in parentheses

Glenn Wright is a retired teacher, seventy-one years old, living in Anchorage, Alaska, with his wife, Dorothy, and their dog, Bethany. He writes poetry in order to master the things that scare him, to ponder the things that puzzle or interest him, and to celebrate the things that delight him.

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Rough Beast

Generations and empires rise and fall,
like God’s lungs snoring.
We live and learn, and then forget it all,
our values warring
With those of adolescents who applaud
what contradicts us,
whose strength is spent correcting what is flawed
that now afflicts us.

Ending my sentence, I feel the nagging shame
of obsolescence.
I lose things, and I misremember names
in mute senescence.
I’m falling apart. I reach for words, and . . . nothing.
The shelf is empty.
My yesterdays are beads on a broken string.
Oblivion mocks me.

Like Laius meeting Oedipus face-to-face,
I’ll not surrender.
Defiantly, I seize the parking place
and dent my fender.
So should I rage or laugh, taking my leave,
or merely whimper?
I slouch toward Bedlam, hunting, I believe,
my missing slipper.

The Girl Who Almost Married the Moon

The moon was so seductive, a distant mystery,
so calm and noble, passing across the sky.
Two girls, we escaped from home on those clear nights
when the swollen moon filled the chilly air
with pearly radiance. We hungered for the sight
of him, with his multitude of one-eyed, glittering stars.

One night as we were waiting for his coming,
wanting the sky to darken and hide our yearning,
a beautiful young hunter came to us,
dressed in white fur of fox and snowshoe hare.
We knew it was him, and when he spoke, a gust
of coolness played on our skin. We felt a thrill of fear.

He had seen us wanting him, so far away,
and came to claim the one who would obey
his orders. How often in stories have you found
a woman who must follow her husband’s demands,
not pry or question his reasons, however unsound?
Eve, Pandora, Psyche, all defied their mate’s commands.

He chose my sister. I wept with anger and grief
at the time, but finally came to feel relief.
Somehow the story filtered down to us
that after stealing her husband’s forbidden masks,
the moon forgave her, tender and generous,
He let her share as an equal as he did his tasks.

I don’t believe it. And what a stupid moral!
Are we to conclude that curious women who quarrel
and meddle in their husbands’ secret matters
should be rewarded with equality?
Such men would blame and boss until they shatter.
Lucky for him to have chosen her instead of me.

To Do List

First, try to find two more impossible things
to believe before breakfast to make an even half-dozen.

Second, listen to the news to raise the amounts
of hatred and outrage to acceptable levels.

Third, find a photo of the smiling face
of a migrant-hugging, Bible-burning Liberal
to replace the shredded bits of Kamala Harris
still clinging tenaciously to my rifle target.

Fourth, buy “Let’s Go, Brandon” t-shirts online
for all my worthless grandkids, nieces, nephews.

Fifth, sign up to speak at the School Board meeting
to protest books like Fahrenheit 451
or To Kill a Mockingbird, full of disrespect,
and to make sure all the parents attending know
our respected high school principal, Mr. Pine,
has a boyfriend stashed a couple of towns away.

Sixth, order posters for the pro-life booth
at the State Fair, with big dead fetus photos,
sure to give nightmares to a few unwary kids.

I’m so grateful that our country has free speech.

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