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When I was growing up a boy
The races all were known
By color that their skin evoked,
The shading and the tone.

The natives of America
Were known for their red skin,
The Asians from the Orient,
Their shade a yellow spin.

Hispanics every shade of brown,
And Africans were black,
And marauding Europeans were
White for pigment lacked.

None of course the color called,
‘Twas just a useful tool –
Pointed out the origins
Not meant as being cruel.

Offensive I found at the time
A simple child’s toy –
Crayola Crayons multi-pack
That brought so many joy.

For inside each and every box
A color wrapped and bound;
Labeled with the signature,
A crayon flesh was found.

As a child, I found this strange
As everybody’s skin
Was flesh of equal quantity
Though many not my twin.

The crayon mimicked white man’s skin,
Not yellow, red or black –
As if the only flesh there was
Was that upon my back.

I doubt that crayon bears that name
Today as once it did,
But it disturbed me at the time
When I was just a kid.

Identifying people now
By color isn’t right,
But somehow through the changing times
I’m referenced yet as white.

So heretofore I call on you
To tag me with the hash –
No longer reference me as white
But simply Euro-trash.

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It Should Be Easy

Two months ago
A schoolhouse burned down
Where the Amish kids go,
Learn syntax and nouns.

Now it’s rebuilt
And ready to go –
The kids will return,
Their lunchbox in tow.

If the same thing occurred
In the public domain,
Years would go by
And budgets would strain.

Surveyors and lawyers
And ten engineers –
Architect planners
And twelve financiers.

Taxes would rise
And meetings convene;
Decades might pass
‘Til a building was seen.

While the Amish just gather
And the work is begun –
Collectively factor
To get the job done.

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Marineland 1987


In Rancho Palos Verdes
Marineland once was king –
A million folks would visit
Through winter from the spring.

More lab than entertainment,
Where injured sea life went
For medical attention,
Well-being to augment.

Long before the Sea Worlds
And Disney parks would grow;
Before you felt the whales
Were tortured for a show,

I stood upon the stage there
When asked if I’d permit
A killer whale meeting,
Of course I would commit.

As Corky swam up to me,
He rolled onto his side
And offered up a flipper,
A thrill I must confide.

My hand grew ever smaller
When placed upon his limb –
My significance diminished,
My substance start to dim.

The universe grew bigger,
My place within it small;
Drawn into perspective,
Rearranged my sense of all.

Financially it suffered,
It sold a time or two
To studios of cartoons
And a grocery chain revue.

Then one day it shuttered,
Corky and his mate
Were shipped to San Diego
At night within a crate.

Everyone was fired,
They boarded every door;
A statue they called Bubbles,
Marineland’s troubadour,

Dismantled into storage,
A sentinel no more;
And the business of the whales
To disrepute would soar.

But Rancho Palos Verdes
Has tried throughout the years
To recommission Bubbles,
Somewhere on their piers;

In honor of her history,
The nature of the work
The city once had hosted
And in their memories lurk.

Thirty years since passing
Now Bubbles has returned
To stand outside in tribute
To all that was adjourned.

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Swim to the bottom
Of the deep blue sea
Where darkness prevails
In primordial tea,

Where from the great depths
Awoke the life forms,
To the surface were summoned
By lightning and storms,

To crawl from the shores
To the forest and sand
To populate earth
Then across the earth fanned.

While gathering clusters
Developed in time
Establishing rules,
Some rhythm and rhyme.

‘Til homo erectus
Enveloped the globe,
Exerting the powers
Of its temporal lobe.

Displacing the creatures,
Besieging their land,
Destroying the jungles
To create a wasteland.

In a blink of an eye,
The earth on the brink –
From the origin sea
To humans extinct.

The gathering storm
Poised with the will –
The end in the sights
Of the weapons that kill.

And there at the bottom
Of the sea that gave birth,
In dormancy waits
The evolution of earth.

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Epic Battle

An elderly couple
In Novato out west,
Had their penchant for living
Put to the test.

A man of near ninety,
At home with his wife,
Went out to do chores
And encountered the strife.

The garage he would enter
Where quickly he found,
A squirrel enraged
From nowhere would bound.

Onto his face
It leapt and began
To claw and to bite
The frightened old man.

Battling back
He’d throw the beast down,
But straight away back
It was back on his crown.

The shrieking alerted
His missus who came
Dislodging the squirrel
With her broom and her aim.

The rodent incensed
Scurried up to her face
Shredding the skin
‘Til it looked like red lace.

Bloodied in battle
The man would grab hold
Of the tail to fling it
To the floor where it rolled.

With a chance to escape
They rushed through the door
Where the neighbors had gathered
From all the uproar.

The tattered condition
Of the couple made clear,
They needed a doctor
From a hospital near.

Into the car
Of a neighboring friend,
It was off to seek help,
A means to a mend.

It’s hard to believe
That a beast of three pounds,
Could take on a couple
And go a few rounds,

But a search underway
For a squirrel unhinged
Whose malicious attack
On the peaceful infringed.

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JFK: 50 Years On

He’s grown beyond reality,
Revised with changing history;
By death, his stature would enhance
From meeting fate and circumstance.

By breadth of hair election won,
Richard Nixon had undone;
No overwhelming margin gained,
In equal parts, loved or disdained.

Failure met his victories
So in a moment he would seize,
Went to Dallas, shore support,
Thwart dissension in his court.

Intersecting what’s beyond,
He met a bullet, they would bond.
And in the disbelief that day,
Was born anew, one J.F.K.

Fifty years on down the pike,
The myth has grown ’til he’s Christ-like;
The hope and promise of the soul
Of all mankind to make it whole.

What drives the need to so inform
A legend from a mortal form –
Awakening a primal scream
From deep within a nightmare dream.

Perhaps a measure of our lives,
Ensuing years, our own archives;
A measure of the road we’ve come
In fifty years, the quantum sum.

A place in time we’re anchored to,
The path we passed to present through;
The could’ve, should’ve, would’ve been –
When futures were of if and when.

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Joshua Goverman,
A wannabe thief,
Discovered too late
It would lead him to grief.

Bill Bratcher, a tech,
A copper spool found
Dislodged from his truck
And the copper unwound.

So he phoned for the cops
Who arrived on the scene
And write a report
Of the copper unseen.

While sifting for clues
A finger reveal
That departed the hand
That the copper would steal.

The finger though severed
Still carried a print
They cleared it of wire
And blew away lint.

Then rolling it out
On a popsicle stick,
They lifted the print,
Quite surprisingly quick.

Compared it to files,
They fingered the catch –
Joshua Goverman,
A nine-fingered match.

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Andy Griffith r.i.p.

In the town of Mayberry
Where everyone’s life
Was simple and pure
Unfettered by strife,

A sheriff called Andy,
All fairness and truth,
Dispensed moral values
On the aged and the youth.

Reflecting the ethics
Since withered and died,
Of honesty, kindness,
Respect in your stride.

A character close
To the man who portrayed
The decent and just,
He gently displayed.

Consigned to the place
Where memories stay,
A simpler time
And a simpler way.

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A Little Bit Odd

He’s a little bit odd,
Most would agree,
From videos posted
On YouTube to see.

He started out simply
By killing some cats
And filming the acts
Of stabbings and splats.

With textural notes
Within which he claimed
To love eating flesh
Of the wounded and maimed.

Repetition can bore
And his hunger and thirst
For the bloody and the gore
Took a turn for the worst.

He turned on his lover,
A man that he knew,
And poked him with ice picks
Soon covered with goo.

Then mailed his parts
To the powerfully fixed –
A hand and a foot
And other parts mixed.

And he filmed the occasion
And dubbed in his voice
To be certain we knew
How sick was his choice

Then fled from the country,
The Canadian front,
While Interpol searched
In a worldwide hunt.

At a café was spotted,
A long way from home,
An Internet café
On the web that he combed.

He’s on his way home
Where soon he’ll report –
Where justice is measured
In Canada’s courts.

No longer a threat
Will he further pose –
His days of dissection
Sadly come to a close.

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Rabid Assault

It must have been something
To relish and see –
A naked man eating
A face like it’s brie!

On a Florida causeway
A naked man sat
On another man eating
Like a rabid fruit bat.

Gnawing his face
Ripped the flesh from the bone,
Tearing and chewing
The victim sprawled prone.

A cop happened by
And urged the man, “Stop!”
But the feasting continued,
Ignoring the cop.

So the cop took a shot
That failed to phase –
The naked man eating
Continued his ways.

So he popped off some more
‘Til the man fell away –
His appetite sated
By the catch of the day.

Half a face later
The victim was saved –
He’s facing some issues
As the future’s now paved.

Now they’re digging through dirt
To discover the cause
Of a man that attacks
With his teeth and his jaws.

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