Paul Newman Never Made All-School Yard

He looked the part,

Once drove race cars,

Made salad dressing                                  

And was a good actor.

I go back to the early days of TV,

Milton Berle (yeah, you never heard of him),

And live TV performances.

I could see Paul lacked good hand-eye coordination.

Hey! I’m not saying he wasn’t a nice guy.

He might’ve been a sweet guy,

Gave to the right charities....

Or not.

I can’t imagine him ever dribbling behind his back,

Taking a left-handed 15 -footer,

Going into the pit for a rebound,

Or threading a pass between 2 defenders.

On a different level Paul Newman could shine,

But when 10 guys, (Sorry girls!) choose up sides,

The better players get picked immediately.

After that it slows, until someone is stuck with Paul.

Of course on the right star-aligned day

Paul might cut off a pass ,

And heave the ball halfway to Texas

Where it is gratefully caught and stuffed.

It could happen!?! 

   

Needing a Voice

When do you know it's gone?

Or does asking the question supply the answer?

Starting a sentence, fearing a word

Will not come upon command.

Reaching for a sound,

Anxious, lest your pronunciation

Reinforce a growing belief

That you’ll inherit Grandma's blank stare.

Someone will finish your thought

While you fight to retain its integrity,

Feeling relief when that someone

Fills in your blank.

No, that will not be the worst.

Don't you remember

Your impatience when that

Old uncle could not stay here and now?

Until you are long past

Constructing a universe that accords

With one that a 20 year old can visit,

I suggest fighting for a better ending.

Why All The Poems?

Not for the first time

A friend asked why I bother

Sending new poems out every other week?

I’ve thought long and hard on this.

Surely, not everyone reads every poem.

Some might read a couple, others less.

For all I know I may be sending poems

To an old acquaintance   … who died in 2011?

Just because I like writing poems

Doesn’t mean all those emails

Go to folks who are hungry for my

Incredibly brilliant insights.

So, dear reader, I must confess.

It is not to save humanity from self-annihilation

That I explore the far reaches of my disturbed brain.

It’s for the MONEY!!

She Explained

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.

From Catalina to Manhattan Beach

On a frozen lake it would be 32 miles.

Of course it’s been a couple of Ice Ages

Since the last freeze.

So with a light chop it was only 35 miles.

100 of you demented Homo sapiens

Decided you had nothing better to do

But to hand paddle board the day away.

What the hell, it was all-downhill.

It is really hard to believe

That last finisher didn’t beat you,

I think the guy wanted to be the 100th.

Man, you are some kind of lazy.

Yeah, you were older then most.

OK, everyone else had working legs,

But I know there ain’t no leg work

For fools that spend a day on their stomach.

Sure, everyone waited for you and number 100 to arrive.

Yeah, they made a lot of noise, a hell-of-lot of noise

When they finally dragged your ass onto the chair at waters edge.

Christ, I think half of the crowd was family.

So what do I think? Funny you should ask!

I thought it was the damnedest, craziest,

Most extraordinary thing I have seen...

Since my oldest son’s first step, 49 years ago. 

The Care and Feeding of Guilia

Cynicism can take you a long way.

For politicians and religious leaders

It may be the only rational defense,

But it won’t counteract love.

I don’t expect to see Evie often.

She lives on the other side of the earth,

In a place called Vermont,

With husband and daughter Giulia.

Mother and daughter lunched here yesterday.

Giulia never far from touching her Mom.

She seems everyone’s wish for a twelve year old,

Comfortable in the company of seniors.

Where did my rose colored glasses come from?

Why do these two unpretentious people

Insist on confounding conclusions

That have taken me a lifetime to solidify?

Perhaps it is the position of the stars

Or the current barometric pressure

That granted me this exquisite vision of

People who care very much for each other.

Partings

Partings

Too often I have parted company

For inconsequential reasons,

Or no reason at all.

But occasionally the time is ripe and I am ready.

I remember both the building

Of bonds that held fast in troubled times

And the disagreements, seen as betrayals,

That destroyed relationships.

Terminal impacts I have suffered include:

Discovering a “friend” was a Yankee fan,

Finding a buddy paid clergy for “special” blessings,

And being told politicians work for the people.

If there is an art to saying goodbye,

I’ve not found the key to that door.

My friend Vinnie said he never screwed a friend.

They had ceased being friends well before the final turn.

I’ve watched recovering buddies

Embrace one another in forgiveness and warmth,

Only to renounce each other within an hour.

Such is the potential volatility of friendship.

Here’s to friendships.

Always an endangered species.

May you have one that endures

And matters,

Zero

Zero

There are possibilities in numbers.

That’s where I would look for God.

Without really understanding how they work,

It is the zero that most intrigues me.

Balance is achieved and constants approved

When the net result is zero.

Meditation reaches to’rd stillness

And active rest awaits that circle.

A man walks into a movie theater

Intent on killing people,

People he doesn’t know.

What color are the seats before the shooting starts?

Some people eating popcorn,

Others smiled as the film started.

A baby is sleeping in Mom’s arms.

She hopes he will remain quiet.

Is the shooter following a script?

Do the numbers matter,

Or is he looking for silence?

Could we predict his choice? 

The shooting seems random,

But what of the movie?

Did he have a preference?

What might we learn?

Is he an agent of a God

That does not want this movie played?

If everyone in the theater had a gun

Would less people be killed? 

Awesome

Awesome                 

My hamburger order was pronounced “awesome”.

Considering I was dining in a “Burger Lounge”

I’m not sure my choice was worthy of the exclamation.

I’d like to propose replacement

Of our current crew of superlatives.

How does “swell” strike you?

With the emphasis on the second syllable,

I can imagine the growing symphonic brass---

What’s that; there is no second syllable?

I guess that rules out “nice” and “yes”.

“Super” could be reincarnated,

And wait-staff  can wear leotards and capes.

Awesome

The Martians Have Spoken

Yes, the Martians have spoken,

What an incredible disappointment.

It far outweighed our willingness to forgive.

True they were small and unclothed.

Reminiscent of the Africans we saved from savagery,

Except for the “small” part.

We could accept their limited English,

Or the ridiculous native mumbo jumbo,

But the barbaric reception was too much.

We arrived in peace, seeking only knowledge---

Of where the oil and gold were stored,

And what weaponry they possessed.

It was surely a most cataclysmic day,

To find, after all our troubles, they were skeptical,

Questioning our intentions. It made me weep,

There they stood, a dozen Martians,

Holding a crudely hand printed paper banner,  that said:

“Get the fuck off our planet”.

Beach Chair

Beach Chair                  

How long had the humble beach-chair

Sat on the deserted strip of soft white sand,

With a forlorn blue towel hanging off its remaining arm?

Was there a story of love and loss

Emanating from the dissolute beach-chair,

Facing the Pacific with no claimant in sight?

Had a despondent lass,

Seeing no sliver of hope,

Chosen to mark her final moments

Before committing herself to the ocean?

What of the old man who

Heeded the need for speed

And risked his chair

To attend to a bladder’s demand?   

Surely last night’s drunkard

Was capable of worse stupidity

Than leaving his poor, weathered, over-used

And under-appreciated chair overnight.

I was left with three choices:

The chair looks serviceable, and I might lay claim;

I can stay for hours to ascertain true ownership;

Or walk away and leave resolution to another.

I'm Asking You

He approached arms bent, palms at shoulder height,

And asked that I consider his concern.

My dog had just peed in the park,

As had probably 100 dogs before her this day.

He asked that in the future

I’d walk Rose beyond the perimeter

Of the small circular park,

As required by a posted sign.

It seemed his young kids hit balls in the park

And they might walk into a spot

My dog had wetted.

I came up with the wrong answer.

“Dogs traverse this park every day.”

I told him, feigning a bit of incredulity.

“Why should my dog not do the same?”

 His soft answer was: “Because I’m asking you.”