Party of Eight

We all shared the good fortune
Of being White in America,
Sentient, able to enjoy
Each other’s company.

Old enough to not be embarrassed
By a seating arrangement
That featured women occupying
One half of a round table, men opposite.

Two small, white, fuzzy dogs
Offered friendship to all.
Conversation flowed easily.
Pat spoke of travel to Vietnam.

An insatiable journeyer,
Pat thought Vietnam her most inspiring trip,
Yet her list of experiences seemed to fall short,
Of magic.

But her recollections did speak
Of adventure and change,
As though she had found something transcendent,
A place of real sounds, real color and real people.

Men speak of sports,
Safe subjects, testing yesterday’s recall.
When did Gibson pitch?
Will Tiger make it back?

I’m older then the others,
An observation without weight.
At least I wish to think
That I could play shortstop with anyone here.

Closing Time

Do you want to wait for Maddy?
She shook head.
What about Jerry?
She shook her head.

Will you wait for Veronica?
A barely perceptible nod.
Where is Veronica?
Veronica is here.

A tenuous smile plays on Ruth's lips.
She is caressed, a small child,
Being held securely, lovingly,
In the arms of her mother.

An understanding is silently reached.
It is time.
The ninety-nine year old baby
Closes her eyes.

I Forgot

Entering the gas station office
I asked for $20.00 worth,
Paid; returned to my car
And drove away.

Most folks would have pumped
$20.00 worth of gas before driving off.
But then most people who
Paid for take-out food would not leave without same.

This week I decided Wednesday was Thursday.
It followed that Friday and Saturday came one day early.
This morning’s newspaper was thin,
Providing categorical proof that today is really Saturday.

At ninety three Mom concluded the restaurant waiters
Where in fact policemen
In policemen’s uniforms.
Neither the taking of orders, or aprons dissuaded her.

I’m not ninety three,
But four days to convince
Some portion of my brain
That Saturday was Saturday?

Ruth and Herb

Seated opposite Ruth and next to Herb
At the half empty restaurant,
We spoke to the very attentive waiter,
With light humor featured as starters.

Friends for twenty five years
Herb, my senior by almost two decades,
Allowed me to parrot his beer order.
“Not now, but with the meal”.

Ours is something of a father-son relationship
That’s become more apparent the last few years.
Herb and I exchange hugs and smiles,
And frequently touch one another.

Ruth, many years Herb’s junior, has become family too.
A confidante of Diana’s, and a friend to me.
The four of us share many sympathies,
And, often, honest conversation.

Sign of the Time

I am a lost patient,
Left in the wrong corridor
With two white blankets
To warm my back, cover my legs.

I am slightly bent,
Look at least my age,
Young enough to be a resident physician,
Old enough to be resident furniture.

One of four wheel-chaired men,
Quietly lining the wall
Opposite an x-ray room,
Awaiting their turn, or.....Godot.

I supposed that eventually someone
Would come looking,
Remove me to the Eco lab.
Meanwhile I smiled at fate.

I’m well enough to get up and leave,
But that would be “contra-indicated”.
Hospitals are not really upbeat.
Maybe it’s the music?

Whose Eyes Are Those?

Herb sent the pictures.
He was Herbie then.
Japan had not surrendered,
And TV was unheard of.

A skinny kid at a costume party.
His eyes bright.
Enjoying himself.
Looks to be about seven.

Can he imagine the journey?
All the anxiety,
People moving, changing.
When was it ever easy?

Fast answers covered his tracks.
In a world of sectarian Jews
A square mile was the universe,
On a planet with movies and trolleys.

Couldn’t figure what mattered.
Sixty five years later
He knows more words that say
Can’t figure what matters.

Could I sit with that seven year old
And agree on the absurdity
Of our costume parties?
Surely we would laugh.

Morris At Closing Time

“Long time, thirty years”, Morris thought,
Looking at his appointment calendar.
“A lot of fingers in a lot of dams.
Progress, yeah but ...

Chapter numbers are very good.
Members, connections, collections.
Lucky, that his job
Was his cause.

Not the easiest job.
Wearing a bullet proof vest,
Even once in awhile,
Was proof enough.

Of course it was very upsetting
When that hate group posted
His home address and family names
On their website,

Just a few more months
And he’ll be doing other stuff.
Many good volunteer programs
Could use some help.

Morris is imperfect. Not everyone loves him.
Being short, round and in-your-face
Is not always a winning combination.
But he takes pride in his enemies.

If we are judged by the company we keep,
Then the hate of bigots, racists,
Anti-Semites, and other lowlifes
Bears testimony from angels.

“If not me, who? If not now, when”
Is surely a cornerstone of Morris’s beliefs.
No man I know personifies that expression
More fully.

Another Start

No escaping the race.
A moment, from 60 years ago
Recaptured by an old neighbor,
Who brought word of success, and death.

Morty has been dead 10 years,
Marty’s been retired to the Hamptons as long.
Herb will send me photos from 1950.
He stopped being Herbie in 1953.

I’ve recently taken to party politics.
Maybe it will be a learning experience,
Being president of a small, local
Democratic club.

What’s to be accomplished?
I’m not a preacher
And the members are not revolutionaries.
Maybe the purpose is fellowship.

Perhaps resolutions are overrated,
And real value lies in dialogue.
Invective promotes victory.
Discussion promotes understanding.

Happy Endings

I don't want to be there
When the bill comes due.
I'm thinking of a small apartment
In a safe place.

If the climate allows
No need for heat or A/C.
Diana would paint, and I'd write.
Days would end at dusk.

Eventually, maybe a week or year,
Time would run out,
But until then
We'd eat fish and avoid people.

Doesn't sound possible,
No doubt someone would take the food,
We'd run out of paint and paper.
OK, we get a only week!

On the bright side
I would not be interred
In the family plot,
Or suffer a lovely death testimonial

Terrorists Win

Since 9/11 terrorists have been winning.
Winning, winning winning.
From the left, from the right
Terrorists are winning.

When “Miranda” rights aren’t allowed, they win
And when such rights are provided they win again.
They win when someone
Disagrees with government policy.

Terrorists win when
We increase oil dependency,
Or when Mexicans cross
Into Arizona.

Terrorists win when
We don’t go to Broadway shows,
Question the need for war,
Or lie about our age.

Season of Change

We are forever tossed in an uncertain ocean,
Redrafting on yesterday's wind,
Unable to discern the sea's
Intention.

Waves break upon each other,
As we speculate on the direction of home,
Knowing the clouds will not part
And allow for a sure westward reading.

Our ship is trimmed,
And able, for now, to ride the waves.
If we can steer a true course,
One that escapes the gathering storm.

But the Salmon swims half a world
Knowing where it will come to rest.
Returning to complete its cycle
Indifferent to thunder and darkness.

Its journey near complete
It struggles not just to the end
But for the end
Where symmetry reaches perfection.

A mere simple fish

Let Me Introduce

My sister-in-law could not walk.
I carried her down the stairs.
My neighbor, anxious to talk,
Was waiting to show she cares.

My problem was immediately clear.
I ‘d forgotten my neighbor’s name.
I greeted her with good cheer.
Alas, my problem with the in-law was the same.

I’d known my neighbor for more than a year,
My wife’s sister for four.
I had no choice but to look sincere,
And hoped for succor.

Perhaps the neighbor’s spouse
Would call out his wife’s name,
From somewhere in their house
Saving me from shame?

Silently I stood, a perfect fool,
Hoping for divine intervention,
Or perhaps the earth would offer a tool,
To ease my verbal suspension.

In time the women introduced each other,
Accepting me as a first class moron.
Unable to invent a convenient cover,
I stood there like a useless pylon.

My advantage, over most
Seriously challenged dimwits,
Is that my memory has always been toast.
Driving me crazy, causing me fits.

Park Your Car

I watched him back the convertible in,
Thinking it’d be way off the curb.
But with a last minute twist,
He managed to park perfectly.

Equidistant to cars fore and aft,
A mere inch from the sidewalk,
He had , I thought, managed a top score.
My coffee cup saluted his “10”.

He stepped to the kiosk.
From my seat,
Adjacent to the coffee machine
I offered my congratulations.

Surprised, but delighted by my assessment,
He blushed to be so honored
By someone assigned to measure
Such feats of driving elegance.

My face betrayed no information,
Since that might allow the fellow
To surmise I was merely humoring him.
My effusive thumbs up was to be taken seriously.

There had been any number of
Potentially catastrophic alternatives.
He couldive hit a car, ended 9 inches off the curb,
Or 3 inches onto the sidewalk.

It’s not everyday someone pitches a perfect game.
Rarely will an errorless dive from the high board
Cut the water with nary a splash,
I feel certain my approbation made his day.

Happens There, Felt Here... Maybe

Do you remember the butterfly
Who, by flapping its wings in San Francisco
Caused the weather to change in New York?
He never existed.

And the weather ?
It changed because the butterfly never existed,
And the effect of the falling coconut
Was not offset by the never existent butterfly.

A recent problem in Greece
Threatened all financial holdings,
In the world where the butterfly exists,
And there went your new mortgage.

We have moved, irretrievably
Beyond apparent events
Into the state of Alice,
Where gravity is suspended.

“Up” and “down” are irrelevant.
Only “now” remains,
And it suffers continual abuse
At the hands of the technology.

The fastest machine moves first
Anticipating all the other machines,
Causing a figurative butterfly
To change the forecasted weather in New York.

It is enough to signal
That the butterfly may exist,
And therefor it will rain in New York,
Thereby increasing the value of an umbrella manufacturer’s business...

But only for an instant.
If the first/fastest machine has created the figurative butterfly
Will it not pounce on those late buyers,
Sell short and gain when the butterfly is found to be missing?
It is not enough to say we are hopelessly interconnected.
Rather, we are slaves to the machine that recognizes
Our imperfect awareness of the tangled web,
And tells us tales that we believe and follow.

Young Man

What will you do?
It is not vouchsafe
That you will not be President,
If you would but lose your Hispanic accent.

When your bike posse moves out,
Helmets in place,
To capture the day,
Do girls enter your dreams?

What are you thinking
Behind that young man’s face
Who adheres to the path
Ascribed by your seniors?

With emancipation a few tomorrows away,
Are you as excited as you seem?
Or are there countervailing wishes
That do not conform?

I’ve not met your potential before,
A prince in waiting
Who may find a road
Less traveled and more rewarding.

Surrounded by love,
In a family that honors
Possibility and promise,
Will you respond in kind?

May your smile reach your heart.
May your falls help you rise.
May you love what you do
And the people you do it with.

No Trouble Here

(Thoughts of an American soldier working with Iraqi soldier.)

What would the sunset reveal,
If not the color
That springs from the detritus
Of embedded armies?

I could share this pot
With the local beside me,
But what would we do for conversation?
He doesn’t speak English.

If he spoke English
Maybe we wouldn’t be here.
We could simply explain our concerns
And how we mean to do right.

Guy looks scared.
Guess I look the same,
Just more stuff on my belt.
Don’t like this place.

Tangerines

I got the tomatoes.
Squeezed them a little,
Not knowing what I might
Be testing for.

Vons, redone,
Felt a lot nicer
The tangerines looked particularly tempting
But I had come for tomatoes, just tomatoes.

Halting at the door,
Weighing the idea of tangerines,
Wondering if my pay-grade
Allowed for such free lance purchases?

Undecided, my miserly nature took hold.
“I might not eat them. They could be tasteless”
And other neurotic notions
Skidded between my ears.

OK, no tangerines!
What was $2.25?
A test of my frugality?
There must be a larger principle.

Now, a block from the supermarket,
It seemed absurd to go back.
Consider the time wasted.
But, I wanted a tangerine.

Feeling like a very poor
Version of the “Lady and the Lion”,
I chose to retrace my steps.
And with kudos to Robert Frost,
“It Made All the Difference”.

The Sound of Freedom

It must recall some great moments.
Rising off the carrier deck,
Fulll loaded, looking for the enemy,
Explosive engines at full throttle.

That’s the sound of freedom.
My neighbor turns to me for a high five
Or just a smiling confirmation.
I must look confused.

Maybe he can distinguish
Between the jet that is just passing
And the sound of other jet fighters,
Ones he hasn’t flown?

I hear power, without agenda.
Had there been a sound from Silver,
The Lone Rangers steed,
That would have meant freedom.

I think there was.
Bad guys beware!
Help was coming.
Surely, the masked man would save the day?

Some small, long-forgotten ember
Of my childhood’s delight reignites
As the FX-35 thunders overhead
Streaking to engage the tyrants.

What freedom does my neighbor hear?
Does he ride the range. securing our borders?
If so, I’m grateful.

Coffee With Alex

After asking our permission,
Alex joins us for coffee.
Chubby, with bright eyes,
He speaks of the American dream.

Alex and Irene own Kafka’s coffee shop
At the edge of “Old Town”.
I suspect that Irene does the work
And Alex does the schmoozing.

Born and raised in the Philippines,
They have six children,
All born in America, all working.
Four are teachers.

Business, at the coffee shop, has been slow
These last two years,
But the couple continue to send money
To maintain his elderly mother.

With all the children out of the house
These past five years,
They have opened their home to
Students from other countries.

It might have been the bright sunlight,
Partially shaded by blooming Maple trees,
Or the easy humor marking our conversation;
But I found myself believing Alex to be real.

There were no dark corners as we spoke.
I have been to Disneyland
And witnessed a child speaking to a six foot mouse.
I wish to hold onto small miracles.

It Would Have Been Enough

Had we accepted
That we had no “Manifest Destiny”,
Leaving others a right to chose,
It would have been enough.

We have seen the dog lie down
With the Polar Bear
And a duck befriend a kitten.
That should have been enough.

We have witnessed millenniums of war,
Fought not for survival
But for the right to proclaim a greater god.
That should have been enough.

We have learned that our planet
Is less then a grain of sand
In the Sahara in a universe will survive us.
That should have been enough.

We have split the atom and watered the desert,
But will kill for the deck chair
On the doomed vessel.
It will never be enough

High Desert

A freight train, replete
With three additional engines
Moves through the afterthought
Of a dry landscape.

Reminiscent of a Hopper painting,
A once overworked, now alien, car trailer
Seems to have settled sadly
By a trail west, that is now a highway.

I turn at the sound of a 16 wheeler
Roaring down US 15,
To face the Denny’s that sits,
Apologetically, between me and the expressway.

Its faded dark brown facade
And near empty parking lot
Suggest a second failure
At retrieving a promise.

This cool sunny day
Does not imbue the scene
With the life or hope
That brought trailer and restaurant here.

Family Traditions

“Cultural relativism” sounds like
A lecture given by Dear Abbey.
Calvin knew of it
Long before he held Pat’s head under water.

Forced to her knees,
Her head in the toilet bowl,
Left no visible marks,
And resolved heated arguments.

It was not a matter of religious principle,
Not with Calvin’s tribe,
Merely a method of reenforcing status.
There had not been an acceptance of rank.

My sense of outrage was cautioned
By a voice whispering behind my silenced lips.
“Who makes it wrong
If Calvin’s tribe nods?”

Concern for minority rights, education of children
Giving to the poor and respect for elders...
Generations have settled domestic differences with no physical scars.
It is a family tradition.

Child’s Smile

There are few things as genuine
As a child’s tears,
Or ,a big smile
We he is happy

As I walked Rose across the grass park circle,
We stopped to admire a beautiful family scene.
I nodded to the young father
Whose son was resting on Dad’s stomach

Dismounting Dad, our year old protagonist
Stumbled in my direction.
Like many a small child
Intent on loving a puppy.

Why children often have
A genetic attraction to dogs I don’t know,
But I quickly rehearsed
“You must get Mommy’s Ok first”.

Surprisingly this little boy
Was not especially interested in Rose.
Holding up his hands as he ran, passed the dog,
Came toward me with the universal “pick me up” signal.

With a nod of Mom’s head
I was OK’d to lift the child.
He was immediately comfortable
In the arms of this stranger.

Both his eyes and mouth
Smiled at his situation.
A delighted child
In the arms of a great good friend.

Two minutes later I released
Child to Mom’s waiting arms,
Only to have the kid decide
He was happier with me.
This story had a mixed ending.
I lost sight of my list of 100 things
That were perplexing me
As I shared the child's happiness.

I am sure the toddler
Recovered from the loss
When I put him down and left,
But not until he cried bloody murder.

Apologize

I am awed by the guy
Who has no failures
In need of expiation,
And enjoys a pristine view of the road behind.

Only one claiming deification
Could hold to such perfection.
Western religions might unite
In stoning his sorry ass.

My own list of misplays,
Lapses and relapses,
Laid end-to-end
Would circle the globe... thrice.

With enough money,
And if technology allows,
I might add a coda to my will,
Broadcast by 100 satellites, “Sorry”.

Of course a universal apology might seem
To lack a certain sensitivity.
Perhaps a message of hope might work?
“You’ll never hear from me again”!

Table of Twelve

Its a joyous holiday,
Marking an occasion
That almost certainly did not happen.
Hence, a religious holiday.

Miracles reported, some reenacted,
Recall downtrodden desperate people,
Saved from an unspeakable fate.
And twelve people enjoy a good meal.

It makes good theatre,
A not altogether unimportant
Contribution to our spirit
And our actions.

Our small group,
Members of an ancient tribe,
Mark the ritual as valuable,
If only as a warm friendly gathering

Sand

Winter storms left their message.
Beaches, trees, houses are gone.
Don’t behave like John McEnroe,
Slamming his racquet
On a defenseless water machine.
The Ocean is tasked
To move in response
To the moon, wind, sun
And other random acts of nature.

To build on the coastal sands
Suggests an arrogance
That has lost sight of limits
Or a stupidity that concludes
The accumulation of millions of grains
In the space between the tree line
And the sea
Is an abnormality, having nothing to do
With the waters way.

When the last footprint
Has been eroded
And no bird hunts for fish
Among the building waves,
Then neither the crashing tumult
Nor the gentle rippling of a timid
Entreaty upon the shore
Will not be witnessed,
Accept by the sand.

Checking the Weather

On a Sunday 30 years ago
Dad called.
It was the first
Of 20 years of Sunday calls.

Exchanges were short,
Mostly we compared weathers.
He never spoke of his deteriorating health,
His long slide.

Never seemingly very personal,
Yet we both thought
These brief, often inane, dialogues
Mattered.

Two ill-equipped men,
Neither comfortable with emotional conversation,
Reached to create unbreakable bonds
Without betraying their imagined selves.

Constancy was the substance,
That, not unlike religion,
Provided nurture
And integrity to our relationship.

I miss the talk we never had,
Where love and happiness
Took center stage.
Now on Sundays I call my children.

The Corporate Person (Written in recognition of the Supreme Courts emergence as a legislative body)

Akhenaten decided the Sun was the supreme God.
Not a very good idea.
Demoted deities, preeminent for 1000 years,
Were not pleased. Bad things happened.

Friday a new species was created.
Some rights, reserved for citizens of the United States,
Were extended to paper entities.
It was not a very good idea.

If democracy is an illusion,
Just out-of-reach,
It has served us well.
Our highest (Supreme) church has removed that fantasy.

Government by the people has
In the best “Animal Farms” tradition,
Been retained.
Only the definition of “people” has been modified.

Success

I can think of 3 people
Who seem contained,
With ambitions that do not exceed
Their capacity to deliver.

It would be a mistake to find them unwilling to fail,
For their internal well runs deep,
Making them capable of accepting failure
With just a modicum of rationalization.

As to the rest of us?
One way or another
We are stuck in our childhood dreams,
Reaching for illusory parental approval.

It is not in failure
That the contained person
Shows his greatest advantage.
Rather, it’s in understanding success.

Knowing how the cards can lie
And how small the difference
Between success and failure may be,
And believing both are absurd.

Nice and Easy

As the pier traffic
Of departing afternoon fishermen
Releases its hold on the days mood
Bobby and I settle to our evenings work.

No rods or hooks,
No weights for the bottom feeders
Ours is a more subtle game,
Our prey can choose to let go of the bait.

A line of heavy string,
Run through the empty dead eye-sockets,
Secures the fish head
As I play out 14 feet of cord.

North Ocean Street pier
Had been getting plenty of action
These last 2 weeks of August.
Time to test our skills.

Our crabbing is an art.
No cage, no trap.
If the crab on the line sent the message
I had to ease the crab to the surface.

Gently, slowly, with the string taut,
Outsmarting the crab,
So that it assumed
Bay currents were moving the fish-head.

Bobby, who handles the net, will blame any loss
On my line handling.
I will point at him...
And the splashing of the net.

Not unlike the fishermen,
We usually leave a little grumpy,
Having allowed the humungous
Blue claw to escape.

It’s Not Part of the Plan

Religion has always been part of Abe’s life.
Practicing Christian for years,
Including a stint as Dr of Theology,
Leading a new age Christian congregation.

Spiritually he has moved to a more ethereal place,
Where wheels turn and this life
Is just a way-station.
But when cut he still bleeds.

Eight years into retirement, with limited savings
He has been notified that
His pension plan is bankrupt.
Abe is concerned..

He does not suffer massive ego needs.
And parceling blame does not excite him.
He is not ready to pull the cover over his head
And await assignment.

Today he plans to scale back.
Live within his means,
Sell his trailer and hitch,
And enjoy his mountain hamlet home.

Throwing Stones

A large rock will disturb the water,
Send ripples in all directions.
Some arrive at destinations unprepared
For the assault.

A small pebble,
Thrown with greater force
Might accomplish as much.
If so, it will suffice.

How often have I tossed
A clever verbal condemnation,
Thinking it a small thing,
Discovering later it was large and wrong.

It’s possible that the stone size
Or its speed, are not as important
As recognizing that there may be
An alternative to stones.

I recall smashing windows:
In a church by accident,
And through a school window
By design.

Perhaps it is the intent that matters.
Though the damage might be as extensive,
And the cost as great,
My initial responses were quite different.

I had avenged myself for the sins
Of the school, and was satisfied.
It was not my church and it had not offended.
I needed to be more careful.

Where From Here?

Odds are I’ll not live
To see the coming of the next species.
This time, conscious breeding
Will produce our descendants.

I suspect speed, agility and strength
Will matter.
Opposable thumbs might be critical,
If tool making is a survival skill.

Our progeny won’t thank us,
But history, or for that matter
Reading, will not be of much concern.
Building tree nests will be the rage.

Social security will not be distributed.
Of course, with a life expectancy of 25 years,
Retirement needs will not be paramount,
And elective surgery will not be available.

Approved

It was a near thing
Costco could have rejected me.
How could I survive
With my credit gone?

Where would I go
That no one would know?
It’s just a terrible mistake,
See how full is my basket.

But I was approved!
I can keep all the toilet paper
And my new 8 foot WIDE HD TV
Will allow for “The Tribute to the Common Man”.

I’m still not sure about the Wines and Guacamole dip.
If the barcalounger doesn’t fit my 3 by 6 balcony
I can always send it back,
And get the imitation leather love-seat.

With the earned credit of $850.00.,
(1.5% of the purchase price,)
I can get that crystal chandelier
Or a trip to Midland Texas.

Son of a Bitch

Motives are never quite pure.
We need to protect
Images that make us whole.
It is better than understanding.

Of course I was interfering!
That’s what parents do.
We can’t bear the crap that surrounds us,
And believe we can help.

Certain we’re not the problem
We stumble into dense undergrowth
Pointing the way out,
Without seeing traps.

It’s his fault,
And her hands aren’t clean.
How can they see us in such a light?
Do I deserve this?

What example did I set?
Was I wrong to worry
And point out pitfalls?
Why is this happening to me?

We lent them money.
We are not wealthy.
I am angry and hurt,
And don’t know what to do.

Reality

If my memories of yesterdays
Are little more than a poorly remembered dream,
Then life is a fantasy
Belonging to the sleeper.
If so, the material and the spiritual
Are equally ephemeral
And the journey,
Our brief surreal exploration
Of a bipedal upright creature,
Serves as a marker,
A re-ordering of events,
That encompasses both the possible,
And the moral.

Slide

It’s easy.
Just stop working,
And notice how the seas continue.
You will not be missed.

Lament if you are so inclined,
But don’t fool yourself.
It does not stand as a tribute or justification.
You have merely left the train.

The inexorable pull, easily accommodated,
Offers no dramatic pronouncement
As you continue to ignore diminishing challenges,
Passively waiting for divine intervention.

Joyce at 15 seemed unformed,
Not the best student
But bright enough to find challenges
That might fire her imagination.

She did, and slid down to meet them.
Now 30 with no job, no prospects,
And no remaining truth
To light her way.

Going to the Moon

I ask, “why not”?
Not much of a reason to spend billions
On a trip to the moon.
Be brave on your own dime!

Kennedy sold, but I did not buy.
Maybe I was wrong.
Time was, not so very long ago,
Limitless.

From the moon to Asimov
And beyond.
I did not, in 1961,
See the end.

Dreams, always in short supply,
Are now the home of the dysfunctional.
Who imagines his children's children
As the progenitors?

It is not my faulty vision,
Rather, it is the acceptance
Of the inevitable secession.
We will be less.

Understanding

My computer is slow.
Most of my day is spent frivolously,
But I do notice the changing sky
And the mood of the ocean.

Fire and industry predate me.
I will not witness
A change in the ranking
That might end man's earthly dominance.

But, with luck, we will find,
In my lifetime,
That God is dead,
Coming to grief from natural causes.

If there is symmetry to the process
We should expect seasonal temperatures,
A changing sky
And variations in the ocean’s mood.

Rex

Heading down Cedar Avenue
We were followed by a young German Shepherd.
He turned with us on to our dirt road.
Bobby and I nodded, we had a dog.

If just for the long weekend.
We got Rex some hamburger meat.
He stayed through our salami sandwiches,
And 2 man basketball game.

He was there after we had an early dinner.
When the rain hit
We hustle Rex onto the covered porch.
Mom didn’t like that.

Before dawn I heard Dad
Forcing Rex out into the RAIN.
In the morning Rex was waiting for us,
With a running nose.

For 3 rainless days we had this great dog.
I could not imagine leaving him,
But leave him we did.
I cried and concluded I had been adopted.

The Plot

20 tourists, all ladies, sat at the next table.
None taller than five foot two,
None under sixty.
All with a bottle of Bud and a mug.

Could this be the brains
Of a clandestine army 
Intent on undermining the dominance
Of industrial America?

They raised their mugs
And offered a "bonzaii".
Were these seemingly innocuous foreigners
Part of the master plan?

A plan sponsored by the now foreign owned Budweiser?
A scheme aimed at altering
The contents of America's favorite brew,
Leading to mind control over all American males.

Fiendish, typical of the evil aliens.
No doubt they will change Buds secret formula,
Add ingredients that will suck American men dry
Of our otherwise full-blooded, full throated, masculinity.

Latter Day Religion

Millenniums have past since Peter complained,
“It’s not working,
All those speeches, prayers
And nothing has changed”

Jesus had been executed.
Temple fathers ruled the community.
Rome ruled Jerusalem
And peddlers hustled on the temple steps.

Two thousand years later,
After one year in office,
Our first black President
Has not performed any miracles.

The people are unhappy.
“Where are the jobs?
Why are the bankers getting richer?
Has the quality of our air changed?”

Repeating History

When I was ten
Life was cruel,
Thing usually didn’t work out
When I got a present it was always clothing.

At twenty life was conflicted.
My love didn’t love me,
Sleep and appetite fled,
And school wasn’t happening.

With children at thirty, in a foreign land,
My jobs gave me little satisfaction.
Divorced with few happy prospects.
There were days that seemed interminable.

In my forties I started over ...again.
More anxieties, not much stuff.
Another city, few friends,
I’m still bluffing my way through

Declaring myself a winner, I retired,
Promised myself leisure and travel,
Another new home.
At fifty I had friends and stopped running.

At sixty I hadn’t mellowed,
Could still curse a fool driver,
Express revulsion for the tax code
And people who didn’t recognize my wisdom.

I was born over seventy years before
My latest recitation of my life’s wish.
I want to be the heroic cowboy,
But I find hope in a warm, sunny day.

Penny

I’m panicked!
This shouldn’t be happening.
It’s almost morning
My heart is hammering.

Fear without object.
Knowing I must hide,
But not why or from what.
Dread has cornered my mind.

My sisters, awake now,
Ignore my frenzy,
Think I’m just crazy.
They have no idea how right they may be.

Sitting quietly in the garage,
Between the two parked cars,
Where no one would look for me,
I might be able to calm myself.

Dawn’s light moves across the concrete floor
And my breath begins to slow.
Darkness allows the enemy to close,
But light is winning this morning’s battle.

Street

Helen pushed the Costco shopping cart.
Larger than Von’s model,
It allowed for more debris,
The substance of her life.

All 4 wheels moved smoothly,
Far better then her last cart,
Allowing her to feel a little better,
With less chance of tipping, smoother turns.

Street lights had not taken effect,
As the cooling sun still
Illuminated the broken sidewalk,
And people had not taken their stations.

Her 2 sweaters and jacket
Impinged on her movements
But provided enough protection
To keep her warm.

Tied to the cart’s handle
Was a small wrinkled plastic bag
Holding a stolen banana, a day old roll
And a small bottle of Dago Red.

Her skirt, which covered
An older, more distressed one,
Had suffered from street use.
In contrast her sneakers looked clean.

She carried her 50 years
With determination, if not grace,
But grace would not do,
Genteel poverty lived indoors.

Watching Pete Seeger

It may not have happened the way it's told,
And he may not have been as saintly.
I choose to believe half,
For half is all I need.

He is a proponent of music,
Folk music from wherever.
A humanist who has fought to defend,
Yet outraged and saddened when his country was the aggressor.

I sat behind the stage at Carnegie Hall
Listened and thought.
Now I see his music
In the pictures of a Polar Bear and a Huskie... hugging.

I see something irrepressible in his smile;
Like those two animals, representing the possible.
Do you see the lighthearted humor?
A 72 year old cynic, with a 90 year old folk hero.

Conversation: Old man/young man

Old man
I can see your future
And it troubles me.
Where is the drive,
Spirit of adventure, the sense of possibility?

Young man
You don’t see me,
Merely a distorted reflection
Of the way things were.
Your mess sits on my plate.

Old man
My mess sits on my plate.
Your rose garden is on hold.
My sympathy is conditional.
Freud died. You have choices.

Young man
I’m told there were blue skies
And people saw beyond their shadows.
Optimism abounded.
My GPS can’t locate the path.

Old man
Yes there are fewer flowers,
And the noise level precludes dialogue.
You're tasked with finding Gaia,
We lost her in Eden.

Young man
I am hungry and you speak of flowers.
You condemn me for being in the pit you dug.
My direction may be predestined,
But you’ve afforded me little understanding.

Old man
Can I teach you?
Is there something I’ve learned
That might be of value
Or does my hubris forestall insight?

Young man
Your failures, not your successes,
May inform a better outcome.
Be quiet and move aside,
So I may build my own golden city on the hill.

It's Time

A tribute to the San Diego chapter of SCORE

My first exposures to SCORE,
Over 20 years ago,
Was of people who cared
And laughed easily.

Whatever my contributions
I've received manifold rewards.
Friendships initiated under Reagan
Continue into Obama.

There is an ethos
That permeates the San Diego SCORE chapter
And leavens the egos:
Members leave yesterday's heroics at home.

Through SCORE I’ve been allowed
To participate in the dreams of many
And the efforts of some, more fortunate,
To build a bridge for those who would follow.

So many good people,
Including those with the misguided belief
That the Republican party is superior,
Have broken bread with me, and I am grateful.

Big Man

Smiling, witty, really clever.
He listened well enough
To hear the flaws,
Leaving virtues un-noted.

Would his value lessen
If his words were more supportive?
Could he not impatiently string together
A thought that might inspire?

Where, where did the ground form,
That would support self-esteem,
Give him the grace
To connect without defense, without clever?

Salvation for the nonbeliever
Is granted only by loved ones.
Your task is to cherish those
Who see you, unadorned, and care.

Calm

Moving into shadow,
Windows give the lie to the hour.
Autumn soon will surrender to winter
And the days will again lengthen.

Now the house must be made strong.
Indifference, and worse, have eroded the foundation.
Weaknesses need be addressed
With care and love.

It is not a new shelter,
Walls show signs of age,
And maintenance requirements
Will not diminish.

Windows immerse the living space
With the sun’s warmth
Suggesting a favorable weather pattern,
Adding vitality to those who live herein.