Ace @ 8

What do you make of an eight month old?

What pillars of our ethnic paradigm  

Will support or confine Allesia’s path  

Through the rapidly changing terrain?

The stars are strongly aligned:

A home replete with love, 

A roof, and a dog.

But what of the child?

Which of the parental predispositions will she share?

The need to work?

Their cleverness?

Their love of the game?

Ace, will the day begin with song?

What will you think of the flower

That complements your day?

Will you run because you can?

Those of us who will witness 

This stream of epiphanies 

Will delight in your discoveries

And little begrudge the inevitable evolution. 

The Other Mark

Mark, a superb athlete,

Prided himself on the workouts

He suffered through daily,

And his family name.

During your first casual meeting

He would have told you

That his family was very rich

And they had a huge foundation.

What he would not share 

Were his daily walks with 

His wheelchair ridden ex neighbor.

It wasn’t a secret, it just didn’t make the list.

He’d mention his junior Dave Cup match

Against Boris Becker (lost by a missed net shot).

There might be comment on the family 747,

Or a reference to his world class vacations.

The dying cancer patient that

Mark pushed slowly,

Stood in sharp contrast with the frenetic pace Mark otherwise maintained.

I think he wished to stretch the Mitzvah*.

I’ve lost contact with Mark,

But it’s that unplanned encounter,

When I met him pushing that guy

Who was beyond caring about family 747’s,

That comes to mind when I think of Mark.

*Good  deed

As Serious as Death

I stood, caught in some nefarious deed.

I had until the count of “3”

To stop my misbehavior and clean-up my act.

(Dad always said “clean-up your act”).

He had issued his warning

And would begin counting any second.

My thought question directed to the clouds:

“How do I get into these situations”?

Now I will stand up to my father.

OK, my room wasn’t perfect.

But it didn’t smell so bad.

I haven’t broken a toy or anything.

Oh boy, oh boy.

Dad’s going to start.

I can tell; he’s standing straighter.

This is where I exercise my rights.

Miss Alexander explained that this morning.

America told England it had rights.

She said everyone has rights.

This is my room, I have rights.

Dad is looking serious,

But I have rights!

He said “1”

Nobody said I don’t have the right to agree with Dad.

Maddy @ 70

Even with a favorable wind

And a life well lived

There is a hiccup that carries

A whiff of sadness at the passing years.

True, I have not written the Great American Novel

Or been elected to some extraordinary position.

Far more meaningful to me 

Is the love of my family and some very special people.

Soon, in a matter of a few breaths,

I will record fifty years of marriage,

To a life partner, who has stood by me 

Through golden and some base-metal moments.

My children have brought me 

Tears, laughter, anxiety, but most emphatically joy.

Joy in their growth and their love,

Their craziness and their offsprings.

There were choices made over the years,

Perhaps more by good fortune

Than by grand plans,

That allow me to look about and smile broadly.

I’m far from finished,

And with luck,

I’ll see and feel 

Life’s continuing panoply.

She Explain

I stand with the quiet men.

Those who, at any point in the conversation,

Can render themselves invisible.

It is not a matter of recognizing an opening

And going for the kill.

It is based upon her life’s experience.

Having passed through the crucible

Where, per force, you must endure

Both the seasons and absurdity

Of man’s slightly moronic understanding

Of all things,

A woman reaches that state of zen.

Then it is no longer possible 

To allow lesser beings (men),

Who seem confused by difficult concepts,

Such as making a bed,

To continue mumbling about the inconsequential.

It is with great reluctance, that the heirs of  Athena,

In order to assist those poor uncomprehending simpletons,

Bring wisdom and truth to their aid.

Separate Universes

We grabbed a corner table for two

And were greeted within a minute 

By my favorite busboy, 

Delivering water, silverware and  napkins.

I think his name is Juan,

But I’m really not sure.

In fact I have no idea what his name is

But I figure it must be Hispanic.

He has greeted me most every Saturday morning

For the last six months.

We usually share a funny comment

And he’ll bring coffee.

Maybe his income is better as a busboy,

But more likely it was the position he was offered,

Because of his accent,

Or perhaps he did not aspire to becoming a waiter?

I doubt he spent much time

Wondering if I remembered his name.

Maybe I never asked.

I prefer to think I just forgot.

Most Saturdays I pat him on the shoulder.

I think of it as a comment on our shared humanity.

What the hell does that make me?

Some kind of condescending ass?

Fear not, I recover my station

And rise to continue my morning walk.

Juan, or whatever his name is,

Moves from my consciousness.

An Edge

Getting ahead starts early.

Six million years of practice

Has produced a species

That can walk and run fast.

This is an enormous advantage 

When being chased by a tiger,

Or subway doors are closing.

Still, running has a downside.

Deciding you can cross before

That Porsche 911 GT3 RS 

Gets to you,

Might require reconsideration.

Darwin understood “edge”.

Maybe his insights included

Recognition of Brooklyn types

Who sold you theatre tickets to yesterday’s show?

Regretfully, I report my “edge” missing.

For some time I have been feeling a little slower,

Not quite able to find the right word

Or, on occasion, losing contact with someone a foot away.

Now, in my dotage, I’m just not keeping up.

Nobody looks for 75 year old gunslingers....

My remaining quasi “edge” comes from advancing senility.

I can fake wisdom. My head nod is “awesome”.

The Race

By way of training 

I had run the basketball court for three days,

Twenty minutes per day.

When you’re eleven it seems adequate.

Cunningham Junior High School was new.

That day’s school meet was to pick

Boys who would run in the big race.

No races had been held citywide before.

Forty of us bunched up on the baseball field.

Mr. Schultz, the gym teacher, told us the route.

We would not encounter traffic lights,

And he and Mrs Schultz would handle street crossing .

At 1 PM the green flag signaled the start.

Most runners tried to avoid being crushed

By the guys dead set on getting up front.

I joined the “dead set” boys.

We were to run three miles,

Though none of us knew what that meant.

What kind of pacing is necessary

To be alive and in contention at the end?

There were twelve of us in the front pack

As we crossed Stillman Street,

Heading for J,

My nerves were pushing me too fast.

Half a mile into the run,

Ten of us had established a survival pace,

And  were eight yards ahead

Of the pack.

In another half a mile,

With Mrs. Schultz directing us and traffic,

We turned onto tree-lined Erasmus Place.

Six of us were moving away from the others. 

Ernie, the lead runner, was pushing the pace

And all of us had gotten past initial nerves,

And were sweating freely.

Nobody had thought to bring water.

Half way into mile two,

With Monty up front and Ernie fading,

We four crowded toward the sidewalk,

As Wellpar Avenue was only half-closed to cars.

Monty, Alex, Donnie and I 

Held together until Maple Street.

Alex made a move and got

Space from Donnie and Monty.

Into the last mile, and I’m,

Thinking I should have trained harder.

Ernie pushed to the front again,

But he seemed exhausted.

I wondered if any of the girls

Would be in the school yard as we finished.

Paula Malt. There’s a good looking chick,

And even smaller than me.

Last block. Alex and Jerry,

Big Alex and little Jerry.

Funny, I never told Mom about the race.

It’s like I wanted to keep it a secret. Hmmm?

We’re both beat and neither of us is going away.

Just a few guys in the yard, small audience.

Hundred yards. Jeeze, Alex is strong.

Yeah, so what! I’m here and finishing ...

Acceptance

Some discussions don’t end well.

Those centered around my social acceptance,

Have a great deal to do 

With a small, skinny five year old.

At least that’s what the Psychiatrist says.

He is much taller than I dreamed of being 

At the time I played college basketball,                                                             

Before starting my NBA career.                    

Why the hell do I want to spend time,

Examining the miserable life

Of that self- absorbed child?

It was not much fun the first time.

Two hundred bucks an hour,

If I can be reconciled to fifty minute hours,

In the hope of putting that five year old

Snot -nosed kid at ease.

I’ve apparently avoided the brat for a lifetime

But he now pounds on my gut.

I smile at Dr. Frank and offer half truths.  He wasn’t there.

Let him visit the kid!

Maybe time is an encapsulated sphere?

Life never moves without the weight

Of decades and half- buried tragedies never realized……

And always unfolding.

Fog

A charcoal gray cloud sits on the water,

As both the shoreline and the sun

Press down on the receding fog

To create another reality.

Buildings and people emerge

From the land-hugging cloud,

Their transformation to yesterday’s shape

Still incomplete.

Is the half-revealed man invalid

Because I recall another morning

When there was no ambiguity, 

No undefined limitation?

If a last reconfiguration 

Of the dispersing mist,

Momentarily erases his existence,

How convincing is his image?

When the sun  prevails,

And I can assert that the man is complete,

Should I not allow for further changes that

My mind and eye may create?

Is not all understanding a matter

Of the moment,

That demands of the brain a permanence

Which will surely prove incandescent, but transitory?