Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #5                        Page 24
Table of


I knew nothing about roofs
nor how to repair them,
but it was a job and I needed one.
Mario, the master builder,
was genial and patient with me,
showing me how to do this and that,
his massive arms moving delicately
to the explanations—no, I never
became Robin to his Batman,
but my skills improved a bit
as well as my attitude—Mario made
the labor in the heat, often as hot
as Hades, seem sort of worthwhile.
“You have the soul of a carpenter,”
he once said watching me battle
the staple gun and somehow getting
the sucker to do the nailing right—
yes, we had a laugh over it, just
the way my wife laughs these days
when I agree to her request
to help her with the dishes—every
time after the drying my putting
some member of the dishware in
the wrong spot, her forbearance
towards me never wavering. She
understands. She would have liked Mario.

  Tim Suermondt __


If you remember them you are, indeed,
older than you think.
You had to love them and ah, the future—
the one whose frenetic pace would ensure
a robust fellowship, justice for all.
That’s all out now, but knowing a truth
doesn’t make it less sad.
We can only hope that we’re wrong,
like we have been many times.
The sun rises, the sun sets, the speed
of light remains a beautiful fact,
don’t forget—and we’re here, still here.

  Tim Suermondt__

© Angela Mark Shakti


Built of sleek black wood
and a velvet seat cover—

the best of the new world
and the old. I carry it, now and then,

for the grandest of reasons: I want to.
And much to my surprise people

have come to accept this, little fuss
being made as I walk the streets.

A woman said “That’s a lovely chair”
and asked if she could buy it—

no, no, no I’d never sell. I still hear
those who say “I can’t do this” I can’t

do that” and here I am carrying a chair
I cradle like a gorgeous baby or

a lovely violin. If I can do it so can
they. That chair forlorn by the doorway—

pick it up and give it a try. We’ll wait
for you in the park, by the gilded fountain.

  Tim Suermondt__


The landscape made white by the shudders of snow
has returned to the brown/black of earth.

Naked trees on the verge of bloom and garish.

Dogs and their masters frolicking anew.

An entire sleeping Republic has awoken, fanning
out in sneakers and high heels,

the jackboots constantly trying, failing to catch up.

  Tim Suermondt__