Sharansky

It wasn’t only his singing
That kept him from being
President of his class.
He was too short.

Standing at the lectern,
Facing 500 believers,
He did not breath fire,
His was not the night’s cause.

Natan reasoned with his audience.
You may choose humanity and that is good.
You may choose Judaism and that is good.
Either way you will pay a price.

This audience, these 500, wanted something else.
Tell us of the indignities visited upon Israel.
Remind us of the surrounding terror.
Exhort us to demand more U.S. aid.

Not this night.
The Carnivores went home hungry.
Natan did not demand,
He encouraged. I liked him.

Hanging Out

How did the lizard,
With its ridiculously long tail,
Get itself on a twig in the pond?

Unless gravity were to reverse itself
This six inch long black life form
Was not going to survive the morning.

It appeared to be pondering the situation;
Considering options,
Composing a farewell speech.

When the day began Leo,
(A decent name for a lizard,)
Went searching for insects.

Leo had leapt onto a broken twig
Captured his prize,
And caused the twig to move off the shoreline.

If I were a reporter,
I would need to resist human intervention,
Since it would change the outcome.

But I am Einstein’s intrusion.
My being there was part of the story,
Merely observing changes the result.

Leo might deserve an assist.
His life’s devotion to bug eating
Could have made my sleeping mosquito free.

Yes, this tale has a happy ending,
If your in favor of prolonging
The life of a six inch long, black lizard with a fabulous tail.

The Ultimate Optimist

What if you find,
After a life of toil and trouble,
Wins and losses, you are resident in Hell?
There may still be a place for optimism.

Believing you deserve a better location,
It will likely take some time
To reconcile prior beliefs
With your current situation.

I’m convinced, based on nothing,
That the next step will be to plan.
Knowing you are misplaced,
How do you move up, WAY up.

Where are the exit signs?
What good deeds can you do?
Even god can make a mistake,
Look at the almost infallible Pope.

Perhaps a change of name, address,
Or a renunciation of past hiccups
Will get you a ride to the top?
Within the fires still an optimist.

Forgiveness

Finding the depth of his failures,
And personal dishonesty,
Assails me daily.
I will never forget!

He asks for my forgiveness.
But he has not suffered the thousand blows
That I revisit, unsolicited recalls that
Drive knives through my mind.

Yes, we have a history,
Much of it warm, comforting.
Now those memories lay at my feet,
Trampled into the mud of tears.

My wisest option is out.
Time may not be an ally.
Staying, leaves me vulnerable.
I do not, did not deserve this.

Yes, we are not dead,
There are still feelings,
Recollections of love and humor
That strike a responsive cord.

Forgiveness is not fair,
It asks the injured to risk
Further abuse,
And a dangerous uphill climb.

Still, there are tangos to learn
Music to hear,
Friends we share;
And the years have not been unkind.

A Day With Family

Ashes in the ground.
Only one person cried.
Then the small family group
Returned to their lives.

Mom was not resurrected
Morning passed into noon,
Lunch, conversation.
Pleasantries replaced sober reflections.

If there are no typical families
This group raises no objection.
It is devoted to the American dream,
With all it's warts.

No apparent serial killers,
Only one absolute failure.
Several potentially good guys
Who might turn the wheel.

It's the children who give hope.
Innocence is enchanting,
And watching the youngsters play
Would have pleased my pre-ashes Mom.

The Sandman

The street is a canvas
And his scooper the palette.
He hears “Thee voice”,
Then paints the messages with sand.

Shadow thin, with few teeth remaining,
He dresses in black.
Does most of his work after dark,
Only to see it obliterated by noon.
Not unlike Sisyphus,
Will start a new piece
Before the next sunrise.

His wrist moves confidently
As he “paints” his messages,
“I’’s topped with four leaf clovers,
Occasionally seeking help with his spelling.

I doubt his passion provides a living wage,
Which likely accounts for his bedraggled clothing
And emaciated body,
Neither of which diminish a genuine smile.

Whether today’s effort will involve
Gigantic wishes for honeymooners,
A word to the wise, or a full moon,
Upon completion, they satisfy the artist.

His work invariably asserts
Life as a positive force,
With sufficient humor
To add much value to my morning walk.

After Midnight

Running up from the Marina
To Pacific Heights is grueling
But possible,
Getting past the closing night is not.

Words move beyond my reach,
I listen to my breath.
The lack of street lights
Suggest home and safety are not at hand

Shadows, broken and bending,
Create a feeling that someone is following
And I must move faster,
Or hide in my closet.

My course takes me through
A cardboard village
That fronts abandoned shops
Like a pre-Potemkin slum.

Fog speaks to me,
A tale of winter, sans snow,
That allows no respite,
Just the cold of the financially undressed.

Doorways crowded with the poor,
Who have formed temporary alliances
That might not last the night,
Bent on liquor induced Hollywood dreams.

Nearing my haven,
Shadows become familiar and safe.
Cold and fog recede.
My cheerful television makes the night certain.