God is Our Anchor

Dedicated to Harvey Milk, to Heath
Ledger, to Judy Garland, and to
Sean Penn.

Both at earth's golden and at Eden's
pearly gate,
God tells me to turn the other cheek,
but He must not look at what I see,
or He would not ask me to do that.
If He'd just take a closer peek,
He'd see that I feel all alone,
and things appear to be so bleak.
There is so much grief and loss,
so much devastation and life seems
to be such a travesty,
which God Himself does not attone.
Does He not feel what I feel?
Does God not hear what I say?
Although other hearts are open wide,
other minds appear to be so closed.
Everywhere, no matter at what time
or where I am,
my faith and hope, in God, I confide,
from Atlantic to San Francisco Bay,
God tells me that, if I accept Him
and put my belief and trust in Him,
that I'll be free and I'll be saved.
Why, God, do I feel so cast aside?
Why, God, do I feel so left behind?
I am no longer just a cork in the
water and floating nowhere.
I am driftwood no longer.
I am not proud, nor am I boastful,
one step backwards and unsteady,
but progressing two steps forward,
with my patience and my kindness,
I am willing and I am ready.
Yes, God loves me.
His inherent goodness tells me so.
God always guards and protects me,
and He gets me where I need to be.

God made a man, and God made a
woman.
If God wanted Adam and Steve, what
would have happened to Eve?
A square peg won't fit in a round hole.
Even if it could, we wouldn't accept it.
It's never been done.
Besides, we've never done it like that.
And, what would happen, if the round
holes began holding hands, or started
hugging and kissing?
Could we still treat round holes like
square pegs, or be forced to accept
or adapt?
Round holes don't have babies.
Round holes don't get pregnant.
Majority rules. They should act like
they're square, even when they're not.
We would prefer that the round holes
find a way to be square.
Then, they would be forced to accept
or adapt.
Round holes are round holes.
Square pegs are square pegs.
It's not our problem that the round
holes don't fit.
We don't want to be forced into
deciding whether square pegs
are round holes, or whether
round holes are square.
All square pegs are designed to fit
into female plugs.
Round holes are not designed to fit
into male plugs.
Female plugs don't have an Adam's
apple, they're supposed to be soft,
they're not supposed to be tough.
Everybody's supposed to conform.
I'm a round hole, married to a female
plug. I'm in a quandry of design and
selection, but it's only natural.
And, if it wasn't, Heath Ledger would
have married a man. 

It's not about averages, numbers or percentages.
It's about fighting for what's right.
Connecticut serves as a beacon light, a rainbow
of hope and promise, for the rest of America and
the world.
With our heads held high, seeking guidance and
protection from the Highest Power in the sky,
taking one step backward, but holding steady,
taking two steps forward, making progress slowly
and surely. We're getting there.
With gay pride's flag unfurled and our determination,
we'll reach the finish line.
Because it's not about winning or losing, but how we 
run the race.
Depending on how one looks at winning, the rabbit
supposedly wins the race, but the turtle still comes
in. And, you know, there's just something so awe-
inspiring and empowering about that turtle!

Awakening

Felino Soriano

Running late smack-dab dewy kisses

Sun finally persuaded to rise

Yawning horizon crying out loud

Dawn’s early birds high-pitched chirps

                             Thinking we were we weren’t

                             Unreasonable existence striving for recognition

                             Almost but never quite knowing

                             Desperate to understand unraveled secrets

                                                            Passion flowers given cold shoulder

                                                            Crisp air exhaling frosty breath

                                                            Bellies tickled by icy fingertips

                                                            Daybreak navels turned innie outed

Crosswalk stoplight stuck on red

Amber tiger’s eyes lying in wait

Envious green on the blink

Buckling pavement flipping sewer lids

                             Once was wasn’t ever really

                             Dead man’s float sunken hope

                             Stillborn mummies wrapped in transparency

                             Embalming ointment soaking through gauze

                                                            The first of many goodbyes

                                                            Vowing allegiance to nightshade dreams

                                                            Moonbeams hiding behind own shadows

                                                            Missing stars replaced by scabs

Dr. Charles Frederickson – www.poeartry-combo.com

AT THE NURSING HOME

A volunteer at the nursing home,

I clean the vinyl binders

That hold the patients’ records.

With tedium and chemicals

And a single-edged razor

I scrape away labels,

Layer upon layer,

The names of saints departed,

Those no longer with us--

Casual euphemisms

For the everydayness of death.

Red stickers marked “No Code” I leave in place,

A cryptic signal to describe

The deal struck in places like this

Between common sense and guilt.

Inside the cover is a sign-out sheet:

On some there are entries describing

Trips home for Christmas,

Rides in the country to see the dogwood.

For others the pages are as blank as the stares

In the wheelchairs that line the dayroom wall.

In case of emergency:

Here is a detailed itinerary of a niece’s trip to Europe ;

In another, a son says, “Call my boss.”

Some binders are packed with the minutiae of

Emended diets, medications,

An inventory of complaints harbored in

Querulous minds with nothing else to do.

For others a simple diagnosis,

The words few, hopeless.

I scrape on,

Deeper into the agglomerate tape and glue:

Soon the binders will be clean, neat, uniform,

Like death’s own Horatian symmetry, equity.

I come at length,

As of course I knew I would,

To my mother’s name.

INTIMATION

I love the certainty of a Baptist funeral:

We will meet again.

Some Protestants hedge their bets:

It may be, we feel, we think, we hope…

Still, absent our neighbors’ faith,

We surely have nothing to lose

From betting on the World to Come.

CHESS MATCH

It is a battle of wits, a chess match

We are not going to win,

Our every move countered by a foe

Whose cunning and persistence we cannot outlast.

We have driven miles, spent vast sums

Plotting our next gambit.

But knights can rook bishops,

Baffles to not baffle, and

Extenders to not outstrip his reach.

Pawns, we watch the gray squirrel

Feed happily on sunflower meaties,

Hanging upside down on the tube feeder:

Checkmate.

IN-LAWS

I was thinking of the parents

Of my daughters’ husbands,

Of differences born of place and time,

Ages, accents, causes espoused,

Things held tenuously in common.

What would they make of each other?

I tried to picture conversations, postures,

The small, awkward pleasantries of social congress.

What occasions would there be?

I could only think of one.

HAIKU: FOR ABOVE GROUND TESTING

Last issue announced:

A sad moment for poets.

Thanks and all the best.

Robert Demaree is a retired educator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. His most recent collection of poems, Fathers and Teachers, was published April 2007 by Beech River Books and is available through Amazon.com.