Time To Go

Why this bridge?

Plenty of room for walkers,

Easy to clear the railing

And the water is warm.

I have turned this into a big event.

Not that crowds will witness my jump,

Just enough to mark the occasion,

And my mother will be notified.

I’ve printed my name in my collar to facilitate identification.

All these years ...and still I accuse my mother.

In truth, I don’t know what she could have done.

I was headed here 20 years ago.

Strange, I should care about warm water.

From the top of a 100 foot leap

I’ll hit an unforgiving surface.

SPLAT.

The kid will be better off.

My mom will be a better mother.

At least she wont have to support me.

I am so scared, so very very scared.

Risk

 Jeff understood that some issues are taboo.

This guys’ lunch group will force him to change the subject.

That’s OK, as long as he kept their attention.

What would happen if he let go?

Would asking questions work?

Could he limit the flow of comments?

What happens when they drifted away?

Is that a sign he is not welcome?

There will always be risks.

Can he back off and allow the conversation

To come to him, and

Accept that it might not?

He knew John would try to change the subject,

Pushing Mel or Wally into the dialogue.

What does it matter?

Can he trust these guys?

Jeff has lost control more than once,

Creating imaginary obstacles to acceptance.

His brain and humor should be enough.

But he will never risk the isolation.

It's Not My Business

Caught between the compulsion

To express an opinion that may help

And an awareness that my offering 

May be pure ego and very much unappreciated,

I usually side with exercising 

Mouth and jaw.

Sure, there’s a risk I’ll be perceived

As an asshole who understands nothing,

Failing to recognize the recipient of my excellent advice

Would gladly settle for a mumbled “tsh, tsh”.

Finally, I see I do have a choice,

And if I can slow down long enough to appreciate

The existence of an option,

Whatever I decide might just represent wisdom.

Amortizing the Sun

I can’t get my schedule right.

I’d like to get an hour of luxuriant sunshine,

Which means doing some things earlier, or later

Than I had intended.

Of course if I got out of bed earlier

I would not find myself in this position.

On the other hand if it turns cloudy,

I won’t get any sun.

Maybe I should fly to Hawaii,

It’s invariably sunny this time of year.

That would mean no exercise

And I’d have to cancel golf.

Why do all these troubles end up on my plate?

Jeez, I forgot about the funeral

For the guy who delivered my new furniture.

I knew he shouldn’t have tried to lift that sofa.

I don’t suppose he’ll miss me.

And I never met his girlfriend.

A nice card will show those assembled

That I’m a good guy.

Meanwhile I’m making a mess of my new slacks,

And I don’t have a good hat to wear on Maui.

Aren’t I going a little far for an hour of sun?

I’d better go to that new breakfast place and reconsider.

Zinc

 It was a very hard call.

Offering condolences to a bereft parent

Is too wrenching if you are not drawn to tears.

You are naked, with useless words.

I knew this was not his first tragedy.

I could not imagine not making the call

While knowing the man must be suffering

In a way I could not understand.

I hoped Zinc would not be home.

He answered the phone

And I pleaded inadequacy,

Unable to follow my very short script.

Zinc consoled me,

Pointing out that my call mattered

And he was grateful.

Music

 In the mid-morning sunlight on this June day,

A hatless bald bass player stands,

In Old Town Square, Prague,

Tuning his instrument.

As he begins to play an eight year old girl

With serious eyes puts a coin in his upturned hat,

And stands awaiting his music.

A Cellist joins him.

The two musicians softly introduce an old warhorse:

“Ode To Joy”.

A French Horn and two Viola’s join the music-makers.

Our serious child is now part of a growing audience.

As the opening notes are being repeated by twenty

Casually dressed instrumentalists, a choral group

Forms a half circle behind the orchestra,

And children of every age stand entranced.

One young girl climbs a street-light pole

To gain a superior view, as two little boys

Compete with the conductor,

Waving their arms, and occasionally leaping, to the swelling sound.

While a few souls attend to their shopping

Those who hear, really hear, and see this performance,

Are lifted by a memory or a dream

To a place where, for a few precious moments, all is joy.

Hedge

Hedge is not the first word 

To be tortured into a grotesque, 

Antipathetic  refutation of its intended meaning.

I recall a bushy green wall.

If “hedging” translates into risk reduction

There can be only one reason:

To knowingly mislabel the intention.

Is its purpose to hide from view?

What do we propose as a suitable punishment

For the knave who would so deceive us?

Surely stoning is not above consideration.

Wealth that has been stolen from the people?

If hedge funds were performing the function

Inherent in the word “hedge”

Our trust would not have been violated.

Has not a trust been violated?

It’s Not In the Book

All words have been written, 

Otherwise we would not have them.

Our difficulty arises in their use:

To know and order them honestly.

There is a test, easily passed,

That we can witness in the written word.

But for the spoken word:

The task is arduous.

With the spoken word I have access

To tone, volume, eye contact,

And a myriad number of ways

That might assist or mislead you.

Is your compassion 

To be confused with my pity?

Will you speak from all you know

Or merely that which fits the occasion?

At best we can try,

Remembering what you hear is not what I meant.

But, every so often a thought is shared

And it may make all the difference.

Haunted

 He was falling,

Eight seconds, maybe less.

Less would be better.

The water should end the torment.

What was he thinking?

He is terrified… as am I.

I keep asking him, “why”?

Over and over, “Was I the cause”?

He hits the water and I wake.

Always, always the impact ends the nightmare

And I wake, but not screaming.

It’s been a year and I don’t scream anymore.

Progress, the good doctor says I’m improving.

I suppose I’ve reached the anger stage.

He left me and the baby, the son of a bitch.

Why should I give a shit?

I sit with my morning coffee

And try to imagine smashing

Into the consuming benign sea.

Is he still conscious?

I live-hide in my mother’s house

He is out of my life.

I have a better man.

Today I’ll look for a job.

Keeping the Social Contract

When you look down on the broken

Are you surprised that no praise

Is offered up for your continued acceptance

Of their use of free emergency care?

Is it the certainty that the hungry

Waste their food stamps on specialty desserts,

From your local Whole Foods,

That causes you to oppose free food for the needy?

Does the need for an open, honest election

Prompt you to require personal identification

From people unable to meet the requirement

Within the narrow bounds you would allow?

Was the prosperity of the 1990’s

Insufficient for your growing “needs”,

Requiring a furtherance of the already

Disproportionate tax burden borne by others?

Why do you view the social contract,

That ushered in the greatness of America,

A greatness that might be shared by all the people,

An unacceptable weight after 75 years?

When did immigrants ,

A keystone of our continued strength,

Become so terrible a burden,

That you wish to refuse them entry? 

Have you become so fixed

In your universe

That you oppose any rule,

That strikes a note of charity or understanding?