carrying the cross poems

8/4/2019 Carrying the Cross Poems

1/22

Bruce [email protected]

poetslife.blogspot.com

Carrying the Cross

We have a bible based church.You might want to join us.Said the restoration proAs I hauled what remainedOf my familys belongingsFrom the house we just bought,Just fixed-up for 18 months,And finally felt was home

Before the defective Black & DeckerLawnmower caught fire and destroyed it.

Were a Christian communityOf very caring people based on Gods Word.I kept hauling out books, clothes, toys,Poetry books Id been published inAnd the flotsam of whatever was leftThat the fire, smoke, firefighters, and waterHad not destroyed or completely damaged.

Were nearby and wed like your familyTo come too to learn about Jesus planFor their lives after such a catastrophe.I wanted to scream at him that JesusAlso carried a cross on his best day,And that if he were really a Christian,Or even as a businessman who didWhat his company paid him to do,Hed stop prattling on and help meCarry out a few possessions.

But having almost met Jesus that day,Literally,I bit my tongue, grabbed another armfulOf my childrens clothes,Felt the mercy and love everywhere,And smiled instead.
mailto:[email protected]:[email protected]:[email protected]


2/22

Black and Decker Cordless

In the wet daysWhen the sky opened

And dumped rainSo great the trees rootsCould no longer drink it

There was one hot dayWhen a fireball burst from hellAnd found an openingWhen my wife pulled a kitchen doorSearching for our youngest child

The fireball, like any criminal,

Did not care for human lifeBut punched my wife in the faceAnd burrowed into her armCreating hot liquid out of her flesh

She keened so loud and longIt threw me from our bedAnd was heard by a neighborUntil I ran to her sideThrough the river of acrid smoke

As she cried over and overGET EAMON! GET EAMON!So I ran upstairs, got EamonAnd Josh and ran back downWhere, now that she saw him alive,She was willing to break and run.

Only at the Bayview Burn UnitDid I learn she wanted me to goInto the fireball in the garageAs she had been willing to doTo rescue sweet Eamon from hell.

Alive now, the acrid smoke gone,My wife healing and my sons safe,I collapse before reality, before ruin,Before the home now paste and cindersAnd rise, rise, rise higher and higher


3/22

Over the insurance company,Over the lawn mower manufacturerThat created and sold meThe defective product that created the fireballTo see trees seeds growing in the debris

The fireball lasted an hourAnd I lost all my published poetryIn the fire and smoke and painI had my own 9/11 in that momentAnd pray no American feels such fire rain.


4/22

The Point of Cape May

It was the smell of tar,sand, heat and sun

that first awakened usin the 59 Chevy wagonafter the three-hour drivethat might as well have beenthirty hours in childtimeand therethrough the back windowhalf asleep, it appeared.

Cape May,the promise of sand and funwhere when on the two pier boardwalkwe would ask for more candy

my mother would say,Oh, just this once, I guess.Were on vacation.

Cape May,where the houseGrandmom Curley boughtwith the moneythe government gave herfor Franks deathin the Pacific in World War II,stood solid,

Victorian and massivewith five apartmentsand a wraparound porchwhere with all windowsopen for the sea breezewe would stay up lateand listen to the adultsancient stories and laughterwith no fear of correctionfor staying up too late.

Cape May,

where the massiveelectrical boxon Pacific Avenuefrightened melong before I knewwhat electricitywas capable of doingto human life.


5/22

Cape May,where old Aunt Anniegreeted you at the doorwith cheek pinchesand kisses and penniesfor the ice cream parlor next door.

Cape Maywhere time stood stillfor so many yearsI still know laughterand love and family wholejust by hearing the name.


6/22

From the Shithouse to the Penthousefor Phyllis Mary Watson Curley

"You're a good man

and a good father!"my mother proclaimedon a visit to my familyin her 77th year.

She could pronounce thisbecause she had knownme when neither could be said.

Like when she saw megagging before her

because I had swallowedhydrochloric acid and grape juicein the Fort Washington State Parkin an effort to end the painof depression's companionshipwhen joy had disappearedfrom my current galaxyand future galaxies beyond.

She was the one who yelledat the intake nurseat the Abington Hospitalwho said, "He looks fine to me."that "He's suicidal and you willget a doctor to examine him NOW."

She had taken me in whenI drove my longest165 milesfrom Washington, DC to Phillyin the 11 p.m. darkness of theVA Hospital parking lotat 50 Irving Street in DC,with all my worldlypossessions put in my carby my wife, brother and sister in lawafter a manic episodewhere I came to learn that the"in sickness and in health"part had limits and did notmean it applied to every sickness


7/22

"You're going to have to work!"is what she told me in her voicethat established tough love longbefore it was national policy,

and work I did to recreate my life.

As America is the land ofendless opportunities to failand endless opportunities to succeed,now I sit in this big houseon a huge piece of landin what is the American dreammade flesh and wonder howI went from the shithouseof several visits to a mental hospital

to the penthouse of this estate.

And a saying my mother wouldsometimes scream when she walked inafter mornings and lunchtimes as a waitressso she could always be home when wegot home from school comes back to me:"This place looks like a shithouse!"she would yell and we would scrambleto straighten it up and clean it to meether standards and when it was all doneto her satisfaction she would state,"We may not have money,but we can still have lots of class."

To any in a mental hospital patientreading this, through the drugs,through the emotional fogof whatever is ripping your guts into spaghetti,please remember what my mother said,"We may not have money,but we can still have lots of class!"and recovery, done right, is one of theclassiest acts any human can achieve.


8/22

Josh, I Love You More

Why dont you ever tell me you love me!?

You asked after I castigated youFor being selfish and not allowingYour mother and I to drive your 4 by 4In tomorrows fierce snowstorm.

I tell you that such words are easy to sayAnd that Im not the kind who saysI love you every five minutes;That Im the kind that shows loveBy paying the mortgage and other billsAnd give you numerous other examples:

Like when your mother and IGot you to go to a danceWhen you didnt want to,And how I hugged youAnd said I loved youAs you went out the door.

But the truth isyou have me.My father never said he loved menot once.(Few in his Great Depression-WWII generationHad that luxury, I understand.)So in that way, Im damaged goods.

Never taught how to say, I love you.I choke on the very phrase in my heartLong before it ever reaches my lips.But after years of work, I can write it.So here it is, Josh:

In the same way I answerYour 6-year old brother EamonWhen he says, I love you.But I love you more.Even if I cant say it,Thats the diamond-hard truth.


9/22

Let Go, Jimmy, Let Go

Jimmy Ozga died, I lived.Ive never figured that out.But that has been a central fact

Of my life for thirty years.

The day was pit-of-hell hot,Humidity dripped from our bodiesAnd soaked our clothingUntil the clothesWere another layer of skin

And we positioned the ladderFar from the telephone lineWhich in this case was 3 feet

And pulledAnd the sound of aluminumOn aluminum screeched outAnd we pulled againAnd it all happened so fastAnd the buzzing startedAnd their faces contortedAnd they conducted electricityFrom the telephone lineInto the concrete below their feetAnd all I could say, hemp ropeStill in hand was,Man, did you guys feel that?But they could not respond,Their faces thrust back,Spittle and flem oozingFrom their mouthsAnd it all happened so fastI pushed JimmyBut he was so electricI was thrown backAnd I screamed and screamedLET GO! JIMMY LET GO!ANDY LET GO! LET GO!But the current had them in its gripLike Satan himself can grab usAnd my brother rushedFrom the back of the houseWe were paintingGrabbed a blanket


10/22

From Andys paint wagonThrew it at themBut it only bounced off themUntil Andy fell to the sidewalkAnd Jimmy continued to conduct

Until he fell, too,And the ladder was burningA hole through his thighSo my brother grabbed one armI grabbed the other,And we both pulled him freeOf the searing ladderAnd he let out a death gaspAnd the Philadelphia Electric troubleshooterWas there before the ambulance evenAnd my brother said,

Why dont you have your electric linesunderground like the do in Washington?To which the PE troubleshooter responded,Why dont you learn how to handleYour equipment? and my brotherWent to slug him and I interceptedThe punch and held my brotherAway from the PE troubleshooter.

Thirty years later,As I reflected on that day,I only know this:Jimmy died and I livedAnd Andy had his feet burned off.Ive carried survivors guilt sinceAnd the only people Ive felt comfortableRelating that story to ever sinceHave been Vietnam veteransWho have been in battleAnd know the scarsThat never show outsideBut rock the inside world harderThan any metaphysical earthquakeRocks a tectonic plate.


11/22

Light and Dark

You want them be young forever,Chiseled features, warrior physiques,Smiles that come from somewhere

So deep down in the inner universeOr so far out in the outer universeThe smile remains on their facesLike the light from debrisWhen their spacecraftDisintegrates in the skyAfter they reenter the atmosphere

Like Icarus,Who despite being told by his fatherDeadalus not to fly too close to the sun,

So enraptured by the technology of flightHe flew too high and was burned by the sunOr other ancient Greek godsWho had such humanFailings even though they were godsSome human failing,Some original sin of the spiritStill operates in the corrupt contractor,Who worships money over scienceAnd religion or even his family,Or the lazy and incompetent bureaucratWho values getting away with doingAs little as possibleAnd the half-ass job a sterling performance,That reminds us,So many years after the ancient Greeks,The human element,The shining holy light of the astronauts,The snake-like evil of the greedy businessmanAnd his sidekick, the creepy government bureaucrat,In addition to the software, computers and technology,Still rule human space flight and the result,Human debris flying through space back to earth,Is as predictable as space flight is not.


12/22

Lost

The love we remember the longestis the love that was never returned.

W. Somerset Maugham

There are mencondemned to live lifewith a certain knowledgethat they knew a loveso deep and full oncethat everything sincewill always bethe waterwheel

beneath the waterfall.

It is disturbing to rememberhow I held you mid nightand felt you enter my soullike a spirit co-mingledand to know the depthstwo people can plumbwhen the false facesare stripped offin the confines of loveand truth and trust.

Such knowledge comes backat the oddest of times.Married to another now,I am no longer comfortableknowing I once knewsuch happiness, or thatthere is a love so deepthat, once entered,only deathwill make go awayor restore.

To escape thinkingof such conundrumsdo men gladly go crazy.


13/22

Joseph Mengele's Bones

I am Joseph Mengele,won't you claim my bones?

You, of course, remember mefor my scientific experimentsthe Jewish intellectualshave made sure you know of that,I knowbut do you knowthat I once wrote children's booksfor my Dear little Rolfand sent poetry to my beautiful wife?(this was AFTER Auschwitz, by the way)that in Buenos Aires,

I was a regular patron of the operaand dined at the finestArgentinean restaurants?that I even contributedto Eva Peron's bank accountwith the proceedsof Jewish gold taken from themines I dug in their molars?

It is so easy for you to see meas the Angel of Death.The Jews made sure of that.

But can you see me as I also was,as a responsible and devoted father,as the writer of children's books,or as an avid opera goer?Like me, many Nazi's were, you know.But, ah, that is the side you refuse to see,the side of you that is me,the more important side you deny.But until you understand my human side,how can you ever claim my bones?

I want you to knowthat I was a cultured man,the most culturedin the most cultured of cultures.The Mossad will not tell youthat on May 11, 1960 they kidnappedAdolph Eichman and he refused to cooperateand tell them where I was to be found.


14/22

He was loyal, that Eichman, the loyalist,But I knew of Paraguay.It had no extradition treaty with GermanyOr with Israel for that matter.When I read of Eichman's captureI went to Brazil, in my own way, mind you.

I was way ahead of Ishua Arial.Willem Sussen, that scum stool pigeon,sold me out to those dirty Jewsfor a mere $5,000! He was a fool!Our Argentinean network would havegiven him 10 times that to shut up!I am Josef Mengele,won't you claim my bones?

But that Mossad was a groupof typical pushy Jews always at my back!While they looked and looked for me,

I dedicated secret love poemsto Getta in my diary.I had an affair in Brazil,did you know that?Of course not.The Jews want youto know me as a monster,as a myth, some superhuman villain.As if I was any differentfrom any doctor or scientistOr any of you, even.My diary was all I had

to correct all the lies the Jewsand their friendstell about my work at Auschwitz.

And then one dayeven my Dear son RolfBelieved the Jews and their lies!But he, like all my family, stayed loyal.Like Eichman. They said nothing.And the reporters?They dug up Wolfgang Ehrhardt's graveand they thought it was me!?

Only the Jews and their forensic expertsdiscovered my little ruse.The reporters bought it.They reported that I'd drownedAnd here was my body.The media, partially createdby that genius Josef Goebbles,repeats the lie until it is truth.But those clever British,


15/22

with their Anglo-Saxon bloodfigured it out with genetic testing.My family remained loyaland kept its code of silence to the end.

At the twilight of my life

I went back to conductingillegal abortions in San Paolo.I suffered depressionthis is truebut I was loyal.And when Einstein is not remembered,The name of Josef Mengele will be.At least, until someoneclaims my bones as their own.

My son manufacturersbeautiful children's toys.His wife is a twin.

With my ancient Teutonic familyGunsburg should have beenmy final resting place,But I am packed in plastic bagsAt the Forensic Institute of San Paolo, Brazil.My family has neverclaimed my bones as their ownand given me a proper burial.

But what about you?I am Josef Mengele,won't you claim my bones

and give me a proper burial?


16/22

My Wife Makes a Sandwich

She directs a kitchen orchestra:To the left, celery, salt, pepper and pickles,

To the right, tins of fresh tuna and mayo,In the middle, knives, forks, spoons,And the show begins.

Hands fly about with utensilsIn a graceful, artistic and athletic motionAs celery is diced, tuna is mixed with mayo,Salt and pepper is sprinkled, gingerly

And wheat bread is selected and dressedTo the final act of creation,

To be spread in one holy movementTo bread, and spread and respread

Until satisfied, she looksThe way a master carpenter stares backTo examine a doorway one last timeTo make sure it will bear the burden of life

Me, I just make a sandwich.Slap together meat and cheeseBetween two slices of bread.My wife orchestrates a sandwich,And in doing so, makes new life.


17/22

Songbird Euphonious

Theres a songbird that singsLike a poet, early each morning

For hour after hourFrom the highest branchOf the white birchIn my summer backyard.

Years ago, I hung a bird houseMade of a hollow tree trunkOn the back deck that sat emptyUntil a sound came from it,A solo melody so seductive,All daily worries retreat.

Small, too small for evenFiercer birds like robins or blue jaysTo battle with for territory,It sings, always alone,An euphonious trillLong and rhythmic and sweet.

Im not sure if it singsIn hopes of attracting a mateIn praise of a mate long gone,Just to create beautiful soundFor the sake of beautiful sound,Or to celebrate the act of creation.

But this very act of making soundSo effectively day after dayForces me to measure myselfAgainst a standard of devotionAn inch and a half tallThe size of a mountain.


18/22

Top Secret

Dedicated to John ONeillThe FBI agent who identified the Al-Queda networkAnd was drummed out of the FBI for making it an issueAnd died in the World Trade Center on 9/11Rescuing others after he got out safely.

They deniedYour top-secret security clearance.I wanted to tell you before anyone else.Can you think of anything?Mental health, arrest record, alcohol?My friend who had tried to hire me

On a government contract tells me.

Sure. All three.I answer. I told them all of it,But it was so many years agoI thought it wouldnt matter to them.

Its a shame.I could have done a great job for themRewriting their horribleDefense Security Service websiteAnd Employee Personnel Security Questionnaire

So human beings could have actually used it.

Thats all history now.The hollow men still rule.They dont believe in redemptionOr that America is the land of second chances.They have their rules and their rationaleI think to myself, aware my friend is still on the phone.Im grateful for your help. Its them, not you. I say.And put a phone weighing 500 poundsFrom the past back in its cradle.

Listen well, all you GS4s and GS5sSitting self-satisfied, taking 2 hour lunchesAnd dreaming of that fat government pension:When I attempted to fill out yourEmployee Personnel Security QuestionnaireAnd clicked the Help button,The link was broken.When I sent you an e-mail


19/22

Telling you it was broken,Despite your auto-response that

I am forwarding your concernTo the EPSQ Subject Matter ExpertTo address your concern.No one ever responded to my request.

Listen well.When I visit Jihad UnspunThe Jihadis gold-plated website,All their links work fine.They dont even have a Help tab.Their website works so smoothlyThey dont need one.Some of the $500 millionThe House of Saud gave themMust have gone into their WebsiteBecause it achieves the seamlessIntegration your website never does.

Even though you hollow menMay set the standardsAnd rules and regulationsWhich keep me and mineOut of your very select,Very narrow minded,And very secret society of mutual approval,Have never asked me and never will,Im going to clue you in.

Its not me you need fear.I bought into the American systemSo deeply I will take the rejection and eat it.

Not so the Jihadis.They dont go throughTwo year background checks.They can know each otherThrough a mosque anywhere in the worldAnd they can join a worldwide networkOf money, passports, safe houses, drivers,

Employers, governments, and cells.

As they demonstratedOn September 11th, 2001,They are unconventional, creative,And unlike the U.S. government peopleWho oppose them and claim to think


20/22

In the clich outside the box way,The jihadis actually do think that way.Like me.

But Ill never get to fight themBecause I have been judged

To not be inside the box enoughTo get to be outside the box.

Let me put it to you this way.If youre most dangerous nightmareWere to come true,The one that causes youTo stare at the ceiling at 4 a.m.With bile pouring throughYour gut thinking about it,

And it was a matter

Of courage and creative thinkingAnd unconventional actionThat was going to save your ass,

Who would YOUWant next to youIf your next plane rideWas high jacked byjihadis,

Who would risk his lifeTo keep you safe,That government drone

You work with each dayWith the top secret clearanceWho follows all the rulesOr a bipolar, PTSD, dry drunk like me?


21/22

The Wedding of Trees

Just when I thoughtmy marriage was twin oaks,side-by-side, backs to the world,

outsides out, insides in,it hits meit's much, much deeper.

The better analogy

the correct analogyfor this marriage 15 years inis the banyan tree

roots as branchesbranches as roots

intertwined into each other.indistinguishable from each other

what I thoughtwere two separate trees

is in fact merely one all the veins intertwinedall the blood pumping through

is one sacred flowfrom the same source so that

without even knowinghow or why or when

I have grown into my wifeinto her lifebloodinto these childrenwho continue the banyan treeso that generation into generation

it continues vine into trunkinto branch into root which,

with water, sun, mineraland the holy breathe of lifeblows seed to new grounds

that goes to new soil,new banyan trees,new life that,when it is time


22/22

for this banyan treeto break into minerals,the job has been done so quietly

the twin oak trees

who became one banyan treebecome millionsplanted on planetsas yet unknown.

carrying the cross poems

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