Little Boy Wearing a Clown Hat, Squinting into the Sun

Little Boy Wearing a Clown Hat, Squinting into the Sun

Here I am, as a tiny boy wearing a clown hat.

My uncle Tom placed the hat on my head, turned me toward the glare of the sun and snapped the shutter on his old Kodak bellows camera.
I did not know why my uncle had such a strange collection of hats.

This morning I discovered that his father-in-law rented costumes from a little room in his home. It was something he began during the Great Depression to make a little extra income. Some costumes he and his wife made, others they found, or bought cheaply. They weren't all clown suits. If you needed a gorilla suit, he was your local source. Witch? Cowboy? He had all the classics. There was even a two part horse costume. My parents rented that one, mistakenly thinking it might be fun.

Two Bluebirds and an Anchor

When the circus came to town, dad woke us before dawn so we could watch the big top tent go up.  I rubbed my eyes open in anticipation, pulled up my pants, made two pieces of peanut butter toast into a quick sandwich, gulped down a glass of milk and ran to the car, beating Tom to the front seat. Until that morning the biggest spectacle I had witnessed was Sperry’s Christmas parade in downtown Port Huron and a singer riding in the roof of a car belting out: “All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth”.  This was much bigger.

The sun had just risen as dad parked in a vacant lot, turning the world an apricot color. Morning breezes were stirring up hints of what was in store.  The car window was rolled down.  I could tell from the smell of the elephant dung, an unparalleled experience was to unroll for my senses.  Although I had never before seen a living pachyderm, much less sniffed the aroma.  I knew what that smell was, with visual support.

Waterproofed canvas was the next overwhelming thing that struck my nostrils; an immense frozen lake of ochre canvas, more potent than an entire campground of new tents.  The elephants had pulled the enormous fabric pile into place and gangs of men with sledgehammers were pounding stakes into the earth.  These were rough looking men, toughs.  They might have been thugs who showed up after a hard night of drinking.  Perhaps they were sideshow performers.  Tom and I watched as the hammers swung again and again, driving anchors for the tents into the ground. As the men sweated a few began striping to the waist.  The man closest to us pulled his t-shirt over his head and turned to place it behind him.  It was at that moment we saw his tattoos: two bluebirds, on his chest, and an anchor on his left forearm.

“Hey, Dad, look!  That man has tattoos just like you.” 
The man turned and gave my dad a look.

Dad grabbed us by the hands and our little feet made twice as many steps as his, all the way to the car.   

My Father's Fireworks

My Father's Fireworks


Fireworks were illegal in Michigan,
likely still are.

My father was an outlaw.

By the headlights of our old Ford, from
the docks where ships offloaded
their cargo onto waiting railroad cars
and left spillover near the tracks,
creating near perfect coal-shadows of the
rusted boxcars,
my father filled the trunk and we
had heat in the furnace that winter night.

My father was an uncaught criminal.

In addition to stealing chunks of coal,
he smuggled fireworks over the bridge from Canada.
Not to sell or scare anyone but for his annual
Fourth of July Celebration at the beach.
Since fireworks were forbidden,
there was no municipal display to awe
the children and grown ups.
Only law breakers set off fireworks.

My father set them off on a big wooden scaffold he
had constructed on the sand.
Studded around the display were any number
of pin wheels, and rockets, and shooting stars,
and Roman candles, and those long strings of firecrackers.
As the dusk settled the neighbors gathered to watch
and say "Ohh and Ahh" and there was
never any talk about calling the cops

Trouble at the Poetry Factory

Trouble at the Poetry Factory


There is too much distraction
in the word factory. Even when
chained to their workstations,
fingers Superglued to keypad,

the elves who formerly pounded
leather into shoes all night
now focus upon the glowing
messages in their palms

fail to assemble verbs and adverbs
into functional proverbs
nouns and pronouns into
serviceable pronouncements.

I awake each morning less
thrilled and amazed by what
is left upon my laptop
the elves seem distracted

There is trouble at the poem factory

Four Waldo Canyon Poems

I wrote four poems at the time of the Waldo Canyon Fire.

My writing tends not to focus on destruction or loss.
Time has passed, so I offer the four pieces and a fifth, 
recent piece.

I thought it was over and that while friends 
had lost homes and others escaped,
I though it was all done.  

Then David called and asked the value of five artworks.
Five works of mine, on handmade paper, 
had gone up in smoke.


Like Joss Sticks

Like joss sticks or magical prayers
offered to the fire god

five artworks joined the smoke.
the next day no more homes burned

The Hand Print

When I returned home
after a month
I thought the fire had long been
squelched.

But when I faced toward the mountains
I saw smoke when what I was
looking at were a few,
low lying clouds.

I saw the whole of the front range
under the shadow of clouds,
where there were no clouds:
just the blackened burn shadow.

The hand print of the fire

Anyone missing a swimming pool?

Spotted today in the run-off ditch
behind Wendy's burger place.

You can claim it by using a big long stick.
Or maybe a heavy rock, hot-glued to a clothesline.

Come to think of it, the hot-glue probably wouldn't work.
I think one of those bricks with three holes in it might be better.

You could also tie your rope to something like
a rusty shopping cart or a tricycle that has been run over by a truck.


Off in the distance smoke and flames.