BILLY THE KID IN HEAVEN
“The Kid is here,”
said Peter to Paul:
“A poor boy, never had a chance.
His life--chance.
Don’t you remember ours, Paul?
Your road to Damascus.
Me, the cock crowing, three times.”
Catherine, his mother,
moved to Wichita, hell town.
Raised Henry, battled TB,
died in New Mexico.
Her scalawag husband
fled to New Mexico
for gold and gamble.
Alone, Henry, fifteen,
stole butter to sell for food.
The Sherriff let him go.
Clothes to cover himself
from a Chinese laundry.
Land lady sent him to jail.
Escaped, one of many.
Couldn’t find a job,
fell into crime, rustling.
Pat Garrett arrested Billy,
escaped again.
Garrett chased him down,
shot him in the back.
People said—fine looking a young man
you ever met, winning smile,
good dancer, ladies’ man.
“Yes, he qualifies,” said Peter.
“He had a hard life.
I’ll be proud to know him.
Paul, put him in the line
with the forgiven
who never had a chance.”
FOOLISH
TO BAUDELAIRE: Hypocritish reader— my fellow— my brother!
As a fifth grader I read a story
about the wind, sun, and traveler,
a battle for his will and heart.
The Wind boasted:
I can make him remove his coat.
The Sun laughed. The Wind blew hard.
The traveler wrapped his coat tighter.
The Wind sagged in the clouds,
red-faced and gasping.
The Sun smiled and smiled,
hotter and hotter.
The traveler removed his coat
and went on his merry way.
At ten years old, I asked the teacher:
Why did the wind think that would work?
She shrugged.
To think I can threaten others to change!
Looked into my heart. Do I do the same?
Does my bragging, my worldview
so consume me that I blow hard
like the foolish Wind?
Like the arrogant wolf, do I huff and puff,
try to knock the brick house down
only to plunge deep
into the boiling kettle of delusion?
Oh yes, dear reader
(thank you Baudelaire)
we do.
BLUE
ROCK
Once when the world was new,
too pristine for coin, nothing minted,
people gathered shells, stones,
bartered for necessities.
Flash forward to yesterday,
millions of years later.
We have money now,
love of it the root of all evil.
A little girl found a blue rock.
She thought it was pretty.
She rolled it around in her hand,
pretended it was a jewel,
a truly valuable jewel.
Came the sound of an ice cream truck.
Ding a ling, bring your money
and buy your joy.
The little girl proffered the blue rock.
She had no money.
The owner smiled down.
He became a small boy in his heart.
She wanted a cone.
He gave her a sundae.
She gave him the blue rock.
He offered it back.
RESPITE
What moment of pleasure
can surpass the joy
of a shower after the lawn cut.
At the moment the water
rinses the sweat,
who can want anything better?
Yet we know pleasure
follows closely who we are
at any one time in our life?
If famished, a sizzling steak
or crispy tofu would delight.
In bed as an old man,
snuggling with an old lady
versus a young buck with his doe.
The joy of a healthy child born
versus the tearful college goodbye.
A first house for a young wife
versus a homeless woman
driven to the street.
Blossoms for a stunning bride
versus flowers on a casket.
Pleasure is all
moment and circumstance
so blast the water and soak
in the joy of life.
I’M DEAD NOW
It’s time for a little reflection.
He did not mean to shoot me.
He was just shooting
because he had a gun.
The bullet did not know
where it was going.
It did not have its own mind.
It was aimed or not,
but it hit something
and went my way.
I’m dead now
so my reflections
don’t mean much.
A retired special education teacher, Vern Fein has published nearly two hundred poems on over eighty sites, a few being: *82 Review, Bindweed Magazine, Gyroscope Review, Courtship of Winds, Young Raven's Review, Nine Muses, Monterey Poetry Review, and Corvus Review.a
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