class

Just saw a PAC ad that ends with “Liberals are the new racists.” What a load of gaslighting bullcarp. Liberals aren’t trying to whitewash history, pretend Columbus and Lee are still heroes, or upend years of historical scholarship. Not to mention screw up the Smithsonian and whatever other historical archives they can screw with. This isn’t about racism. It’s about a political movement trying to get you to vote for its false ideology and its illiberal, ignorant policies. Don’t fall for it.