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.

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.

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.

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.

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”