Portrait in Charcoal

by Ben Rasnic

The assignment was to peel the onion—
tobacco smoke beard glistening
silver fish darting among reeds, dark
pond brown with trout.

Face drawn and furrowed
from time ravaged
plow blades of stress
and abuse.

All these years
seemed so little had changed,
merely the permutations
of forwarding address

out of touch, the
ultimate stranger stealing time
with friends, even family,
except for few

illuminated loved ones, can
count them on cartoon fingers.
Serenity was merely
a few vodka shots away

until dreams became illusions,
left coyote
falling off cliffs,
frustrated.

October Heart

by Ben Rasnic                                                                        

Time of year
light fades quickly,
a southwest wind scatters

leaves of brittle vermillion.
Hybrid shades of auburn
embrace the good earth.

Shadows flare
from jagged snow-capped  peaks,
frame windows facing west.

Light filters to absence;
enter darkness
of days gone by.

Thinking of distant
people, places,
beyond & before;

night train passing
sustains a lonesome refrain,
takes me traveling,

clutching memories like ticket
stubs, mapquest highlighting
destinations along the road life leads me.

Fifty-nine, then again
stroke of midnight past Halloween
brings sixty,

shadows flickering
in the hollow flames
of butchered pumpkin skulls.

Growing old-
er than years, sometimes don’t know
what keeps me moving--

perhaps the serenity that is the Chesapeake,
the stillness of white sailboats
against a pale blue sky;

or night trains wailing
a blues mantra in the distance
that takes me somewhere beyond

misty miles of dark terrain
& glacier sheen of plains
where the light lifts gently over the hill;

thoughts of
finding place
to call home.

Family Reunion

by Ben Rasnic

The men find shelter
under the tin roof pavilion,
slice of watermelon
on a discount paper plate.

Sweet smoke
from the pig barbeque
tickles wind chimes.
The women gather
around picnic tables,
arranging covered dishes,
exchanging recipes.

A distant cousin on my father’s side
holds a captive audience,
tells the familiar fish tale
of the 20-pound catfish
& the trolling boat
with fifteen cases of Budweiser
that sprung a leak.

The self-appointed emcee
delivers the benediction,
reads aloud the list of names
of those who are no longer
with us.
spitting out seeds
we take notice.

The 9 ½ %

by Ben Rasnic  

“9 ½ % of Americans suffer from depressive disorders”
—United States Center for Disease Control  

I turn my back
against the pre-
dawn light creeping
thru shrouded drapes,

find solace
solely in deep,
blissful,
uninterrupted sleep.      

Every day
is a never-ending
monotonous cycle
of non-events.                                              

Take one capsule
daily, wait seven years
for the FDA to acknowledge
adverse effects.

Outside,
green mold engraves
the vinyl siding        
like a tombstone.

March Madness

by Ben Rasnc

The pure unadulterated sound
of composite orange ball
ricocheting from hard polished floors
captures the crowd mesmerized, anticipating
choreographed moves
like chess pieces
across the checkered squares
as in the waning seconds,
the deft artistry of
a point guard’s palms spin
a perfectly inflated  orb
into delicate trajectory
designed to drop gently swishing
through stringed net
ignites an explosive primal scream
of deafening proportions,
the sweet sound
of victory
at the precise second
the time clock
strikes
triple zero.

ROOTS

by Ben Rasnic

The place I call home
is no longer,
is merely a place where strangers dwell
and the memories that swelled
within those familiar walls
now belie a distant fading,
a forlorn puff of smoke waning
that bequeaths me now
with inexplicable sadness,
completely
and forever
groundless.

Laid Off

by Ben Rasnic

What tipped me off

was his plastic puppet smile

illuminated by the funeral parlor

fog that always seems to hang

over four suits in a cramped room

with one empty chair.

Then came a spew of syllables

from the designated, flapping mouthpiece

with a gush of bloody feathers

from a dying quail

that made no impressions;

a Q&A that began and ended with

“Our attorneys advise we are not required

to pay you any kind of severance” and

“Aren’t you retiring soon anyway?”

concluding when a greasy, clammy hand

splayed rigid fingers extending

into empty space

like a housefly I swatted

with my self-respect

on the way out the door,

mind churning

like a fully loaded magazine

spraying bullets haphazard

into the void.

At 58,

& in the diminishing light

of horizon,

it is at times with deep personal regret

that revenge is a poison

I can serve only

lukewarm

and in silence.

just before leaving

by Ben Rasnic

these days
gray cloud cover
looms
over Appalachian
mountains
once a homespun quilt
to blanket
my insecurity
shrouds me
now
an angler’s seine
to snare
stray fish;
a black widow’s
cruel artistry
to secure
my foolishness
as to think
that simple
geography
could hold me
like a
lover.

Larimer after Dark (Denver, 1986)

by Ben Rasnic

Skyscrapers poise
ornamented gargoyles
guarding the complex Infra-
structure of downtown
Denver, buffer zone
fortressing

Corporate America
from the jagged edge
of inner city apocalypse.

Symphony of headlights
crescendos in pools
of black asphalt illuminating
Seventeenth Street
nightlife hopping
with bars and coffeehouses vibrant
with poetry and jazz humming
to the beat of the streets;

al fresco restaurants
on Larimer Square
catering upwardly mobile
young urban entrepreneurs
spinning wheels of fortune and rolling the dice
on blue chip stocks while chatting of
liquid assets and venture capital;

drinking margaritas
from petite marble tabletops;
Wall Street cowboys
shooting from the hip
on real estate developments
south of Littleton;

oblivious to the underbelly a few blocks north
where the buzz of neon fades
to burned out fluorescents
along gray fringe of vacant skid row

warehouses, havens
for transients, lost souls and winos
sucking blood from a bottle,
pawn shops and
pool rooms and a sign that reads
“No Children After Five O’clock”

seedy corner bars intersected
with switchblades,
Saturday Night Specials

revolving flashing lights
of ambulatory morgues;
shattered Budweiser bottles,
tossed cartons from a Mexican eatery;
picante sauce undistinguished
from dried blood;

where last call for alcohol
empties the Longhorn Saloon—patrons
pissing in the alleyways and one
drunken Indian loudly reclaiming
the Platte River for his tribe
back in Montana.

And barely visible in the smoke
and fog and haze one can almost
discern the ghosts of Bat Masterson
& Neal Cassady staggering gingerly
arm in arm toward distant railroad tracks
while others meander toward what

destiny of metal dumpsters
& cardboard shelters, oblivious
to the bellowing trumpets

of street prophets, dull
ache of cold night’s
purgatory

placing a flirtatious
gamble

with the sunrise.

Apocalypse TV

by Ben Rasnic

Sinister apparitions on horseback
vaporize into particles
of atomic snow.

Barely discernible,
the shriek of human suffering
marquees in closed captions.

On the count of three,
the ones who know too much
swallow tiny green cyanide capsules.

Under the Stars by Powell River for Ed Roop

by Ben Rasnic

Sometimes in summer
I miss the country
night air
where the only sounds
are the incessant chirping
of crickets
or the thick sploshes
when flashes of smallmouth bass
breach the surface
of Powell River cascading
moss-covered stones
beyond the flickering light
of campfire
as I lie
in my sleeping bag
& stare at the sky,

finding comfort
in the permanence
of constellations.

Alien

by Ben Rasnic

I awoke in a strange room curled fetal
on a stone floor mattress.

For breakfast I had water, some stale bread
and several sets of curious eyes
burning waffle lines into my forehead.

The Agency assigned me a number
to count floor tiles for hours
before being called to endure
a series of awkward pauses amid intervals
of incoherent speech.

Finally, I was handed a shovel and pointed
toward a pickup truck loaded
with people who look like me,

proving everything is not always bigger
or better on the other side,
not even in the Lone Star State.

APACHE TRAIL(Arizona SR 88)

by Ben Rasnic

Trails of smoke streak the cobalt sky,
hang like wreathes
over Superstition Mountain.

Arizona sun buckles unpaved pathways.
Scattered bones of lost souls
offer white line hi-way markings.

Twisted rock formations
and colonies of cacti tower
above multi-colored wildflowers.

RVs & SUVs cling to hairpin
turns & winding switchbacks,
brakes screeching like dry chalk
against a classroom blackboard.

Black vultures huddle
over anonymous roadkill;
pick at the skeletal remains,

dodging slow motion steel bullets
shimmering in the Arizona sun.

eddie

by Ben Rasnic

once crawled
thru a second story
classroom window
onto the lower
rooftop platform to retrieve
three pennies on a dare
and we being the pricks
that we were
locked him out
until the teacher
came into the room.
it was our way
of embarrassing him
for his miserly
materialistic creed.

a few years later
while we were getting high
everyday and writing poems,
eddie
would be out
checking his vending machines
and rental properties.
“same old eddie,” we would laugh,
“worshipping the almighty dollar.
he doesn’t have a clue
about what’s really important.”

now that we are in our fifties,
eddie
owns a custom built home
perched on a panoramic mountain ridge
overlooking a watercolor canvas
of dense trees and rolling hills
with a redwood deck
facing the western horizon
& I, I own a modest
yet overpriced home
in a sprawling mid-
atlantic suburb, embroiled
in the daily chaos
that is beltway traffic &
borrowing from my 401K
to pay off credit card debts
but I still have my pride
and poems
in my pockets
and eddie still
doesn’t get it.

I guess some people
just never learn.

DOMINION

“…and (they shall) have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the
fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.”
Genesis 1:28

by Ben Rasnic

Truth is
there are no land titles or property deeds,
no pretentious hierarchy
in the natural world.

The robins will annually nest
their powder blue eggs
in manicured boxwoods
without need of my permission.

The honeybees will instinctively harass
when I venture too close,
their razor point stingers
on yellow alert.

The gray tree squirrels
will prance about in their mischievous ways,
prowling the perimeters, tampering
with the bird feeders & potted plants.

Legions of ants will return every Spring
to sneak through the crevices
and steal food from my cupboards
despite various granules and sprays.

The groundhogs will burrow their fat furry bodies
underneath my stockade fences and procreate
in bunkers beneath the yard shed,
finding humor in my traps and barricades;

And the deer will play chicken
with my Subaru in the pre-dawn commutes
because ultimately
I am no different

than they, just so much road kill
to be scraped into black plastic body bags;
and after all,
isn’t that the way it should be?

NOSTALGIA

by Ben Rasnic

In a smoky blue kerosene haze
illuminating the winding gray
tunnel vision of memory,

I recall only the tender whispers,
sweet comfort of companionship,
ardent frenzy of wild animal sex.

Strange how I forget
the excruciating thrust of flashing stiletto
you used to bludgeon

my better angels
just before they fell to Earth;
the hysterical laughter

you carried with you
into the dark shadows
that always seem to vanish
just before the dawn.

NOT YOUR FATHER’S NFL

by Ben Rasnic

Gliding with the liquid grace
of the eagle’s wings boldly engraved
into the sides of his reflective
metallic headgear;

with outstretched gloved hands
soaring toward the deepest
corner of end zone, his
taut, sinewy tissues almost burst

from the effort to snare
the oblong pigskin--first securing
a precarious fingertip grip then quickly
cradling to the chest

before landing in a fetal position at the feet
of the man with the black & white
striped shirt frantically thrusting both arms
into air to signal touchdown!

and 6 points for the home team
to which the player responds
by spiking the prize point blank into turf
then breaking into spastic gyrations

that, if just tuning in.
one could only interpret
as some form of ritualistic
ceremonial victory dance

contradicting the curiously subdued
response of the home crowd
& the subtle sarcasm
of color commentators

as the Jumbo-tron scoreboard
juxtaposes the sad-eyed disillusionment
of a freckle faced eight year-old

clad in midnight green
and a final score reading
Redskins twenty-seven, Eagles fourteen.

MIRAGE (NEVADA MOON)

by Ben Rasnic

Egg yolk moon over Nevada
quivers in the smoky mist
of a bloodshot sky.

Neon bleeds like candle wax.
Gold dust radiates from statues,
glass and sand.

Steady drone
from spinning wheels and show tunes
swells my brain like a cantaloupe.

Hung over, my head is chiseled
full of holes from shots
of Jack Daniels, chinks

of martini glasses, loose
change and the bone rattle
of snake eyes in the pit.

Stars hang in the waning desert sky
like sequin jackets,
moth-eaten and obsolete.

LEARNING ABOUT DEATH

by Ben Rasnic

The first time I remember
hearing about death,
my father’s best friend had nestled
a double barrel shotgun under his chin,
blew his face apart & splattered
his brains against the bedroom wall.

I was told
he passed away
in his sleep.

As kids we would roam
the neighborhood cemetery after dinner
fascinated by the polished granite headstones--
would read each one aloud
engraving mental notes
on who lived the longest
and who died the youngest
as if all that mattered
could be reduced to simple mathematics,

life and death
merely another set of statistics
to decipher

and finding humor in every equation,
would calibrate our scariest faces,
creating ghost sounds and laughing as we ran,
often to trip over markers
camoulflaged by freshly laid wreathes

inevitably to stumble upon
that one familiar name book-ending
a bed of freshly turned earth,
the cryptic inscription chiseled
into smooth gray stone
mirrors faces ashen as chalk
from the flash awareness
that the man who laughed like Santa Claus
and taught us how to throw a curve ball
was never coming back, his discarded flesh
encased a couple of yards beneath our feet;

seven adolescents standing silent as statues
seemingly for an eternity
until finally someone mutters
“it’s getting late”,
then dispersing like shattered glass
or the ripple effect from skipping stones
across Johnson’s Pond;
head our separate ways
for the comfort of home,


stopping only
to give the dog
a big tail waggin hug
like nobody’s business.

Just Before They Closed the Capital Beltway

by Ben Rasnic

Through a glass darkly
the flaming wings of a Harley
motoring oval pavement,
precariously weaving between lanes;

sleeveless shirt of an Angel
billowing in the wind
like a parachute, yet even that
will not cushion the descent

when the unforgiving
fabric of asphalt
unfurls to greet
the inevitable fall.