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.”

Alienation of Affection

I am listening. A potential jurist

Having my sanity tested.

It sounded like English,

But the words clashed and produced spaghetti.

Her lawyer said her client had suffered.

She would never see her wedding dress again.

It was the post wedding cleaner’s fault,

And he should pay.

True, he had offered to cover the cost of replacement.

Still, the emotional attachment was strong,

And who could tell if the marriage would survive the loss?

Surely the gods cried for further compensation.

Who to strangle?

Choices included the attorney

Her client, who was also an attorney,

And the judge who permitted this farce.

How to make the client whole?

The cleaner’s had been robbed.

Recovering the gown was impossible.

Brilliant memories of the lovely wedding would be tarnished.

Perhaps a large award would cover the cost of a psychiatrist,

To limit the emotional damage?

I thought a lifetime supply of Prosaic and MJ

Might see her through the dark days.

Days when she would look in her closet,

Tearfully imagining what should have been,

Knowing that the object of her affection,

Was not safely stored in a bank vault.

If an anguished parent did not get justice this day,

Or a petitioning homeowner could not get a default delay,

Because the cause of justice was busy hearing 

From a woman inconsolable for under 5k.

--

jerry greenspan

jerrypoems@gmail.com

--

jerry greenspan

jerrypoems@gmail.com

Steady

It's been three years since I saw Bob,    

Time has added no lines,

Despite a plethora of events

Not certain to facilitate his spirits ease.

He is more comfortable within

And manifests less a search

For serenity than an acceptance

Of mortal limitations.

So here's to Bob, my buddy,

Who has often baffled me with

His broken-field running,

And our years of unbroken friendship.

There Are More Of Them

There are more of them.

Does that sound like an outtake from “The Birds”?

Maybe Hitchcock had the discontent in mind 

When he made that movie.

I see them downtown, people,

People with no place to go,

Or maybe they can’t stand themselves

And wish to get out.

They look kind of hard,

Not well dressed, and not happy.

Some of them are in this Starbucks.

Three are nursing coffees.

No women in this bunch.

Just eight guys crowded around one table.

They’re not doing anything,

But their presence makes me nervous.

Probably not a God-fearing one among them.

What if they demand attention or cookies?

Is this how class warfare starts?

There is work for these men. Right!??