Saturday, February 10, 2018

Hand in Hand

the days like the wind
go rushing by
a blur of feelings
aging proceeds 
the end is in sight
we know not whether
to laugh or cry.

often i think of
how far we have come
as together we
walked hand in hand
through tangles of troubles
love won the day
for that love I'd do
it all over again.

how can a heart
be full, you say
how can a heart
burst with joy
only when love's
as your love - sweeping
fear and pain away.

so Happy Birthday to
my very best friend
lover and wife and
my champion
if you see a tear
'tis a sign of joy
as in love we walk on - 
hand in hand.

This poem is for the love of my life, Lois Anne.  
© 2011 by Jacob Anson.  All rights reserved.

Friday, May 19, 2017

Aliens & Immigrants

What was I to do
in the middle of the night
when the men came knocking hard
wearing starched black uniforms
with small red patches
as if they, like real soldiers
were deserving of medals for bravery
or at the least for staying alive
and now they were staying here
although I did not know them
and they did not explain
but merely looked at me curiously
as one would look at a stray cat
still I needed to relieve myself
but did not quite believe
these men in black were as benign
as they seemed to think
we thought they were
the problem was I did not wish
to wake my parents for the
tension in the house was like
wet plaster
and the only other bathroom
was on the bottom floor
which the men had commandeered
to establish a command post where
brittle new machines
cackling like old hens spat out information
and I heard names -
Jose and Jorge and Juan
Juanita and Carmen and Belinda
names of friends and relatives
and talk of fences and walls and
barbed wire
then at last I cried myself to sleep
'til just before the sun arose
when the men in black
got up to pee
their laughter muted, voices garbled
insinuations deadly as they bragged how
they had Trumped us and what would happen
if we were to try to flee.

Copyright © 2017 by Lowell A. Anderson.  All rights reserved.

Note:  This poem was cross-posted to Ocala, Central Florida and Beyond.

Friday, December 9, 2016

Shoot Someone - Ode to the NRA

Shoot Someone - Ode to the NRA

Shoot someone
that's what guns are for

Shoot the NRA
let them taste a bullet
that's what guns are for

Shoot your teacher
for all her lies

Shoot your neighbor
for his weedy grass

Shoot your kids
when they don't behave

Shoot your congressperson
for being incompetent

Shoot the illegals
for stealing your job

Shoot the minorities
who are stealing your country

Shoot the bankers
who are stealing your money

Shoot the crooks
working Wall Street

Shoot the warden
in the back

Shoot the priest for
his pretensions

Shoot the doctor
for her drugs

Shoot a gun
with hollow points

Shoot the homeless
on the street

Life is cheap
guns are cheap
shoot someone

That's what guns are for

Copyright © 2016 by Lowell A. Anderson

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Where the hell did Monday go?

I got up from my nap
this afternoon
and wondered aloud
when golf came on TV
but then I thought
there’s no golf on TV
today is Monday
My dear wife said
no it’s not, this is Tuesday
I said -
Well, where the hell 
did Monday go?

Nobody knew.

Copyright © 2016 by Lowell A. Anderson

Sunday, February 7, 2016

At the Barber Shop

I went to get a haircut
a trim, please, just above the ears
and don't forget to taper the back
I would have given more instructions
but I found it hard to speak
faced with fascist symbols
on the windows and the doors
and right there on his beak
which wobbled when
with nasal but polite invective
he trotted our the usual sneeze -
a political breeze - in an ineffectual plea
to dazzle me with all the specious
glories of the Right...

those denizens of capital
who whistle in the darkness
while dabbling in the night where they
conjure up methods to use their means to
strike the laws by which
we live and whereby we atone
with the hammer of their hairy, steely fists
so that what we thought
was made of Constitutional stone
turns into broken rubble in a stream
and idles meaninglessly down the mountainside
where the poor folks die alone.

Copyright © 2016 by Lowell A. Anderson.  All Rights Reserved.

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

That First Cup of Coffee

I left your bed this morning
when it was still warm
darkness meshed with
the cool morning air
a pool of gold
washed over the floor
the first flash of light
smashed into the window
painting a streak in your hair
I would paint you in oils
but I know not of art
when I got to the kitchen
the stove was still cold
so I made you fresh coffee
with the warmth of my heart.

Copyright © 2015 by Lowell A. Anderson
All right reserved.

Friday, February 6, 2015


The sun
 Breaks through
As a thief
In the night
Stealing the
Dark and 
The gloom.
Piercing the sky
To make room 
For the light
And the clouds
And the blues.
Erasing my
Dreams, my 
My fear of
Having to pay
 My dues.
And offers
 A new day
 A new way
To live
With myself.
So I turn 
To face 
And bask 
In its rays
As it climbs  
To the clouds
And beyond
To the place 
Where it
 Deigns to shower
The world
With its grace.

Copyright © 2015 by Lowell A. Anderson.  All rights reserved.

Monday, January 26, 2015

I Had A Silly Cat

I Had A Silly Cat

Once upon a time
I had a silly cat
My silly cat was
Oh, so fat
It couldn’t catch
A rat unless 
That rat was
Really, really slow.

My silly cat could eat
Ev’ry thing 
In sight
In the morning
And once again
At night

She’d gotten 
Kinda heavy
She was quite
A sight
One might say
She was a tub
And you'd be
Absolutely right.

So it’s not 
Surprising that
My silly
Silly cat
Is just too big
And too damn fat
To go out and
Catch a rat.

Copyright © 2015 by Lowell A. Anderson.  All rights reserved.

Note:  The photo was stolen from the files of William Kendall, who blogs here.

Saturday, January 24, 2015

Earth's Apocalypse

Earth's Apocalypse

This is not you know
A time for celebration
For fireworks
Explosions in the sky
Or dry Champagne.
It is a time when
Winds of war
Hate and terror
Sweep across
Planet Earth
When compared to
Yesterday nothing
Is the same.
Ironically crime is down
From Florida to Maine
And all the way to
That is if we believe
The media, police and
The politicians
Not that they would ever
Lie except in an
Emergency or perhaps
If they had a growing need
To put more feathers
In their nest.
One might say
It all began
In the days of Reagan
When a B-grade actor
Became president and
Gave weapons
To our friend
Osama bin Laden so
He could fight the Russians
In Afghanistan
And send them running back
To Russia thereby
Freeing up the land.
Then George the First
Called up the troops to
Fight Iraqis even though
They'd been our friends
In their fight against Iran.
But now he said
They are our enemies
And a danger
To the Saudis
Bush owed the
Saudis big-time so
He sent our troops to die
To save Kuwaiti oil
But he left Iraq too soon
Before the job was done
Which left a lot to be desired
And old Hussein in place
Which George the Younger
Thought was bad
And made him
Very mad though it is said
That he was mad
From his youth
And seldom gave a thought
To reason or to
Common sense.
So George the Younger
Went to war but sent
The young and bold and those
Who had no other options
To spill their blood again
So he could at last avenge
His daddy's dithering
Although he lied of course
About everything
Which wasn't strange at all
To those who knew him when.
Today Iraq's a hole in hell
The Middle East aflame
It might have happened anyway
But Bush is much to blame
For thousands lost their
Homes and lives
Many went insane
And in the good old USA
Instead of going to jail
Bush is given accolades
"Fare thee well," and "Hail!"
Sadly too
George left a mess
A country deep in debt
His tax cuts made the rich
Even richer yet.
Then Obama came along
Couldn't catch a break
When he tried to do
The things he couldn't do
With a Congress full of fools
People jeered
Called him a Muslim
And a Marxist too.
Republicans attacked
Fought him tooth and nail
While they left the country
To fester and to fail
So they could blame
The President
And set a precedent
Which would get them
It may be too late now
To turn this thing around with
Just two minutes left
On the Doomsday clock.
Most folks do not seem to care
Politicians run and hide
When asked what they have done
To stop the seething searing
Heat that's scorching
Mother Earth.
The Second Coming you should know
Is nothing but a myth
And Armageddon mere nonsense
But don't take that to mean
That we'll survive or
Make it through
The earth's Apocalypse!

Copyright © 2015 by Lowell A. Anderson.  All rights reserved.

Monday, January 12, 2015

Believe It Or Not

Believe It Or Not

(With apologies to Job, the Psalmist, and Ecclesiastes)

I sat upon the bed
Of a shiny pickup truck
And watched the 
People passing by
Parading homo sapiens
Hoping they would
Live forever but knowing
They were
Born to die.
And I called God to account
I asked why he or she was
Missing in our life's equation?
Why, as the world
Convulses with
Horrendous violence
Is he or she
Deafeningly silent?
You can't, I said
Have Chosen Ones, the
Holocaust showed us that!
But do you care
For anyone?
What about the children
Beaten bloody
Raped and murdered
By your children in the bush?
Or in Middle Eastern
Desert lands where 
It's said you gave
Birth to laws and goodness
But that too was a lie
As the Caananite women
And their kids
Learned to their
Great sorrow.
Or other humans in
Those same lands -
Iraq and Syria - who today
Hang on with fingernails
Chewed to the bone
In fear of horrors too
Explicit to describe
In mere words.
So where are you now
If you weren't there before?
Is is perhaps better to
Not believe than to be
Left with such a
Paradox of might
And misery.
Unless, of course, it's 
All a lie and has always
Been a lie
That you are nothing
More than a scrubby
Semite's dream.
But please stop laughing
It's not funny anymore
To the people tortured
Killed in your good name
Even in the USA - 
Where people pray
To you each day
And know that you
Want them to say
They trust in you
On signs and
On their money, too -
Tortured people in the
Name of all that's
Good and right and...
Righteousness defined
As water boarding
Because the swine
Did not deserve to
Live and we know that
You will forgive as 
This is the land
You founded with
Our founders who 
Were good Christians
Just like you.
So why do you desert us
Why hide your face
In troubled times
We don't know what to do
You've given us too little
And so we must conclude
You don't exist you're
Just a ghastly fiction
An apparition we no
Longer need for we 
Know how it all began
And it wasn't in 
The desert sand
And there isn't one
Thing you can do
To heal our broken
Hearts and lives
And bring back all
Those we have lost
To those who said
They believed in you.

[Copyright © 2015 by Lowell A. Anderson.  All rights reserved.)

Thursday, January 1, 2015

More of the Same But I Can't Complain

More of the Same But I Can't Complain

The hours, the days
They turn the gears
Grind down my dreams
Settle my fate
Yes, it's a shame
But I can't complain.

They looked away
When I tried to sing
The songs in my heart
But they've heard
Them before
And that's a real shame
But I can't complain.

A loss or a gain
Time is a wheel
Fleeting is fame
Sometimes we fail
To do what is right
I know it's a shame
But I can't complain.

It is what it is
And I've seen a lot
But there's much 
More to come
And time's flyin' by
I know it's a shame
But I can't complain.

© 2014 by Jacob Anson/Lowell A. Anderson.  All rights reserved.

Monday, December 8, 2014

Why Grandma Shot the Preacher-Man

I wrote this poem several years ago to counter the so-called religious healers.  One would think their scams would fade away in light of our increased scientific knowledge.  But that is not the case, they are still out there, on radio and TV, making their pleas for money and promising they can heal just about anyone of anything.

They can't.  They are crooks, charlatans, scam artists!

Grandma is a pistol-packin'
Mama of a type
She doesn't like phony folks
Despises all their hype.
Mealy-mouthed, shifty-eyed
Characters she spurns
She's been down that road before and
She's been badly burned.

It started on a cloudless day
She met herself a man
He was tall and neatly dressed
Said his name was Sam.
He took Grandma dancing
Almost ev'ry night
She concluded way too soon
That he was Mr. Right.

But love hit Grandma big time
When Sam learned Grandma's secret
See, Grandma had a wooden leg
She hid with maxi skirts.
Now Sam, he said he didn't mind
Told her she was fine
She hugged him with her bony frame
Several hundred times.

Alas, alack, Grandma's back
Gave out one crazy night
She screamed and cried and poor ol' Sam
Damn near died of fright!
Ol' Doc Watson said she'd prob'ly
Never walk again
Without a cane or lots of help
From someone name of Sam.

Solicitous and very sweet
Sam told Grandma 'bout his friend
A preacher-man, blessed by God
Why he could cast out sin.
And more than that, he could heal
Broken backs and bones
'Course it wasn't cheap, you know
He'd help Grandma get a loan.

"Come on," said Sam, "let's hear the man
"His tent's just out of town
"Bring your checkbook just in case
"He's got your healing' down."
Ol' Grandma was a little skeered
But hurt, she went along
In fact, she ended up on stage
Before the final song.

The preacher-man grabbed her head
With great big woolly paws
He saw the devil in her eyes
Said that was sure the cause
Then he bent and whispered soft
Hands tight around her neck
"I can make you well again
"Just write a little check."

Grandma barely breathing now
Cried rasply, "I...yi...yi!"
The preacher-man yelled "Hallelujah!"
A glint in gleaming eyes.
But Grandma learned very fast
The whole thing was a farce
'Cause when the preacher-man cried "Heal!"
She fell upon her arse!

The jury ruled it self-defense
Said any fool could see
The preacher-man and Sam were bad
And it was meant to be.
Grandma caught and shot them both
When they was slipping out of town
And if they try that scam again
They'll do it sitting down!

© 2014 and 2006 by Lowell A. Anderson (Ansohn).  All Rights Reserved.

Thursday, July 31, 2014

Anesthetic Anesthesia

[This is for Heather]

Anesthetic Anesthesia

A friend of mine
Cannot spell
She's been confused
By a spell
Of amnesia.

It's really quite

I, sad to say,
Cannot spell
When someone asked
Where does that
Leave ya?

I said

[Copyright © 2014 and 2006 by Lowell A. Anderson]

Monday, April 28, 2014

The Candidate - Flashback to 2012

I was not born with 
A silver spoon
He said
Eyes glinting
As a creeping 
Smile slid
Across his political

We lived in a 
Basement apartment
Like regular folks
She said
Stepping out of a
60s sitcom
All fluffy and 
Full of lace
As is right
For a woman 
Who knows
Her place.

They said
We had to live
On returns from
It was hard
We even got
Regular haircuts
And ate at McDonalds'
Unless daddy and mommy
Took us out
Or gave us money
For the rent.

So, we know all about
You poor folks
Struggling to
Pay the bills
And feed the kids
With college ahead
We suggest you
Get money from 
Your folks and
Live in a tent.

And when you 
Get old
Become a Mormon
Mormons take care
Of one another
By piling up money
And stowing it
Away for a 
Rainy day
And Mormons 
Don't need 
No government.

Copyright © 2014 by Jacob Avram/Lowell A. Anderson
All rights reserved

Sunday, May 12, 2013

The Teacher

Some years ago, Lois Anne taught GED classes, which were established to help adults who had for one reason or another dropped out of school, earn their high school diplomas.  Lois Anne was the finest teacher I have ever met.  The following poem was written in appreciation of her love for learning and her extraordinary ability to connect with the lives of her students.

The Teacher

Sometimes I see you,
A vision in the corner
Of my eye -
Reaching out to touch
The minds of those
Stretching, seeking to
Learn to understand
Lessons long passed by...
Your grace apparent, the
Joy you give,
The pleasure pure as
Dawning light arrives;
A burst of insight
Birthing hope
Where hope, bereft, had died.

Pride quite often
Overcomes the sensibilities
Of my mind.
A rose in bloom,
Your tenderness
Lends fragrance to
Suspend fear.
So, free to be
They come to you
Faith seeking to be fed;
A dream begun
They turn in trust
Needing to be led
By gentle smile
Soft-spoken word.
Your wisdom is the spark
That leads them on
To dream again.
Your life has left its mark.

Copyright © by Jacob Avram/Lowell A. Anderson.  All rights reserved.