San Francisco

A little less frenetic then New York,

Gifted with clean air, engaging vistas,

It serves as a pathway for minorities,

Accepting gays, blacks, Latinos, Asians,

And ...American Express.

San Francisco attracts more visitors and bridge jumpers,

And more than its’ share of poets and street people.

Is there a connection?

Near its southwest coast the twin peaks signal towers

Rise through persistent fog,

Like hunting sharks cutting through a choppy sea.

This city works better than most.

Garbage gets collected,

And art, in mind-bending explosions

Of expressions, takes risks not found elsewhere.

Personal ads offer apartments for rent,

As well as sexual arrangements

Punishable by death in South Carolina.

 In the presistent cool nights many look for shelter,

A warm house, a safe, dry storefront.

Gays and lesbians stand up here

And accept no less than that their voice be heard.

They have helped bridge the gap

That turns fear and anger into tolerance.

A retired tour bus conductor

Sitting beside us recalls the history

Of San Francisco, back to pre ”gold rush”.

There’s much pride in his telling.

You should come here to visit; stay a week

Or a life time.

Hear the sounds, smell the food, walk the parks,

And feel the vibes.

It’s a very special place.

Running For President

 I have run a successful business,

Experienced losing a foot race.

Never requested or received “earmarked funds”.

I consider  my lack of exposure to political wars

My most significant qualification.

I fervently believe in motherhood.

Born and raised in Brooklyn I understand conflict.

I have never shot a Polar Bear from a helicopter,

But did own a BB gun as a child.

I believe in justice and the American way.

When elected I will meet with everyone: all 300 million of you,

And visit you houses of worship.

World peace is my pledge.

I will hunt down America’s enemies and destroy them.

I will not accept money from anyone.

Mine is a door to door campaign, I will walk the entire country.

I am unalterably opposed to evil.

I stand for the repeal of estate, income, sales and all other taxes.

Knowing we will be oil dependent forever,

I will give every man, women and child a shovel

And ask you all to join me, “digging to solve our energy concerns”.

Under my administration there will be no medical costs.

All people will be healthy until death.

My economic plan calls for the distribution of $500,000

To all legal residents, assuring prosperity to all.

Every vote is crucial. To assure the security of all ballots

I will review your ballot in the comfort of your home,

And personally deliver it to the tabulation center.

Lets make America great again!

Buy my book, “12 Steps to Having It All”,

An absolute necessity to understanding the bliss we will share,

And a prerequisite to leaving this stadium.

Riding the Bus

Yes we took the obligatory cable car to the wharf.

Where we viewed our beginnings .

For the neophyte the ride is quintessential San Francisco.

Bus drivers and bus stops are a separate story.

Not once did I hear a driver lose it.

For me one day on the job

Would’ve tested all my reserves, found me wanting.

Herds of children going somewhere,

Led by teenage girls in school sweaters.

Each child pushing for discipline,

Severe discipline.

“Why do I have to stand for that old lady?”

“Sally took my book”.

“Why can’t I hold on with one hand?”

“Jim hit me”.

“Maybe Jim should throw her off the bus”, I thought

“Please exit through the rear”, the recorded voice advised.

One day, maybe, an obedient visitor from a vigorous Christian school

Will heed the message, sensing the voice of omnipotence,

And walk to the rear exit.

Meanwhile 20 people can’t enter

Because “ too cool” is leisurely leaving through the entrance.

Where is the “law and order”  dude to

Wind “too cool” back up the stairs?

Moving through Chinatown, in a fully occupied bus,

Crowds, exceeding its capacity, wait at each stop.

They might still be waiting

For the bus that has room.

Bright banners form a cacophony of colors.

Streets are overflowing

A sense of purpose, a relic of the 1950s,

Pervades the scene.

Bus stops have inorganically evolved

From a mere white and and red sign

To something resembling a kiosk.

Its fluorescent  roof, and flip seats offers some comfort from the rain.

An electronic message flashes.

Informing the transient that 2 minutes from now

A rolling behemoth will stop here.

There are no animated commercials yet,

Nor is there a daily message

Suggesting how to improve your life.

I was unable to detect the presence

Of a spy camera recording my every movement,

But then I might not be adequately paranoid.

To me “the bus” is a metaphor.

Slightly class conscious,

And carrying its cargo

It moves through streets

That speak of different cultures,

And 100 gradations that make this city.

Bus drivers reflect the acceptance.

Odds are 50-50 that the boy will give his seat

To the older lady.

Renditions

My favorite Hawaiian ballad,

“The Beautiful Days of My Youth”

Was offered in several renditions.

Lovely word “renditions”.

We do not “render unto Caesar”,

For “Rome” does not claim him.

We abjure the villainy of torture

And plead that our hands are unbloodied.

We turn to “Rome”

In search of the truth,

A truth that will not be proffered.

One that will not be voluntarily surrendered.

Perhaps Rome can be more persuasive?

Clarify the virtues of cooperation.

Is there a conundrum that needs elucidation?

Why must we go elsewhere for the answer?

I think it best we do our own torturing,

If it needs to be done,

And defend our stance

Or accept the idea that we can be better than that.

Pre Apologize

“I didn’t mean to shoot her.

It was a mistake, I apologize.”

Chances are it won’t work.

No, no, no. Apology not accepted.

Neither the church, the court, 

Or the neighbor, lying wounded

In her Rose garden, would give you 

A “Get out of trouble” card.

Even little things,

Calling your mother-in-law a “bitch”,

Now require something more than 

Post calamity contrition.

What if upon entering a room

You were to offer a pre-apology?

“Folks, I might say something in the next 3 hours

That will offend . I apologize.”

True, the initial reaction could be one of ‘huh”?

But later, when you prove yourself a Cassandra,

Those people may recall your precious apology,

And recognize your courageous fight with the devil.

“After all, he knew his weakness and warned of consequences,

Tried to stiffen our hearts for the blow”.

“Poor fellow, must need counseling”.

Here, we have turned failure into a heroic struggle  .

Suppose we could codify pre-apologizing.

Atonement after the fact difficult to schedule?

Not a problem, with a pre-approved 

Monthly plan covering cursing and masturbation.

Expecting a bad report card?

Mom will ground you for 150 years.

Not so, with a 24 hour advance purchase

Covering math and science grades.

A tiny marital slip, caught on camera,

While involved in a messy divorce

Could cost you every last peso,

Without a pre approved “oops” policy.

People, we are looking at the end of guilt.

No need to genuflect, or slash wrists.

A $500. full coverage plan, good for a year,

Will neutralize sin at a bargain price.

Ray Pierce

His children recalled Ray’s warmth and humor.

Minister Hansen, 15 years Ray’s spiritual leader,

Who’d known and loved him,

Spoke of his contributions to the community.

20 of us volunteers listened and waited.

Surely someone in current management

Would extoll Ray’s leadership,

Remember the help he offered small businesses.

Why not say a few words?

I had worked with Ray more than most.

He had been a good man,

With self-effacing humor.

Who would be glad I spoke?

His children would have appreciated a warm remembrance.

Probably his fellow church members would have been pleased.

How about Ray? He might have liked the idea.

I let myself off too lightly.

I’ve spoken at other funerals.

True, I had no prepared remarks,

But it would not have been difficult.

It must have been 7 or 8 years ago.

It wasn’t that he and I were really tight.

I think I just didn’t want to be bothered.

It has not caused sleepless nights.

Just a little curiosity, that’s all.

Rain

A steady rain drums impatiently,

But my house is warm, clean and dry.

Our agreement still intact.

You will work for me

And I will provide for you.

Today, I have neither work nor roof to offer.

If you are patient I will keep my pledge.

I do not ask where you will find shelter,

How will you feed the family?

We are both victims of a failed system.

I shall not be happy until all is restored.

I see you as an honorable man,

As am I. We share the same dream.

Why do you look so quizzical ? 

Racist 2

When you offer jingoism in lieu of reason,

Lies are dressed as opinion,

Quotes are out of context, and ignorance masquerades as authority,

You are lost.

When the word “liberal”

Becomes anti American 

And “socialism” an evil 

What is left but intolerance?

When books are banned 

And minorities denounced

What will exempt you from the conflagration,

Jew?

Practical

Mom was practical.

She defined herself as a practical person.

Hope I’m not a member of the practical club.

I have too much trouble with practical questions.

If asked perhaps the most practical of questions;

“What to do with your life”

Would you speak of knowledge, success,

Places or people?

Would it be “practical” to follow your forebears,

Or should we aim to rise, fall, twist and reach,

To seek an impassioned encounter with 

A source of joy?

If “practical” yields to “safe” what price will be paid?

Could we carry the thought to “happy”

With all the attendant risks,

And is “happy” a path or a destination?

Can we comfortably separate those two.

Or is there merely the “way”, leaving destination

As a fantasy that we toss at children

In an attempt to suggest there can be “arrival”

I once suggested that a year of travel

Would offer more than a year of school.

My son, disagreed, and started college.

My mother would have approved.

Pot

We went for a walk before  the movie.

Bobby had some Maui-Wowie.

Just the right stuff.

Feeling very mellow, we entered the old, large rundown theatre,

And sprawled across a couple of damaged seats,

Only to stare at a blank screen 

While listening to some god-awful Hawaiian Music. 

A small organ and the remnant of an elevated stage 

Told of the theater’s history.

An imitation royal palm tree from a begone era 

Held court in the near corner of the platform.

Sitting in the thick darkness

Twenty minutes passed, or was it two?

Maybe we had missed the entire film!!

Bobby looked at the stage, the palm tree,

And listening to the music offered,

In a theatrical whisper,  “It’s not much of a plot”

Barely conscious,  I cleverly replied “bummer”.

We, laughing hysterically,  staggered out of the theater, 

Weaving our way passed imaginary fire hydrants. 

Looking back over the twenty-five years we knew each other

Cousin Bobby and I never had a better time.

Portrait

An old man peers into a box.

His scruffy beard, sharp nose and glasses

Remind the observer of  a Vermeer portrait,

“Old Man at His Desk” could be the painting’s name.

It is a dim and silent  scene

With an unnatural light emanating from the box.

He turns his head, his ancient eyes inquire of my presence,

And I am returned to 2009.

His attention is drawn back to the computer screen

And I am aware of testaments; phone, electric light,

Solidifying my hold on contemporary reality.

Still, the artists studio, the smell of the paint, remain.

Facial lines mark his journey

In his eyes a strong belief

In the need for further study

As he ponders the screen’s message.

Often I have sat looking into

A face painted by a knowledgeable artist

Intent on exposing his subject’s

Implacable craving to understand.

400 years fall away as mere layers of diaphanous lace.

I recognize the timeless, universal expression

That marks man as involved and  insatiable,

Forever searching.

Poets Corner

Mike’s Place is special,

If your looking for 1960 with computers.

On Sunday afternoons aspiring poets

Read to the like minded.

Most often the few poets gathered

Will listen politely as another of their number

Tell of love, journeys taken, 

Lives lost and magic.

When the microphone is working

And the cannabis smoke is pervasive, 

The psychedelically enhanced  corner space

Holds a transitory aura.

Walls painted in vibrating reds and greens,

In the form of geometric designs

And huge faces with glowing blue eyes

Speak of a bar that does not take itself seriously.

Usually by mid- December Mike has picked a tree.

It has to be small, and decorated with care,

For it will, as custom dictates,

Hang over the elevated reciters platform... upside down.

Mike maintains it symbolizes

The waste and materialism that Christmas represents,

That would, with the new year, once again

Dump the refuse on the heads of the poor.

Mike is a cynically hopeless romantic

With a life time longing to experience

A communism that never existed,

In a world peopled by Jimmy Stewarts.

As expected, worn chairs and couches

Sit in disarray near the poetics corner,

Supporting a variety of life forms,

Each with its own interpretation of the tree hanging over head.

Several believe that by not falling on their skulls

The tree ushers in a safe, and rewarding New Year.

Of course within a day of the trees appearance

Decorations are scattered over the readers podium.

Tim, convinced that he will one day

Be a prime-time TV talk show host,

Always dresses in blue suit and red tie.

He calls the poets corner into session.

Tim introduces each poet to an invisible multitude

Who deliver an imagined thundering welcome

To each presenter. He is not disillusioned

By the hollow scattering of applause.

While the rest offer meaningful reflections

That no one cares to follow,

Perhaps 2 readers understand 

And offer light comedic pieces,