Sunday, June 16, 2019


Here's a poem from the 1970s that was included in my latest book, Another Way To Play: Poems 1960-2017:


The suffering in 1942 as Spring
breaks open my mother for me.
In Europe the Jews, the Communists,

the Queers, the proud and
loving Rom are brutalized
again. The Irish in me is
emphasized, not the German,
not the Gypsy
I hope is there.

“You can’t write books” my father said
before I did, and after. At 75
me 32 he warns “Raise your children
right, get them through college
okay, then you can write your books.”

He knows a lot I don’t. I know
a lot he never thought of. We share 

ittle of that, though we share a lot.
Not much through words, but gestures
and the looks of him I carry always.
We are afraid of each other
like con men, or lovers, we know
we can hurt.

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