Under a Tree

From a distance the group looks harmless.

On closer examination the members appear thoughtful.

Entering into the midst of the charmed circle

One hears recitations, thoughts offered as poetry.

It’s the second Sunday of the month.

We gather in this safe place

To listen to ourselves and others

Speak of the infinite and the absurd.

Our leader manifests a spirit of sharing,

Without demanding or forbidding dialogue,

She asks  only that everyone manifest civility,

And a willingness to listen. 

Our meeting place, a tiny piece of a very large park,

Has been christened with a dedicated,

Artfully constructed rock-like bench,

Marking this space for poets and poetry.

Tweets

I am told that Michael Bloomberg and Obama

Have tweets for me.

I race to read what Mike and Barry

Want to share.

Moments before I can gain the enlightenment

Being offered by Mike and Barry

I see that Mitt has words I must absorb.

Thank God for the social networks!

But wait, I am blown away by the news

That Charley has a new friend named Fred.

I’d like to congratulate both Fred and Charlie.

I foresee their friendship blossoming into something special.

Here’s a flash!

Jenny is, at this very minute,

Taking her dog, Blackie,

For their daily stroll around the park.

Oh boy, Alice is pissed at Sam.

Wasn’t there a tweet I had to open?

Golly gee, someone is asking if I believe in God.

I was never this popular as a kid!

My Day

A pick-up softball game,

Sides chosen randomly.

I was 25 on that hot summer day,

Happy to borrow a mitt and head to short.

We ranged from 15 to 40 plus.

A ground ball was likely to be played into a double,

But not if it came to me.

The baseball gods were giving me this day.

My first at bat I drove the ball into left center,

And by the time the ball stopped rolling

Over the unenclosed field,

I had reached home.

Before the game was over

I had crushed three homers,

One over the center-fielder’s head,

He who had said it couldn’t be done.

50 years later it is the memory

Of a pop behind third base that brings a smile.

I don’t know why I took-off 

Before the batter had finished his swing.

That ball could have been a dribbler back to the mound

Or a grounder to the space I had deserted,

But not this day.

This day that ball was mine.

It hung under a cloudless sky,

Teasing me to reach it before it landed.

Gravity, the foul line and me

In a race to claim that sucker.

With throttle wide-open 

I moved my glove hand across my body,

Staggering slightly on the uneven ground,

And closed my hand on a catch that should have become a legend.

And in my mind,  it remains just that.

Funeral

I remember driving to Grandpa’s funeral.

Grandma, suffering from Alzheimer’s, sat next to me,

And turned to ask Mom if Jake was dead.

“Yes”. No conversation followed.

So much honest grief,

Half a hundred years ago,

Clear-eyed, I saw heartbreak

And still feel privileged.

It was an open casket affair,

And there was wailing.

Was it healing, all those tears?

Maybe, but it’s my cousin Roberta I remember.

She attended with her boyfriend.

I watched her squeezing his hand,

And thought, you should not be here.

This is not your show, its Grandpa’s.

A more charitable person

Would consider her age and my conviction.

How do I know I was right

And maybe she outgrew theatricality?

Too late, much too late.

The contrast between the mourners and my cousin

Is a special vision

That allows me to see both ends of the earth. 

Social Contract

I believe in equality,

Which means getting my share.

That is not to suggest others should suffer more,

Rather, I should suffer less.

I walk briskly along 6th Avenue,

Parallel to the gentle green hillside

That, like the growing darkness,

Gives this hour to the street people.

Blankets and shopping carts

Are being moved into spaces

Assigned by the strongest,

Who enforce a certain tyranny.   

It is not a safe place, 

And for the women without group

Or male protection, 

It can become a very long night.

Their number has grown 

Since I last made this walk.

The heaviness of the landscape

Demands I hasten my pace.

Poverty is the common weight.

Those who appear particularly anxious

Are likely new to this park side

And may not be here tomorrow.

This pathetic scene must be repeated

Across the city, county, state, country and beyond.

It has become impolitic to suggest a solution

To a problem that predates the written word.

Few of these people will vote,

Their days are devoted to survival.

Estate planning and tax credits 

Are not their priorities.

I was told of a man who had eaten a cat.

It was not his, but that hardly matters.

The pain of starvation creates priorities

That do not impose themselves on the more fortunate.

We who believe in a national social contract

Are responsible, if not for the tragedy 

That visits so many,

Then the care of those who embody what we might have been.

Dog

Bobby and I adopted Dog

About the same time he adopted us.

We were with my folks

Who had rented a bungalow for the weekend.

We walked to the pier,

Thinking about crabbing.

This German Shepard decided we were friendly

And started walking with us.

No license, no collar

We took him back to the bungalow

Where my mother ordered our dog “Out”.

Taking umbrage Dog, Bobby and I went.

For three days we were thick, really thick.

Dog watched us play ball,

Walked on our rope leash

To the hot-dog  stand and shared our feast.

Last day of Memorial weekend we left

For the city with Dog,

At least that’s what I thought would happen.

Instead we watched Dog through the back window,

As he tried to overtake our disappearing car.

The Meeting

Enough time had passed.

Sharp edges had blurred 

And yesterday’s tragedy

Had been reduced to a series of mistakes.

All that remained was a need

To accept a tolerable level of blame

And prepare for the next event,

Hoping the errors will be new and containable.

Genuflecting in the direction

Of renewal marked the conversation.

Notwithstanding irrelevant observations,

The three parties moved into agreement.

All took turns completing one another's thoughts,

Targets were set, tasks were proposed and accepted.

A path emerging that served 

Both individual and group objectives.

As always, it proved easier to nod 

Before assignments were undertaken and

Pieces and people refused to fit comfortably. 

Still we came and left as friends, with hope for tomorrow.

Covering Tracks

I remember President Clinton’s apologizing

To the American Indians... 100 years later.

I don't toss in bed unable to sleep

If I can't connect to the guilt.

A good programmer can correct mistakes

So they won't be repeated.

A collective conscience needs

Constant reminders to last a week.

When I offered no eulogy at Ray's funeral

I did not prophecy deeply regretting

My lack of preparation or rightness

Ten years later.

Moral lessons are difficult to recognize

And harder to absorb.

Rabbi Akiva is credited with the observation:

"If not me who? if not now when?”.

Maybe it's time to give Clinton a pass

Along with my bungled non-eulogy?

An alcoholic friend apologized 10 years late.

It was a very courageous act.

Hawaii

Jets rise from the outbound runway,

Accelerating, reaching for a smoother sky

As they tip gently to starboard,

Bidding Mahalo to the disappearing blue green waters.

Overpopulated hills and beaches reverberate

To the offense of planes and cars

Attempting to lay claim to the once 

Unspoiled soft air and flower festooned island.

Rousseau would surely have been embittered

At man’s carnage of a land that

Needed not the invasion of 20th century progress,

And the cacophony and concrete that marked it's claim.

Yet we come and find a place,

Imperfect, yet still transcendent.

We are far too many, and too rapacious

To save what remains, but might just recognize what once was.

If so, something of value 

Has been added to our life's journey

And, while it may diminish over time,

Surely we remain richer for the insight.

Gay Day Parade

Gay Day Parade.      

I had to catch myself,

But the smile played on my consciousness,

Fighting for liberation from the insistence

That things inevitably tend south.

True, the world will not evolve 

To the place where gays become

An irreverent branch of Christendom,

But the parade looked like a tradition, not a revolution.

There were the customary flags and banners,

Those lining the marchers route seemed very supportive

And the music was light and festive.

This might not play in Dixie, but it was solid here.

My country had elected a Black President

And the outrageously non-heterosexual folks

Were spending less time hiding.

Perhaps some had lowered their fists and now shrugged their shoulders.

If the majority won't support and applaud gays, 

Their willingness to cut some slack

Speaks of possibilities that include acceptance.

I'll put aside my cynicism for now and enjoy the parade.