Visitors from Japan

Seeking confirmation of a “known truth”
Does not always prepare you for a better question.

We visited twenty-first century Tokyo last night.
Guests of the State Department,
Three men and a woman all young enough
To recognize the value of an atheist education,
Old enough to have lived with the detritus of war
And the thousand years of history
That Japan has experienced in the last sixty.

No apologies for wars started or bombs dropped,
No defensive postures.
Yesterday did not happen on our watch, ...
But today?

We did not discover the meaning of life.
But occasionally a good question surfaced,
Tossed into cultural seas
That allowed for respect, if not resolution.

One guest posited
“Having worshipped a living God,
Found him insufficient for the time,
Suffered the devastation that losing a war brings...
Lessons learned,
We resorted to rationality...
And a drive for economic parity.”

At evenings end had we seen each other?
Maybe.

Blink

Dean Rusk said “Russia Blinked”.
But I’m not sure what to think.
Blinking, we are told
Shows we’re not being bold.

Russia , when it sees us blink,
Assumes the U.S.will slink
Away from the big bad bear,
Look to hide, show our fear.

Moscow will attack with Nuclear teeth,
Rip us apart, make us their feast.

But what if the blink
Were merely a wink
And war could be averted?
If only they knew we had merely flirted.

We must guard against a blink and a wink,
Since either could wash us down the sink.
We’ll wait for them to make the mistake
Just one blink may be all it will take.

Black

I am pissed at labels.
I’m sixth generation American,
But stats say you’re fourth generation,
Does this make me more American?

D.A.R. stopped counting generations
Either you go back to 1776 or you don’t.
I don’t, but I’ll not be an African American.
Ever meet a European American?

If you need to reject me try chocolate, tan or brown.
My friend from South Africa, a white Jew,
Is an African American.

Isn’t it time to stop being exotic?
I’m not Nat Turner or Martin Luther King,
Your not Abe Lincoln or Alexander.

I’d like a shot at the brass ring,
Not your wife.

Our Turn

Challenges without number
Rise as an ocean swell,
Force children from their slumber
Into a world they don’t know well.

Strangers in a strange land
Where moderation holds no sway,
Wanting for a knowing hand,
Find life’s journey a hapless way.

My generation, and those now past,
Succumbed to Mammon’s notion:
All will be well if we just hold fast,
Praying the Earth devoid of motion.

But the Earth has moved,
In obeisance to the Sun,
Its path a reprove,
To the belief that nothing ‘ere be done.

Do we assume too much
When we grieve for the next generation?
We are the ones fate will touch,
With naught to offer in exculpation.

Does it not seem right
That we should pay ?
For choking the sun, hiding the light,
Making night the owner of day?

Dedicated Benches

My small neighborhood park has 6 benches, all dedicated.
All, all save one, carry the names of family members.
Harry Oberman, who delivered milk for 30 year,
Is remembered as “Friend and Neighbor”.
He must have been a good guy.

Conspicuous among family plaques is one honoring Melvina Watts Hoffner,
Whose first marrige produced three children, their names are inscribed
“In Loving Memory”.
One of those names carries it’s own honorific,
James J. Watts, M.D.

Was the good doctor simply bragging?
Perhaps it was a professional listing,
Or a reminder to his deceased mother
That he did indeed finish medical school.

Water Glass

A clear plastic glass, less than half full,
Reminiscent of a Dutch still life,
Goes unnoticed in the crush of morning mayhem.
It sits on the sidewalk edge
As though left unfinished by a restaurant patron
Who joined the rushing maelstrom, competing
To reach an unseen, but exulted position before the sacred gates close.
 
The glass, unaware of Mercury’s race,
Waited undisturbed in a universe removed
From Monday morning with no life expectancy
And no place to go.

Dying in Vain

Impelled by the IED under his wheels
Chuck rose, defying gravity.
He looked quite peaceful leaving the Jeep
Much of his body remained in one piece.

Oh shit! This is very bad,
Snaking from my upturned Humvee
Moving to him. What a fucking stupid move!
I’ll just go there, put him together.

My life was not erased in that roadside incident.
Chuck’s body parts sent home.
We survivors huddled, scared, mourning the loss.
Now we will not die in vain.

Our job is retaking Ramallah
The natives are not friendly.
No safety here, but we remember Chuck,
And we will not die in vain.

These people are crazy, killing each other
Over a 1,500 year old disagreement.
Saving people who want us dead sucks.
Chuck is our cause.

How long will we fight for Chuck?
Is our belief strong enough to sustain us?
Can we fight forever for a lost comrade?
Who, then, are the crazies?

At least we are not Vietnam vets,
Apologizing for our mission.
We are lauded, eulogized, elegized.
Stay, they will pronounce us brave.

Applauding our efforts beats sharing them.
Everyone wants us gone, everyone but the Decider.
Who extols the painful road to democracy.
Surely Chuck did not die in vain.

Life Goes On.

Phil had just received a call from the police.
Ed had killed himself, leaving a note for Phil.
“Please see to my family”.

When your world falls apart.
It is neither bravery nor cowardice
That work to recover balance.
Touch your desk, and hope it will not prove illusional.
A drink, a drink for Phil... Maybe two.

Life did not go on, thought Phil.
It’s death that goes on;
Poorly timed, very inconvenient.

What have you done to me?
Your family is not my responsibility.
I have more important things to do,
You miserable son-of-a bitch!

First School Day

I most decidedly did not want Mom to walk me.
True, I was terrified. My first school day ever.
Probably be the worst day of my life.
Certainly the other kids would be bigger than my 50 pounds.
Still, to be seen grasping Mom’s hand would be instant death.

Decision time. Just short of the last corner,
Too late to claim a sudden terminal illness,
I released Mom’s hand, and barely holding onto my pee,
Crossed to the school yard.

I don’t really remember the rest of that day,
But I think I sat at my desk for about 2000 hours,
Checking the wall clock every fifteen seconds.

Vision

I dreamed I saw a field of men
Moving as one, all focused, athletic.
They rose and fell, always coordinated.
Sound and light marked their performance.
Millions saw but did not understand.

Walls, high above the field,
Portrayed the beauty and possibility of earth.
Pregnant with magic, the walls
Erupted with sky piercing light displays,
In celebration of the wonders below
And the achievements they could usher.

I saw recognition of the Bigger and Brighter.
Could we appreciate the wedding of thought and expression
And carry the dream from the field to the future?

Conviction

I’ve been here.
Rationalizing moves I might make,
Yet lacking the required conviction
That makes boldness possible.

My internal dialogues are repetitive.
I am uncertain that my poses are
Not merely studied.

As time passes my sense of righteousness grows,
Becomes a banner I wear
To proclaim my virtue. There is no wisdom
In the face of contemptuous indifference.

I suspect that near the surface,
Infancy, obdurate and insistent,
Rules my field of vision,
As though I might be holding my breath
Forcing others to seek my forgiveness.
Ah! But I would be sublimely, nay divinely kind,
And so charitable that both God and man
Might deem me worthy of immortality.

I cannot love those I do not like.
Still the possibility remains
That tomorrow will be resplendent
And an adult will remark upon it.

Distraught

Distraught.
Racing home to cover, and recover my identity.
Wallet gone, probably stolen,
I need contact only half of the world’s population,
Alerting them to my virtual demise.

How could this happen to me?
I could be philosophical if it happened to you,
Manifest just the right amount of sympathy,
Offer unspecified assistance,
And bewail modern man’s nightmare
In a post-Thoreau world. All records on a thumb nail indeed!

God, the trickster, has struck again.
I’d walked one block, since last using my wallet.
How could the fu----g thing be gone?
Retracing my steps 3 times and finding nada,
I head for home.

At my front door stands a large orange traffic cone.
Who the hell put that damn thing here?
Something very strange is happening,
And I am not amused.
Furious, I kick the cone a good 10 feet.

In the space just vacated sits my wallet.

My Room

May my room be safe from tigers.
Inmates run the institution, but leave me in peace.
Central Park on a wet fall day
Hangs above my left shoulder
The walk deserted but expectant.

A baby gorilla nuzzling its mothers brow,
Sits among leafy green vines in a calendar
Below the black and white photo of the Poet’s Walk.

A whale-like creature dives deep,
The water darkens as it descends.
A suggestion of light appears toward the apex of the canvas.
On the adjoining wall a painting
Bursting with energetic reds and oranges.

On another wall
Sketches of my Dad and my Dalmatian, Homer.
Both long gone
My memories of both are warm.

Shelves filled with binders, manuals, and family photos
Sit above my desk, just beyond the requisite computer.

Does all this attest to my life?
Or are all the trappings merely fictionalized cinema of self congratulatory impulses,
Or are both one?

Making the Bed

Making the bed shouldn’t be hard,
Unless, like me you’re a mechanical retard.
How many directions can a cover sheet go?
If I study the problem, and go real slow
I’m bound to find the answer, I know.

Still it defeats me finding bottom or top,
I begin to anger, I probably should stop,
But admitting defeat at the hands of a sheet,
Speaks of a spirit far from complete
Not ready for challenges, unable to compete.

Aha! I think I’ve got it right.
Top and bottom, fit real tight.
Oh NO! It’s time to curse and shout
The f#@&ing thing is inside out.

That does it! Oh yes I see
This miserable sheet laughing at me.
It goes too far, I wont take any more.
Its fate is sealed, I’ll even the score.

I could cut it to shreds, hack it in pieces
Or foul it with my puppy’s feces.
No, that’s too easy a fate.
How would Satan retaliate?

Make it into hand-towels for a colony of lepers?
Use it to portage chinese mustard and red hot peppers?
I could of course burn it in hell.
Covered with skunk spray, not a heavenly smell.

But I go to far, I lose my direction
There’s a better way, a different selection
To get the sheet to cover the bed.
I’ll have my wife do it, instead.

Alone

It was over.
So many dreams fell into the pit that had been my center,
Confirming again, and yet again, that if hope is essential,
Life will have its tragedies.

I had come to revive the spirits of a diminishing congregation.
My wife and I, heavily invested in the church teachings,
Believed we had something worth sharing and a marriage worth saving.

8 months later I sit, alone, in this mockingly happy hotel room
Bright, newly repainted, pinkish walls, earth tone furnishings,
Wondering about the business career I’d abandoned
To bring others A measure of enlightenment.
The arrogance!

I am old enough to know that eventually the pain will pass,
Young enough to know that with the passing will come new
Dreams that will lift my spirit,
And self absorbed enough to recognize times passage will not help today.

I will call a friend, my friend, who might listen
And offer something that questions my uselessness.

Allow me, with an embarrassment of tenses, to tell you what my friend said,
“I will come and get you”.

Morphine Moment

I disappeared inside myself
And emerged bodiless in a space
Outside the moment and the pain.
Time had ceased and I understood everything.
No sensory communication,
Rather, free of form, there was awareness,
Unhurried, all encompassing.
Memory reduced to an unimportant possibility,
Amusing in its past seriousness.

Mark

Believing, as he does, in a libertarian ethic,
Judging his teenage stepsons as "unwilling" to straighten their lives,
Mark looks at 2 more years of conflict under his roof.
 
He flagellates himself over decisions made
Without enough forethought.
Jason, the older child, is less of a problem now
That he is serving a 6 month sentence.
Bryan, starting his junior year in a high school Mark seldom visits,
Is proving unreachable.
 
Where do you go, if not forward?
What does "forward" mean if all signposts point down?
I think Mark will assign most of his guilt elsewhere.
Who among us does not?
 
I knew one woman who saw her marriage
To a fellow senior, who turned out to be very ill,
As a correctable failure.
After seeing him through a third hospitalization,
She walked away.
 
It seems Mark will do that too, but with conviction.
 

 
 

Kierkegaard’s Swiss Army Knife

Not an especially deadly weapon,
It had many other uses:
Flaying an apple, carving a lovers name on a tree trunk,
Cleaning your nails are but a few examples
Of the life and work of your garden variety swiss army knife.

We bought our knives at the corner convenience store.
I remember the smell of sawdust that pervaded the place.
This time I wasn’t buying cigarettes for Dad.
We were buying admission to “cool”.

Now, so many years later,
Sorting through the remains
Of our all too brief childhoods,
We puzzle over the improbability
That we have both retained
This piece of history.
These twins of incipient manhood
No longer resemble one another.

I have continued to live in the city,
Using my knife to cut string on occasion
And pry a jar of marmalade open.

You have whittled hearts and initials
On tree trunks, and cut cactus for dinner,
Traveling where you please.
No surprise that our knives attest to different journeys

Why should we find it strange that the religion
You and I thought we shared
Has been modified, like the knives, by our handling,
And the spirit that you call god differs from mine.

Predawn

In shorts and a T-shirt,
I feet the warm breeze,
That brings the sounds and smells
Of the sea. Reefs reduce the power
Of the incoming waves to soft, caresses.
They arrive as friendly guests. They quickly subside
Into the porous welcoming sand,
Or drift back to Gaia.
 
I'd forgotten the predawn enchantmernt.
Verdant hills rising to cloud covered mountains
That today will offer a vista of rainbows,
Touched by the showers that accompany the towering arching colors,
While those of us who will move in the sun
May stand spellbound wishing only to hold the moment.
 
Now, before the sun rises, frigate birds 
Ride the unseen swells of the trades,
On wings that know the dance and waste no effort,
But hold these hunters aloft, indifferent to gravities pull. 
 
Palm and Banyan trees live as neighbors of the ocean,
Finding the salt water air to their liking.
The trees are barely visible, while the mountains
Slowly surrender their hold on a sun that will soon change
The quiet predawn to a pace that thrives in the daytime energy.

Generations of men have followed their fathers to the sea,
Earning sustenance from the ocean's bounty.

Lights, at bow and stern mark a troller's casual progress
To be retraced before nightfall.
Other lights mark barges, some carrying freight
From distant ports, their cargo essential 
To the million people on this island of Oahu.

 
 
 
 
 

MoveOn

MoveOn

I blew it!!
Thinking a short video received from MoveOn,
Covering a bunch of social issues with which my “Conservative” friends might agree,
I’d sent the email to a few of them .
Responses varied; most bordered on
Crosses burning on my lawn.

One questioned my sanity, and said he had not opened it.
A second cancelled our dinner date and has not called since.
A third, not responding, probably countered the contamination
By destroying the infected computer and putting pins in a very ugly doll.

How would I have handled a Fox video
Showing OBama’s outrageous minister,
And suggesting Barack had shown a complete lack of judgment
And lacked patriotism (no lapel pin)?

I’d like to think I would not have cancelled a dinner.
As to the rest ...I’m not sure.

Conversations with my Mother

She smiles brightly,
Much too brightly.
Confusing me with her deceased brother,
She asks if I’m going to Mom’s.

Once an independent thinker,
Who “planned” starting a family,
But not until she had saved enough money and bought a piano.
She now says little, does not read,
And watches, uncomplainingly, as a care giver
Turns on a 40-year-old rerun of “Bonanza”.

Will I store her and avoid,
As I did with my father,
Consideration of choices?

Forensic Accountant

Tired of police, detectives, lawyers,
Secret agents protecting our borders?
Talking to ghosts, reading minds,
Heroes all, stopping dastardly crimes.

There remains only one crime sleuth                        
Who doesn’t change clothes in a telephone booth.
He carries no gun,
But when he approaches evil doers run.

No TV shows promote his work,
They think of him as merely a clerk.
But when on the case
The Forensic accountant shows a determined face.

Going through records, spotting the error,
On the job the man’s a terror.
Yes he is the man
Tracing bills like nobody can.

Finding the voucher or telltale check,
Building a case that’s certain to stick,
Risking his life and pen,
Catching the fox close to the den.

Surly, with the right cast,
A melodrama would last
Year after year, that’s certain,
As each new episode raises the curtain.

With computers and software
Designed to put victims, unaware,
At disasters door, while thugs in wait
Are set to suffer a terrible fate.

Not knowing our man’s on the job.
Let’s all hail this most precious of slobs,
Toiling away with keen suspicion,
Our Forensic accountant, with no recognition.

Negotiating

Lightning rips the air, posing as a twisted stick
Illuminating the night’xs black menacing clouds.
Again and again strikes search the sky,
A savage nightmare seeking a pitiful innocuous victim.

Rain ferociously striking the fuselage creates a deafening roar,
Overwhelms the noise of the man-sized jet engines,
As the aircraft is terrifyingly buffeted, up, down, down again, harder.
Seat-belts keep us all from crashing into overhead storage space.

What you might ask, am I, an atheist, doing?
NO, I have not soiled my pants.
NO, I am not praying.... exactly.
I am negotiating.

It goes something like this,
Listen, I start, you and I have had some disagreements.
Yes, it is fair to say I have shown contempt on some rare, OK not so rare, occasions.
Surely we needn’t review ancient history at such a perilous time?
Look, if you just stop the wings from jumping around...
Aieee!! that was bad. Are we going to crash?
Am I going to die?

How about you showing the mercy and forgiveness you claim in your CV?
Please put us down nicely, right about now would be good.
I’m sleeping now, right?
This storm is imaginary, right?

That last bump wasn’t as bad.
The rain must be subsiding, I can hear the engines.
How about if I leave you in peace
And you reciprocate?

So, we have a deal?

Climbing

"We'd like to repeat your mammogram".
"The tear will worsen. Joint replacement seems the best course".
"Deterioration has reached a level that the eye lens should be replaced."
ENOUGH!!!
 
I have my sense of humor, friends with whom I can argue,
A dog that I love, and a man who lovingly shares my life.
True, I have a litany of pains and problems
I'd just as soon be without.
 
I shan't speak of "beating my problems"
I will tell you there is much joy in my life.
Books of paintings to view, photos to create,
Calls to answer, presents to wrap and places to visit.
 
Yes, I'm angry! But that's not all of it.
 
 
 

Paul at 45

He will likely be bald soon, before 50.
It is not a perfect life, but then this not a perfect planet.
Paul has created a life that embraces his fondest wishes,
With the possible exception of playing guitar with the “Stones”.

A would be chemist at 14,
He still enjoys the potential of compounds,
Even as it reaches him through the efforts of others.

Far too soon we will likely reverse roles.
I will look to him for support.
And I think he will provide it.

Not withstanding moments of uncertainty
Paul has evolved.
Now he has opinions that he freely expresses,
Associates that regard his insights,
And friends who desire his company.

He can unequivocally announce “ he does not know”.
Making understanding far more possible.

He has a place at the table,
Which he fills almost comfortably.
(I’m grateful for the “almost”,
it allows for vulnerability).

A far better father than his father,
Possessed of strengths that have exceeded
My lofty expectations, while still leaving space
For a few fatherly complaints.

He is a joy!!

Green, green grass

Looking west, the desert filled the limits
Of sight and imagination.
I turned to face the rising sun
And found a soft undulating green field
That started where my heels
Touched the demarcation of sand to grass.

There is a price we ought not to pay
To rid ourselves of the inconvenient sand.
What will limit us before the precipice?
Or are we agreed that some trades
Will have a small downside risk
That is well worth the gamble.
Who can stand outside the game,
Litmus in hand, ready to announce “STOP!”
In a voice that will be heeded?

How will we “green” the planet
If not one golf course at a time?

Reaching the End

We are just about there!
Space crafts have visited other planets,
Robots march toward some form of consciousness,
You can address the world,
(Although the world might not care).
Today I received news of tomorrow.
Not a prediction, but a statement of fact.
Kaiser Permanente advised me, at 10 this morning,
That my prescription was sent tomorrow.

I immediately called my stock broker,
If Kaiser could tell me about tomorrows events,
There was a chance my broker had similar insight.
Alas, neither he, nor my bookie knew the secret.
Surely my physician could tell me if I would pass
Before I received my prescribed elixir?

He suggested therapy.

Anthems

A rousing, visceral, “Star Spangled Banner”
Reverberated throughout capacious Symphony Hall.
200 Musicians performed our national anthem.
To a standing audience of 4,000.

A triumphant, proud statement,
Proclaimed progress over forces seeking
To dominate our “United States”.

Without pause, so that attendees
Had no opportunity to sit,
The Israeli Philharmonic Orchestra
Proceeded with their own anthem, “Hatikvah”.
Played in a minor key,
Plaintively painting an ineffable sadness,
A plea for peace and acceptance.

A strange juxtaposition.
Color one anthem bright red, the other soft gray.
A metaphor of a ship battling victoriously through the night,
Compared with an abstract of ascending , but sober, softening tones.
One portraying a mighty struggle,
A new nation, brave and victorious.
Contrasting with the other,
Beseeching the heavens for a safe home.

Two voices, two messages.
One carried the hopes of youth
The other reflected a calamitous history.
Neither will pass quietly into that long night.

A Moment

“The twin Towers have been hit”
My sister screams from her NY home.
Such a beautiful day, now a nightmare.
People are falling, hitting ground with innocuous sounding thuds

I view the horror
From the safety of my California home,
Such a beautiful day, the birds are singing,
But buildings are falling.

The towers fold into themselves
Exhausted from the fight to stand.
Such a beautiful day, picnics suspended
Firefighters and policemen are gone, unable to save themselves.

What of our beliefs?
Did something fundamental change?
Will we become fearful,
Less certain of our floors presence when we awake?

We join hands,
With growing awareness that
We have become one.
The President speaks with conviction.

We are ready. Desperately ready
To share in the battle to come.
Needing commands to pay more, use less,
Fight, Sacrifice.

A magnificent spirit.
Millions of people ignoring,
For the moment,
Self.

Did whites, blacks, Jews and Catholics,
Did all Americans, for just that instant
Share the pain, fear and rage?
The potential, breathtaking.

Far beyond the call of Kennedy’s assassination,
This moment stretched for days.
The rabble and the rich, equally roused,
Entered a transformed universe. For that moment we understood
The course of reason, and its limitations.
Soon enough we will loose the dogs,
We have the victims blessings.

The moment, that extraordinary,
Terrible moment, when we knew evil,
Shared an epiphany
That elevated our consciousness,
Enabled us to define the “other”,
And feel destiny would be calling.

That call never came.
Deprived of the terrible glorious dream,
Where all things were possible,
We returned to our lives.

I visit the space that called us together.
Read the heartrending pleas and poems
That should have been immortalized along with the ruins.
Such a beautiful day, such a terrible day.

The Funeral

A few of us went to Sid’s Funeral.
While not particularly close,
We all did volunteer work
For the same small businesses.

Parish priest, Father Joe,
Had never meet Sid,
And spoke of him
In a truly dull monotone.

Father Joe, noted Sid’s 168 bowling average,
His love of family,
Not withstanding that Sid had no family.
Droning on, Father Joe announced
He would now read from 2 separate notes,
Written by people who knew Sid quite well.

Father Joe was not a gifted reader,
But the humor in his recitation was delicious.
Not that he related humorous events,
It was his complete unawareness
That he was reading two completely disparate
Descriptions of the same deceased.

Having stumble through the first tribute,
Which informed of Sid’s love for animals,
And his connoisseur-like sensitivity to French wines,
Father Joe began the 2nd eulogy.

It was here we learned that old Sid
Had been a Budweiser devotee,
Fearful of Cats and Ducks,
And left money for animal experiments.

Whispering, to the friend seated next to me,
I noted Sid’s fall from 9.5 to 3.
3 signified excellent urine control
And no outstanding warrants.

Father Joe closed by offering all a beneficent smile.
Bowing his head, maybe in prayer,
He consigned Sid to his next big adventure.

You've been here

Do you recognize the situation?
Doesn't it juxtapose different background sounds,
Yet still feel familiar?

Perspective comes to spread its light
Only long after the scene is played.
Aah! To know before the dance has started,
That the melody follows a course you’ve played
Countless times before.

Perform the part. The Director
Does not allow a path back ...yet.
First there must be joy and sorrow,
Then follows.... awareness?

Compassion

Compassion, the simple man
Believes, suggests forgiveness,
Sympathy, maybe empathy,

A more complex person
May not have the grace
To recognize he does not understand,
Mistaking it for surrender.
Is compassion more and less than either?

Sad when a tree falls to the axe,
Exhilarated by the “enemy’s” failure,
Indifferent to the postman’s reality.
Always, always unable to stand clear.

Imaginary Friends

Imaginary Friends

“Alice, that wasn’t very smart” Rebecca intoned
To an empty space in the corner of her room.
Six year old Rebecca had an invisible friend
Who rarely complained, needed Rebecca’s
Somewhat critical insights, and was always ready to play.

Now Rebecca has children of her own.
She has put away Alice....
For an imaginary friend who comes with emissaries.


Every Sunday morning, and occasionally on Tuesday nights,
The lead emissary explains the nature of this new friend
To Rebecca and 200 others.
He exhorts his flock to offer love and money,
And points out the reasons things happen.
According to the almost Very Reverend Cal,
This imaginary friend loves you.
He will always love you and cherish your good deeds.

Of course the “friend” insists Rebecca abide by some covenants.
Surely she can avoid dancing, gays and other sinners?
Rebecca has been taught, and understands, that planned parenthood,
Sex education and contraception are the devil’s tools.
These nefarious activities, when practised
Cause the “friend” to become very angry.
Such anger produced 9/11, The Great Depression and Slums.

From his pulpit, elevated high above his congression’s pews,
Almost Very Reverend Cal recalls the miracle of a believer’s death.
Surely the ‘Friend” allots space on his right for such soldiers?

Nonbelievers can be forgiven, if they repent and “bend the knee”.
Of course people given over to Satan’s ways are beyond recall.
Hell is their destination.

Do you have an imaginary friend?

The Gift

Perfect!

This flawless morning
I feel guilty of trespass.
I fear my steps will collapse the virginal beauty,
My very presence seems intrusive.

An outgoing tide undresses
Miles of glistening,
Unmarred, Pacific coast beach.

Easterly winds forestall any swells,
Erase the familiar sounds of ocean challenging shore,
Turn banners and flags into
Beseeching arms, reaching to embrace
Ocean and sky.

The problem with poor people.

With the IRS insisting he triple his payment,
Which would force him to quit his new job and go on “the dole”,
John, was up-against-it
And looked to the congressman for help

What he got was something else.
Pay a little bit more per month,
Than the government is demanding”
The assigned 33rd ranked congressional assistant recommended.
That way you’ll pay it off sooner.


“Meeting the governments demand would leave $9000.
How do I live here on $9000 a year, asshole?” John screamed.
“It means welfare, and the son-of-bitches get shit!”
The 33rd ranked assistant was outraged.
“Is this how you reward my efforts,” he harumphed.
Fleeing his office he asked that the police be called to eject John.

33rd ranked assistant hid in a distant cubicle until John was removed.
“It’s will take a big raise to keep me around here,” he thought, self-righteously.
A few people, although not particularly interested in his harrowing experience,
Were willing to sit still long enough to hear part of this story, offer sympathy and a “hah”.

Only one of his fellow employees asked about the poor nut, John.
One, only one, voiced a query, “Who could live here on $9000?”
“Not my problem” said the 33rd ranked congressional assistant.

Finishing Thoughts

If there’s a measure for 25 years,
It’s the words I never utter.
No not the sweet endearments,
Though I’ve unfailingly been remiss
With those small touches,
But rather, the unspoken, yet clearly communicated
Thought that, a priori, my loves property
She is always ready,
Should I hesitate to complete my ideas,
Or clarify my expressions,
No one reads my poems or hears my thoughts
With such insight.

Yes, we can still surprise one another,
But we have reached the place
Where thoughts are shared
By the slightest movement of a finger,
An eyelash flutter, or a pause.

She is my home.
Her presence lifts me
And shows me what is possible.

I cherish her and wish to spend the next 40 years at her side.

At one hundred eleven I will reconsider my options.

A Bowl of Orange Juice

Poured a glass of orange juice
Into my cereal bowl.
What to do?
Maybe stare until it morphs
Into a magical TV commercial?

If “bad” can mean “good”
Could it apply to “juice”?
I picture a small glowing fairy
Wizard wand in hand,
A gift no doubt from the energizer bunny,
Tapping my bowl.
Presto! Handsome boys and girls,
Dressed as cheerleaders, dance about my small kitchen table,
Extolling the virtues of free-range Orange juice.
Now no longer limited to gay plastic containers,
Or more mature glasses and bottles.

Having a barbeque?
What better then Orange Juice sauce?
Surely your coffee will win prizes
If you mix it in “OJ”?

“But why limit it merely to food products”?
Those tiresome bouncing boys and girls suggest.
Consider your shower, your hot tub or a near-by lake.

After breakfast I think I’ll start the car
And leave the garage door shut.
But, only if I can remember where I put the car keys.

Transshipping

After 6 months, of preparation for today’s delivery,
Trips to Florida, Hong Kong and Taiwan,
Today was “the day”.

They had our money,
Our order was confirmed,
Production and shipping, 5 weeks

Confirmation of the ships arrival on Monday
Meant we could run ads
Knowing the merchandise would get to the stores today.

We arrived at the warehouse early,
Filled with fear of 100 potential catastrophes.
“Would the product meet expectations?”,
“Were the parts balanced?” “Were the motors
Equal to the samples?”
Frantic, I picked up an incoming call.
It was our freight agent. “Your container is not on the ship.”

“What, What did you say?”
Bellowing, I tried vainly to reach through the phone.
“How can you lose one container crossing the Pacific.?”
“But, it isn’t lost,” the piece of shit at the other end of the conversation said.
“It’s in Korea”. “Of course, what could make greater sense.”
“They mistook Seoul for Oakland, a common occurrence”, I thought.

Maybe my concerns were unnecessary?
No need to fret balance or motor quality.
We would simply tell customers
To pick up the goods in Korea.

We could provide directions to those docks,
Almost adjacent to Oakland.
Perhaps the goods weren’t needed ‘til summer,
A mere 3 months from now.

I mark that day. It was an education.
Here I thought “No transshipping” were terms.
It turned out it is was merely a suggestion.

Now, this years later,
It is evident I survived
But occasionally, when I pass a container depot,
I get a wee bit shaky and think of 116 unhappy customers.

Walk with me

Walk with me
So that I might feel connected,
Aware that outside my enclosure
There are possibilities.

Walk with me
And we might touch,
Creating a universe
Beyond my limits.

Walk with me,
Allowing the sea and sky
To seek recognition,
Removing the internal monologue.

Walk with me
And call out
So I might know,
Imperfectly, a part of your world.

Walk with me
Making love an alternative
To self absorption.

Walk with me
And I will lie foolishly,
Hoping to enlist you
In my journey.

Walk with me
And bring the light
That brightens my humor,
Expanding my boundaries.

Walk with me,
Walk with me.

Silence

Quiet that moves beyond thought,
Permits no conversation,
Releases the days haunting,
And time ceases.

House and city fall away.
Eyes shut, launched into oblivion,
I do not find landmarks.
There is nowhere to go,
No words enter.

Existence suspended.
Should I consider
Where I am or what is happening
I will have left the silence.

War

A rising sun on a smoldering valley.
A smell, offensive, persistent,
Overwhelms the odor of smoke
That rises from the burnt out trees.

Union troops intent on stripping the dead -
Boots, belts, anything of use.
Soon the fallen will share a common pit.
In time new life will replace this scarred landscape
And the smell of death will diminish and pass.
But for now it is omnipresent.

In the valley the sounds that fix attention
Are reduced from yesterday’s Armageddon,
No cannons, no rebel battle-cries charge the field
With terror and panic.

Today it is the moans and screams
Of the wounded and dying, men and horses,
Pained beyond endurance, waiting for help
Or death.

We kill fewer horses now.

One Horsemen

Morning, just enough time for a run on the beach
Before the day’s problems erode my sense of ease.
At water’s edge the ocean and shore had reached agreement.
Firm sand.

Into the second mile I ran into an impression
Of death drifting, just yards behind me.
Young and fit, I turned to confront the bastard.

“Do you want me--- NOW?”
I wordlessly demanded of the empty space.
No response, no echo in the prescient silence.

Standing at the waters edge,
Enthralled with my bravery,
Momentarily convinced of my transcendence,
I left Death defeated
Turned, and ran on.

I revisit that scene occasionally,
No doubt enhancing my recollection,
Not quite able to relive the breeze,
The warm soft air moving across the Pacific,
Or the silence that greeted my challenge.

See America

America stretched.
3,000 miles and the clock disconnected.

Mountains, white only above 10,000 feet,
White-water rafting from California to the Saint Lawrence.

South of the Canadian glaciers
Late spring had captured the day.

Sweet cut grass smells pervaded America.
Woody Guthrie’s lyrics cascaded
From the 100 foot redwoods, through the high deserts,
Passed the ancient Indian ruins,
Into the sweet and sour
Of the cities.

Large cities with caged windows,
Small towns with libraries,
All part of the landscape.

What do I remember most
Of six weeks of exploration?
The beginning:
25 minutes of mistakenly filming the car’s dashboard!

What would I recommend?
See every thing, go every where,
With the possible exception of Butte, Montana.

Happiness

You can’t get too happy
By adding rooms to your house.
If bragging rights drive your path,
What happens when there is no audience?

Where ownership is the goal,
Mere use does not suffice.
Battlements are required
Lest someone or something infringe.

“Pursuing happiness” sounds absurd.
What hill do we climb?
Is there a posture consistent with the pursuit?
Can I measure my progress?
All wrong questions.

As we look at our life’s work,
Should we not stop and ask ourselves,
“ What process will likely move me
toward happiness today?”

Once asked, no Genie appears.
Oh yes, this takes time.
At the end I find only compromise,
What do I want/how close can I get?

Denia

10 AM brandy.
Count Frederick will join me.
Avenue Generalissimo is quiet
No cars permitted Sunday,

Denia, a tree lined coastal village,
Lies half way between Valencia and Alicante.
It features women in black, fully leafed Maples in May,
Omnipresent retired Brits and industrious Germans,
Who eat at 6 in restaurants that will be long closed
Before the French and Spanish start for dinner.

A useless dull black ceiling fan squeaks and turns slowly,
With no ambition to reach beyond its circumference.
Clouds of cigarette smoke are part of the ambience.

Fred and I lament his problems
Running a small development,
Of 2 dozen private homes,
Including my place.

Part of our ritual includes this question:
“Why would a Hawaiian Jew
Travel halfway around the globe
To live for months in a German enclave?”

He reminds me, not for the first time, that
“These Germans are of an age that argues
Their participation in The War,
And all of them could not have spent 4 or 5 years
In British prisoner camps in Scotland.”

I again explain that $10,000 US would cover our needs
And some extras if we lived full time in Spain.
Comfort in Hawaii comes at $75,000

We pour morning brandy Tuesdays and Thursdays.
I can’t recall how we established this schedule.
We discuss the absurdity of John Dean’s assertion
That Nixon was involved in the mess.

Fred takes his “Count-ship” seriously,
And is angling for an audience with
Queen Elizabeth.

Hawaii is too small and too distant.
Despite my urging, his forthcoming U.S. trip will not include
My homeport.

No phones in the houses.
No street designations.
In case of fire or break-in
Have sneakers and a gun.

My days are spent reading
And Joan paints.
It could not have been as comfortable as I recall.

Courage: The willingness to embrace the alien.

It was not the weather or the steps.
No fault was found with evil spirits
Or an ineffectual god.
Fred fell and he claimed the failure.

Face down in the grass
He thought his foot detached.
Fear and anger lay with him

Two days spent recovering from surgery,
In an Old Folks Storage dump
Masquerading as a “Rehab” center,
Followed by an abbreviated home stay

Re-entering the hospital,
His surgeon pointing to the infected leg,
Indicated that “amputation” could not be ruled out.

I entered Fred's room dressed in a hospital shroud,
To find Fred and Carolyn speaking in tongues.

“He would avoid the longer wait for recovery”, she rationalized.
“ If its necessary, let s get it done”, Ray added.
“Wait, wait a goddamn minute!” I thought.
I could not stand their stoicism.

Peering over the edge,
Recognizing that the diabetically sponsored infection
Was insidious and relentless.
Carolyn and Fred are infuriating rationalists.
God help us and save us!

Time

“Time” is immutable,
At least that’s one theory.
Our reality moves through today’s chunk of time
Staying constant, like a billboard,
As we move to the beyond.

Imagine, at 11:59 we hear a small motor.
A signal that the brain is gearing for tomorrow.
Could I run ahead to glimpse something of another time? No!
Running backward would not help.

We’re just stuck with “right now”,
186,0000 miles per second and not even a breeze.
So when your asked to “be here now”
You may reply “when in now?”

Of course we can’t spend our day waiting for tomorrow.
We have today’s chunk to deal with,
Eating, working, sex, haircuts,
Wars, showers, changing diapers all have to fit in there.

Our leaders can predict things that likely
Will engage our attention tomorrow:
“Between 8 and 11 AM we will pillage,
Followed by afternoon showers”

Should tomorrow morning bring a horrendous downpour of elephants,
You’d expect the Pillage to be cut short.
Carrying a super-strong umbrella as headcover makes pillaging difficult
Not to mention the insuperable challenge of elephant disposal.

I could imagine a congressional committee,
Named, perhaps, “The Alien Elephant Sub-Committee”,
Asking such critical questions as, “What kind of elephants are these?” or
“Which terrorist organization has elephant launching capabilities”?

My ”immutable” theory has not gained many adherents.
A small chocolate bribe left my 9 year-old grandson non-plus.
Once again, I find myself seeking recognition in some future chunk of time.
And who really knows about tomorrow’s precipitation
Or what time it is?

Afternoon with Marvin

A friendly, harmless, blue sky,
With white teddy-bear clouds advancing slowly,
Exhorted us to experience the day--- softly.

Stopping on our walk,
Noting the palms and the omnipresent cypresses
Moving somnambulant on a quiet breeze.
We watched 2 ducks,
Whose softness and color was one with the clouds.

The ducks had little to say
While picking effortlessly at the ponds smooth surface
Finding some things of value.

From our command position
A bench overlooking the water,
We renounced the foolishness of little men,
Playing God, in a badly scripted black comedy.

“Bucolic”, might encompass the scene.
Recognizing how trivial the task
Of cursing the darkness,
We formulate breath-taking scenarios.
Are we not among the oldest sophomores?

Unable to freeze the day,
No idea of how to stop the insanity of those small men,
Marvin and I walked to the gate
Departing, each to his slightly sad smile.

Pictures

Upon entering, my eyes are drawn
To the rectangular, marbled topped, coffee table.
45 photos stand at attention.
Each needs its own narrative.

Young grandchildren, perhaps siblings, smile furiously.
They appear anxious to move on,
Too soon reappearing as fully grown

Here stand my boys,
First as 18 year-olds,
Next at 40, quite changed
But recognizable from their teen years.

Diana and I, tanned and posed,
In a 25 year-old picture,
Taken in a small house
That featured a Porsche in the living room.

My slight sister, stands next to her
Large husband.

There are recent photographs on table,
That show Maddy and I, past our prime,
And Mom, at 97, looks to be our contemporary.

The crowded tabletop leaves me uncomfortable,
Unable to hold the moment,
That lives forever, in the photos.

How often do we decide Mom's future,
In her presence, without her participation?


My sister and I have contended for
Honor of placement for some time.
We now resolve the conundrum
By removing all but 10 photos.
Now the tabletop looks barren,
And fewer stories can be imposed.

Xmas with Jimmy Stewart

No snow to be seen,
Not for the last 150 years.
We do have pines
And a main street called Orange Avenue.

For the holiday season
Parking meters are covered.
Your money is not accepted.
“It’s a Wonderful Life”
Plays endlessly in our library.

A picture postcard medial stripe
Runs the 2-mile length of Orange.
Today with the sweet smell of cut grass fills the street,
Seasonal hedges, planted for their brilliant reds
In December, Pine trees
And menageries of fantastic animals,
Carved with care and humor.

The Pines,
Bejeweled with small blue and green lights
Enveloping each tree,
Inviting the gently curved branches to dance.

An 80-foot Norfolk,
Stands where the road bends,
Clothed, incongruously, in vertical light strips,
That suggests an unhappy relationship.

Store decorations
Tired of the annual effort,
Make a nominal attempt
At charm and gaiety.

At the edge of downtown, built in the 1880’s
Stands the Del Coronado hotel,
Recently expanded to provide more rooms
And an elegant pedestrian walk
That parallels the ocean.

Just short of the walk,
Lies one the worlds most beautiful beaches,
A short-lived Ice rink holds sway,
Children permitted.

The “Del”, as the hotel is known
Houses one of the most deliciously decorated
Christmas trees in the county,
Informing guests of magic and majesty.

From the bridge, leading to Coronado,
You can see the brightly lit outline
Of the Del’s cupolas.

On the island, over the holidays,
You’ll likely be greeted with warm wishes and smiles,
That, if not wholly sincere,
Are far from fatuous.

Walking feels safe at any hour,
And the new, expanded, library
Is open until 9.

A 1950’s style park facing the library,
Complete with bandstand, that gets used
Throughout the year, but most especially at Christmas.

It is probably a little warmer
Than Jimmy would have it.
Still, I think he’d want to finish the movie here.

Rehab Center

This is a place for dying.
Past the comfortable lobby,
You enter the holding tanks,
Peopled by subdued caregivers
And vacant eyed seniors.

I suspected that my buddy
Was the only potential candidate
For reentry into life beyond
The large dark-wooded front doors.

Clean floors and lots of ammonia
Could not cover the pervasive smell of urine.
They could not hide the gloom
From the seriously yellowed fluorescent panels,
Marching the length of the narrow corridor.

John was wheeled into a room
Where two others lay waiting for Godot.
A smallish man lay to his left,
Eyelids determinedly closed, whined softly.
On his right a large blond haired fellow,
Missing a leg, whispered fiercely
Into a space only he could fill.

Invitation to the Dance

I'd like to join the group,
Listen to men of learning,
Participate in their search for something more.

I've been invited to join.
It’s the price of admission that stops me.
No, no money involved,
Just acceptance of their beliefs
Requires my loss of my fantasy.

I doubt that my myth is superior to theirs.
They certainly have more adherents,
And a more salable product.

A complete resume would show
I've done much negotiating
More then once I've placed my principles,
On the anvil of compromise,
Only to see accommodation turn to beheading.

Still, these guys are worth hearing.
My guess?
It has less to do with caste-iron positions
And more to do with lethargy

Unexpressible.

There was this understanding.
We were, and remain today,
A very loving family.

Some truths do not require a voice.
Some are just too. Too what?
Too embarrassing to state openly?

What was the omen that cautioned us
Not to say words that committed?
Under who's roof, under what commandment,
Facing what threat did we avoid sounds of endearment.

I have said those words
But not before I turned 60.
I say them hurriedly, 
Feeling pressured not to linger,
Wanting to qualify the sentiment as to time and place.

As a child we were taught never to say God’s name?
I feel no such compunction now.
Those other words, warm and caring, somehow cheapened
By casual usage, must not be squandered.

So I now brave the sacred hill,
Telling friends and family that I love them,
Then hurriedly moving beyond the meaning