Code

There is a rhythm to a count.
Some get it instantly,
Hear the numbers and wait,
Trailing smoothly, writing the recall.
 
When Morse code was communication,
Lives depended on getting it right;
“Incoming” besieged your brain
While you concentrated on the flow.                      
 
“Say again” was your common
Response to an urgent message.
Dots and dashes struggled 
With the desire to run and hide.
 
Before the first transmission,
Forty pound radio gear                                                   
Had made you a slow moving target,                                    
And a terrified soldier                                                        
                                 
I guess: half of the Korean vets                                
Who worked radio, cracked,                                                   
And spent months or years                                                
In quiet places, trying to forget.                                     
 
I order pizza on the phone
From a girl who has the rhythm. 
She takes the credit card number,
With just an “um”, telling me she got the last group.
 
Most people repeat each number immediately,
Thereby destroying any flow to the transmission.
They don’t feel the rhythm. 
It’s an art, but who cares?
 
 

No Laugh lines

All nineteen were Muslims.
To forget is to “aid the terrorists”.
No mosque at ground zero,
This hollowed ground.

Two blocks away is too close.
Toronto is too close.
Breathing is too close.
We will not “aid the terrorists”.

Fear was and remains the common presence.
There was a moment,
When the twin towers fell upon themselves,
And all things were possible.

Too soon, too very very soon, speeches and pledges
Consumed the air,
Leaving no space for humanity to seed,
And we returned to our tribes.

No traces remain of the common cause
That rose when the buildings fell.
If there is an order to evolution
Stepping down has the advantage of gravity.

Sunset

Arnold’s wife, Doris, died on Saturday
After sixty-two years of courtship and love,
Respect, children, pain, hope
And the daily happenings that make a life.

Arnold may have been a bit premature
Asking Doris, on their first date,
If she would marry.
Arnold was in love.

We all wish for a soft ending,
One free of incremental loss,
Burdens delivered,
Unwanted, debilitating.

Few of us will be that fortunate,
But fewer still will have
The great good fortune
Of having a Doris as life’s companion.

On this July 4

A retired Triathlete told me
That participating in the parade was very special.
Other club members were even more effusive,
Calling it a “great day”.

Marilyn worried about our
Position in the parade.
Sam’s concern was excessive sun.
Ann wore a look of fierce determination.

Above all, the July 4 parade meant
Family, friends, smiles,
And a wish to freeze the childish
Pleasure of bare feet in the green, green grass.

As we ambled by the viewing stands
I offered a metronome of
“Happy Fourth!”
To folks whose eyes met mine.

Glad it’s over.
We congratulated one another.
Time enough for the postmortem
And plans for next July 4.

Once Upon a Time

My neighbors younger daughter, Sofia,
Must do terrible things to small animals.
How else to explain her consistently
Sanguine attitude and bright smile.

No doubt Barbara, her mom,
Has contributed time and genes to this child.
Indeed her mom’s enthusiasm for life,
Is writ large in Sofia’s walk.

Unapologetic, she moves
To meet me with no trace of uncertainty.
Nor, does she assume an attitude
That creates pedigrees, or suggests a challenge.

With dramatic overtones, she tells me of her day,
Knowing I will listen.
This child, who will not remain
A young girl much longer.

I sigh, thinking of her inevitable descent
Into the temporarily diminished,
Quasi-functional state
Of teenager.