And Yet, We Sing

Like an animal trapped in a cage,

howling its rage,
we sing.
Like a bird trapped in a church,
desperate to escape her stained-glass prison,
destroying herself by crashing
into that divine light again and again,
until, broken and exhausted,
she falls to the marble floor,
we dance.
Whether from loneliness
or the pain of witnessing
overwhelming beauty,
out of fear or out of awe,
we sing.
And though we know,  
we forget,
that the music we hear is born of
someone else’s pain.
And so, we listen.
And so, we dance.
We join hands and spin;
we raise our voices
against the horror and the pain
and the blinding, searing light.
Because we know,
at least for this one day,
we have survived
to sing and dance again.
And so
we dance.
And so
we sing.

Coming Events

                                                   

COMING EVENTS

Much excitement here in Mosherland at the moment, as A Muster of Melodious Musings (2025 - Metaphysical Fox Press) has hit the streets! The book made its public debut on March 13 during the open mic portion of the monthly Pour Me A Poem reading series in Mansfield, MA - my poetry home base. People laughed at the funny part, so that's a good sign. 

In addition to various other open mic events, I'm lining up some feature reading spots in the next few months, where I'll be reading more from Muster, as well as whatever else feels right at the moment. There will be copies of the book for sale at all these events!

Here's what I've got so far:

April 23 - Wednesday - 5pm - at Tide Pool Books in Worcester MA, a special edition of the Poetorium which usually happens a few miles south of there in Southbridge. I'll be one of three feature readers, along with Laura DiCaronimo and Fadi Yousef, along with an always fantastic open mic and the Poetorium's usual mix of wonderful weirdness.

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May 17 - Saturday - time TBD - at the Taunton Art Jam in Taunton MA. I'll be reading along with the other three members of Uncommon, my friends John L. Holgerson, Elizabeht Birch and Mark Walsh. We're a group of writers/poets who provide feedback and advice to each other, and who are beginning to explore the possiblities of performing together. This will be our first public appearance as Uncommon, so you want want to miss it. We'll have books for sale as well.

 "Taunton Art Jam is an opportunity for people of all ages to immerse themselves in multiple forms of art in a relaxed and fun environment.  There is live music, dancing, painting, drawing, sculpture, artist exhibits, local literature, artist & craft vendors, food vendors, and sidewalk chalk." 

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May 31 - Saturday - 1pm - at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival in Salem MA, as part of a six-hour event called The Poetry-go-round. Over the course of the six hours, six different poetry series and venues from around the state will be featured, and I'm proud to be part of the contingent representing Pour Me A Poem, along with Wayne-Daniel Berard, Sara Letourneau and Tess Gordon. Exact location not yet determined, but it will be outdoors somewhere in the downtown area. Stay tuned for more specifics.

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August 14 - Thursday - 7pm - at Anomaly Poetry's AHA night reading in downtown New Bedford MA. It's part of larger neighborhood event, so come early and check out the vibe. This will be my first AHA Night, but I understand it's a wild time. Includes an open mic following my feature reading, held in the Co-Creative Center.

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Be sure to check back here regularly for more news!

Divided (previously published in Cat Ladies Against Fascism from Anomaly Poetry)

 Divided

Oh, America! You carry the burden of the words of your founders,
All men are created equal, perhaps, but destined for inequality, certainly.
 
Oh, America! Land of plenty, in which countless thousands starve in
Tent cities or sleep fitfully on your sidewalks, discarded and alone.
 
Oh, America! Land of the free who squander their freedom
On trivialities and self-destruction and hatred of the ‘other.’
 
Oh, America! Home of the brave who cower in the comfort
Of their homes, anesthetized by the ghost-light of televisions and computer screens.
 
“Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”
Never were less sincere words
inscribed on such a monument.
 
Oh, America! In all the annals of time, has there ever been a more hypocritical nation,
Whose reality was less in tune with it’s supposed constitution?
 
Oh, America! Can we truly not afford to care for our sick, our old,
Our heroes, while always finding the funds for the next bomb or plane or ship-of-war?
 
Oh, America! How can we justify the obvious fact that our athletes
And movie stars are worth more to us than our children?
 
Oh, America! Where is your heart, where your sympathy and compassion,
Where your so-called love for your brothers and sisters?
 
This house, so long divided against itself,
Somehow still stands
But for how long, and for whose benefit?

Snake Oil Cabinet

Snake Oil Cabinet
            
In days of old the snake
oil salesman travelled
the backroads and country sides,
horse-drawn, pulling
behind him his wagon
full of nostrums, creams,
lotions, dried leaves,
charming the rubes with promises
of relief from their suffering.
 
Today he occupies 
the highest office
in the land, beamed into every
living room, office,
even the palm of every hand.
 
With oratory banished,
crudity mistaken for honesty,
he installs his cabinet
full of charmless
fear-mongers, greased
and ready to sell or be sold.
 
It’s the age of marketing
and branding,
led by a spray-tanned
billboard advertising nothing
but his own emptiness.
 
The line between news
and entertainment
obliterated long ago,
the con artists now assail
the line between government
and salesmanship,
and no one stands a chance.

Eat Here, Get Gas

This poem was part of Visual Inverse, an ekphrastic collaboration between the Plymouth Center for the Arts and Poetry the Art of Words. The piece of art which inspired it is also called "Eat Here, Get Gas", and is a multimedia collage created by Becky Haletky. 

Please click here to visit Becky's website: http://www.artbecko.com/

 

Eat Here, Get Gas

Crushed stone crunches under rubber tires, signal bell rings
once, then again, as a pair of overalls, ‘Billy’ stitched
on the chest patch, asks, “Fill it? Check the oil?”
“How’s the coffee?” I nod toward the door.
“Strong enough to defend itself,” grin drier than gravel.
 
Inside, air thick with sweet maple syrup, sizzling pork fat,
and coffee — nutty and bitter and welcoming coffee.
Already filling a mug for me before the door has closed behind me,
hair the color and shape of an Egyptian pyramid balanced precariously,
she’s shouting into the kitchen, “Crack a pair, keep ‘em sunny,
hash and toast, don’t burn it,” her voice holds everything
that’s ever been worthwhile, the inside of the world in her eyes.
 
Her patch to match Billy’s, “Grace,” fits her as well as her dress
once did, before life filled her and damn near killed her, as it does.
I settle on a stool, cracked plastic over too-thin cushion,
“Let me have some pancakes and bacon.”
Grace hollers to the chef, “I need a stack, three
strips on the side. And tell Horace that Ford needs
an oil change when he finishes washing those dishes.”
 
It could be thirty miles outside of Bangor or
deep in Appalachia, a swamp west of Tallahassee or
a mile high on the road out of Denver,
the only difference the roundness of the vowels,
the temperature of the morning air.
‘Eat Here, Get Gas,’ a joke as old as beans,
as true as biscuits and gravy, as honest as Billy and Grace.
A stop here refuels more than your car.
Never pass up a chance to be filled.