Once Upon A Time

Once Upon a Time

By Carolee Ross

A Time of Innocence
circa 1958

Once upon a time,
Elvis was a visual delight,
Teens hung out at the Malt Shoppe
Eisenhower warned of the Military Industrial Complex
And I danced the night away at the Palladium Ballroom.





Once upon a time,
Paul McCartney looked like a cherub,
Elfin Goldie Hawn did the frug on Laugh In
John and Yoko shared a bed for Peace
And I fit into a beguiling size 4.

Once upon a time,
Harrison Ford was a young Hans Solo
Natalie and Robert were wed again
Nixon resigned on TV
And I believed I'd finally stopped marching for Peace.

Once upon a time,
Farrah was the Angel every boy wanted,
Rachel Carson warned us of Silent Spring
We waited on long gas lines and worried about hostages
And I was Mom to two pretty, innocent little girls.

Now Paul's jowls are showing his maturity
Goldie is a grandmother
John is gone while Yoko lingers on
There are no long gas lines, who can afford gas?
Al Gore warns about Polar Bears drowning and
The Military Complex is no longer a Myth.

I'm marching again and again
because Americans are putting up with worse than Nixon,
My little girls are both grown up
Disillusioned and disgusted
And I struggle to keep alive,
Watching in utter disbelief
as I see the Planet dying.

Who cares -- you ask?
Even the dinosaurs went extinct
and they were here much longer than we've been.
Who cares?

I care,
for the innocents of the World,
for the animals being abused and poached,
for the trees being ravaged,
for the ice caps melting,
For the deluded religious right who will be
seeing Armageddon
much sooner than we'd all hoped.

Idealists and Fools

Idealists and Fools
by Carolee Ross

Goddess
by
Sandy Starr

We were Idealists,
Save the Rosenbergs!
Ban the Bomb, No Nukes,
and later,
Make Love not War.

We marched,
We protested,
We voted,
We were so sure
We'd changed the world.

But did we?
writing letters,
signing petitions,
Idealists and Fools,
The more things change, the more they remain the same.



Hippies became Yuppies,
Carter bowed to Reagan
and Clinton,
still hurting from Monica and Impeachment,
greeted Bush and Cheney and Gang.

And here we are, decades later,
protesting,

writing letters,
signing petitions,
Idealists and Fools,
The more things change, the more they remain the same.

The Evers Chronicles by Carolee Ross

Chapter One:

Harry Evers was having some strange dreams lately. He'd wake up disoriented, scattered, with the taste of fear in his mouth, hot, dry and bitter.

The dreams were all the same; he was sitting in the passenger section of an old, pre-1900 train, the only passenger. The seats were old, brittle leather that crackled when he moved. Outside the window, there was only white -- no buildings, no trees, no life. Only white, everywhere. The sky, the ground, the air, were full of white nothingness as if he were moving through a cloud.

There was eerie laughter, coming from somewhere above his head. It would subside for a while, then, when he thought everything was still, it would start again. It sounded a lot like his friend Doug, who'd died next to him in Nam. Harry would call out, "Doug? Is that you?" But there was never a reply. Not that he expected one. Doug has been gone since '71 when he'd walked into a landmine. That was one image Harry had never forgotten. The explosion, the screaming, that same rotting taste of fear.

The train smelled as if someone was cooking in the next car and he was hungry. His stomach rumbled and he swore he could smell his Mom's Sunday pot roast. As plain as day, as good and as tempting a smell as he could recall. He used to make frequent visits to that kitchen, hoping to get a taste of the gravy, but mostly to get a glimpse of his pretty Mom. She had long hair, just like the movie stars, and long, slim legs. When she smiled, it was as if it was just for him, her son, Harry. He could feel her kissing the top of his head and it felt good, comforting.

He touched his head to scratch it, and found a peculiar hat, made of a fabric he'd never known. He took it off, looked at it, and saw writing he didn't recognize. Down around the sweatband, he saw ants swarming and threw the hat on the floor. When he did this, the train would screech to a halt and he would be thrown out of his seat, out of the train, on to the tracks below.

And then he'd wake up. In spite of his trembling, he managed to get up, drag himself to the bathroom and take his first morning piss. He looked in the mirror, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and thought about the dream for a while. He was still hungry and walked downstairs to the kitchen.

There was nothing but an ashtray full of butts, a half-filled coffee pot and a dead mouse. Harry put on his sweats, and still scratching his head from the dream, went to get some breakfast.