Thursday, May 7, 2009

Featured Poet: Mike Berger, PhD

Your mother would be happy to know that OSFR has some return poets coming up- Barry Frauman and Felino Soriano! Enjoy this mother's day weekend and please keep checking back for more poet(ry, ics). Today's poet is Mike Berger, PhD!

"I am 72 years old. I have a Ph.D. in clinical psychology and was a practicing psychotherapist for 30 years. I am now fully retired. I have authored two books of short stories. I have published in numerous professional journals. I have freelanced for more than 20 years. My humor pieces Clyde and Goliath, Good Grief Columbus, and If Noah Built the Ark Today have won awards. I am now writing poetry full-time. I have many pursuits which include sculpting, painting, gardening and baking bread. My forcaccia is to die for."


I wondered whether it was like

to take a bubble bath. Born in

the depression, we were too poor

for such frivolous things.

I was too macho for such wussy

things when I was in my teens.

I wouldn't get caught dead in the bath

with 1 million bubbles while I was going

to college.

I didn't have time after I graduated

to indulge in such a frivolity. It was

a quick shower and off to the grind.

Now I'm retired and my wife works.

At last I have my chance. I started

the water and poured in a bottle

of a bubble bath.

Bubbles fill the tub and overflowed

obscuring the bathroom floor. Soon

the stuff was up to my knees. I

struggled to find the tap to turn the

water off.

As I stand here looking at the mass;

I ask what do you do with 1 million bubbles?

I'm thinking I should have waited a little longer

and taking them back after I was dead.


The neighbors yard was a menace.

He never cut the grass. The rosebushes

had died from lack of care and the ivy

on this side of the house were now

stringy brown.

I never saw him go to work. I wondered

what he did. His friends would come at

all hours and played rancorous music

just above a threshold of pain.

They were all rough looking with long hair

and a variety of beards. The women who

must have been easy they had mattresses

strapped to their backs.

In the middle of the night I was awakened

by a thunderous crash. The street outside

what is lined with cars and two police


I understand my neighbor has a green

some. The cops haul them all away

along with forty weed plants.


Twisting Baroque art

etched into vermillion

cliffs It sings a Bach melody.

A dark blue river

provides a foil, highlighting

the mazes of scars

carved deep into


Brilliant red strata


A dizzy labyrinth

Touches streaked red sky.

Sunrays painting specters on

canyon walls as

they chase fickle shadows.

Lonely sagebrush clings.

Deep shadows reigns

where sun light hides.