Nina @ 100

No loss of intellect or attitude,

But not much gain.

My rationale in support of something more

Embarrasses me.

I don’t suppose the fault is entirely her doing,

Though I don’t believe a six year old

Has shoulders broad enough, and wisdom wide enough

To understand and forgive.

That six year old hasn’t given up.

I wish he could concede

So that he and I might rid ourselves of

This need to be made whole.

I wonder if Nina nurses the guilt

That I protest, I do not assign her?

Three score and ten is a hell of a long wait.

Was I not the child she wanted?

So many older people that I’ve counseled,

Have tendered love in return.

I work at being a good person

And wish Mom might offer some warmth.

Little Brother

Oh, how bitter the taste

Of a younger brother’s betrayal.

I know it must speak of my indifference

To his pre-puberty learning pains.

I should have reflected upon

His inability to pull a slow-pitch

Softball to the left side,

Or his insistence on attending all his classes.

I know, only too well,

That the signs should have riveted my attention

On his silent pleas for guidance.

But I was too busy running my bookie business.

Too busy, what a weasly excuse

For not seeing that without my brotherly intervention

The poor lad was bound to end up in Harvard Law.

I still remember the epiphany and shame.

I wax tearful when I recalled our last conversation.

Oh, the dastardly deed. It cut to the quick.

On a scale of 5 he would not rate my writing 

Higher than 3, unless… he was given last editing rights.

The Honest Retailer

I prided myself on running a clean store.

Never, never did I pocket the proceeds

Of a cash purchase.

Was I not setting a shining example?

When asked, I offered a cautionary tale.

What example would I set for my employees?

What systems would I create

That would allow me to cheat, and forestall others?

Here was both a moral position

And a sound financial one.

But wasn’t there more?

After all, I had been a candy-bar thief.

Nor did I stop my petty thievery at ten,

Twenty or forty.

Mine was a life of crime,

But always in a minor key.

Why had I stopped when I could steal

And avoid taxes?

Wasn’t the answer to be found in moral growth?

No! There was a conceit loose in the equation.

Over the years my business had improved.

Increased sales was another great source of pride.

To underreport my income would damage my graph.

Personal vanity forbid!

An Apology to Alan

Why did I wait so long?

Because I did not see the point

Of discussing matters with you. but

I’ve changed my mind.

You tasked me with a straight forward assignment

And I did not bring it to fruition.

Perhaps I should not have accepted the job,

But I had not anticpated the difficulties.

I was the adult in the conversation

And should have been able to accommodate your youngest.

The truth, of course, has nothing to do with yesterday.

My apology is genuine, but I write for another reason.

I think you were a good man and a friend.

Taking you for lunch

We could agree on distant limits

That required trust.

We knew you’d be leaving first,

And that allowed, in your better moments,

An honest, insightful inventory 

Of days lost and found.

Our last conversation contained humor and pathos.

Reduced to a morphine diet, still wishing to go on,

Your family asked you to let go.

You and I voted: stay

We exchanged smiles, you coughed

And I left, thinking unkindly of your family.

They weren’t dying and thought in clichés.

It’s 8 years later & I’m saying Hi.

The Race About Race

I will tie a weight upon your ankle:

It need not interfere with your stride,

For it will add a mere five pounds.

Yet it will suffice.

That weight gets heavier.

If you can’t afford time off work,

Or rely on poor public transportation,

To get to the voting booth.

If you wish for an inclusive democracy

Know that a different choice among candidates,

Is no reason to hinder a voter,

Unless you wish for a more “selective” democracy.

For the black man pushing

To reach beyond the proscribed borders,

Assigned by a white man’s verdict

That dark skin is a mark of perpetual inferiority.

Life Measured By Coffee Filters

It’s not hard, but the loss persists.

Every morning there is one less,

As though my morning’s calculation,

Based upon the shaving mirror, was too optimistic.

If a package holds 100

Then each should represent a year (not a day),

Allowing for a life fully lived or wasted,

Assuming there is a difference.

Of course there are ways of fighting the inevitable:

I can empty yesterday’s grinds and reuse the filter,

Or go out for morning coffee.

Both stand to play havoc with my natural order.

When I first open a package of filters,

It is the dawning fof the rest of my life.

I have survived another night,

And the day starts with life unlimited… almost.

I hesitate before cutting the plastic wrapper

Then place the first filter in the coffeemaker.

It is no longer limitless,

And I am one percent less than perfect.

I Do Not Wake In The Place I Slept.

I do not wake in the place I slept.

The wind and the tide  

Have, with our planet's orientation,

 Created another world.

My view of all my yesterday's,

Must alter in the face of incoming realizations

That drive this eternal day

To places as yet unexplored.

Perhaps I will discover some commonality

With a neighbor previously dismissed?

Or frown at a new inconvenience,

And become irate with the morning fog?

We impose a vanity

Upon the apparent chaos,

To construct today's order,

And find some continuity that makes now possible.

Shelf and Dishwasher

Shelf and Dishwasher                

There is strange juxtaposing

When preparing breakfast.

I take the nearest cup from the cupboard.

I put the used cup toward the back of the dishwasher.

These choices suggest a severe case of polarization.

When I choose the most convenient cup,

I am ignoring the long-range possibilities .

When I place that same cup deep into the dishwasher

I am demonstrating awareness of potential consequences.

There is a solution to this puzzle,

Although the answer may do more damage than the problem,

But paper cups will remove the inconsistencies.

Life Is For the Dogs

Eliza is for the dogs.

In the middle of a successful career in education,

Replete with Ph.D. and love for the children that she served,

Eliza quit her job.

Half way through her second doctoral program,

Eliza will soon be a Veterinary Surgeon.

She has moved from internecine warfare

To a place where results are less ambiguous.

Eliza’s choice speaks to the human spirit.

Away from voices mouthing different agendas:

Teachers, administrators and government agencies

Will have far less influence.

What is best for the animal is paramount,

Sometimes that includes life-ending treatment.

Yes, it is not without financial considerations,

But hopefully, it does not require committees.

Ten Days Later

Seventh Avenue is crowded tonight. 

After ten days here I hold my ground

When a knuckle-walker

Tries to push past my established spot.

The cool observant Jerry,

Who, for a few days, rejoiced 

In the unconscious semi-serious games

That soak the crowded streets, is lost

My childish defenses override my cool

And I see extravagant losers,

Nattily dressed, following this week's craze,

Asserting rights to my space.

Time to recognize I'll not be someone else.

I retain, in the face of the crowd,

A piece of the years spent in the Pacific,

Where time was ample and the only threats where falling coconuts.

--