That Friday afternoon
Two motorcycle cops,
Dressed to intimidate
Arrived at my front door.
Before discussing my complaint
He ordered me to control my dog,
Who was simply standing by my side..
It was not a request,
Nor were any further comments he made.
Both men refused to remove their dark glasses,
They left after advising me
That I could be put in jail
If they thought it appropriate,
And never did listen to my concern.
Dressed in black,
They never smiled,
Completing the hackneyed stereotype,
Assigned to them by movie legend.
Which side of civilization,
Do they represent?
If guardians, who was beginning guard?
Friday, December 28, 2007
Starbucks on 67th St.
A recreation of self-absorption
First experienced in a Hopper painting.
Someone added the softer lighting and computers,
Making the night scene less desolate.
No one defies the “no smoking” rule
Nor is there a sense of impending drama.
The place , like a black and white photo
Feels sterile.
10 people, one to each small round table.
Most have a lit computer screen,
Suggesting that they are terribly busy
Or hoping to feel that way
People are not draining their cardboard cups
In advance of the inevitable “lights out”.
Those cups are the props that allow this place
To serve as a metaphor for some half forgotten movie scene,
In which the protagonist ponders his existence.
Perhaps I project the sense of fear
Enveloping the coffee shop. As though,
These people, seeking assurances that
This place will keep the demons
From insinuating their presence,
Will permit time to stand fixed,
And “closing time” deferred forever.
First experienced in a Hopper painting.
Someone added the softer lighting and computers,
Making the night scene less desolate.
No one defies the “no smoking” rule
Nor is there a sense of impending drama.
The place , like a black and white photo
Feels sterile.
10 people, one to each small round table.
Most have a lit computer screen,
Suggesting that they are terribly busy
Or hoping to feel that way
People are not draining their cardboard cups
In advance of the inevitable “lights out”.
Those cups are the props that allow this place
To serve as a metaphor for some half forgotten movie scene,
In which the protagonist ponders his existence.
Perhaps I project the sense of fear
Enveloping the coffee shop. As though,
These people, seeking assurances that
This place will keep the demons
From insinuating their presence,
Will permit time to stand fixed,
And “closing time” deferred forever.
An Angry Call for Help
He smashed his hand down.
The counter top would certainly vibrate under the blow.
It did not.
His open fist had fallen on the knife’s edge.
Raising his arm a second time
He repeated the insanity,
Then subsided, looking at the blood,
Feeling the pain and the satisfaction.
Not being a small man
He’d damaged his hand, severely.
She’d certainly be contrite,
Less argumentative.
Who would he tell?
Many shocked, would offer
Sympathy, comfort
And suggestions.
As I consider the vision.
And twist away,
Did I contribute to this?
Did I enable, disable, or merely observe?
I felt his plight, became annoyed,
Long before the hand came down.
I’d made suggestions.
Was there something else?
Unfinished sculptures in Florence
Show incomplete men struggling for release.
Half mud, half man,
Never reaching light or peace.
The counter top would certainly vibrate under the blow.
It did not.
His open fist had fallen on the knife’s edge.
Raising his arm a second time
He repeated the insanity,
Then subsided, looking at the blood,
Feeling the pain and the satisfaction.
Not being a small man
He’d damaged his hand, severely.
She’d certainly be contrite,
Less argumentative.
Who would he tell?
Many shocked, would offer
Sympathy, comfort
And suggestions.
As I consider the vision.
And twist away,
Did I contribute to this?
Did I enable, disable, or merely observe?
I felt his plight, became annoyed,
Long before the hand came down.
I’d made suggestions.
Was there something else?
Unfinished sculptures in Florence
Show incomplete men struggling for release.
Half mud, half man,
Never reaching light or peace.
Andy
I’m heading south.
No money, years of concealment
Ripped open, in a moment of anguish.
Not a well planned departure.
My life is passing.
Yet I have not ventured
Beyond my accustomed boundaries.
How will my people respond to my heresy?
I said the word “gay”
But no inner voice responded “thank god”.
I loosed the whirlwind
Trying to be what my 15 year-old body wanted,
And still drives me to the edge of madness.
That need, never dissipated.
It still ravages my nights,
A 60-year -old neophyte,
Compelled to taste from Adam’s tree.
Will I survive without my material comforts,
My family’s love?
Do not speak of others’ explorations.
The tragedies of lives lost,
Or families tore asunder.
Comparative disasters offer no succor.
I dare not look back; surely the furies will ride me to ground.
I cannot look forward, a pathetic senior
Desperately needing a mans touch.
No money, years of concealment
Ripped open, in a moment of anguish.
Not a well planned departure.
My life is passing.
Yet I have not ventured
Beyond my accustomed boundaries.
How will my people respond to my heresy?
I said the word “gay”
But no inner voice responded “thank god”.
I loosed the whirlwind
Trying to be what my 15 year-old body wanted,
And still drives me to the edge of madness.
That need, never dissipated.
It still ravages my nights,
A 60-year -old neophyte,
Compelled to taste from Adam’s tree.
Will I survive without my material comforts,
My family’s love?
Do not speak of others’ explorations.
The tragedies of lives lost,
Or families tore asunder.
Comparative disasters offer no succor.
I dare not look back; surely the furies will ride me to ground.
I cannot look forward, a pathetic senior
Desperately needing a mans touch.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Waiting
Karaoke has just started.
18 people have been pushed into position
Where they can watch the screen,
Listen to the music and enjoy.
Most appear to be sleeping,
Their frail, immobile, bodies
Bear witness to races run,
And limited futures.
One octogenarian makes her way
To our visitor table.
Pushing her wheelchair between us
She has questions to ask.
Unable to fully express herself,
She listens to our conversation,
Hoping to find purchase.
This is not a place for aspirations.
Billed as a rehabilitation center
It serves as a human holding tank,
Where all, all, save one, are waiting.
A place where old people
Revert to childhood,
Suffer pain, indignity and death
18 people have been pushed into position
Where they can watch the screen,
Listen to the music and enjoy.
Most appear to be sleeping,
Their frail, immobile, bodies
Bear witness to races run,
And limited futures.
One octogenarian makes her way
To our visitor table.
Pushing her wheelchair between us
She has questions to ask.
Unable to fully express herself,
She listens to our conversation,
Hoping to find purchase.
This is not a place for aspirations.
Billed as a rehabilitation center
It serves as a human holding tank,
Where all, all, save one, are waiting.
A place where old people
Revert to childhood,
Suffer pain, indignity and death
Fire Works
Colors and noise
Fill the sky
In a grand display of human ingenuity
Reds and greens morph into blues.
Explosions, as the ashes precursor
Loss their struggle with gravity.
Car horns join the celebration
As the vibrations call them to life.
I smile, recalling other light shows
Some from a Brooklyn roof top.
Looking to’rd Coney Island
I recall sharing the spectacle
With a dozen neighbors.
Our Saturday night special.
Kids drank cokes, adult’s beer.
I do not scream now,
But it was so-o-o exciting then,
And there were others
Who shared my joy.
Marty, Morty, Harvey, Bert & Herbie,
Boys of 2134 Homecrest Ave.
Die hard, very hard Dodger fans,
United Saturday nights,
June through Labor day.
Watching the roof-top show.
In June we were awestruck,
Mesmerized by the spectacle,
Before August ended we were “mavens”,
Semi-professional fire works critics.
“I don’t know, Marty?”, said Bert,
I’m thinkin da last 4 reds didn’t spread so much,
And the finale, Christ, it was maybe 15 seconds!”
It couldn’t have been all that sweet,
I wouldn’t allow for that.
But damn I feel so-o-o good.
Fill the sky
In a grand display of human ingenuity
Reds and greens morph into blues.
Explosions, as the ashes precursor
Loss their struggle with gravity.
Car horns join the celebration
As the vibrations call them to life.
I smile, recalling other light shows
Some from a Brooklyn roof top.
Looking to’rd Coney Island
I recall sharing the spectacle
With a dozen neighbors.
Our Saturday night special.
Kids drank cokes, adult’s beer.
I do not scream now,
But it was so-o-o exciting then,
And there were others
Who shared my joy.
Marty, Morty, Harvey, Bert & Herbie,
Boys of 2134 Homecrest Ave.
Die hard, very hard Dodger fans,
United Saturday nights,
June through Labor day.
Watching the roof-top show.
In June we were awestruck,
Mesmerized by the spectacle,
Before August ended we were “mavens”,
Semi-professional fire works critics.
“I don’t know, Marty?”, said Bert,
I’m thinkin da last 4 reds didn’t spread so much,
And the finale, Christ, it was maybe 15 seconds!”
It couldn’t have been all that sweet,
I wouldn’t allow for that.
But damn I feel so-o-o good.
Beliefs
Judging the entries was not easy.
I brought too much “adult” to the children’s holiday cards.
“Are the drawings clever, do the words warm me?
Can I use the same standards for a 1st & 5th grader?
Most of them wished for “peace”.
Was the submission that showed
A Christmas tree and a menorah a child’s hope,
Or a parent’s belief?
And did it matter?
Every entry used reds and blues,
Bright colors along with holiday greetings,
No “Christmas” on any of the 26 submissions,
Although a few had non-denominational angels.
With only 3 ribbon-bearers to choose
How indifferent would all the others
Pretend to be?
Why not 26 blue ribbons?
I believe that children have children’s dreams.
I believe that “possibility” starts with them.
I believe they can soften my cynicism.
I beileve Dr. King might have been right.
I brought too much “adult” to the children’s holiday cards.
“Are the drawings clever, do the words warm me?
Can I use the same standards for a 1st & 5th grader?
Most of them wished for “peace”.
Was the submission that showed
A Christmas tree and a menorah a child’s hope,
Or a parent’s belief?
And did it matter?
Every entry used reds and blues,
Bright colors along with holiday greetings,
No “Christmas” on any of the 26 submissions,
Although a few had non-denominational angels.
With only 3 ribbon-bearers to choose
How indifferent would all the others
Pretend to be?
Why not 26 blue ribbons?
I believe that children have children’s dreams.
I believe that “possibility” starts with them.
I believe they can soften my cynicism.
I beileve Dr. King might have been right.
madness
I thought the screams,
Of the Brooklyn Dodger fans,
A magnificent madness.
Now I seek sanity,
My position as judge absurd.
So many believers
Intent on confronting enemies.
Perhaps we should start over,
Implore Job to explain.
Silence would be a start.
Listening for soft voices,
Kierkegaard would tell me there is a way,
“You may believe, but only you.”.
It is not without recompense,
This madness.
We are comforted by agreements.
Unity trumps reason,
We may be invited to Alice’s Tea Party.
I confess to being an optimist.
On good days the king is naked,
He smiles down on his subjects.
They are naked.
I watch a child at his first ball game.
A vast stadium, he is awestruck.
It seeks the boys acknowledgement.
His private service is starting.
Of the Brooklyn Dodger fans,
A magnificent madness.
Now I seek sanity,
My position as judge absurd.
So many believers
Intent on confronting enemies.
Perhaps we should start over,
Implore Job to explain.
Silence would be a start.
Listening for soft voices,
Kierkegaard would tell me there is a way,
“You may believe, but only you.”.
It is not without recompense,
This madness.
We are comforted by agreements.
Unity trumps reason,
We may be invited to Alice’s Tea Party.
I confess to being an optimist.
On good days the king is naked,
He smiles down on his subjects.
They are naked.
I watch a child at his first ball game.
A vast stadium, he is awestruck.
It seeks the boys acknowledgement.
His private service is starting.
Alan
My light is fading.
I’ve no breath o deny my birthright.
All things pass.
All things are the past.
Who will stop and remember,
Offer a blessing or a curse?
I will be quiet.
Did I shed light, offer love, and speak kindly?
I hope, maybe sometimes?
Will you recall me as concerned?
Did we share a joke, an exhalation?
I am not ready.
I wish to have stayed.
What would I will those who gathered near?
Can you find joy?
Walls that shelter, for a while?
Please stop
Breathe deep and turn around once.
Such sad faces,
Could we dance, just once?
Oh god, the mistakes, the foolishness.
I will not miss the weight
Good by.
I’ve no breath o deny my birthright.
All things pass.
All things are the past.
Who will stop and remember,
Offer a blessing or a curse?
I will be quiet.
Did I shed light, offer love, and speak kindly?
I hope, maybe sometimes?
Will you recall me as concerned?
Did we share a joke, an exhalation?
I am not ready.
I wish to have stayed.
What would I will those who gathered near?
Can you find joy?
Walls that shelter, for a while?
Please stop
Breathe deep and turn around once.
Such sad faces,
Could we dance, just once?
Oh god, the mistakes, the foolishness.
I will not miss the weight
Good by.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Cheers for the Weatherman
Cheers for the Weatherman
He was very specific,
For next 10 days the weather would be terrific.
Nothing but blue skies
From here to where the eagle flies.
Today it poured.
Rainy days I once abhorred,
Now wet sidewalks allow time to for TV
Without feeling so absurdly guilty.
Of today the guy has little to say,
Reporting on patterns, far away
That is likely to stray.
High pressure will not track true
Faithless lows could cause a stew
Resulting in higher humidity,
Suggesting our protagonists stupidity
Was responsible for the rapidity
With which his forecast lost credibility.
Consider how true he would be
If he reported only on what he did see,
“Yesterday was very nice
The day before had sprinkles, twice”.
Imagine our news anchor’s forecasting tomorrow’s Dow!
Or suggesting that tomorrow is now,
At least, to the extent
That he could read the firmament.
How very exciting to have all the news
Telling of tomorrow’s blues!
So lets celebrate the predictor of weather
He will hear our scorn, forever and ever.
He was very specific,
For next 10 days the weather would be terrific.
Nothing but blue skies
From here to where the eagle flies.
Today it poured.
Rainy days I once abhorred,
Now wet sidewalks allow time to for TV
Without feeling so absurdly guilty.
Of today the guy has little to say,
Reporting on patterns, far away
That is likely to stray.
High pressure will not track true
Faithless lows could cause a stew
Resulting in higher humidity,
Suggesting our protagonists stupidity
Was responsible for the rapidity
With which his forecast lost credibility.
Consider how true he would be
If he reported only on what he did see,
“Yesterday was very nice
The day before had sprinkles, twice”.
Imagine our news anchor’s forecasting tomorrow’s Dow!
Or suggesting that tomorrow is now,
At least, to the extent
That he could read the firmament.
How very exciting to have all the news
Telling of tomorrow’s blues!
So lets celebrate the predictor of weather
He will hear our scorn, forever and ever.
I Hate Morty Russinow
5 floors down lived the enemy.
Taller, better looking, faster,
And vastly superior academically.
How could I not hate him?
60 years later I still hear my mother,
“Look how good Morty is doing,
Why can’t you be more like him?”
How could I not hate him?
Did I mention he was more popular?
Oh yes, Morty was a very popular guy.
Do I sound like an escapee
From a Woody Allen monologue?
Yet, I knew I was smarter then Morty,
Sort of.
I prayed to be taller.
(Before adjustable dental seats
It required 2 New York phone books
To reach a height where the dentist could examine me.)
But not Morty.
6 inches taller then my puny Holocaust-like self,
He could look straight over my head.
How could I not hate him?
Ha! Vengeance comes in many forms.
While he may have persisted in being taller
Morty grew up and became a dentist.
I hate him only occasionally now
Taller, better looking, faster,
And vastly superior academically.
How could I not hate him?
60 years later I still hear my mother,
“Look how good Morty is doing,
Why can’t you be more like him?”
How could I not hate him?
Did I mention he was more popular?
Oh yes, Morty was a very popular guy.
Do I sound like an escapee
From a Woody Allen monologue?
Yet, I knew I was smarter then Morty,
Sort of.
I prayed to be taller.
(Before adjustable dental seats
It required 2 New York phone books
To reach a height where the dentist could examine me.)
But not Morty.
6 inches taller then my puny Holocaust-like self,
He could look straight over my head.
How could I not hate him?
Ha! Vengeance comes in many forms.
While he may have persisted in being taller
Morty grew up and became a dentist.
I hate him only occasionally now
Morning
Rose swishing, indifferent to the sleepers on either side,
Starts stretching herself,
Switching positions.
I wake to the small sounds she makes.
The sky still undecided ;
To call for daylight
Or hold the tenuous moments of predawn
When all, and nothing coexist.
Turning onto my back
I hear a rustle from the Magnolia tree
Just beyond the bedroom window.
Softly, its branches sweep the house wall and my sleep.
Not far away car engines announce their presence,
Pursuing a road much traveled.
One, no two humming birds discuss
The wisdom of building a home on my neighbors Ficus.
This is the best of times.
Roof in tact, daylight now cautiously
Works her traces along the wall
Opposite my bed.
With some regret, I rise,
Consider my options:
Exercise, a shave, breakfast,
All seem a mistake.
Id rather just stand, making no choice .
Diana might wake and consider me stuck,
Naked with infantile thoughts
Cementing me to the carpet.
She might decide I’m a very bad Moore sculpture.
What of the morning papers,
Sharing all the “good” news?
When sunshine cuts a line half way
Up the front door,
Shadows have retreated.
Starts stretching herself,
Switching positions.
I wake to the small sounds she makes.
The sky still undecided ;
To call for daylight
Or hold the tenuous moments of predawn
When all, and nothing coexist.
Turning onto my back
I hear a rustle from the Magnolia tree
Just beyond the bedroom window.
Softly, its branches sweep the house wall and my sleep.
Not far away car engines announce their presence,
Pursuing a road much traveled.
One, no two humming birds discuss
The wisdom of building a home on my neighbors Ficus.
This is the best of times.
Roof in tact, daylight now cautiously
Works her traces along the wall
Opposite my bed.
With some regret, I rise,
Consider my options:
Exercise, a shave, breakfast,
All seem a mistake.
Id rather just stand, making no choice .
Diana might wake and consider me stuck,
Naked with infantile thoughts
Cementing me to the carpet.
She might decide I’m a very bad Moore sculpture.
What of the morning papers,
Sharing all the “good” news?
When sunshine cuts a line half way
Up the front door,
Shadows have retreated.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Poets Walk
A gray New York day.
Rain is puddled near the bench
And there is a solitary figure
Appearing in the distance.
Denuded branches speak of a late fall day,
Photographed in black and white.
I wonder at the reflections on the still water
And the stillness reaches me.
Memory takes me to another day
When a saxophonist holds court,
Adding a lightness, that suffuses the pregnant
Plantings that will flower, creating May.
This day, the day of the photo,
Central Park is still,
Guardian statues, on pillars of stone,
Chose contemplation.
Fall colors and their detritus are gone
And winter will enter soon,
Brining smoke, from the mouths
Of runners and bikers.
I can pause and witness,
As the photographer entreats me to enter
This walk, that may not end,
Yet will not wait for tomorrow’s frost..
Rain is puddled near the bench
And there is a solitary figure
Appearing in the distance.
Denuded branches speak of a late fall day,
Photographed in black and white.
I wonder at the reflections on the still water
And the stillness reaches me.
Memory takes me to another day
When a saxophonist holds court,
Adding a lightness, that suffuses the pregnant
Plantings that will flower, creating May.
This day, the day of the photo,
Central Park is still,
Guardian statues, on pillars of stone,
Chose contemplation.
Fall colors and their detritus are gone
And winter will enter soon,
Brining smoke, from the mouths
Of runners and bikers.
I can pause and witness,
As the photographer entreats me to enter
This walk, that may not end,
Yet will not wait for tomorrow’s frost..
Dialogue
Mike met Myer, acquaintances,
walking passed one another stopped for a chat.
“Good day, your looking well” said Myer
“My medical insurance is very expensive” responded Mike.
“I just bought a new boat” boasts Myer.
“That bastard Bush, he’s responsible”
“How about those cheating Grand Prix bike riders?”
“My youngest kid is having trouble in school”
“It’s the drug companies, their responsible”
“I think his teacher is gay”
“Listen Mike, we should do this again”
“Good, maybe tomorrow?”.
.
walking passed one another stopped for a chat.
“Good day, your looking well” said Myer
“My medical insurance is very expensive” responded Mike.
“I just bought a new boat” boasts Myer.
“That bastard Bush, he’s responsible”
“How about those cheating Grand Prix bike riders?”
“My youngest kid is having trouble in school”
“It’s the drug companies, their responsible”
“I think his teacher is gay”
“Listen Mike, we should do this again”
“Good, maybe tomorrow?”.
.
sym-phony
Before, or slightly after, the flood
There was Ebbets Field,
And the Brooklyn Dodgers Sym-phony.
5 guys playing Dixieland, “America the Beautiful “
And “Take me out to the ballgame”.
25 cents for Mom, kids free,
“Dem Bums” were a great baby-sitting service.
According to Mom, those cheap seats
Afforded a terrific view of the band, sometimes,
Less so the ballgame.
At 3 the band was enough.
13 years later, a lifetime Brooklyn Dodger fan,
I heard the Cleveland Symphony,
(You’d think they’d get the spelling right).
In a basketball gym that smelled as though the
Game was still in progress.
Those guys from Cleveland could play.
It was not Ebbets Field music,
But it was big, really big.
I never recovered from that Dvorak concert.
Though the epiphany passed
Music has remained a mystery
A force filled with sound and color,
Completely beyond my understanding.
Does a conductor get picked like a baseball manager,
“Knows something about the business and will be OK with the fans?”
There are no win and loss numbers at a concert,
Unless someone starts throwing flowers or fruit.
I have not the ear to notice a hall that loses a high C.
I hear pace, melody and drama.
That’s all, and its enough.
There was Ebbets Field,
And the Brooklyn Dodgers Sym-phony.
5 guys playing Dixieland, “America the Beautiful “
And “Take me out to the ballgame”.
25 cents for Mom, kids free,
“Dem Bums” were a great baby-sitting service.
According to Mom, those cheap seats
Afforded a terrific view of the band, sometimes,
Less so the ballgame.
At 3 the band was enough.
13 years later, a lifetime Brooklyn Dodger fan,
I heard the Cleveland Symphony,
(You’d think they’d get the spelling right).
In a basketball gym that smelled as though the
Game was still in progress.
Those guys from Cleveland could play.
It was not Ebbets Field music,
But it was big, really big.
I never recovered from that Dvorak concert.
Though the epiphany passed
Music has remained a mystery
A force filled with sound and color,
Completely beyond my understanding.
Does a conductor get picked like a baseball manager,
“Knows something about the business and will be OK with the fans?”
There are no win and loss numbers at a concert,
Unless someone starts throwing flowers or fruit.
I have not the ear to notice a hall that loses a high C.
I hear pace, melody and drama.
That’s all, and its enough.
Donation
Donation
When Lenny cranked up his Harley Road King,
He left the working world behind
And roared onto the Pali Highway,
Bent on speed.
His long black hair whipped behind
Then over his face.
A loner, family back east,
He headed into a down hill curve.
Leaning far right, his bike began to slide
Off the leaves covering the shallow puddle.
Going too fast to recover, he bounced
Off the concrete road,
Head hitting hard on the immovable Highway.
Is there a meaning to his death?
Lenny’s message?
“In grateful appreciation”
National Eye Bank.
.
When Lenny cranked up his Harley Road King,
He left the working world behind
And roared onto the Pali Highway,
Bent on speed.
His long black hair whipped behind
Then over his face.
A loner, family back east,
He headed into a down hill curve.
Leaning far right, his bike began to slide
Off the leaves covering the shallow puddle.
Going too fast to recover, he bounced
Off the concrete road,
Head hitting hard on the immovable Highway.
Is there a meaning to his death?
Lenny’s message?
“In grateful appreciation”
National Eye Bank.
.
Walking the Met
On his way out of the Met
I saw an old man leaning heavily on a cane.
He had walked much of the largest art museum in America
A young man, passing,
Touched him lightly,
Causing the old man to lose balance and fall.
Straightening himself,
Insisting no damage had been done,
He accepted the young man's apology,
And resumed his awkward shuffle to the exit.
I would have chosen a wheelchair
So that people like me would not show
A mix of pity and sympathy.
Of course I might have rationalized
Some ultimate meaning to his museum visit,
Or concluded the trip wasn't important enough
To make the effort,
I saw an old man leaning heavily on a cane.
He had walked much of the largest art museum in America
A young man, passing,
Touched him lightly,
Causing the old man to lose balance and fall.
Straightening himself,
Insisting no damage had been done,
He accepted the young man's apology,
And resumed his awkward shuffle to the exit.
I would have chosen a wheelchair
So that people like me would not show
A mix of pity and sympathy.
Of course I might have rationalized
Some ultimate meaning to his museum visit,
Or concluded the trip wasn't important enough
To make the effort,
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Chimes
Few leaves fall as the breeze
Bends the taller Cyprus branches
And stirs the wind chimes
That hang lazily
From the white lattice work
Over the terrace.
The soft pleasant full sounds
Emitted as the cylinders touch one another,
Become confused and discordant
When the air contrives to turn direction.
My neighbor’s more robust bells
Present a challenge that subsumes
My more modest offering,
Creating a hopeless cacophony
When the air stills
There is little to mark the sound’s passing,
Bends the taller Cyprus branches
And stirs the wind chimes
That hang lazily
From the white lattice work
Over the terrace.
The soft pleasant full sounds
Emitted as the cylinders touch one another,
Become confused and discordant
When the air contrives to turn direction.
My neighbor’s more robust bells
Present a challenge that subsumes
My more modest offering,
Creating a hopeless cacophony
When the air stills
There is little to mark the sound’s passing,
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Putting Away the Toys
I prayed, lit candles,
Insisted our apartment
Suffer some of the milder indignities
Called for by the sons of Abraham.
For a year after my bar mitzvah
I genuflected, vowed obeisance
To he “Who could not be named”
My folks, secular Jews,
Who attended services 3 times a year,
Tolerated this errant behavior
In the belief that it would pass.
They were right.
I decided I did not believe,
Concluded that my Friday night rituals were insincere.
I put away that toy.
Perhaps that marked my emancipation?
I’ve not had refuge from the tyranny
Of an unplanned universe,
Where” evolution” means only “change”.
No more do I express empathy or sympathy
For the believers,
Finding them far too righteous,
Manifesting an arrogance and ignorance
That transcends and refigures the “minds I”.
I did not lose religion, I rejected it.
Not so, Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy,
And America’s promise --
These are gone and I’m the poorer for the loss.
Insisted our apartment
Suffer some of the milder indignities
Called for by the sons of Abraham.
For a year after my bar mitzvah
I genuflected, vowed obeisance
To he “Who could not be named”
My folks, secular Jews,
Who attended services 3 times a year,
Tolerated this errant behavior
In the belief that it would pass.
They were right.
I decided I did not believe,
Concluded that my Friday night rituals were insincere.
I put away that toy.
Perhaps that marked my emancipation?
I’ve not had refuge from the tyranny
Of an unplanned universe,
Where” evolution” means only “change”.
No more do I express empathy or sympathy
For the believers,
Finding them far too righteous,
Manifesting an arrogance and ignorance
That transcends and refigures the “minds I”.
I did not lose religion, I rejected it.
Not so, Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy,
And America’s promise --
These are gone and I’m the poorer for the loss.
Dachau
Holding a pistol in a prisoner’s mouth
Seems an ordinary, even daily, event.
But this one is special.
A spring day. In the photograph
Two soldiers chat in the background.
There are signs of new leaves
On the forsaken solitary birch,
Visible behind the officers cap.
Dachau a small town.
A half-hour from Munich,
Chose to remain unaware
Of the purpose of the concentration camp
That sits on its northern boundary.
Villagers would not care to know
That the prisoner, wearing a gray stripped
Jacket and pants, will, in death,
Emblemize the need for Germany
To economize, helping the “war” effort.
Being Saturday, the commandant reflects
On tomorrows, day-off.
His wife insisted on a picnic
Away from the sounds, sights, and smells.
Luther and Jonathan, ages 6 and 9
Will surely love the outing.
They get to run, have treats at the confectionery
And spread the blanket
That will be home for 2 hours.
“Come”, he reminds himself of the task at hand.
The prisoner facing him has a yellow star poorly sewn
To his jacket at chest height.
Like the other prisoner he is hairless.
We see only the right side of the second prisoner.
He could be Jewish, Catholic, gay or just a business man.
Whose home was needed to aid the Fuehrer.
One suspects these 2 prisoners were selected randomly,
Except for their similar height.
Tied back to back, they can both be killed with a single bullet.
All small scale executions done this way,
Would lower the waste of needed ammunition,
And greatly assist the Fatherland.
Seems an ordinary, even daily, event.
But this one is special.
A spring day. In the photograph
Two soldiers chat in the background.
There are signs of new leaves
On the forsaken solitary birch,
Visible behind the officers cap.
Dachau a small town.
A half-hour from Munich,
Chose to remain unaware
Of the purpose of the concentration camp
That sits on its northern boundary.
Villagers would not care to know
That the prisoner, wearing a gray stripped
Jacket and pants, will, in death,
Emblemize the need for Germany
To economize, helping the “war” effort.
Being Saturday, the commandant reflects
On tomorrows, day-off.
His wife insisted on a picnic
Away from the sounds, sights, and smells.
Luther and Jonathan, ages 6 and 9
Will surely love the outing.
They get to run, have treats at the confectionery
And spread the blanket
That will be home for 2 hours.
“Come”, he reminds himself of the task at hand.
The prisoner facing him has a yellow star poorly sewn
To his jacket at chest height.
Like the other prisoner he is hairless.
We see only the right side of the second prisoner.
He could be Jewish, Catholic, gay or just a business man.
Whose home was needed to aid the Fuehrer.
One suspects these 2 prisoners were selected randomly,
Except for their similar height.
Tied back to back, they can both be killed with a single bullet.
All small scale executions done this way,
Would lower the waste of needed ammunition,
And greatly assist the Fatherland.
Creationism
Despair riddles the gray moth community.
Soot and grime collect on the buildings,
A haven to these moths
For the last 100 years,
Now show signs of perfidy.
Chimneys do not cough with the effort
That drives industry.
Survival, a careless host,
Belongs to Darwin.
White moths blend comfortably now in the midst of the city.
Where the gray moth has lost its camouflage.
Soot and grime collect on the buildings,
A haven to these moths
For the last 100 years,
Now show signs of perfidy.
Chimneys do not cough with the effort
That drives industry.
Survival, a careless host,
Belongs to Darwin.
White moths blend comfortably now in the midst of the city.
Where the gray moth has lost its camouflage.
Less to Work With
Bruce, the legendary knight loses his right arm,
But continues the battle .
Stout hearted, he will not concede.
After the loss of both arms and legs.
He still demands the duel continue,
Threatening to subdue his opponent with his teeth.
That comic sketch fits me well.
Paddle ball and tennis are gone,
Courtesy of a bad shoulder.
My head does not produce enough hair
To slow the sad state of my balding dome.
I hear most of a conversation,
Unless the speaker looks away.
Anything not in my path will be forgotten.
Anything in my path has the potential to cripple me.
I can read all the words in the paper,
Provided they are not in small print.
Of course, there are the pills,
Colorful little creatures, that dull my consciousness.
But, my heart is strong and will last for years to come.
(Thanks to a pacemaker.)
But continues the battle .
Stout hearted, he will not concede.
After the loss of both arms and legs.
He still demands the duel continue,
Threatening to subdue his opponent with his teeth.
That comic sketch fits me well.
Paddle ball and tennis are gone,
Courtesy of a bad shoulder.
My head does not produce enough hair
To slow the sad state of my balding dome.
I hear most of a conversation,
Unless the speaker looks away.
Anything not in my path will be forgotten.
Anything in my path has the potential to cripple me.
I can read all the words in the paper,
Provided they are not in small print.
Of course, there are the pills,
Colorful little creatures, that dull my consciousness.
But, my heart is strong and will last for years to come.
(Thanks to a pacemaker.)
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Discomfit of Others
Ted is dead.
Don’t chew know he died in his sleep,
Drunk as a lord,
A nasty bastard, no one will weep.
I fir one feel no loss,
The slimy bum stole me money
There was a trick, he said we’d do.
Turned out I’m the trick, not very funny.
I’m sure the good father will offer a sermon,
But it best be short, with no time wasted,
Fir the flock will be dry, anxious to leave,
Begorra! by one they’ll want to be pasted.
Yep, Ted’s gone, he’ll near be missed
He’ll hold up no building, lie in no puddle,
No cursing from him, no screaming or shouting.
Ted was nothing, if not very subtle.
I think the crook would laugh at the end,
Watching fathers and mothers,
Looking sternly at his passing coffin.
Above all, he prized the discomfit of others.
Don’t chew know he died in his sleep,
Drunk as a lord,
A nasty bastard, no one will weep.
I fir one feel no loss,
The slimy bum stole me money
There was a trick, he said we’d do.
Turned out I’m the trick, not very funny.
I’m sure the good father will offer a sermon,
But it best be short, with no time wasted,
Fir the flock will be dry, anxious to leave,
Begorra! by one they’ll want to be pasted.
Yep, Ted’s gone, he’ll near be missed
He’ll hold up no building, lie in no puddle,
No cursing from him, no screaming or shouting.
Ted was nothing, if not very subtle.
I think the crook would laugh at the end,
Watching fathers and mothers,
Looking sternly at his passing coffin.
Above all, he prized the discomfit of others.
Jed
Jed is dead,
I heard it from Ted.
He got it, he said,
From the church notice he read.
Will miss ol’ Jed.
Died in his bed,
From a cut in his head,
I’d rather Jim had died instead.
A rumor, spread by Ned,
Said Jed had just bled and bled
His blanket all red,
From the cut in his head.
Jed’s coffin seemed made of lead,.
Of course he was very well fed,
Always eating a very big spread,
How did he get that cut in his head?
A drive with Jed
Filled you with dread.
Never slow, he always sped.
As though from something he fled.
Maybe that’s how he got the cut in his head?
I heard it from Ted.
He got it, he said,
From the church notice he read.
Will miss ol’ Jed.
Died in his bed,
From a cut in his head,
I’d rather Jim had died instead.
A rumor, spread by Ned,
Said Jed had just bled and bled
His blanket all red,
From the cut in his head.
Jed’s coffin seemed made of lead,.
Of course he was very well fed,
Always eating a very big spread,
How did he get that cut in his head?
A drive with Jed
Filled you with dread.
Never slow, he always sped.
As though from something he fled.
Maybe that’s how he got the cut in his head?
Palms
Locked in an epic struggle.
Either I hit the back of her hand
Or she best me and scurries to safety.
Her hands rest on my palms.
Intense concentration Is written in her eyes.
(If only she bestowed it on her math!)
Time suspended, her next movement critical.
8 years-old, with dark brown eyes,
An olive complexion, and long deep brown hair,
Absent is her usually hair twisting.
She must maintain contact while considering her move.
A troubled child, from a broken family
She retains her innocence.
Or am I too old to see the cunning?
Smiling, Emily fakes,
Starts to lift her hands, but retains contact.
Is there a comfort in our touching hands?
Or is she merely following instructions?
I’m fast.
She will barely lift off
Before I hit the back of her hands,
Maybe I’m foolishly over-confident?
I would light a candle in prayer
That Emily’s world
Will allow wonders.
Either I hit the back of her hand
Or she best me and scurries to safety.
Her hands rest on my palms.
Intense concentration Is written in her eyes.
(If only she bestowed it on her math!)
Time suspended, her next movement critical.
8 years-old, with dark brown eyes,
An olive complexion, and long deep brown hair,
Absent is her usually hair twisting.
She must maintain contact while considering her move.
A troubled child, from a broken family
She retains her innocence.
Or am I too old to see the cunning?
Smiling, Emily fakes,
Starts to lift her hands, but retains contact.
Is there a comfort in our touching hands?
Or is she merely following instructions?
I’m fast.
She will barely lift off
Before I hit the back of her hands,
Maybe I’m foolishly over-confident?
I would light a candle in prayer
That Emily’s world
Will allow wonders.
Battle on Olympus
“Back off!” I said.
He had definitely gotten in my space.
Tensions were climbing.
A brawl was about to start.
One day back after the hike up Olympus
And this guy wanted my pail.
My child’s pail, strainer and tiny shovel,
No way Dud!
In the brawn part of an archeological study.
“Had glaciers existed on Mt Olympus?”,
We grunts measured and tested
Circes on the top, and residue on the bottom.
That day we were charged with
Collecting small sea shells from the Aegean,
A task that called for wading into
A warm, clear sea, in search of past glaciers
Our task required taking a child’s pail,
Filling with sand and walking to the waters edge
Strain the sand, save shells & dump the remainder,
Momentarily discoloring the blue. green water.
Locals watched, and concluded we were a danger,
Both to the sea, and the small rise
Where the sand had resided.
We were undermining the mountain
They demanded possession of shovel, strainer and pail.
We could be terrorists,
Bent on destroying Mount Olympus
Along with the entire Mediterranean.
We had to be stopped.
Take my pail? Not likely.
I loved my pail.
No, I would fight to retain it,
Until the neighboring Neanderthals
produced palm sized throwing rocks.
Welcome to 25,000 BC.
He had definitely gotten in my space.
Tensions were climbing.
A brawl was about to start.
One day back after the hike up Olympus
And this guy wanted my pail.
My child’s pail, strainer and tiny shovel,
No way Dud!
In the brawn part of an archeological study.
“Had glaciers existed on Mt Olympus?”,
We grunts measured and tested
Circes on the top, and residue on the bottom.
That day we were charged with
Collecting small sea shells from the Aegean,
A task that called for wading into
A warm, clear sea, in search of past glaciers
Our task required taking a child’s pail,
Filling with sand and walking to the waters edge
Strain the sand, save shells & dump the remainder,
Momentarily discoloring the blue. green water.
Locals watched, and concluded we were a danger,
Both to the sea, and the small rise
Where the sand had resided.
We were undermining the mountain
They demanded possession of shovel, strainer and pail.
We could be terrorists,
Bent on destroying Mount Olympus
Along with the entire Mediterranean.
We had to be stopped.
Take my pail? Not likely.
I loved my pail.
No, I would fight to retain it,
Until the neighboring Neanderthals
produced palm sized throwing rocks.
Welcome to 25,000 BC.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Helping
Most concern themselves with fairness,
Some with responsibility,
Others remain indifferent
Fewer still, offer help.
Fairness, the cry of the poor,
And the demand of the rich,
Rends faux arguments,
And asks for equivalents.
“Why me?, or why not me?
Where is the justice in all this?
Must I go without?
My burden is too great”
Countered by comments like,
“--- bootstrapping”, “lazy”
“blood suckers” “dumb”
“taxpayer dollars” played on a clichéd editorial.
Responsibility, home of the righteous,
Looks for the innocent and guilty,
Seeks to assess blame,
And demand redress (If only that were possible).
“It is not my problem” states the indifferent,
Unless the death of a child
In a rat infested apartment,
Intrudes on his reverie.
How rare the helper
Sharer of food and smiles,
Whose existential calling
Allows a sliver of hope.
Some with responsibility,
Others remain indifferent
Fewer still, offer help.
Fairness, the cry of the poor,
And the demand of the rich,
Rends faux arguments,
And asks for equivalents.
“Why me?, or why not me?
Where is the justice in all this?
Must I go without?
My burden is too great”
Countered by comments like,
“--- bootstrapping”, “lazy”
“blood suckers” “dumb”
“taxpayer dollars” played on a clichéd editorial.
Responsibility, home of the righteous,
Looks for the innocent and guilty,
Seeks to assess blame,
And demand redress (If only that were possible).
“It is not my problem” states the indifferent,
Unless the death of a child
In a rat infested apartment,
Intrudes on his reverie.
How rare the helper
Sharer of food and smiles,
Whose existential calling
Allows a sliver of hope.
Lifeline
I can’t take these lines,
Keepin me from my youngest,”
She thought, inching closer
To the window and money.
“Every week the same bullshit
Then the groceries and smokes,
That shitty apartment wit
No AC, no nothing”.
“Scary to get home after dark.
Christ, it’s scary before dark.
And that fuckin elevator,
Smells from piss and shit.”
“When I get to the window,
That sonofabitch clerk, gonna look at me,
Thinkin “get a job”.
Right, if you look after the kids.
“Jesus H. Christ, it’s hard.
My Pete, a good man,
Wouldn’t hurt nobody,
Makes 250 per week.
“They take out the fuckin taxes,
Leaves enough to stay hungry.
Jesus, if I’m not livin my mother’s life.
Runnin hard, goin nowhere”
Keepin me from my youngest,”
She thought, inching closer
To the window and money.
“Every week the same bullshit
Then the groceries and smokes,
That shitty apartment wit
No AC, no nothing”.
“Scary to get home after dark.
Christ, it’s scary before dark.
And that fuckin elevator,
Smells from piss and shit.”
“When I get to the window,
That sonofabitch clerk, gonna look at me,
Thinkin “get a job”.
Right, if you look after the kids.
“Jesus H. Christ, it’s hard.
My Pete, a good man,
Wouldn’t hurt nobody,
Makes 250 per week.
“They take out the fuckin taxes,
Leaves enough to stay hungry.
Jesus, if I’m not livin my mother’s life.
Runnin hard, goin nowhere”
Welfare
Welfare robs the recipients of dignity
Creates a culture of dependency
Wherein these siphons of tax payer money
Can be caste as larger versions of Pavlov’s dog.
With compassion, we must show the poor
The advantages of middle class virtue:
Finding a decent, well paying job,
Having a home in a good neighborhood.
No longer should we tolerate those
Cadillac driving, baby producing sponges
Who force, productive working people
To shoulder an onerous burden.
Enough of these brutes and lay-abouts!
Time for them to recognize the American dream,
To pay back the investments our proud real Americans
Have made to those who pose as victims.
Do these parasites not flood our hospitals
Making it problematic that Americans,
God fearing Americans, can receive
The care they surely deserve?
Towns and cities can no longer
Look past the slums welfare has created.
When will we state our righteous claims
Cleanse the system of these parasites?
With charity and prayer we will assist
Our fallen brothers and sisters.
Put them on a road to maturity and prosperity
So we may join hands and move forward
Creates a culture of dependency
Wherein these siphons of tax payer money
Can be caste as larger versions of Pavlov’s dog.
With compassion, we must show the poor
The advantages of middle class virtue:
Finding a decent, well paying job,
Having a home in a good neighborhood.
No longer should we tolerate those
Cadillac driving, baby producing sponges
Who force, productive working people
To shoulder an onerous burden.
Enough of these brutes and lay-abouts!
Time for them to recognize the American dream,
To pay back the investments our proud real Americans
Have made to those who pose as victims.
Do these parasites not flood our hospitals
Making it problematic that Americans,
God fearing Americans, can receive
The care they surely deserve?
Towns and cities can no longer
Look past the slums welfare has created.
When will we state our righteous claims
Cleanse the system of these parasites?
With charity and prayer we will assist
Our fallen brothers and sisters.
Put them on a road to maturity and prosperity
So we may join hands and move forward
Working on Welfare
“I had a dream,”
That I could help.
30 years later,
The dream I shared with Martin
Has morphed into something else.
I followed that dream out of the ghetto,
Through high school and college
Into the savagery of years spent
Seeking for a way to subdue shame.
Helping brothers and sisters escape
The inexorable, gravitational pull
Down, to where crippled egos
Fought waves of ennui and collapse.
They came demanding alms,
Needing to find sunshine.
We spoke of escape
From the labyrinthine maze.
We might meet on a bench
Adjoining a park engulfed
By giant buildings housing
Caves of the rich.
From the derelict dying bench we could watched
Chauffeured chariots.
Their size bespoke
A need to dominate and hid.
Now I know welfare is a cheap fix,
Waiting for someone really clever,
With an antidote for despair,
Indifference and poverty.
No longer do I sit at my desk,
Or visit the homes of victims.
Now I can surface,
Unburdened of anger and angst .
That I could help.
30 years later,
The dream I shared with Martin
Has morphed into something else.
I followed that dream out of the ghetto,
Through high school and college
Into the savagery of years spent
Seeking for a way to subdue shame.
Helping brothers and sisters escape
The inexorable, gravitational pull
Down, to where crippled egos
Fought waves of ennui and collapse.
They came demanding alms,
Needing to find sunshine.
We spoke of escape
From the labyrinthine maze.
We might meet on a bench
Adjoining a park engulfed
By giant buildings housing
Caves of the rich.
From the derelict dying bench we could watched
Chauffeured chariots.
Their size bespoke
A need to dominate and hid.
Now I know welfare is a cheap fix,
Waiting for someone really clever,
With an antidote for despair,
Indifference and poverty.
No longer do I sit at my desk,
Or visit the homes of victims.
Now I can surface,
Unburdened of anger and angst .
All Praise to Allah
Commissioned by Allah, I am the peacemaker.
I preach of redemption, vengeance & amp; God,
Love of tribe, and eradication of nonbelievers.
Do you fear me? If not, your thinking is clouded.
I do not make guns, only war,
Sadly the only road to peace.
Redemption comes through vengeance.
Many crimes cannot be forgiven.
Poets, builders and thinkers
Did we bring to Spain ---and will again
After we’ve cleansed the people.
Those who understand.
Israel, an abomination, must cease to exist.
Jew lovers must be obliterated.
America must be conquered.
These things I have sworn to Allah.
I believe, all praise to Allah,
I will know the martyrs deliverance,
The peace that transcends peace.
I preach of redemption, vengeance & amp; God,
Love of tribe, and eradication of nonbelievers.
Do you fear me? If not, your thinking is clouded.
I do not make guns, only war,
Sadly the only road to peace.
Redemption comes through vengeance.
Many crimes cannot be forgiven.
Poets, builders and thinkers
Did we bring to Spain ---and will again
After we’ve cleansed the people.
Those who understand.
Israel, an abomination, must cease to exist.
Jew lovers must be obliterated.
America must be conquered.
These things I have sworn to Allah.
I believe, all praise to Allah,
I will know the martyrs deliverance,
The peace that transcends peace.
Auction
Only 5 bidders on the courthouse steps,
It would be over quickly.
Lenders had lost patience with homeowners
Leaving bottom feeders to scavenge the remains.
Loans made in a surging market
Were no longer sound.
Potential buyers are hesitant,
Prices are falling.
People who became rich 2 years ago
Now faced foreclosures.
Speculators fall first,
Followed by more sympathetic souls.
Borrowing for retirement, fast cars
And college tuition,
Collided with the domino theory
Equaled disaster for many.
“I can’t buy your house
If I can’t sell mine,” they lament.
Gloom, spread by vultures,
Facilitates the accelerating decline
The auctioneer, disabused of dreams long ago,
Moves quickly, going through his list,
Without pause.
This is simply business.
Addresses viewed with detachment,
Numbers on a computer page,
No children dispossessed along with their parents.
No need to reflect on the victims
It would be over quickly.
Lenders had lost patience with homeowners
Leaving bottom feeders to scavenge the remains.
Loans made in a surging market
Were no longer sound.
Potential buyers are hesitant,
Prices are falling.
People who became rich 2 years ago
Now faced foreclosures.
Speculators fall first,
Followed by more sympathetic souls.
Borrowing for retirement, fast cars
And college tuition,
Collided with the domino theory
Equaled disaster for many.
“I can’t buy your house
If I can’t sell mine,” they lament.
Gloom, spread by vultures,
Facilitates the accelerating decline
The auctioneer, disabused of dreams long ago,
Moves quickly, going through his list,
Without pause.
This is simply business.
Addresses viewed with detachment,
Numbers on a computer page,
No children dispossessed along with their parents.
No need to reflect on the victims
Friday, July 20, 2007
How to Become Popular & Rich
How to Become Popular & Rich
Jeff,, 97 pounds of bone.
A high school sophomore,
A little guy with few friends.
Was there a cure?
3 players 6 hit,
That was the answer!
No, it did not change his weight,
But changed his status.
The piece of history,
Or love of the game,
That drove him to a most excellent idea
Is lost in time.
Monday morning home room,
Once quiet, especially at his desk,
Changed its polarity and popularity.
10 guys crowded his space.
“Betcha”, 3rd behind “fuck” & “shit”
As a high school pronouncement,
Particularly in matters of disagreement,
Resolved most issues.
Perhaps it was the word,
Or whimsically checking the odds,
Our hero took a few friendly bets.
3 players, 6 hits.
At 9 to 1 it looked pretty good to the bettors,
(8 to1 if the batters were on the same team)
Odds on winning? 20 to 1,
Four more guys wanted to play.
“The hulk” the nickname given our 97 pounder,
Got a slip of paper & the money.
You bet today, you win or lose today.
All losers day one.
At weeks end 12 bettors,
A week later 20 regulars.
Hiding the slips from Mom was getting tricky .
“Jeff, where did you get all that change”?
Betting was very cool,
25 cents, a buck, nothing big.
“Nobody gets hurt”
“Betcha” was in vogue.
Too many would be bettors,
Crowded Jeff’s, desk every morning.
Time to expand.
Jeff put other feet on the floor.
Hiring runners, 10% of the bet,
Spread the joy to happy suckers all over the school.
At 100 betters a day and growing,
He reached out for insurance.
How could he handle days
When the majors went nuts,
20-25 guys with two hits or more?
He didn’t have the loot to cover.
Jeff, now with 6 runners and
Two rich kids providing insurance,
For a small cut,
Had a thriving business
Month three started great.
Got a 4 eye to keep the books
Business up 80%, all bases covered.
Well. almost all.
One of his runners was caught
And suspended for a week.
Jeff’s fate would be a one week hanging,
Followed by an audit. Closing time.
Jeff,, 97 pounds of bone.
A high school sophomore,
A little guy with few friends.
Was there a cure?
3 players 6 hit,
That was the answer!
No, it did not change his weight,
But changed his status.
The piece of history,
Or love of the game,
That drove him to a most excellent idea
Is lost in time.
Monday morning home room,
Once quiet, especially at his desk,
Changed its polarity and popularity.
10 guys crowded his space.
“Betcha”, 3rd behind “fuck” & “shit”
As a high school pronouncement,
Particularly in matters of disagreement,
Resolved most issues.
Perhaps it was the word,
Or whimsically checking the odds,
Our hero took a few friendly bets.
3 players, 6 hits.
At 9 to 1 it looked pretty good to the bettors,
(8 to1 if the batters were on the same team)
Odds on winning? 20 to 1,
Four more guys wanted to play.
“The hulk” the nickname given our 97 pounder,
Got a slip of paper & the money.
You bet today, you win or lose today.
All losers day one.
At weeks end 12 bettors,
A week later 20 regulars.
Hiding the slips from Mom was getting tricky .
“Jeff, where did you get all that change”?
Betting was very cool,
25 cents, a buck, nothing big.
“Nobody gets hurt”
“Betcha” was in vogue.
Too many would be bettors,
Crowded Jeff’s, desk every morning.
Time to expand.
Jeff put other feet on the floor.
Hiring runners, 10% of the bet,
Spread the joy to happy suckers all over the school.
At 100 betters a day and growing,
He reached out for insurance.
How could he handle days
When the majors went nuts,
20-25 guys with two hits or more?
He didn’t have the loot to cover.
Jeff, now with 6 runners and
Two rich kids providing insurance,
For a small cut,
Had a thriving business
Month three started great.
Got a 4 eye to keep the books
Business up 80%, all bases covered.
Well. almost all.
One of his runners was caught
And suspended for a week.
Jeff’s fate would be a one week hanging,
Followed by an audit. Closing time.
Colors
A straight grey man,
He believes in discipline.
Before the accident he was measured,
Now he is firm.
Not as self controlled,
Recovering from a buried husband
She entered with children and issues,
Eyes that easily, often, turned red.
He seemed frustrated.
No joy from stepsons,
No all American family here.
Could I be wrong,
And this is that red, white, and blue family?
He had lived through a spinal injury
That robbed him of diving and running.
Each day planned around his wheelchair,
A black and white, binary, existence.
He’d accepted wife and her children,
Assumed straight talk, without imposing his
Gold bars, to convey his rank and power
Would yield a harvest of family.
For her part this different man,
Needing care and understanding
Not a white grey mist of confusion.
This was not her dream or savior.
Both struggle with depression,
A black presence, makes its home
In the cracks, presses to drive deeper.
A quintessential American story.
He believes in discipline.
Before the accident he was measured,
Now he is firm.
Not as self controlled,
Recovering from a buried husband
She entered with children and issues,
Eyes that easily, often, turned red.
He seemed frustrated.
No joy from stepsons,
No all American family here.
Could I be wrong,
And this is that red, white, and blue family?
He had lived through a spinal injury
That robbed him of diving and running.
Each day planned around his wheelchair,
A black and white, binary, existence.
He’d accepted wife and her children,
Assumed straight talk, without imposing his
Gold bars, to convey his rank and power
Would yield a harvest of family.
For her part this different man,
Needing care and understanding
Not a white grey mist of confusion.
This was not her dream or savior.
Both struggle with depression,
A black presence, makes its home
In the cracks, presses to drive deeper.
A quintessential American story.
The Rise & Fall of Tina
She lagged well behind,
Disassociating, I think,
From the old tutor
Who mentored her each Tuesday.
He was uncomfortable with the separation.
Often she walked a pace off his lead.
Today the spread was much greater,
Tiny was fading
Entering the small room, they often used,
He cleared the desk, of bric-a-brac,
Moved the two folding chairs into place
Turned on the portable, floor heater.
Seven year old Tina, with quiet reluctance,
Seated herself opposite him.
The old man sensed something, caution?
Looking at Tiny he felt his stomach sink.
It had taken only 4 weeks
For this failed 2nd grader,
Unable to add 2 digit numbers,
To multiply 9 by 7.
He wondered at the change,
But had no idea of the cause.
Certainly, he had not seen such a leap
In10 years of mentoring.
Not given to ethereal interventions,
He knew his efforts, on her behalf
Were perhaps helpful,
Yet, did not explain the metamorphosis.
For 2 weeks after the math display,
That had catapulted her, to star status
Tiny wanted nothing more than to solve arithmetic problems.
He had witnessed an epiphany.
The old tutor was elated.
When had he seen such an awakening?
Never!
He did not believe in miracles.
Could such a possibility be spread?
Could others achieve this transformation?
Ill equipped, by books or experience,
He prepared to enter the world of the perplexed.
He’d done no research prior to today’s session.
There were questions he would ask,
But she was particularly withdrawn this morning,
Something was not right.
Tina was not interested in reading or spelling,
So he turned to math, again she shook her head.
Persuading her to try,
He began with 9 times 2.
She began counting on her fingers.
He was watching his world implode.
A god he rejected was laughing.
Barely containing his shock,
Trying to appear sympathetic,
Dumfounded by the change
He recalled others’ failed epiphanies.
Gone, all gone.
In Tina’s seat sat a sadly familiar child,
The one he’d helped years before,
Or was it just weeks.
Disassociating, I think,
From the old tutor
Who mentored her each Tuesday.
He was uncomfortable with the separation.
Often she walked a pace off his lead.
Today the spread was much greater,
Tiny was fading
Entering the small room, they often used,
He cleared the desk, of bric-a-brac,
Moved the two folding chairs into place
Turned on the portable, floor heater.
Seven year old Tina, with quiet reluctance,
Seated herself opposite him.
The old man sensed something, caution?
Looking at Tiny he felt his stomach sink.
It had taken only 4 weeks
For this failed 2nd grader,
Unable to add 2 digit numbers,
To multiply 9 by 7.
He wondered at the change,
But had no idea of the cause.
Certainly, he had not seen such a leap
In10 years of mentoring.
Not given to ethereal interventions,
He knew his efforts, on her behalf
Were perhaps helpful,
Yet, did not explain the metamorphosis.
For 2 weeks after the math display,
That had catapulted her, to star status
Tiny wanted nothing more than to solve arithmetic problems.
He had witnessed an epiphany.
The old tutor was elated.
When had he seen such an awakening?
Never!
He did not believe in miracles.
Could such a possibility be spread?
Could others achieve this transformation?
Ill equipped, by books or experience,
He prepared to enter the world of the perplexed.
He’d done no research prior to today’s session.
There were questions he would ask,
But she was particularly withdrawn this morning,
Something was not right.
Tina was not interested in reading or spelling,
So he turned to math, again she shook her head.
Persuading her to try,
He began with 9 times 2.
She began counting on her fingers.
He was watching his world implode.
A god he rejected was laughing.
Barely containing his shock,
Trying to appear sympathetic,
Dumfounded by the change
He recalled others’ failed epiphanies.
Gone, all gone.
In Tina’s seat sat a sadly familiar child,
The one he’d helped years before,
Or was it just weeks.
Jake
“Oh shit! Here comes that son of bitch” Jake thought.
“Yeah, I aint pitched perfect,
Don’t mean I gotta be pulled.
Christ, its only the 3rd inning.
“This guy gotta be the worst manager, ever.
Sure, they got a coupla cheap hits,
Yeah, I walked a few guys,
I know, I know, the homers hurt.
“Dimwit is asking for the ball,
Screw him
So we're down 7 zip,
Not my fault our guys aint hitten.
I’ll just take a short walk around
My 5 buddies standen here.
Stop asking for the ball will ya
I’m just getting started, for Chrissakes.
“No I’m not given up the ball
Till I finish this inning.
Will ya stop followen me?
I get the next 3 yokels, I give you the ball.
“Ya think I don’t know I’m leaven the show?
Bozo, you walk faster, I walk faster.
At least the crowd aint booin no more-
There fuckin laughin, hysterical
“You crazy or somethin?
Got my buddies hoisten me off.
I’m up against it, the traitors
I’ll sue your asses, you wait, put me down”.
“Yeah, I aint pitched perfect,
Don’t mean I gotta be pulled.
Christ, its only the 3rd inning.
“This guy gotta be the worst manager, ever.
Sure, they got a coupla cheap hits,
Yeah, I walked a few guys,
I know, I know, the homers hurt.
“Dimwit is asking for the ball,
Screw him
So we're down 7 zip,
Not my fault our guys aint hitten.
I’ll just take a short walk around
My 5 buddies standen here.
Stop asking for the ball will ya
I’m just getting started, for Chrissakes.
“No I’m not given up the ball
Till I finish this inning.
Will ya stop followen me?
I get the next 3 yokels, I give you the ball.
“Ya think I don’t know I’m leaven the show?
Bozo, you walk faster, I walk faster.
At least the crowd aint booin no more-
There fuckin laughin, hysterical
“You crazy or somethin?
Got my buddies hoisten me off.
I’m up against it, the traitors
I’ll sue your asses, you wait, put me down”.
Ed
We are 2 days short of departure.
Ray & I will travel north,
Checking out the Golan.
Tuesday Ed heads home
Ed is my favorite milkman,
(Granted, not a very competitive position).
This volunteer gig has not met his expectations.
I’m not sure what he imagined.
A decisive man,
At an additional cost of $400.
He will leave today,
Rather than wait 2 days.
Leaving at 8 PM for an 11 O’clock flight,
Returning at midnight.
His flight had left 12 hours earlier,
Smiling sheepishly, accepting his error graciously.
We had met years earlier,
Sharing a love of tennis.
What I most like about Ed
Is his refusal to embrace bad news.
He is a unique person,
Bringing an ebullience
I’d never experienced,
And a belief that things will be great, or at least better.
Neither his demanding work,
Nor life’s share of woes
Had dulled the brilliance of his smile.
Ed is truly glad to meet you.
There is no hesitation in his handshake,
You have to prove your unworthiness.
I saw him awaiting word on a serious surgery,
We hadn’t been in touch for years.
He was genuinely delighted to see me.
Ray & I will travel north,
Checking out the Golan.
Tuesday Ed heads home
Ed is my favorite milkman,
(Granted, not a very competitive position).
This volunteer gig has not met his expectations.
I’m not sure what he imagined.
A decisive man,
At an additional cost of $400.
He will leave today,
Rather than wait 2 days.
Leaving at 8 PM for an 11 O’clock flight,
Returning at midnight.
His flight had left 12 hours earlier,
Smiling sheepishly, accepting his error graciously.
We had met years earlier,
Sharing a love of tennis.
What I most like about Ed
Is his refusal to embrace bad news.
He is a unique person,
Bringing an ebullience
I’d never experienced,
And a belief that things will be great, or at least better.
Neither his demanding work,
Nor life’s share of woes
Had dulled the brilliance of his smile.
Ed is truly glad to meet you.
There is no hesitation in his handshake,
You have to prove your unworthiness.
I saw him awaiting word on a serious surgery,
We hadn’t been in touch for years.
He was genuinely delighted to see me.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Keeping Ahead
Keeping Ahead
Merging traffic, long lines.
No one coming on the right.
No insidious soul looking to sneak past,
I am on “alert”.
Wait! here comes a villain,
Speeding down the shoulder,
Looking to avoid the line,
The line I am defending.
I must decide quickly.
Should I move and block him
Or remain in my position?
Hatred is rising, I must decide.
Do I violate the conforming acceptance,
Or ignore the rule while defending it?
I must decide.
NOW!
I can’t stand it.
I can’t let the bastard pass me.
I charge into the narrowing shoulder,
Force my way in, 5 car lengths gained.
KING OF THE ROAD!
Merging traffic, long lines.
No one coming on the right.
No insidious soul looking to sneak past,
I am on “alert”.
Wait! here comes a villain,
Speeding down the shoulder,
Looking to avoid the line,
The line I am defending.
I must decide quickly.
Should I move and block him
Or remain in my position?
Hatred is rising, I must decide.
Do I violate the conforming acceptance,
Or ignore the rule while defending it?
I must decide.
NOW!
I can’t stand it.
I can’t let the bastard pass me.
I charge into the narrowing shoulder,
Force my way in, 5 car lengths gained.
KING OF THE ROAD!
Morning Dove
Morning Dove
She didn’t seem to care,
Our presence, the latest of so many others,
Was harmless, perhaps annoying,
But necessary to fill her table.
Her feast, our crumbs.
A metaphor for survival?
Our kayak guide’s girlfriend keeps 19 cats,
Her house has no rats.
Could I come home to 19 cats?
There lies the dilemma.
Every form of life, from ameba to whale,
Calls for acceptance of the unacceptable.
Man is allowed to reject.
In doing so he joins innumerable
Life forms, perhaps sooner than necessary,
That chooses satiation over survival.
The dove continues to ignore us,
Irritated by our occasional swipes,
That should tell the silly bird
It’s time for her to find a worm.
She seems to counter,
“I’ve certain rights to these crumbs.
My life is devoted to this table.
I want you to leave”.
She didn’t seem to care,
Our presence, the latest of so many others,
Was harmless, perhaps annoying,
But necessary to fill her table.
Her feast, our crumbs.
A metaphor for survival?
Our kayak guide’s girlfriend keeps 19 cats,
Her house has no rats.
Could I come home to 19 cats?
There lies the dilemma.
Every form of life, from ameba to whale,
Calls for acceptance of the unacceptable.
Man is allowed to reject.
In doing so he joins innumerable
Life forms, perhaps sooner than necessary,
That chooses satiation over survival.
The dove continues to ignore us,
Irritated by our occasional swipes,
That should tell the silly bird
It’s time for her to find a worm.
She seems to counter,
“I’ve certain rights to these crumbs.
My life is devoted to this table.
I want you to leave”.
Saving the World
Do you remember leaving your ego behind,
Having no need to defend the minds “I”?
It often happens when your back,
Not your brain, triumphs.
We three volunteers, joined 15 others,
Performing chores,
If just for 3 weeks,
That might have meaning.
Something happened day one.
I counted 9 non-jews, 9 women
And nine people over 30.
18 Zionists out to save the world.
OK, maybe not the world,
Possibly, not even Israel.
As back up replacements for warehouse soldiers
We performed such high risk functions as blanket folding.
Before dismissing our efforts,
Honestly rendered,
Consider an army without folded blankets
One shudders.
Finished by 3 PM,
We tended to settle into small groups,
Based not on age, economics, sex or academics.
Rather we found one another through humor and beliefs.
Not religious beliefs but humanitarian ones.
For most this wasn’t their first volunteer effort.
We quickly were family, siblings,
Sharing histories, bullshit and causes.
Joining us in the final week
A member of our sponsors New York office
Brought his perceived role with him.
We did not let him in.
He existed with us, but not of us.
His presence allowed us to see
How we had joined hands.
Not forever more, but for this occasion.
Having no need to defend the minds “I”?
It often happens when your back,
Not your brain, triumphs.
We three volunteers, joined 15 others,
Performing chores,
If just for 3 weeks,
That might have meaning.
Something happened day one.
I counted 9 non-jews, 9 women
And nine people over 30.
18 Zionists out to save the world.
OK, maybe not the world,
Possibly, not even Israel.
As back up replacements for warehouse soldiers
We performed such high risk functions as blanket folding.
Before dismissing our efforts,
Honestly rendered,
Consider an army without folded blankets
One shudders.
Finished by 3 PM,
We tended to settle into small groups,
Based not on age, economics, sex or academics.
Rather we found one another through humor and beliefs.
Not religious beliefs but humanitarian ones.
For most this wasn’t their first volunteer effort.
We quickly were family, siblings,
Sharing histories, bullshit and causes.
Joining us in the final week
A member of our sponsors New York office
Brought his perceived role with him.
We did not let him in.
He existed with us, but not of us.
His presence allowed us to see
How we had joined hands.
Not forever more, but for this occasion.
Lost Dreams
Vinny went to Rome.
Stayed at a hotel out of town.
He enjoyed the comforts and space he wanted,
And failed to see Rome.
To experience requires involvement,
Abandonment of comfort in favor of uncertainty.
I will not find lost dreams
By standing in a good light.
Stayed at a hotel out of town.
He enjoyed the comforts and space he wanted,
And failed to see Rome.
To experience requires involvement,
Abandonment of comfort in favor of uncertainty.
I will not find lost dreams
By standing in a good light.
Suspending Belief
Kaua’i announces itself in slow motion.
Weather is part of it,
Roads require it
And Kamaanina’s* live it.
Haoles*can’t abide the pace.
Driving behind cars moving under the speed limit
Is a wake up call,
If you’re listening.
Homogenized western fundamentals
Find resistance from a local attitude
That moves slowly toward
Recognition that 60 seconds make a minute
Now before the second and minute hands
Crush the inchoate sense of time,
You can today, not tomorrow,
Slow the gears, and cautiously, exhale.
Chances are it won’t work,
Much effort spent defending “I”
Does not allow slack-key-guitars,
And roaring down the highway at 25 miles an hour.
*Haoles = mainland Caucasians
Kamaanina’s = locals
Weather is part of it,
Roads require it
And Kamaanina’s* live it.
Haoles*can’t abide the pace.
Driving behind cars moving under the speed limit
Is a wake up call,
If you’re listening.
Homogenized western fundamentals
Find resistance from a local attitude
That moves slowly toward
Recognition that 60 seconds make a minute
Now before the second and minute hands
Crush the inchoate sense of time,
You can today, not tomorrow,
Slow the gears, and cautiously, exhale.
Chances are it won’t work,
Much effort spent defending “I”
Does not allow slack-key-guitars,
And roaring down the highway at 25 miles an hour.
*Haoles = mainland Caucasians
Kamaanina’s = locals
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Deck Chairs
“God damn! It’s taking forever”, I thought
Looking at the new wall.
The colors are wrong,
The design askew.
Coronado is a small island
Joined by bridge to San Diego.
Streets are clean, houses well maintained,
And the comfort level is high.
My neighbor’s bougainvillea covers half the public walk,
She tells me “the flowers are pretty
And there’s still room for people to get by”.
She is claiming public property because it pleases her.
A luxury liner moves easily in a moderate chop,
Small sampans must deal with the wake.
Do the passengers on deck 9 comprehend those working boats,
Those thousands of little crafts?
How could they?
There is an unbridgeable gap
Separating the two worlds,
And the workmen, building my wall,
Secure the space.
Looking at the new wall.
The colors are wrong,
The design askew.
Coronado is a small island
Joined by bridge to San Diego.
Streets are clean, houses well maintained,
And the comfort level is high.
My neighbor’s bougainvillea covers half the public walk,
She tells me “the flowers are pretty
And there’s still room for people to get by”.
She is claiming public property because it pleases her.
A luxury liner moves easily in a moderate chop,
Small sampans must deal with the wake.
Do the passengers on deck 9 comprehend those working boats,
Those thousands of little crafts?
How could they?
There is an unbridgeable gap
Separating the two worlds,
And the workmen, building my wall,
Secure the space.
Temporary Custody
When we preach to the choir,
Seeking reinforcement of an idea,
Or offer rhetoric to show moral standing
And recognition of a terrible wrong,
When we absolve ourselves of any need to persist,
Suggesting there is nothing to be done,
While still offering invective,
Espousing a crucial task for the “other”,
When the odds are not in our favor
And our truth is displaced by doctrine,
We are silenced by jingoist slogans
Whose volume is commensurate with the lie.
When we tire, mumble of terrible consequences
That will follow a “new speak”,
And fail to commit actions appropriate to your outrage,
Know that morality is then in the custody of the lawyers.
Seeking reinforcement of an idea,
Or offer rhetoric to show moral standing
And recognition of a terrible wrong,
When we absolve ourselves of any need to persist,
Suggesting there is nothing to be done,
While still offering invective,
Espousing a crucial task for the “other”,
When the odds are not in our favor
And our truth is displaced by doctrine,
We are silenced by jingoist slogans
Whose volume is commensurate with the lie.
When we tire, mumble of terrible consequences
That will follow a “new speak”,
And fail to commit actions appropriate to your outrage,
Know that morality is then in the custody of the lawyers.
Last Man Standing
Killer, an ex-navy fighter pilot,
With a huge, friendly personality,
Who loves his drink,
Excitedly insisted we join him.
Killer was a good thinker and a better doer.
Deals and discussions were always friendly
But we were not really close,
Except when he was into the bottle.
I’d been here before,
And like Cassandra,
Know the ending,
Unable to do anything but watch.
Watch him become a user,
An inveterate liar,
A danger to others
And a self-annihilator .
Is there a hint of superiority in my lamentation?
A lack of discomfort in the misery of another?
A failure to enter and share the pain?
An acceptance of my claim that “I helped enough”?
In the end I take satisfaction in two beliefs;
One, “being there ” is better than reading about it,
And, two, I will be standing longer.
With a huge, friendly personality,
Who loves his drink,
Excitedly insisted we join him.
Killer was a good thinker and a better doer.
Deals and discussions were always friendly
But we were not really close,
Except when he was into the bottle.
I’d been here before,
And like Cassandra,
Know the ending,
Unable to do anything but watch.
Watch him become a user,
An inveterate liar,
A danger to others
And a self-annihilator .
Is there a hint of superiority in my lamentation?
A lack of discomfort in the misery of another?
A failure to enter and share the pain?
An acceptance of my claim that “I helped enough”?
In the end I take satisfaction in two beliefs;
One, “being there ” is better than reading about it,
And, two, I will be standing longer.
Golden Gate
Golden Gate, swaying in the summer wind,
A favored suicide site,
Lies waiting for the anniversary party.
A 50th many will attend.
Cursing myself for attending a celebration
That starts too early for serious drinking,
And ranks as the largest, most crowded,
Party ever held.
Fog, summers curse, adds to my discomfort.
A mile from the great span.
I'm stunned by our growing number,
All intent on attending a secular mass.
More than most, this bridge
Serves as a tourist destination
And a suicides termination.
But today it is a shrine.
Moving very slowly, crowded between
Grey beards and red heads, city and country.
I know some have come to steal,
Others to bring the good news.
Children demand “Carry me!”, “Are we there yet?”
Teens and tweens, enjoying the music
Marveling at the crowd size,
Are losing bravado.
Slowing to a crawl, I consider reversing course
Until I notice thousands behind me,
With banners and “T” shirts announcing,
“We’re Golden”.
Scuffling, we inched onto the great bridge.
Smiles tempered by the recognition
That we were not a jolly band of hundreds or thousands,
Destined to share the sun and dance.
Standing mid-bridge, feeling cold
Aware, very aware of the altitude.
A vibration and a sway,
An unhappy giant displeased at its burden
Imagine an island sitting low in the open ocean
When the first waves crash accompanied
By a strong and accelerating wind.
Too late the islanders recognize what is upon them.
Vacuum packed, stumbling with each sway,
Small children, unhappy, needing a bathroom.
Neither balloons or bands
Lift their spirits.
“Time to go”, I think
But find the wall of celebrants unmovable.
Noises emanate from our host.
Stressed and fatigued, the structure is failing.
Panic time,. 500 thousand look for exits,
Available to those nearest the shore,
Not so, for the half crushed mid-bridge,
Wild eyed and screaming.
Catastrophes don’t always impact the poor,
They were underrepresented in the collapse.
A generation will pass before
Some will be able to outlive their nightmares.
A favored suicide site,
Lies waiting for the anniversary party.
A 50th many will attend.
Cursing myself for attending a celebration
That starts too early for serious drinking,
And ranks as the largest, most crowded,
Party ever held.
Fog, summers curse, adds to my discomfort.
A mile from the great span.
I'm stunned by our growing number,
All intent on attending a secular mass.
More than most, this bridge
Serves as a tourist destination
And a suicides termination.
But today it is a shrine.
Moving very slowly, crowded between
Grey beards and red heads, city and country.
I know some have come to steal,
Others to bring the good news.
Children demand “Carry me!”, “Are we there yet?”
Teens and tweens, enjoying the music
Marveling at the crowd size,
Are losing bravado.
Slowing to a crawl, I consider reversing course
Until I notice thousands behind me,
With banners and “T” shirts announcing,
“We’re Golden”.
Scuffling, we inched onto the great bridge.
Smiles tempered by the recognition
That we were not a jolly band of hundreds or thousands,
Destined to share the sun and dance.
Standing mid-bridge, feeling cold
Aware, very aware of the altitude.
A vibration and a sway,
An unhappy giant displeased at its burden
Imagine an island sitting low in the open ocean
When the first waves crash accompanied
By a strong and accelerating wind.
Too late the islanders recognize what is upon them.
Vacuum packed, stumbling with each sway,
Small children, unhappy, needing a bathroom.
Neither balloons or bands
Lift their spirits.
“Time to go”, I think
But find the wall of celebrants unmovable.
Noises emanate from our host.
Stressed and fatigued, the structure is failing.
Panic time,. 500 thousand look for exits,
Available to those nearest the shore,
Not so, for the half crushed mid-bridge,
Wild eyed and screaming.
Catastrophes don’t always impact the poor,
They were underrepresented in the collapse.
A generation will pass before
Some will be able to outlive their nightmares.
Meeting Strangers
We failed to acknowledge one another.
No history, no reference material,
Nothing to suggest we were adversaries ,
Just people passing on a morning walk.
Coffee outside a Starbucks
Does not offer a welcome
To the passing stranger,
I remain the “other”.
Why, when I add a dog to either scenario,
Does the veil fall?
Has the insertion of Homer assure the walker,
Or have I somehow become more accessible?
A friendly dog changes the universe,
Allows a secret door to open.
What great mystery stands revealed?
“A dog is definitely a chic magnet”
No history, no reference material,
Nothing to suggest we were adversaries ,
Just people passing on a morning walk.
Coffee outside a Starbucks
Does not offer a welcome
To the passing stranger,
I remain the “other”.
Why, when I add a dog to either scenario,
Does the veil fall?
Has the insertion of Homer assure the walker,
Or have I somehow become more accessible?
A friendly dog changes the universe,
Allows a secret door to open.
What great mystery stands revealed?
“A dog is definitely a chic magnet”
Thursday, May 24, 2007
The Bridge
He was walking, head down, to’rd the center
Of the Coronado bridge.
Driving past I thought,
“This idiot will get himself killed”.
Walking at night where only car lanes exist?
“Bingo! He’s a suicide”, came to me belatedly.
“I should stop, I should stop, ...can’t” I reasoned,
“The following cars won’t let me”
Police arrived to find
He had jumped, leaving no trace.
Why here? Why this bridge?
I take no issue with giving up.
Life can sometimes be a poor choice,
Offering no respite.
Some view his act as egregious sin,
Others conclude the jumper is psychotic,
Or heroic.
I’ll stay with very unhappy.
He’d been here before,
Before the walls closed,
Cutting off his future,
Making the sun gray.
Always a brooder,
He’d found little comfort
In his own company.
Waters, under the bridge calmed him.
It spoke of changes, and mysteries,
Reaching all shores yet calling none home.
Omnipresent, omnipotent and contradictory.
Enveloped in sadness
Unable to find succor,
He returned to this bridge
Believing, the waters would accept his offering.
Of the Coronado bridge.
Driving past I thought,
“This idiot will get himself killed”.
Walking at night where only car lanes exist?
“Bingo! He’s a suicide”, came to me belatedly.
“I should stop, I should stop, ...can’t” I reasoned,
“The following cars won’t let me”
Police arrived to find
He had jumped, leaving no trace.
Why here? Why this bridge?
I take no issue with giving up.
Life can sometimes be a poor choice,
Offering no respite.
Some view his act as egregious sin,
Others conclude the jumper is psychotic,
Or heroic.
I’ll stay with very unhappy.
He’d been here before,
Before the walls closed,
Cutting off his future,
Making the sun gray.
Always a brooder,
He’d found little comfort
In his own company.
Waters, under the bridge calmed him.
It spoke of changes, and mysteries,
Reaching all shores yet calling none home.
Omnipresent, omnipotent and contradictory.
Enveloped in sadness
Unable to find succor,
He returned to this bridge
Believing, the waters would accept his offering.
A Great Start to the Day
For 100,000 years or so
We've looked for the answer.
Sadly, progress has been very slow.
But now I can report the signs are bright,
For waking in the morning and starting the day right.
It may not be easy but there is a way
To measure if you should start the day
By remaining in bed, enduring the plight
Or rise and stride forth at maximum height.
The test is simple and free for the taking,
But one must be firm and abjure any faking
No suggesting a positive day,
When in fact the signs are all gray.
So, if you are ready to find
Whether this day will be kind
You need to simply test your polarity.
Did you sleep well and manifest regularity?
We've looked for the answer.
Sadly, progress has been very slow.
But now I can report the signs are bright,
For waking in the morning and starting the day right.
It may not be easy but there is a way
To measure if you should start the day
By remaining in bed, enduring the plight
Or rise and stride forth at maximum height.
The test is simple and free for the taking,
But one must be firm and abjure any faking
No suggesting a positive day,
When in fact the signs are all gray.
So, if you are ready to find
Whether this day will be kind
You need to simply test your polarity.
Did you sleep well and manifest regularity?
Greenies in Tulum
9 to 70 was the age range,
Our clan gathering, near a Mayan ruin
And a town wanting jets,
Along with tourist dollars.
We had planned a family gathering
But came away with much more.
Of course there was the expected
Incipient divide, all true to their age.
Paul and Julie brought banners,
Green shirts, enough for all,
Emblazoned with our motto,
“Jerry’s Birthday Bash”
We did not exactly incite fear,
Our motley tribe of 9.
Instead we were mistaken
For an all age baseball team.
A 9 year old still sees wonder.
A 12 year old is working on her cynicism.
The adults enjoy a drink
And toast to the shared dinners.
I had been the first to leave,
Now all have traveled
And come together more as names
Than interlocked pieces.
Our time as family is short.
How could it be otherwise?
Hugs all-round in air, soft,
And waters of clear turquoise.
There is a sense of loss
As all make plans
For their tomorrows.
Center stage, never held, can’t be lost.
Our clan gathering, near a Mayan ruin
And a town wanting jets,
Along with tourist dollars.
We had planned a family gathering
But came away with much more.
Of course there was the expected
Incipient divide, all true to their age.
Paul and Julie brought banners,
Green shirts, enough for all,
Emblazoned with our motto,
“Jerry’s Birthday Bash”
We did not exactly incite fear,
Our motley tribe of 9.
Instead we were mistaken
For an all age baseball team.
A 9 year old still sees wonder.
A 12 year old is working on her cynicism.
The adults enjoy a drink
And toast to the shared dinners.
I had been the first to leave,
Now all have traveled
And come together more as names
Than interlocked pieces.
Our time as family is short.
How could it be otherwise?
Hugs all-round in air, soft,
And waters of clear turquoise.
There is a sense of loss
As all make plans
For their tomorrows.
Center stage, never held, can’t be lost.
Mothers and Fathers
Mother raised me.
Dad was a slightly distant figure,
Given to little interaction with us kids.
“He must work hard” I thought.
He’s gone 10 years
And I talk to him occasionally.
Listening, as I describe my parents
I hear unexpected fullness when I talk of Dad.
Often, since Dad’s death,
Diana and I have visited Mom, 3000 miles away
Until she moved into an “Adult Hotel”
I could, unfailingly, rejoice in her salami sandwiches.
Speaking of mom my voice sounds hollow.
I recall her painting ducks on the kitchen cabinets.
Red ducks on the while doors
I don’t know why I’ve kept that image.
She is not easy for me,
My most ancient memories are few.
Mom’s laughter was mezzo-soprano,
But I have difficulty coloring her picture.
Strange, white space blocks
Tears and bright recollections
A not young man,
I wait for approval.
Dad was a slightly distant figure,
Given to little interaction with us kids.
“He must work hard” I thought.
He’s gone 10 years
And I talk to him occasionally.
Listening, as I describe my parents
I hear unexpected fullness when I talk of Dad.
Often, since Dad’s death,
Diana and I have visited Mom, 3000 miles away
Until she moved into an “Adult Hotel”
I could, unfailingly, rejoice in her salami sandwiches.
Speaking of mom my voice sounds hollow.
I recall her painting ducks on the kitchen cabinets.
Red ducks on the while doors
I don’t know why I’ve kept that image.
She is not easy for me,
My most ancient memories are few.
Mom’s laughter was mezzo-soprano,
But I have difficulty coloring her picture.
Strange, white space blocks
Tears and bright recollections
A not young man,
I wait for approval.
Trust
A small virtue, trust.
Offered by all, never fulfilled.
Who knows what we see
Rather then seeing what we know?
We shake hands, then depart to different worlds.
What does the act signify?
Have we merely followed custom?
Do you find ritual or affirmation in the event?
I do not know your mother
Or the unspoken demands she makes.
Do you wish life as an adventure?
Are we at eye level?
A stranger offers refuge,
A nonbinding resolution.
We can address all issues, with prejudice,
Possibly, with equal ignorance.
Coming in from the cold,
Seeking shelter from isolation,
Allows the engine to run,
And accepts trusts decapitation.
Offered by all, never fulfilled.
Who knows what we see
Rather then seeing what we know?
We shake hands, then depart to different worlds.
What does the act signify?
Have we merely followed custom?
Do you find ritual or affirmation in the event?
I do not know your mother
Or the unspoken demands she makes.
Do you wish life as an adventure?
Are we at eye level?
A stranger offers refuge,
A nonbinding resolution.
We can address all issues, with prejudice,
Possibly, with equal ignorance.
Coming in from the cold,
Seeking shelter from isolation,
Allows the engine to run,
And accepts trusts decapitation.
Bob
“I now pronounce you Man and wife.”
My friend, for the last 40 years, said this often,
It was his reward as a Reverend to bless marriages.
He never gave me a chance to perform this rite of passage.
It seemed so unfair.
3 times as best man
Certainly seemed to qualify me.
Unfortunately, and may I say selfishly,
His last marriage stuck.
Indeed, Bob is a selfish guy.
I was ready, but the call never came.
Before finding a life partner
A 30-day trial marriage to someone else would have worked.
But no, all my preparations wasted.
What a guy!
Years ago he called to say our tennis game would be delayed.
He was flying to Mexico to get married.
I had no notice of, or any role in that disaster.
Of course he did not heed my sage advice.
“Wait until after our match”
Again, selfish Bob just went south.
I can’t tell you how lucky he is
To have a friend like me.
How many times did I point out his errors?
His only reply, “Thank you for Sharing”.
10 years ago we were 3 for lunch.
Our mutual friend dressed in Eskimo clothing
To avoid any rays. I wore a “T” shirt and trunks
Bob dressed as someone going to lunch..
Do you get the picture?
Do you wonder why I hung on?
You want the untarnished truth?
We are great and loving friends.
My friend, for the last 40 years, said this often,
It was his reward as a Reverend to bless marriages.
He never gave me a chance to perform this rite of passage.
It seemed so unfair.
3 times as best man
Certainly seemed to qualify me.
Unfortunately, and may I say selfishly,
His last marriage stuck.
Indeed, Bob is a selfish guy.
I was ready, but the call never came.
Before finding a life partner
A 30-day trial marriage to someone else would have worked.
But no, all my preparations wasted.
What a guy!
Years ago he called to say our tennis game would be delayed.
He was flying to Mexico to get married.
I had no notice of, or any role in that disaster.
Of course he did not heed my sage advice.
“Wait until after our match”
Again, selfish Bob just went south.
I can’t tell you how lucky he is
To have a friend like me.
How many times did I point out his errors?
His only reply, “Thank you for Sharing”.
10 years ago we were 3 for lunch.
Our mutual friend dressed in Eskimo clothing
To avoid any rays. I wore a “T” shirt and trunks
Bob dressed as someone going to lunch..
Do you get the picture?
Do you wonder why I hung on?
You want the untarnished truth?
We are great and loving friends.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Poem for 2 voices
Believer
I know His truth, not easily abided,
But certain is His path.
Still, questions assail me.
I am yet imperfect.
Doubter
So much uncertainty, too many choices,
As voices rise clarity evaporates
Options multiply, answers lie within.
Others find the answer without.
Both
Can I show my neighbor the beauty of the way?
He sees me as a monolith, inert, unmoving,
Unable to change, unwilling to see,
Confirming the rightness of his position.
Believer
My house of worship revels in His radiance
We sing of His glory,
Rejoice in His goodness
March forward in His name.
Doubter
My morality is not a group decision,
Our majesty and frailty is not decided elsewhere,
By ancient books and modern interpretations.
There may be no glory, but beauty remains.
I know His truth, not easily abided,
But certain is His path.
Still, questions assail me.
I am yet imperfect.
Doubter
So much uncertainty, too many choices,
As voices rise clarity evaporates
Options multiply, answers lie within.
Others find the answer without.
Both
Can I show my neighbor the beauty of the way?
He sees me as a monolith, inert, unmoving,
Unable to change, unwilling to see,
Confirming the rightness of his position.
Believer
My house of worship revels in His radiance
We sing of His glory,
Rejoice in His goodness
March forward in His name.
Doubter
My morality is not a group decision,
Our majesty and frailty is not decided elsewhere,
By ancient books and modern interpretations.
There may be no glory, but beauty remains.
Company store
Welcome to the home of your dreams!
Do not concern yourself with financing,
Values can only rise”, the man says
(Newton has been stood on his head.)
“Prices are ascending, do not be left out”
Cries the barker showing you a fabulous landscape rendering.
Little or no money down.
Such an irresistible offer, Hurry!
Small shacks are all that remain today.
Bulldozers measure in hours
The last remnants of the company homes
That once teemed with sandaled feet.
Built to house and cage workers for life,
Enlightened growers understood the rules
But not the workers,
Whose hands destroyed by sugar cane blade edges,
Cut the cane, drank and suffocated.
The company store was their savior,
Offering food, clothing and credit,
Creating debt far beyond wages.
A tale, that repeats itself in each generation,
Barkers change, the stores are different,
But the result, the result echo’s today.
Welcome to the company store.
Do not concern yourself with financing,
Values can only rise”, the man says
(Newton has been stood on his head.)
“Prices are ascending, do not be left out”
Cries the barker showing you a fabulous landscape rendering.
Little or no money down.
Such an irresistible offer, Hurry!
Small shacks are all that remain today.
Bulldozers measure in hours
The last remnants of the company homes
That once teemed with sandaled feet.
Built to house and cage workers for life,
Enlightened growers understood the rules
But not the workers,
Whose hands destroyed by sugar cane blade edges,
Cut the cane, drank and suffocated.
The company store was their savior,
Offering food, clothing and credit,
Creating debt far beyond wages.
A tale, that repeats itself in each generation,
Barkers change, the stores are different,
But the result, the result echo’s today.
Welcome to the company store.
Unconditional Love
Warming my body and spirit
I lay reclined, smiling at my godless indulgence.
Had I done this properly
I’d have chocolates beside the lounge.
Homer, having swallowed his dog treat,
Ambled his 80 pounds over and proceeded to climb my body.
Finding a comfortable fit,
He settled and fell asleep.
I lay there filled with the most intense pleasure.
My dog thought it entirely natural
To look for safety and peace
On the stomach of his Alpha.
Trust and love had joined him to me,
He reduced what I would find
An impassable array of social beliefs
To reach the place where love simply “is”.
I lay reclined, smiling at my godless indulgence.
Had I done this properly
I’d have chocolates beside the lounge.
Homer, having swallowed his dog treat,
Ambled his 80 pounds over and proceeded to climb my body.
Finding a comfortable fit,
He settled and fell asleep.
I lay there filled with the most intense pleasure.
My dog thought it entirely natural
To look for safety and peace
On the stomach of his Alpha.
Trust and love had joined him to me,
He reduced what I would find
An impassable array of social beliefs
To reach the place where love simply “is”.
Chance
It’s a casual game, among friends,
All of who hope to be the big winner.
We will confront small risks
Often folding when the odds say “stay”.
Chance is our host,
Moving around the table, kissing some, crushing others.
Chauvinistically we see “chance “ as a female,
Well dressed, diamond sharp cool.
We all play this game, daily,
Not always by choice.
Indeed, the choice is never ours.
We breath we play.
The game begins with an error,
Having decided the process is “fair”
And disruptions of the cosmos
Will not affect the outcome.
Consider, the ground firm until the earth moves,
That odds will not be impacted by the unforeseeable.
Truth: when you get it right
It’s a result of unseen compensating wrongs.
Deal your opening hand, check the cards!
Ready for the game?
Is your day planned
And chance smiling?.
All of who hope to be the big winner.
We will confront small risks
Often folding when the odds say “stay”.
Chance is our host,
Moving around the table, kissing some, crushing others.
Chauvinistically we see “chance “ as a female,
Well dressed, diamond sharp cool.
We all play this game, daily,
Not always by choice.
Indeed, the choice is never ours.
We breath we play.
The game begins with an error,
Having decided the process is “fair”
And disruptions of the cosmos
Will not affect the outcome.
Consider, the ground firm until the earth moves,
That odds will not be impacted by the unforeseeable.
Truth: when you get it right
It’s a result of unseen compensating wrongs.
Deal your opening hand, check the cards!
Ready for the game?
Is your day planned
And chance smiling?.
In search of a greater god
Such delicious sentiments,
Hell’s fire, harps, purity,
Can’t surmount their local requirements.
Inside our walls are the temples we build.
He is, who is!
Encounters Zeus’s throne, a local rock.
We know of death,
We do not know death.
Graveyards offer the quintessential poster
Here belief relieves anxiety
And god is a burning bush
Making the earthly separateness endurable.
Fashioned of such material
We need not wonder why
The unknowable is.
We cannot enter and require lesser gods.
Hell’s fire, harps, purity,
Can’t surmount their local requirements.
Inside our walls are the temples we build.
He is, who is!
Encounters Zeus’s throne, a local rock.
We know of death,
We do not know death.
Graveyards offer the quintessential poster
Here belief relieves anxiety
And god is a burning bush
Making the earthly separateness endurable.
Fashioned of such material
We need not wonder why
The unknowable is.
We cannot enter and require lesser gods.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Fear
Half way there the plane dips,
Nose turning down, engines screaming.
A different dream,
Filled with anxieties, fear.
Can you take issue with your mind?
Promise no further adventures
Into dark corners and threatening creatures
Portending madness and death?
Before there was man, there was fear.
For a second generation to exist
The first needs overcome threats,
Real or imagined, or are they the same?
Emergence requires great good luck,
And belief that we are favored
By a force that brings sun and wind,
Knowing it may bring trial and devastation.
Fighting for an advantage,
We must gain the high ground
To secure our needs
And deal with our fears, and our gods.
Accepting our subordinate role,
Needing the gods favor,
We must strengthen our borders
Taking from others (who are evil).
Alas, survival depends on fear.
Nothing much has changed
On this playing field called Earth,
Except the size of the rock we throw.
Nose turning down, engines screaming.
A different dream,
Filled with anxieties, fear.
Can you take issue with your mind?
Promise no further adventures
Into dark corners and threatening creatures
Portending madness and death?
Before there was man, there was fear.
For a second generation to exist
The first needs overcome threats,
Real or imagined, or are they the same?
Emergence requires great good luck,
And belief that we are favored
By a force that brings sun and wind,
Knowing it may bring trial and devastation.
Fighting for an advantage,
We must gain the high ground
To secure our needs
And deal with our fears, and our gods.
Accepting our subordinate role,
Needing the gods favor,
We must strengthen our borders
Taking from others (who are evil).
Alas, survival depends on fear.
Nothing much has changed
On this playing field called Earth,
Except the size of the rock we throw.
I can do this, I can't do that.
I push away from my desk.
I can do this, I can spend time.
Playing poker with Annie, puzzling with Russ.
The President of the United States can wait.
I’ve a very poor reader of priorities,
But these guests matter to me.
Their physical comfort alone cannot
Be the sum total of my involvement.
True, there may be joy in art, in effort.
Does not each day’s beginning offer
A staggering array of possibilities,
Created for our consideration?
Most certainly, children and grandchildren
Do not exhaust the options for pleasure,
They offer the chance for sublime interaction,
A journey into past and future.
Whether a young girl or a grown man,
They welcome me into their world,
To see their dreams and hear different sounds,
With no need to defend my turf.
To battle with the meanings of Poker, Sudoku
And baseball, in a common effort.
I can do this.
Mothers and grandmothers reach deeper. I can’t do that.
I can do this, I can spend time.
Playing poker with Annie, puzzling with Russ.
The President of the United States can wait.
I’ve a very poor reader of priorities,
But these guests matter to me.
Their physical comfort alone cannot
Be the sum total of my involvement.
True, there may be joy in art, in effort.
Does not each day’s beginning offer
A staggering array of possibilities,
Created for our consideration?
Most certainly, children and grandchildren
Do not exhaust the options for pleasure,
They offer the chance for sublime interaction,
A journey into past and future.
Whether a young girl or a grown man,
They welcome me into their world,
To see their dreams and hear different sounds,
With no need to defend my turf.
To battle with the meanings of Poker, Sudoku
And baseball, in a common effort.
I can do this.
Mothers and grandmothers reach deeper. I can’t do that.
Fly in the water
Landing there without my assistance or encouragement,
It moves its legs but the wet wings won’t lift him.
I am inclined to attempt a rescue.
Minutes before, I had attempted to murder the creature.
What had changed?
Was any of it rational?
Surely the fly had changed,
Now an object of sympathy.
Was I dealing with the hope
My “good deed” would take “wing”,
Grant me a membership in the “everlasting club”?
Perhaps the fly might join me?
Is it possible I’m having an attack of compassion?
Was this about the limits of objectivity?
By removing him from the water
I would be helping an enemy.
Not a terrorist, merely an annoyance.
If I, a very poor swimmer,
Found myself struggling in a tide
You’d bet I’d want help.
What abstraction serves
To suggest the coming of assistance?
God, Wagnerian horns, super-thing?
Probably not.
I did rescue the fly.
When its wings had dried it took flight.
Was it going to share
The good news with the congregation?
Or look to renew the insidious attack?
Should he again take the offensive
I would be in the same dilemma
But, I might decide it was time for a small silent service.
It moves its legs but the wet wings won’t lift him.
I am inclined to attempt a rescue.
Minutes before, I had attempted to murder the creature.
What had changed?
Was any of it rational?
Surely the fly had changed,
Now an object of sympathy.
Was I dealing with the hope
My “good deed” would take “wing”,
Grant me a membership in the “everlasting club”?
Perhaps the fly might join me?
Is it possible I’m having an attack of compassion?
Was this about the limits of objectivity?
By removing him from the water
I would be helping an enemy.
Not a terrorist, merely an annoyance.
If I, a very poor swimmer,
Found myself struggling in a tide
You’d bet I’d want help.
What abstraction serves
To suggest the coming of assistance?
God, Wagnerian horns, super-thing?
Probably not.
I did rescue the fly.
When its wings had dried it took flight.
Was it going to share
The good news with the congregation?
Or look to renew the insidious attack?
Should he again take the offensive
I would be in the same dilemma
But, I might decide it was time for a small silent service.
Friday, March 30, 2007
A Distant Vision
I remember running
Down a hill flush with summer green.
Its gentle roll called to me,
Offering a day like no other.
I smile, recalling that ineffable experience.
Somewhat bewildered at finding this lovely memory
Available after so many years.
Where do I run today?
Certainly not over an expanse of undulating meadow
Where my feet flew and I met such pleasure.
Where my smallness and failures could not contain me
For the length of the field.
That child yearned so much for friends,
But felt he didn’t deserve them
And luxuriated in his loneliness.
I carry scars from that time that may have been.
I’ve left that child with few regrets
For a life that is fuller.
Where bad dreams do not assail me, nightly,
And I can share feelings with those I love.
Down a hill flush with summer green.
Its gentle roll called to me,
Offering a day like no other.
I smile, recalling that ineffable experience.
Somewhat bewildered at finding this lovely memory
Available after so many years.
Where do I run today?
Certainly not over an expanse of undulating meadow
Where my feet flew and I met such pleasure.
Where my smallness and failures could not contain me
For the length of the field.
That child yearned so much for friends,
But felt he didn’t deserve them
And luxuriated in his loneliness.
I carry scars from that time that may have been.
I’ve left that child with few regrets
For a life that is fuller.
Where bad dreams do not assail me, nightly,
And I can share feelings with those I love.
Marvin
On a “wet back” trip near Oxford,
Helping to establish man’s presence
By digging ditches and looking for bones,
Marvin stopped work unable to breath.
We spoke 40 years earlier of “Alice In Wonderland”,
The CPA office he was then joining.
Like me he had come from New York City to Oahu
I would be his first boss.
Not a typical big firm CPA office
My first client had been a taxi shop.
Their office featured a slack key guitar
And enough Mary Jane to open distribution.
Despite Marvin’s Harvard Law credentials
I thought he was grounded,
Likeable and thoughtful, slightly burden by beliefs,
Yet capable of laughing at himself.
He was a perfect Stanley to my Livingstone,
Possessing few of my less charming traits,
OK, he seemed to believe in god.
But, I could be forgiving.
We could finish each others sentences, but never did,
Recognizing the need to listen.
Never talked baseball, he was from the Bronx.
Not a Dodger fan.
Marvin moved two years later,
We never really parted, spoke every week
Saw one another regularly,
Always stepping easily into each other’s psyche.
We’d explored Europe together
And he was anxious to join Diana and me
In search of another’s holy grail,
Human teeth in a Wooly Mammoth’s graveyard.
Ten years after Oxford
I wish I could tell him of my latest idiocy,
Listen to his outrage
And laugh about the human condition.
Helping to establish man’s presence
By digging ditches and looking for bones,
Marvin stopped work unable to breath.
We spoke 40 years earlier of “Alice In Wonderland”,
The CPA office he was then joining.
Like me he had come from New York City to Oahu
I would be his first boss.
Not a typical big firm CPA office
My first client had been a taxi shop.
Their office featured a slack key guitar
And enough Mary Jane to open distribution.
Despite Marvin’s Harvard Law credentials
I thought he was grounded,
Likeable and thoughtful, slightly burden by beliefs,
Yet capable of laughing at himself.
He was a perfect Stanley to my Livingstone,
Possessing few of my less charming traits,
OK, he seemed to believe in god.
But, I could be forgiving.
We could finish each others sentences, but never did,
Recognizing the need to listen.
Never talked baseball, he was from the Bronx.
Not a Dodger fan.
Marvin moved two years later,
We never really parted, spoke every week
Saw one another regularly,
Always stepping easily into each other’s psyche.
We’d explored Europe together
And he was anxious to join Diana and me
In search of another’s holy grail,
Human teeth in a Wooly Mammoth’s graveyard.
Ten years after Oxford
I wish I could tell him of my latest idiocy,
Listen to his outrage
And laugh about the human condition.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Tribute to a small rock.
I have this 5 pound rock,
Unprepossessing, but
Awarded for services rendered.
It is the first among equals.
Most trophies mark an event,
A successful completion of a task,
Recognition of some accomplishment,
Real or imagined.
Unlike other awards
I think of it as a reminder
Of a Sisyphean effort,
Doomed to failure.
I found something resembling “rightness”
In the unambiguous attempt to offer aid,
An existential decision,
Made beautiful by its futility.
Unlike other awards,
The rock has made no demands
On my time or my space.
Occasionally it holds a door open.
My rock never needs cleaning,
Can be left indoors or out,
Impervious to weather
Or it’s surroundings.
It will certainly survive me,
My sons and their children.
Shall I leave it to a deserving soul?
Or add it to my will?
There is an inscription on the rock,
“Donovan”, (the prison's name).
Still, it shows no criminal intent,
But rather, invites meditation.
Deep, relaxing breaths
Looking for the true nature of the “rock”.
It is a true teacher, listens quietly,
Offering no judgment.
Unprepossessing, but
Awarded for services rendered.
It is the first among equals.
Most trophies mark an event,
A successful completion of a task,
Recognition of some accomplishment,
Real or imagined.
Unlike other awards
I think of it as a reminder
Of a Sisyphean effort,
Doomed to failure.
I found something resembling “rightness”
In the unambiguous attempt to offer aid,
An existential decision,
Made beautiful by its futility.
Unlike other awards,
The rock has made no demands
On my time or my space.
Occasionally it holds a door open.
My rock never needs cleaning,
Can be left indoors or out,
Impervious to weather
Or it’s surroundings.
It will certainly survive me,
My sons and their children.
Shall I leave it to a deserving soul?
Or add it to my will?
There is an inscription on the rock,
“Donovan”, (the prison's name).
Still, it shows no criminal intent,
But rather, invites meditation.
Deep, relaxing breaths
Looking for the true nature of the “rock”.
It is a true teacher, listens quietly,
Offering no judgment.
Aesop’s Brother
Here’s the setting.
Ken Lays company was not doing much
The stock depressed, no one buying.
Comes a heat-seeking brainwave.
Instead of making little money,
How could he drive the stock?
People want excitement,
A stock that could goes to the moon and beyond
A little cosmetic surgery might work?
Tech stocks are selling
But little Kenny wants gazillions
That called for Dick Cheney’s help
“Never mind Kenney’s Shoe Store,
No sex there”, said Dick
“We need a socko name,
That says buy or die”.
“Maybe Uranium” Dick continued
“There’s a product that oozes sex & power
OK, it’s a shoe store.
Maybe Kenny’s Uranium Shoe Store? “
“Shoes made of Uranium? Interesting.
How much could we put on a shoe?
Would people detonate?
Well, there’s always collateral damage”
“Of course, just because it says Uranium
Doesn’t mean we have to use the stuff!
If we change your first name to Uranium
There we go, Uranium Lay. Talk about sexy”
“Now, Uranium Shoes is a go,
But no, I’ve got to do something to the shoes
That great first name, then shoes?
Won’t due.”
“If we change your last name to Uranium
Why not drop your first for something
That will drive suckers to their brokers?”
And that’s how Tip Top Uranium was born.
Ken Lays company was not doing much
The stock depressed, no one buying.
Comes a heat-seeking brainwave.
Instead of making little money,
How could he drive the stock?
People want excitement,
A stock that could goes to the moon and beyond
A little cosmetic surgery might work?
Tech stocks are selling
But little Kenny wants gazillions
That called for Dick Cheney’s help
“Never mind Kenney’s Shoe Store,
No sex there”, said Dick
“We need a socko name,
That says buy or die”.
“Maybe Uranium” Dick continued
“There’s a product that oozes sex & power
OK, it’s a shoe store.
Maybe Kenny’s Uranium Shoe Store? “
“Shoes made of Uranium? Interesting.
How much could we put on a shoe?
Would people detonate?
Well, there’s always collateral damage”
“Of course, just because it says Uranium
Doesn’t mean we have to use the stuff!
If we change your first name to Uranium
There we go, Uranium Lay. Talk about sexy”
“Now, Uranium Shoes is a go,
But no, I’ve got to do something to the shoes
That great first name, then shoes?
Won’t due.”
“If we change your last name to Uranium
Why not drop your first for something
That will drive suckers to their brokers?”
And that’s how Tip Top Uranium was born.
Morphine
Morphine. Its been 40 years
Since I met that seductress,
Yet still I recall the shift
From pain to peace.
Not the peace of a becalmed voice,
Calling from somewhere near Moronic.
But a wordless space
Where all was.
The silence omnipresent
I was part of it.
No thought was possible,
Just silence and consciousness
I did not move in my hospital bed,
It did not matter.
The vessel I lived in stayed,
Yet didn’t contain who “I’ am.
I wish I could take you there,
But the fare is not affordable.
A second visit is too terrible to contemplate.
In truth it can’t be done.
A mind free of body loses its center,
All that grounds us is put aside.
A terrifying level of thoughtless comprehension is present,
Far beyond understanding
Color, size, love, hate, need,
Are not.
A universal mind sounds trite
The term maybe meaningless, and mindless
You exist forever, always existed
And it doesn’t matter.
The universe is part of you
And that doesn’t matter
That may be "the peace”.
It is all clear, and
So-o-o comforting
I smile as in a state of grace
Since I met that seductress,
Yet still I recall the shift
From pain to peace.
Not the peace of a becalmed voice,
Calling from somewhere near Moronic.
But a wordless space
Where all was.
The silence omnipresent
I was part of it.
No thought was possible,
Just silence and consciousness
I did not move in my hospital bed,
It did not matter.
The vessel I lived in stayed,
Yet didn’t contain who “I’ am.
I wish I could take you there,
But the fare is not affordable.
A second visit is too terrible to contemplate.
In truth it can’t be done.
A mind free of body loses its center,
All that grounds us is put aside.
A terrifying level of thoughtless comprehension is present,
Far beyond understanding
Color, size, love, hate, need,
Are not.
A universal mind sounds trite
The term maybe meaningless, and mindless
You exist forever, always existed
And it doesn’t matter.
The universe is part of you
And that doesn’t matter
That may be "the peace”.
It is all clear, and
So-o-o comforting
I smile as in a state of grace
Reaching
Lined up, on both sides of the room,
The bodies seemed so peaceful
39 people (more to come),
Had found a way to join infinity.
They left Earth for Heavens Gate.
Well named I think.
March 27, 1997 these 39 chose to rendezvous
With something traveling behind the Hale-Bopp comet.
They’d prepared for their journey,
Comfortably dressed, wearing dark shoes.
Leaving their bodies prone, on bunk beds
In the Rancho Santa Fe mansion.
Was there a message in those shoes?
Some metaphor for traveling?
They did not look
Like people who wore shoes to bed.
Tragedy becomes farce,
Especially when we're made uncomfortable.
Within days the waters were tested,
“Such a waste of perfectly good shoes”
It was essential to avoid the many Christian images
How could one enter the “Kingdom of Heaven"?
By committing suicide?
Such a terrible sin! Had they not read “The Book”?
What fools, simpletons.
Such a ridiculous belief system.
Surely they were deluded.
Still, there remains a kind of vibration.
If they were absurd… what of us?
Will someone offer a fact,
Just a small one, to note the difference
Separating our knowledge from their superstition?
Soon enough the distinction was found,
Uttered by a neighbor, “They were renters”
The bodies seemed so peaceful
39 people (more to come),
Had found a way to join infinity.
They left Earth for Heavens Gate.
Well named I think.
March 27, 1997 these 39 chose to rendezvous
With something traveling behind the Hale-Bopp comet.
They’d prepared for their journey,
Comfortably dressed, wearing dark shoes.
Leaving their bodies prone, on bunk beds
In the Rancho Santa Fe mansion.
Was there a message in those shoes?
Some metaphor for traveling?
They did not look
Like people who wore shoes to bed.
Tragedy becomes farce,
Especially when we're made uncomfortable.
Within days the waters were tested,
“Such a waste of perfectly good shoes”
It was essential to avoid the many Christian images
How could one enter the “Kingdom of Heaven"?
By committing suicide?
Such a terrible sin! Had they not read “The Book”?
What fools, simpletons.
Such a ridiculous belief system.
Surely they were deluded.
Still, there remains a kind of vibration.
If they were absurd… what of us?
Will someone offer a fact,
Just a small one, to note the difference
Separating our knowledge from their superstition?
Soon enough the distinction was found,
Uttered by a neighbor, “They were renters”
Prayer for a Lecture
I don’t lose sleep the night before,
Or rehearse my lines “just once more”.
Let the jokes seem awfully funny,
May the weather be bright and sunny
Not too many or too few,
Hopefully, not too sober a crew.
Some questions, always a good sign
My answers of course, will be viewed as sublime.
It would help if they think I know,
My job is, after all, to put on a show.
To entertain and look profound
Suggesting my feet never touch the ground.
My resume really looks great
It took me weeks to create!
Some parts are actually true
Apart from my name, maybe one or two.
I can’t read my notes, my postures bad,
I feel disheveled. No I’m not glad,
To be standing in front of this ridiculous crowd
Too many people, I think I am cowed.
It’s time to begin, to utter a word
Dramatic and loud I must make myself heard.
I’ll throw light on the subject, the class will be dazzled
Not knowing I’m sweating… and perfectly frazzled.
Or rehearse my lines “just once more”.
Let the jokes seem awfully funny,
May the weather be bright and sunny
Not too many or too few,
Hopefully, not too sober a crew.
Some questions, always a good sign
My answers of course, will be viewed as sublime.
It would help if they think I know,
My job is, after all, to put on a show.
To entertain and look profound
Suggesting my feet never touch the ground.
My resume really looks great
It took me weeks to create!
Some parts are actually true
Apart from my name, maybe one or two.
I can’t read my notes, my postures bad,
I feel disheveled. No I’m not glad,
To be standing in front of this ridiculous crowd
Too many people, I think I am cowed.
It’s time to begin, to utter a word
Dramatic and loud I must make myself heard.
I’ll throw light on the subject, the class will be dazzled
Not knowing I’m sweating… and perfectly frazzled.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Travels with Lou
Time to go.
I had called,
Leaving his list of "last calls" complete.
It was not about getting, it was about going.
Tired beyond endurance,
Trapped in a bad dream
That would last beyond time.
Ready.
Failing at, and for, the end,
Surely god can be a sadist.
More time, now without control.
His fate in other hands.
I leave his space quickly,
Unable to commune
With someone nearly lost.
Mother makes me a sandwich.
Dads helper informs,
"He adit".
She had said this for years.
Mom knows it means "he ate something".
I had called,
Leaving his list of "last calls" complete.
It was not about getting, it was about going.
Tired beyond endurance,
Trapped in a bad dream
That would last beyond time.
Ready.
Failing at, and for, the end,
Surely god can be a sadist.
More time, now without control.
His fate in other hands.
I leave his space quickly,
Unable to commune
With someone nearly lost.
Mother makes me a sandwich.
Dads helper informs,
"He adit".
She had said this for years.
Mom knows it means "he ate something".
Missteaks
My father, in a sagacious tone,
Advise that I avoid mistakes
“Be careful, be very careful,
In any case don’t repeat a mistake.”
Years have passed since that admonition.
I have continually not been careful.
I can look back, and about me.
Debris everywhere!
Still some things have worked to my favor.
Every now and again my calculations,
If not correct, were brought home
By virtue of compensating errors.
As to duplicating a faux pas,
My record stands clear.
Never, absolutely never,
Did I knowingly echo a disaster?
A name, spelled differently,
Occurred on another day of the week,
In a different city,
Or at least a different office.
My advice to my children is not sagacious,
At least I hope it’s not.
But still filled with the stentorian notes
Of a man looking at yesterdays news.
Advise that I avoid mistakes
“Be careful, be very careful,
In any case don’t repeat a mistake.”
Years have passed since that admonition.
I have continually not been careful.
I can look back, and about me.
Debris everywhere!
Still some things have worked to my favor.
Every now and again my calculations,
If not correct, were brought home
By virtue of compensating errors.
As to duplicating a faux pas,
My record stands clear.
Never, absolutely never,
Did I knowingly echo a disaster?
A name, spelled differently,
Occurred on another day of the week,
In a different city,
Or at least a different office.
My advice to my children is not sagacious,
At least I hope it’s not.
But still filled with the stentorian notes
Of a man looking at yesterdays news.
Habeas Corpus
She’s gone. They’ve taken her away
Where once in her safety we did stay,
Through her, believing we would have our say.
She held a torch proclaiming, “We would have our day”
Dear Habeas, such a sturdy soul!
Driven from her fortress, leaving a hole
So large it may do irreparable harm
To those who might sound an alarm.
A man who would otherwise question
Conclusions drawn from a secret session
Of those who ignore facts
So they might perform harmful acts.
A man cannot speak, lest he disappear
Into a building where Kafka could’ve steered
A course to pain & loss,
Where the unnamed may be tossed.
Who will comfort, bring a following sea,
That allows Truth to rise free,
Sans fear of Munich’s nightmare
Risen from the dark as Satan, the slayer.
All hail, habeas corpus
Civilizations measure,
Our abandoned responsibility.
Where once in her safety we did stay,
Through her, believing we would have our say.
She held a torch proclaiming, “We would have our day”
Dear Habeas, such a sturdy soul!
Driven from her fortress, leaving a hole
So large it may do irreparable harm
To those who might sound an alarm.
A man who would otherwise question
Conclusions drawn from a secret session
Of those who ignore facts
So they might perform harmful acts.
A man cannot speak, lest he disappear
Into a building where Kafka could’ve steered
A course to pain & loss,
Where the unnamed may be tossed.
Who will comfort, bring a following sea,
That allows Truth to rise free,
Sans fear of Munich’s nightmare
Risen from the dark as Satan, the slayer.
All hail, habeas corpus
Civilizations measure,
Our abandoned responsibility.
Leaving New York
January ended nasty & windy that year,
Precursor to an exemplary February 1.
I was an uncomfortable passenger
Looking at a metallic sky
The plane’s engines roared Beethoven’s Fifth.
We were set to leave New York
Not to come back for years,
Then only as tourists.
The city had defeated me
(An AA member entering a bar
Had the same chance of keeping sober.)
I had come to dislike myself.
Living in a monolith that subsumed me.
Pushing feverishly at the surrounding walls.
Faced with a conspiracy of gigantic buildings
Eradicating the sun’s light,
Night as we cross America
No sleep, too busy keeping plane aloft.
The evil eye waits.
Can’t afford to slacken my diligence.
The subway seemed a place to panic.
Get on before they close the door
YOU WONT MAKE IT
PUSH, FOR GODS SAKE, PUSH
I’d never traveled on a jet.
Alert & ever watchful
Some funny noises
Do they realize how fast we are going?
Mine was not an inability to function
Rather, my acceptance,
That I was to spend my life
Fulfilling someone else’s dream.
Checking my watch every 10 minutes,
On an eleven hour flight.
I have another drink.
Listening for changes in the engines rhythm.
There had been good days,
Softball in Central Park.
A resolution of an accounting problem.
(Points, if you did not use too much paper.)
We’ve cleared the coast. Looking for Hawaii.
So small on the map.
How will they find it?
Will the Pacific swallow us?
The work got better, more challenging.
But not the pace.
You can’t possibly wait for the light to change
Or the noise to lessen.
Hours to go.
We are experiencing turbulence
Surely He will recognize my intentions,
And secure my passage, maybe?
I fantasize a place away
Far from the woman who chooses
To wash the halls and elevator.
Time to risk and reach
It is 1 AM and we deplane.
The breeze is soft and warm.
Pineapple juice flows from a fountain
All rehearsed for my arrival
Precursor to an exemplary February 1.
I was an uncomfortable passenger
Looking at a metallic sky
The plane’s engines roared Beethoven’s Fifth.
We were set to leave New York
Not to come back for years,
Then only as tourists.
The city had defeated me
(An AA member entering a bar
Had the same chance of keeping sober.)
I had come to dislike myself.
Living in a monolith that subsumed me.
Pushing feverishly at the surrounding walls.
Faced with a conspiracy of gigantic buildings
Eradicating the sun’s light,
Night as we cross America
No sleep, too busy keeping plane aloft.
The evil eye waits.
Can’t afford to slacken my diligence.
The subway seemed a place to panic.
Get on before they close the door
YOU WONT MAKE IT
PUSH, FOR GODS SAKE, PUSH
I’d never traveled on a jet.
Alert & ever watchful
Some funny noises
Do they realize how fast we are going?
Mine was not an inability to function
Rather, my acceptance,
That I was to spend my life
Fulfilling someone else’s dream.
Checking my watch every 10 minutes,
On an eleven hour flight.
I have another drink.
Listening for changes in the engines rhythm.
There had been good days,
Softball in Central Park.
A resolution of an accounting problem.
(Points, if you did not use too much paper.)
We’ve cleared the coast. Looking for Hawaii.
So small on the map.
How will they find it?
Will the Pacific swallow us?
The work got better, more challenging.
But not the pace.
You can’t possibly wait for the light to change
Or the noise to lessen.
Hours to go.
We are experiencing turbulence
Surely He will recognize my intentions,
And secure my passage, maybe?
I fantasize a place away
Far from the woman who chooses
To wash the halls and elevator.
Time to risk and reach
It is 1 AM and we deplane.
The breeze is soft and warm.
Pineapple juice flows from a fountain
All rehearsed for my arrival
Christmas in New York
I recall the hurried, determined walk to the subway,
Battlements erected to depersonalize human contact,
Encountering no smiles or warmth,
Wildebeest crossing because that is what they do.
Wardrobes change with the seasons,
The battlefield remains constant.
Herds move because that is what they do.
There is a painting,” The Diner”,
It evokes the aloneness of each patron’s life
Under a harsh light,
Inexorably, the mindless struggle
Pushes us to preordained cubicles
Joyless movement
Doomed, almost to the grand wheel.
When the days are diminished
And darkness weighs,
Something changes
The herd sniffs a half-forgotten scent.
People open from personal cocoons.
Find the day filled with potential,
Move to catch a serpentine engine,
Observe forms of life.
Myth reborn
In lighter imprints of snows remnants,
Faces are seen.
Someone holds a door open.
Enough, more than enough,
To derail cynicism.
Ephemeral, certainly, but real.
We allow for the impossible.
Battlements erected to depersonalize human contact,
Encountering no smiles or warmth,
Wildebeest crossing because that is what they do.
Wardrobes change with the seasons,
The battlefield remains constant.
Herds move because that is what they do.
There is a painting,” The Diner”,
It evokes the aloneness of each patron’s life
Under a harsh light,
Inexorably, the mindless struggle
Pushes us to preordained cubicles
Joyless movement
Doomed, almost to the grand wheel.
When the days are diminished
And darkness weighs,
Something changes
The herd sniffs a half-forgotten scent.
People open from personal cocoons.
Find the day filled with potential,
Move to catch a serpentine engine,
Observe forms of life.
Myth reborn
In lighter imprints of snows remnants,
Faces are seen.
Someone holds a door open.
Enough, more than enough,
To derail cynicism.
Ephemeral, certainly, but real.
We allow for the impossible.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
In Praise of Walkers
I will not speak of many,
Nor of those who think of walking.
My interest lies not with the quality,
Or the distance covered.
My praise is of those who do,
Inconvenient, honorable, difficult,
Unprofitable, dangerous, unpopular “walks”
That need doing.
Without them science does not exist,
And the naked king would be applauded
For his choice in apparel.
Without them the stone would lie unmoved
I salute those who would walk knowing
Their direction may cost them family and friends.
I speak of people who demand reason of themselves
Rather then rationalization.
Like Job they want answers, not bombast,
They demand a hearing, not a harangue.
They are but few and forever endangered.
Let us cheer the bravery in their choice.
Nor of those who think of walking.
My interest lies not with the quality,
Or the distance covered.
My praise is of those who do,
Inconvenient, honorable, difficult,
Unprofitable, dangerous, unpopular “walks”
That need doing.
Without them science does not exist,
And the naked king would be applauded
For his choice in apparel.
Without them the stone would lie unmoved
I salute those who would walk knowing
Their direction may cost them family and friends.
I speak of people who demand reason of themselves
Rather then rationalization.
Like Job they want answers, not bombast,
They demand a hearing, not a harangue.
They are but few and forever endangered.
Let us cheer the bravery in their choice.
A Word on Job
All agreed Job was a good man.
He observed the Sabbath,
Gave to the poor,
Prospered yet remained humble.
God chose to test Job,
By allowing Satan to devastate Job’s life,
Taking Job’s wealth, family and health.
“Would he still love and fear the lord”?
Job questioned the reason for his fall.
Friends suggested he showed hubris.
“Do not ask of god, only offer”, they said.
Job wanted an audience.
Neither Moses, Jesus, nor Mohammed
Had spoken with god directly.
But God granted Job an audience.
Job spoke and God answered.
“Why have you forsaken me?” Job asked.
God’s response thundered across the universe.
“How dare you question me”?
Job was silenced.
God had offered neither sympathy
Nor explanation.
He had behaved as a bully.
We will never recover from the epiphany.
He observed the Sabbath,
Gave to the poor,
Prospered yet remained humble.
God chose to test Job,
By allowing Satan to devastate Job’s life,
Taking Job’s wealth, family and health.
“Would he still love and fear the lord”?
Job questioned the reason for his fall.
Friends suggested he showed hubris.
“Do not ask of god, only offer”, they said.
Job wanted an audience.
Neither Moses, Jesus, nor Mohammed
Had spoken with god directly.
But God granted Job an audience.
Job spoke and God answered.
“Why have you forsaken me?” Job asked.
God’s response thundered across the universe.
“How dare you question me”?
Job was silenced.
God had offered neither sympathy
Nor explanation.
He had behaved as a bully.
We will never recover from the epiphany.
The Hospital
Moving as quickly as her pain would allow,
Mom, supported by me,
Passed through the rain
Into the Emergency waiting room,
This Sunday the room was quiet.
Only two older couples, and a small girl
Accompanied by her father,
Sat waiting to be called.
Since it was a heart related problem
Mom was moved, upon the doctor’s order,
To a semi private hospital room.
The other bed was empty.
Old and in deteriorating health,
Mom looked resigned and quiet.
Too quiet I thought.
Perhaps she was turning in.
I spoke to her of family,
(Her contemporaries were gone.)
No friends remained, just children and grandchildren.
Leading lives that did not include her.
Sitting on her bed, holding her hand,
Seeing the too bright expression,
Knowing at that moment, she was not with me,
I sought desperately, for contact.
I knew I would go back to my life,
Our hands would separate, I would leave,
Returning tomorrow to confirm
It was she, not me, that needed to stay.
How long before she becomes a reference point,
Not quite human, in a state of storage,
Allowing keepers to record
Her descent into herself?
I am not brave,
If I were, the tragedy
Would not be allowed to become farce.
We know the final scene.
Mom, supported by me,
Passed through the rain
Into the Emergency waiting room,
This Sunday the room was quiet.
Only two older couples, and a small girl
Accompanied by her father,
Sat waiting to be called.
Since it was a heart related problem
Mom was moved, upon the doctor’s order,
To a semi private hospital room.
The other bed was empty.
Old and in deteriorating health,
Mom looked resigned and quiet.
Too quiet I thought.
Perhaps she was turning in.
I spoke to her of family,
(Her contemporaries were gone.)
No friends remained, just children and grandchildren.
Leading lives that did not include her.
Sitting on her bed, holding her hand,
Seeing the too bright expression,
Knowing at that moment, she was not with me,
I sought desperately, for contact.
I knew I would go back to my life,
Our hands would separate, I would leave,
Returning tomorrow to confirm
It was she, not me, that needed to stay.
How long before she becomes a reference point,
Not quite human, in a state of storage,
Allowing keepers to record
Her descent into herself?
I am not brave,
If I were, the tragedy
Would not be allowed to become farce.
We know the final scene.
Done Good
Done Good 1/9/07
He took the “dare”.
Four hours to make the snatch.
All six of us with different territories,
We meets back here in four hours.
Da yo-yo what go the best haul wins,
And gets to keep every bodies loot.
I figger to trip the beach
See, I got this great scam.
I looks for a 40 plus broad.
Hanging near the warder,
First I sits near her,
Pulls a fiver and sneaks it inta the sand.
I waits a capala minutes, see
Den I , like, pretend I found the fiver
And ax her if see, like, lose it.
9 er 10 she goes “no”.
Now I sez, “must be yours I got no fiver”.
See, like, insisting its hers.
Now she kinna says , “OK’
Takes the fiver & puts it iner bag.
See, now I know the target.
I waits like a minute, she cool.
Now, like , I makes my move.
Grab the bitches bag and gone.
Woiks like, every time.
Today, it was, like, extra bases
Bags gotta watch and 85.
A course 5 of dat is mine,
Still you gotta say “I done good”.
Fuggedaboutit!
He took the “dare”.
Four hours to make the snatch.
All six of us with different territories,
We meets back here in four hours.
Da yo-yo what go the best haul wins,
And gets to keep every bodies loot.
I figger to trip the beach
See, I got this great scam.
I looks for a 40 plus broad.
Hanging near the warder,
First I sits near her,
Pulls a fiver and sneaks it inta the sand.
I waits a capala minutes, see
Den I , like, pretend I found the fiver
And ax her if see, like, lose it.
9 er 10 she goes “no”.
Now I sez, “must be yours I got no fiver”.
See, like, insisting its hers.
Now she kinna says , “OK’
Takes the fiver & puts it iner bag.
See, now I know the target.
I waits like a minute, she cool.
Now, like , I makes my move.
Grab the bitches bag and gone.
Woiks like, every time.
Today, it was, like, extra bases
Bags gotta watch and 85.
A course 5 of dat is mine,
Still you gotta say “I done good”.
Fuggedaboutit!
Don's Bad Day
Don lay in an open coffin, nicely dressed.
I fully expected him to wink.
Instead he remained unmoving
Going nowhere.
Reverend Strauss offered the eulogy,
Reading from comments given by family.
Ten minutes later
He read notes furnished by Don’s lover.
Moving between two note sheets,
Reverend Strauss read of two men,
Introducing Don to people who already knew him,
A stranger reaching, unsuccessfully, for a dead man.
Many were here to do the “right thing”,
Knowing Don only as an acquaintance.
They heard that, as a young man, he liked bowling.
I thought,"nice very nice."
At service end I should have felt outrage
Over the banality unwillingly witnessed.
I hoped Don got the joke.
I fully expected him to wink.
Instead he remained unmoving
Going nowhere.
Reverend Strauss offered the eulogy,
Reading from comments given by family.
Ten minutes later
He read notes furnished by Don’s lover.
Moving between two note sheets,
Reverend Strauss read of two men,
Introducing Don to people who already knew him,
A stranger reaching, unsuccessfully, for a dead man.
Many were here to do the “right thing”,
Knowing Don only as an acquaintance.
They heard that, as a young man, he liked bowling.
I thought,"nice very nice."
At service end I should have felt outrage
Over the banality unwillingly witnessed.
I hoped Don got the joke.
The Day Before Tomorrow
Being here “now” a strong admonition
That joins with “smelling the roses “
States that there is only the present.
Tomorrow and yesterday are but illusions.
Not for humans, this gigantic task.
Perhaps some alien creature that does not dream
May live here, unmoved by imagined yesterdays,
Or the moment yet to come.
It seems the dog, fish and you
Share this condition.
All, all creatures of this earth
Smell yesterday’s imagined scent.
Somewhere there may be a Yogi,
Dwelling in a transcendent state,
Lasting minutes or hours
Neither here nor there, He IS.
What of his escape from time?
Does the clearing of all thoughts
Allow for today?
If not, who smells the roses?
That joins with “smelling the roses “
States that there is only the present.
Tomorrow and yesterday are but illusions.
Not for humans, this gigantic task.
Perhaps some alien creature that does not dream
May live here, unmoved by imagined yesterdays,
Or the moment yet to come.
It seems the dog, fish and you
Share this condition.
All, all creatures of this earth
Smell yesterday’s imagined scent.
Somewhere there may be a Yogi,
Dwelling in a transcendent state,
Lasting minutes or hours
Neither here nor there, He IS.
What of his escape from time?
Does the clearing of all thoughts
Allow for today?
If not, who smells the roses?
Your Turn
For her turning left from the driveway was routine,
Then keeping the car completely in the right lane
Except for a tiny bit of the left front bumper.
Done regularly without incident or thought.
Coffee cup in its holder
Wondering about her pending retirement ---
Until the truck hit,
Dragging car and passenger 40 feet.
An instant of quiet
When all could be a dream.
Sounds, like rushing feet,
And smoke wistfully entering space,
Demand she return.
She would be late reaching home.
Screeching brakes, car doors slamming.
Rosemary wonders if she is hurt.
Her neck feels out of place.
What to do?
Cautious, she must be very careful
Not to do further damage.
" Here's the truck driver,
Slowly, opening my door” she thinks.
Replying to his question,
Words and ideas
Come to the surface.
Her mind is working.
Pain, had waited patiently,
But now assails her neck and foot.
“Oh god, my neck, my neck”,
She screams.
Scared, very scared,
She holds her body rigid,
Thinking she might be dying.
Her eyes fill with tears.
A doctor stands beside her bed.
“It doesn’t look too bad” he says.
“Should have you home, in a neck brace,
By Saturday”.
Drifting in and out of wakefulness.
Hearing from a great distance,
She’ll be staying home for a while.
I’ve made that same turn
Keep most of my car inside the right lane.
I’ll do something like that tomorrow ---and tomorrow.
It will be years before it’s my turn --- right?
Then keeping the car completely in the right lane
Except for a tiny bit of the left front bumper.
Done regularly without incident or thought.
Coffee cup in its holder
Wondering about her pending retirement ---
Until the truck hit,
Dragging car and passenger 40 feet.
An instant of quiet
When all could be a dream.
Sounds, like rushing feet,
And smoke wistfully entering space,
Demand she return.
She would be late reaching home.
Screeching brakes, car doors slamming.
Rosemary wonders if she is hurt.
Her neck feels out of place.
What to do?
Cautious, she must be very careful
Not to do further damage.
" Here's the truck driver,
Slowly, opening my door” she thinks.
Replying to his question,
Words and ideas
Come to the surface.
Her mind is working.
Pain, had waited patiently,
But now assails her neck and foot.
“Oh god, my neck, my neck”,
She screams.
Scared, very scared,
She holds her body rigid,
Thinking she might be dying.
Her eyes fill with tears.
A doctor stands beside her bed.
“It doesn’t look too bad” he says.
“Should have you home, in a neck brace,
By Saturday”.
Drifting in and out of wakefulness.
Hearing from a great distance,
She’ll be staying home for a while.
I’ve made that same turn
Keep most of my car inside the right lane.
I’ll do something like that tomorrow ---and tomorrow.
It will be years before it’s my turn --- right?
Fair
Casting aside seven alternative usages
I want what’s “Fair”.
Scales reflecting an ordered universe.
I must find a place to stand.
Just one guy
With his subjective view of pictures,
Some clear, some not.
Are my concerns worthy of discussion?
If one man's “Fair" is defective
By virtue of being singular.
Who decides the winning number?
The one with the biggest gun?
I think of “Fair” as gray,
Changing Mondays and Fridays,
Allowing for a change in the tides
And the earth’s rotation.
Keeping to my paradigm,
“Fair" runs it’s course by 50,
Sooner for most people,
After which life is less "Fair".
“Mean” the man says,
“You are not being fair”.
I repeat my argument,
He repeats his.
My bill is too much,
My neighbor leaves out his garbage,
A bomb maimed my little son,
They are all “Fair”.
Beyond "Fair” is living another 15 minutes,
Always at an unfair price.
I can’t live in someone else’s moccasins.
But I know “Fair” when I see it.
I want what’s “Fair”.
Scales reflecting an ordered universe.
I must find a place to stand.
Just one guy
With his subjective view of pictures,
Some clear, some not.
Are my concerns worthy of discussion?
If one man's “Fair" is defective
By virtue of being singular.
Who decides the winning number?
The one with the biggest gun?
I think of “Fair” as gray,
Changing Mondays and Fridays,
Allowing for a change in the tides
And the earth’s rotation.
Keeping to my paradigm,
“Fair" runs it’s course by 50,
Sooner for most people,
After which life is less "Fair".
“Mean” the man says,
“You are not being fair”.
I repeat my argument,
He repeats his.
My bill is too much,
My neighbor leaves out his garbage,
A bomb maimed my little son,
They are all “Fair”.
Beyond "Fair” is living another 15 minutes,
Always at an unfair price.
I can’t live in someone else’s moccasins.
But I know “Fair” when I see it.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Fall Believers
Successful men and women.
They are in their September years,
Confident and proud,
Clear eyed, with something to share.
Carrying little luggage,
Engaged in a most singular act,
(Granted many here seek peers),
They continue to lift Sisyphean loads.
Some come to praise and learn,
Others demand money.
Please listen to the man
He is your last best hope.
Is there empathy or sympathy to be found?
How much will honesty be compromised?
Can the seeker bear your assessment?
What words will help and not cause damage?
Counselors are short-lived creatures
Assisting a few.
When the door closes
Clients are beyond reach.
They are in their September years,
Confident and proud,
Clear eyed, with something to share.
Carrying little luggage,
Engaged in a most singular act,
(Granted many here seek peers),
They continue to lift Sisyphean loads.
Some come to praise and learn,
Others demand money.
Please listen to the man
He is your last best hope.
Is there empathy or sympathy to be found?
How much will honesty be compromised?
Can the seeker bear your assessment?
What words will help and not cause damage?
Counselors are short-lived creatures
Assisting a few.
When the door closes
Clients are beyond reach.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
A Word From Our Sponsors
My epiphany,
A moment of pure transcendence.
Glowed brilliantly
Through the “fog of war”.
Clearly the causes of war,
While complex are limited.
“You have something I want”,
Might sum them up.
All humans want chocolate mousse,
(We can safely conclude that exceptions
Are almost certainly extraterrestrials).
Now we have a motive for war.
Control of the chocolate mousse market,
Especially the secret ingredients
That make a vastly superior product,
Are coveted enough to bring Armageddon.
But, brothers and sisters, we need no weapons,
This battle will be waged at the UN where
A new comestibles department hold sway,
Eat Mousse Or Die, EMOD, shall set the rules.
All countries not wishing to be devoured,
Including little guys like Liechtenstein,
Andorra, and Disneyland,
Will be required to submit entries.
Six mousses per country.
A select subcommittee from EMOD
Will throw 2 pies and eat 4.
Handicaps will be given to the little guys.
To expedite the process
The select subcommittee will have 2,615,758 members.
Some will be eaters and some will be throwers.
Ten finalists will be chosen.
Based on the god-like qualities found by the eaters
And the distance and accuracy achieved by the throwers.
Members of EMOD, will, to assure honest counts,
Hold secret meetings.
Proposals for a super secure computer system,
That will correlate the results of the 2, 615, 758 members.
Will be determined on a completely objective system.
Said system when completed will be kept a secret.
UN troops, carrying fixed bayonets on very old rifles,
Will guard the central computer room by
Facing the computers for 24 hours at a time,
Ensuring that no information crawls out of the machines.
The soldiers will assure, at bayonet point, that no large person,
In foolish, if heroic, bursts of nationalism,
Throws themselves, onto a computer
In attempts to add weight to their country’s entry.
Ten finalists will throw his or her nation’s pie
At one of the adversaries.
The finalist with the least accurate toss
Will be eliminated.
After 9 rounds we will have a winner.
Should there be a serious challenge,
As determined by EMOD,
The challenger will be asked to leave.
At this point all countries will
No longer remember why or how this process began.
Not withstanding, the winner
Will require his nations pies to have total dominance.
All but the winning country
Will now plot revenge.
It is this writer’s expectation
That revenge will take the form of black market pies
A moment of pure transcendence.
Glowed brilliantly
Through the “fog of war”.
Clearly the causes of war,
While complex are limited.
“You have something I want”,
Might sum them up.
All humans want chocolate mousse,
(We can safely conclude that exceptions
Are almost certainly extraterrestrials).
Now we have a motive for war.
Control of the chocolate mousse market,
Especially the secret ingredients
That make a vastly superior product,
Are coveted enough to bring Armageddon.
But, brothers and sisters, we need no weapons,
This battle will be waged at the UN where
A new comestibles department hold sway,
Eat Mousse Or Die, EMOD, shall set the rules.
All countries not wishing to be devoured,
Including little guys like Liechtenstein,
Andorra, and Disneyland,
Will be required to submit entries.
Six mousses per country.
A select subcommittee from EMOD
Will throw 2 pies and eat 4.
Handicaps will be given to the little guys.
To expedite the process
The select subcommittee will have 2,615,758 members.
Some will be eaters and some will be throwers.
Ten finalists will be chosen.
Based on the god-like qualities found by the eaters
And the distance and accuracy achieved by the throwers.
Members of EMOD, will, to assure honest counts,
Hold secret meetings.
Proposals for a super secure computer system,
That will correlate the results of the 2, 615, 758 members.
Will be determined on a completely objective system.
Said system when completed will be kept a secret.
UN troops, carrying fixed bayonets on very old rifles,
Will guard the central computer room by
Facing the computers for 24 hours at a time,
Ensuring that no information crawls out of the machines.
The soldiers will assure, at bayonet point, that no large person,
In foolish, if heroic, bursts of nationalism,
Throws themselves, onto a computer
In attempts to add weight to their country’s entry.
Ten finalists will throw his or her nation’s pie
At one of the adversaries.
The finalist with the least accurate toss
Will be eliminated.
After 9 rounds we will have a winner.
Should there be a serious challenge,
As determined by EMOD,
The challenger will be asked to leave.
At this point all countries will
No longer remember why or how this process began.
Not withstanding, the winner
Will require his nations pies to have total dominance.
All but the winning country
Will now plot revenge.
It is this writer’s expectation
That revenge will take the form of black market pies
The Chocolate War
My epiphany,
A moment of pure transcendence.
Glowed brilliantly
Through the “fog of war”.
Clearly the causes of war,
While complex are limited.
“You have something I want”,
Might sum them up.
All humans want chocolate mousse,
(We can safely conclude that exceptions
Are almost certainly extraterrestrials).
Now we have a motive for war.
Control of the chocolate mousse market,
Especially the secret ingredients
That make a vastly superior product,
Are coveted enough to bring Armageddon.
But, brothers and sisters, we need no weapons,
This battle will be waged at the UN where
A new comestibles department hold sway,
Eat Mousse Or Die, EMOD, shall set the rules.
All countries not wishing to be devoured,
Including little guys like Liechtenstein,
Andorra, and Disneyland,
Will be required to submit entries.
Six mousses per country.
A select subcommittee from EMOD
Will throw 2 pies and eat 4.
Handicaps will be given to the little guys.
To expedite the process
The select subcommittee will have 2,615,758 members.
Some will be eaters and some will be throwers.
Ten finalists will be chosen.
Based on the god-like qualities found by the eaters
And the distance and accuracy achieved by the throwers.
Members of EMOD, will, to assure honest counts,
Hold secret meetings.
Proposals for a super secure computer system,
That will correlate the results of the 2, 615, 758 members.
Will be determined on a completely objective system.
Said system when completed will be kept a secret.
UN troops, carrying fixed bayonets on very old rifles,
Will guard the central computer room by
Facing the computers for 24 hours at a time,
Ensuring that no information crawls out of the machines.
The soldiers will assure, at bayonet point, that no large person,
In foolish, if heroic, bursts of nationalism,
Throws themselves, onto a computer
In attempts to add weight to their country’s entry.
Ten finalists will throw his or her nation’s pie
At one of the adversaries.
The finalist with the least accurate toss
Will be eliminated.
After 9 rounds we will have a winner.
Should there be a serious challenge,
As determined by EMOD,
The challenger will be asked to leave.
At this point all countries will
No longer remember why or how this process began.
Not withstanding, the winner
Will require his nations pies to have total dominance.
All but the winning country
Will now plot revenge.
It is this writer’s expectation
That revenge will take the form of black market pies
A moment of pure transcendence.
Glowed brilliantly
Through the “fog of war”.
Clearly the causes of war,
While complex are limited.
“You have something I want”,
Might sum them up.
All humans want chocolate mousse,
(We can safely conclude that exceptions
Are almost certainly extraterrestrials).
Now we have a motive for war.
Control of the chocolate mousse market,
Especially the secret ingredients
That make a vastly superior product,
Are coveted enough to bring Armageddon.
But, brothers and sisters, we need no weapons,
This battle will be waged at the UN where
A new comestibles department hold sway,
Eat Mousse Or Die, EMOD, shall set the rules.
All countries not wishing to be devoured,
Including little guys like Liechtenstein,
Andorra, and Disneyland,
Will be required to submit entries.
Six mousses per country.
A select subcommittee from EMOD
Will throw 2 pies and eat 4.
Handicaps will be given to the little guys.
To expedite the process
The select subcommittee will have 2,615,758 members.
Some will be eaters and some will be throwers.
Ten finalists will be chosen.
Based on the god-like qualities found by the eaters
And the distance and accuracy achieved by the throwers.
Members of EMOD, will, to assure honest counts,
Hold secret meetings.
Proposals for a super secure computer system,
That will correlate the results of the 2, 615, 758 members.
Will be determined on a completely objective system.
Said system when completed will be kept a secret.
UN troops, carrying fixed bayonets on very old rifles,
Will guard the central computer room by
Facing the computers for 24 hours at a time,
Ensuring that no information crawls out of the machines.
The soldiers will assure, at bayonet point, that no large person,
In foolish, if heroic, bursts of nationalism,
Throws themselves, onto a computer
In attempts to add weight to their country’s entry.
Ten finalists will throw his or her nation’s pie
At one of the adversaries.
The finalist with the least accurate toss
Will be eliminated.
After 9 rounds we will have a winner.
Should there be a serious challenge,
As determined by EMOD,
The challenger will be asked to leave.
At this point all countries will
No longer remember why or how this process began.
Not withstanding, the winner
Will require his nations pies to have total dominance.
All but the winning country
Will now plot revenge.
It is this writer’s expectation
That revenge will take the form of black market pies
Once More with Feeling
What a blockhead.
Nor could it be ascribed to age,
Having performed similar feats years earlier.
My mind, it seems, fails to see the obvious.
I wonder if Doctor Watson had a first name.
I seem to be playing that role.
Without the aid of a Sherlock Holmes.
Of course, it might have been worth the $18 bucks.
As I exit the parking garage
There is a knock on the passenger window.
A lady wants to talk.
She has a problem.
It concerns a car starter.
Triple A came and pronounced it “unstartable”.
Now lady and elderly mother are stuck.
No money, wallet left at home.
As I leave my car to offer help.
She calls to someone out of my sight range,
“The good gentleman will help”.
It seems she needs $15
That will get her to a train and home.
Continuing my Watsonian role,
I hand her the $15,
How could I leave them stranded?
Adding a beautiful touch, her need increases.
The bus to the train costs $1.50 each.
(That’s a 20% tip for a superior performance)
She is most grateful, and offers her name.
She notes my name and address.
She will send the money.
Finally, having done the good deed,
I restart my car and head home.
I never saw her mother, the poor thing,
Never saw any personal identification, or her car.
Was she really at a supermarket without any money?
Was there really a bull’s-eye on my forehead?
Do not take pity on me,
Although laughter, at my expense, seems appropriate.
But I reflect upon the acting,
Those wonderful touches.
She’d been the lead performer
In a one act play.
Having written the play she set the stage.
Perhaps the script needed a little work.
What of my part?
Did I not play it flawlessly?
Maybe this was an interview
For a retake of a Holmes and Watson adventure?
Think, seeing a great performance,
Playing second lead in a drama filled with pathos,
Paying a mere $18 for such an experience.
Surely, if I don’t have brain surgery, I’d do it again.
Nor could it be ascribed to age,
Having performed similar feats years earlier.
My mind, it seems, fails to see the obvious.
I wonder if Doctor Watson had a first name.
I seem to be playing that role.
Without the aid of a Sherlock Holmes.
Of course, it might have been worth the $18 bucks.
As I exit the parking garage
There is a knock on the passenger window.
A lady wants to talk.
She has a problem.
It concerns a car starter.
Triple A came and pronounced it “unstartable”.
Now lady and elderly mother are stuck.
No money, wallet left at home.
As I leave my car to offer help.
She calls to someone out of my sight range,
“The good gentleman will help”.
It seems she needs $15
That will get her to a train and home.
Continuing my Watsonian role,
I hand her the $15,
How could I leave them stranded?
Adding a beautiful touch, her need increases.
The bus to the train costs $1.50 each.
(That’s a 20% tip for a superior performance)
She is most grateful, and offers her name.
She notes my name and address.
She will send the money.
Finally, having done the good deed,
I restart my car and head home.
I never saw her mother, the poor thing,
Never saw any personal identification, or her car.
Was she really at a supermarket without any money?
Was there really a bull’s-eye on my forehead?
Do not take pity on me,
Although laughter, at my expense, seems appropriate.
But I reflect upon the acting,
Those wonderful touches.
She’d been the lead performer
In a one act play.
Having written the play she set the stage.
Perhaps the script needed a little work.
What of my part?
Did I not play it flawlessly?
Maybe this was an interview
For a retake of a Holmes and Watson adventure?
Think, seeing a great performance,
Playing second lead in a drama filled with pathos,
Paying a mere $18 for such an experience.
Surely, if I don’t have brain surgery, I’d do it again.
Saving the Krill
Whales are magnificent creatures,
Move effortlessly through seas,
Enrich our lives with their size
And their acceptance of man.
On a March Sunday in Maui
Your are guaranteed a sighting
Often with baby in tow.
Surely we must save the whale?
But, alas, there is a problem.
A blue whale has a large appetite
Eats more than pounds a day,
Approximately 10,000 krill at a sitting.
I do not support Dunsberry.
The suggestion of “nuking the whales” is extreme.
However, the planned parent approach
Has been brought to our attention.
Who are we?
We are the “Save the Krill” society.
A small dedicated group
That recognizes the Krills “right to life”
Are Krills intelligent? Who knows?
What is their role in the grand scheme?
Why have few recognized
Their tragedy each time a whale is saved.
To right this egregious wrong
Several of us “right thinking”
Defenders of little guy
Have banded together.
If we can avoid the birth
Of just one baby blue whale
We will save approximately 3,650,000 Krills
In a single year.
To this end we have been working, tirelessly,
On creating a whale contraceptive.
This project is not without some large problems.
But we believe the product is within our reach.
So far getting cooperative whales,
Who will wear the contraceptive,
Or volunteers to assist the whale
Have not been forthcoming.
Currently we are researching whale sterilization.
This could be easily accomplished
With the help of about 50 people
Willing to position a whale correctly.
We of the Save the Krill Society
Remain hopeful that you,
And the caring people you know,
Will join our cause.
Submitted
Jerry Greenspan
President, Save the Krill Society
PS; For a nominal fee badges and banners are available.
Move effortlessly through seas,
Enrich our lives with their size
And their acceptance of man.
On a March Sunday in Maui
Your are guaranteed a sighting
Often with baby in tow.
Surely we must save the whale?
But, alas, there is a problem.
A blue whale has a large appetite
Eats more than pounds a day,
Approximately 10,000 krill at a sitting.
I do not support Dunsberry.
The suggestion of “nuking the whales” is extreme.
However, the planned parent approach
Has been brought to our attention.
Who are we?
We are the “Save the Krill” society.
A small dedicated group
That recognizes the Krills “right to life”
Are Krills intelligent? Who knows?
What is their role in the grand scheme?
Why have few recognized
Their tragedy each time a whale is saved.
To right this egregious wrong
Several of us “right thinking”
Defenders of little guy
Have banded together.
If we can avoid the birth
Of just one baby blue whale
We will save approximately 3,650,000 Krills
In a single year.
To this end we have been working, tirelessly,
On creating a whale contraceptive.
This project is not without some large problems.
But we believe the product is within our reach.
So far getting cooperative whales,
Who will wear the contraceptive,
Or volunteers to assist the whale
Have not been forthcoming.
Currently we are researching whale sterilization.
This could be easily accomplished
With the help of about 50 people
Willing to position a whale correctly.
We of the Save the Krill Society
Remain hopeful that you,
And the caring people you know,
Will join our cause.
Submitted
Jerry Greenspan
President, Save the Krill Society
PS; For a nominal fee badges and banners are available.
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