3 poems

by horace p sternwall

desert island sometimes i feel floppy sometimes i do sag sometimes i put my head in a box sometimes i put it in a bag i don't like the human race or the world that it has made i want to find a desert island and lie in the palm tree shade let the coconuts fall on my head and pound it into mush and lie there drooling in the sand in the glowing sunset hush

everybody can't be a hero to be in a book but not be the hero that does not sound like fun but when the hero dies his heroic death you can still sit in the sun reading a book about the hero in lively vivid prose sipping iced tea or lemonade and wiggling your toes the hero lives forever at least the book says so “in glorious memory” but how do they know? when the hero goes to the gallows protesting his innocence you can laugh or cry or close the book and wonder where the time went

float this is a poem i wrote in the water it would not float in the air it would not fly in the rain it would not stay dry in it i confess my pathetic helplessness swallowed without a trace by a void without a face words may be blessings or curses in expanding universes they may be slow or fast but never last o bubbles in the stream! o disappearing dream! one last moment i beg of you one last word - or maybe two -

a strange dream

by horace p sternwall

i dreamed of a place last night the strangest dream I ever had where all the bad people were good and all the good people were bad I dreamed I was in a courtroom of shiny paneled wood i was tied to an old oak tree accused of doing good the judge sat high above me with horns upon his head adolf hitler was my lawyer and all the jurors were dead the judge asked me how i pleaded to trying to do right and as i opened my mouth to speak i beheld a terrible sight the gallery was filled with angels with burnt and blackened wings their golden harps were melted and they could not pluck the strings a witness then was summoned to give evidence to my fate ’twas none other than st peter who had abandoned heaven’s gate what say you, saintly wise man asked satan from the bench as he waved a ten pound hammer which in his fist he clenched his eyebrows fairly sizzled and his lip was sneering curled what say you of this specimen who wished to save the world? what say you to this sorry cuss who challenged my dominion who thought eternal damnation was just someone’s opinion? have pity, lord of darkness the sad eyed sage appealed and his white beard it did flutter as before the fiend he kneeled he is only a poor human incapable of thought and the lessons life has taught him i guess he just forgot the demon roared wth laughter as he brought his hammer down a noose was placed around my neck and on my head a crown and on the crown was set a stage on which a play was playing my old dog ran across a field to join my poor old mother praying a serpent slithered through the grass king arthur raised his sword jesse james threw me a lousy dime it was all he could afford william mckinley and wyatt earp raised their voices in a hymn and i thought i saw abe lincoln but it was only railroad slim i awoke upon a green park bench with rain upon my face and all the players in the dream were gone without a trace

country ways

by horace p sternwall

the lamp burned in my little room above the silent stable i looked out in the winter gloom as well as i was able no bird disturbed the brooding night or horses hoofed the road no angel at the window offered to share my load * in an icy wintry blast as the snow was falling fast i went out to milk the cow and tripped over the plow that the lazy hired man who since the world began had been sleeping on his feet without missing a beat had left there in the gloom to hasten me to doom and he laughed in his dream floating down a shady stream where an apple cheeked lass winked at him as he went past and i lay in the mud in the mud, in the cold mud * silas martin picked an apple but didn't feel like eating it sarah jenkins shook a rug but didn't feel like beating it everything that moves moves at its own pace sometimes nothing moves at all upon the earth's dark face

think

by chuck leary

think of a flower think of a gorilla picking the flower think of a ham sandwich in the refrigerator back at base camp think of an intrepid traveler suddenly coming on the base camp at the foot of the mountain think of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the backpack of the intrepid traveler think of a deposed king think of a lock on a door think of a man walking in the rain i will never go back though the door be opened wide my part has been played and my path lies before me quite so, quite so, i understand perfectly returning from his enforced sabbatical sadly, he began to repeat himself there were too many reports to be ignored the master understood and acted accordingly very soon it will be over where were we when we were interrupted? expecting rain, if i recall it was your turn to think of a suitable theme for the annual celebration i have no experience in such matters and always forget something in my reports beastly weather, isn’t it? not to mention the constant requests for updates from the continent the door was unlocked after all that and the room was empty think of a flower think of a gardener planting a whole row of flowers

life coach

by chuck leary

illustrated by roy dismas

i want to be a life coach and teach people what to do they have been waiting for me their whole life through i want to be a life coach and set people straight i will have them up and running just you wait they need a little shove to get on the right path a long walk in the evening in the morning, a cold bath spinach, broccoli, berries and nuts are the only things to put in their guts clear spring water is the only drink there was something else did you think? yoga in the morning, run a mile at noon sit beneath a tree hear the birds’ eternal tune sit by the river, or the ocean shore meditate, meditate and meditate some more religion and politics fall away like leaves all that nonsense no one really believes if you want the true truth there is only one source and that is myself, the life coach of course

reformer

by chuck leary

i woke up this morning and swallowed my pills took a clean sheet of paper and cured the world’s ills it took but one morning of one single day and when i was done there was no more to say o you who crave glory and need excitement to live i regret to destroy you i have no solace to give the dark clouds have parted the sun does now shine if you die of boredom it is no fault of mine your sad fellow creatures have prayed for this event they asked for a savior and i was sent hear the whisper of the river the babble of the brook i have written the pages and closed the book

edward

by chuck leary

edward was a guy who lived on a hill he ate and slept and took his pills he watched tv but never the news to engage in argument he did not choose one day a man came to edward’s door edward had never seen him before he wanted a little of edward’s time and asked him for a nickel or a lousy dime edward was naturally courteous and polite but something here did not seen right he asked the man in and offered him a drink but part of his brain did not know what to think edward gave him a sandwich of cheese and ham but part of him suspected a scam edward kept his money in a paper sack safely buried in the yard out back he had a dog named joe and a monkey named jim they were prepared to give their lives for him but edward was a human when all was said and done he was a dreamer and not the only one edward did not understand quite why but the stranger had a friend in a bank in shanghai the friend knew the details of a terrible affair shocking things of which the public was unaware of betraying the planet the friend was accused and there was not a moment to lose the stranger asked edward to help his friend there is only one way for this story to end edward should have listened to joe and jim but he trusted the stranger so much for him why can not stories have better ends? because people are lonely and want to have friends what is wrong with this story? what is wrong with this tale? why did the stranger come to edward’s door and not send him a letter in the mail? o humans with your tablets devices and phones demons wait beyond the hills and stars and are calling in their loans